These would’st thou mourn, go, trace the path, The far wild road, To some old hill where ruin hath Its lone abode-- Where morn is sleeping, and dank dews weeping-- Where the grey moss grows on the lintel stone-- Where the raven haunts, and the wild weed flaunts, And old remembrance broods alone: There weep--for generous hearts dwelt there, To pity true-- Each light and shade of joy and care These old walls knew. With weary ray the eye of day Looks lifeless on their mouldering mound: Their pride is blighted!--but the sun ne’er lighted A happier home in his bright round. There smiles, whose light hath passed away, Bound young hearts fast; And hope gilt many a coming day Now long, long past. There was beauty’s flower and manhood’s power-- The frail, proud things in which mortals trust; And yon hall was loud with a merry crowd Of breasts long mingled in the dust. There too the poor and weary sought Relief and rest; His song the wandering harper brought, A welcome guest; There lay rose lightly, and young eyes shone brightly, And in sunshine ever life’s stream rolled on: And no thought came hither how time could wither-- Yet time stole by, and they are gone. And there--the breast were cold indeed That would not feel, How with the same relentless speed Our seasons steal. The princely towers and pleasant bowers May scoff the hours with gallant show, In vain--they are what once these were, And in their turn must lie as low. * * * * *