here summer sunshine lends its softest smile,
And Mont Salève lifts his scarr'd brow toward Heaven,
There is a long-deserted feudal pile,
To ruthless ruin given.
Beneath the precipice on which it stands,
Like a gray warder endless vigil keeping,
Geneva, like mosaic in gold bands,
By Leman's side lies sleeping.
No hardy flower, no clinging ivy trains
A kindly leaf to veil its broken arches;
Of all its garden bowers no trace remains,
Save some poor stunted larches.