Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/260



WHENCE were those sounds that swept upon the gale, And swell'd with echoes strange the troubled air? They seem'd like sorrow's agonizing wail, The shriek of woe, the moaning of despair.

Where is that lofty pile with arches long, And ample walls, and oft frequented door, Whose evening tapers lur'd a sprightly throng, To taste the pleasures of dramatic lore?

Oh, spare the dread recital! Let the stones Which the still glowing embers half conceal, Those blackened ruins, and those calcin'd bones. The truth, that mocks the aid of speech, reveal.

The polish'd hand, the heav'n illumin'd face, The eye that spoke the feelings of the soul, The brow of beauty, and the form of grace, Lie scorch'd and shrivell'd, like a parching scroll.

For while the unfolding plan, the changeful part, With hope, or fear, alternate mark'd the mien,