Still doth the ruined palace stand, A crumbling relic in the land—Tenantless fabric, huge and high, And proud in ruined majesty; The verdant ivy robes thy wall, Weeds are the dwellers in thy hall, And in the wind the tufted grass Waves o’er thy dim and mouldering mass, And freshly each returning spring Blooms o’er thy mortal withering. On darkening piles, and waning wrecks, A gay green garment oft is spread; For ruin, as in mockery, decks The faded victims she hath made. With time and tempest thou art bent, A drear, neglected monument, Lorn as some frail and aged one Who lives when all his friends are gone!— Where is thy voice of music?—where The strains that hushed the midnight air, When Beauty woke her witching song, And spellbound held the festive throng?— A narrow and a nameless grave Hath closed upon the fair and brave, And all around is deadly still, Save when, from some high pinnacle, The raven’s croak, or owlet’s wail, Blends with the sighing of the gale.... The hoary rocks, of giant size, That o’er the land in circles rise, Of which tradition may not tell, Fit circles for the wizard’s spell, Seen far amidst the scowling storm, Seem each a tall and phantom form, As hurrying vapours o’er them flee, Frowning in grim society, While like a dread voice from the past Around them mourns the autumnal blast.... Yet not the works of man alone, Though hallowed by long ages gone, Charm us away in musing mood; Bear witness each grim solitude, ’Mid Hoy’s high shadowy mountain walls Where mournfully the twilight falls: There bosomed in a deep recess Sleeps a dim vale of loneliness, The circling hills, all bleak and wild, Are o’er its slumbers darkly piled, Save on one side, where far below The everlasting waters flow, And round the precipices vast Dance to the music of the blast.... There rocks of ages sternly throw Their shadows o’er a world below, And fierce and fast each dark-brown flood Careering comes in maddening mood: O’er the sheer cliffs the waters flash, And down in whitest columns dash, Till, far away, we scarce can hear Their dying falls and murmurs drear, As, bursting o’er the dizzy verge, They melt into the boiling surge. Here, when, perchance, the voice of men Is heard within the fairy glen, Deep muttering echoes start around, And rocks of gloom fling back the sound, While from their fragments, rent and riven, A thousand airy dwellers driven, Send forth a wild and dreary scream. Like such as breaks a fearful dream When Conscience to the sleeper’s gaze Holds up the view of other days....