76
Those beams, that gild thy native walls,
Are sleeping on thy tomb!
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile—
Not e'en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle-sound
Is mingling with the torrent's roar,
Unmarked the wild deer sport around—
Thou lead'st the chace no more!
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where pealed the choral strain,
They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill—
And all is hushed again.
No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazoned folds on high;
There the tall grass and summer flower,
Unmarked shall spring and die.
No more thy bard, for other ear,
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine—
Hushed be the strain thou canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line!
