Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/157

Rh Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb,

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,

2. Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,

Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state;

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

3.

No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord,

In grim array, the crimson cross demand;

Or gay assemble round the festive board,

Their chiefs retainers, an immortal band.

4.

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye

Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,

A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.

5.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;

His feudal realm in other regions lay:

In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,

Retiring from the garish blaze of day.