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TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY.
269
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And 'midst thy solitude profound,
From thy cold hearths no festal blaze,
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome, with convivial rays,
Some pilgrim of the night;
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o'er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast,
And I—my joy of life is fled,
My spirit's power, my bosom's glow,
The raven-locks that graced my head,
Wave in a wreath of snow!
And where the star of youth arose,
I deemed life's lingering ray should close,