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And, lo! before us, fair, Yet desolate, amidst the golden day, It stands, that house of silence! wedded now To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands Once loved to train. How the rich wall-flower scent From every niche and mossy cornice floats, Embalming its decay! The bee alone Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load The air with mournful fragrance, for it speaks Of life gone hence; and the faint southern breath Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch, Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown Through all the sunny hollow, spread around