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White shadows, pale and motionless, that seem To mock the change in which they had no part,— Fit images of the dead. Pensive enough, Whatever aspect desolation wears; But this, the wrecking work of yesterday, Hath somewhat still more touching; here we trace The waste of man too much. When years have past Over the fallen arch, the ruin'd hall, It seems but course of time, the one great doom, Whose influence is alike upon us all; The gray tints soften, and the ivy wreath And wild flowers breathe life's freshness round: but here We stand before decay; scarce have the walls Lost music left by human step and voice; The lonely hearth, the household desolate,