Page:A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.pdf/6

 There stood alone and ruin'd fane, Far in the Odenwald's domain, Midst wood and rock, a deep recess Of still and shadowy loneliness. Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown, The wild-flower wav'd o'er the altar-stone, The night-wind rock'd the tottering pile, As it swept along the roofless aisle, For the forest-boughs, and the stormy sky, Were all that Minster's canopy.

Many a broken image lay In the mossy mantle of decay, And partial light the moonbeams darted, O'er trophies of the long-departed; For there the chiefs of other days, The mighty slumber'd, with their praise: 'Twas long since aught but the dews of Heaven A tribute to their bier had given, Long since a sound, but the moaning blast Above their voiceless home had pass'd.

So slept the proud—and with them all The records of their fame and fall; Helmet, and shield, and sculptur'd crest, Adorn'd the dwelling of their rest, And emblems of the Holy Land Were carv'd by some forgotten hand; But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced; And the scatter'd leaves of the northern pine Half hid the palm of Palestine. So slept the glorious—lowly laid, As the peasant in his native shade, Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rhyme, All that high deeds could win from Time!