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is a hill where time's devouring teeth

Feed on the ruins of an ancient tower;

A little city lifts its head beneath,

And a small house which linden-trees embower.

Upon its heaven-regarding roof, the sun

Pours forth the very brightest of his rays:

It is the temple of a mighty one,

Whom fame hath visited with loud-voic'd praise.

For many a year, had fearful signs of weeping,

And frightful sounds of woe, that dwelling ﬁll'd;

Now 'tis beneath the wings of silence sleeping:

Love hath the dreams, the wounds, the sorrows still'd

Which broke the rest of fame, and driven away

The bear, the lion, and the beasts of prey.