Page:Tixall Poetry.djvu/51

 It chills my blood—so deep it came— What horrors seize my shuddering frame! Hark!—once again—'tis idle fear: The place and hour such fancies rear. It was the owl, within the bower, The lonely tenant of the tower, Molested in his dark retreat; Perhaps, the echoes of my feet.

How vain are all the schemes of man! How frail his wisest, best-laid plan! Not man alone—his works decay, His towers, and temples—pass away. Behold those moss-grown, ivied walls, Through which the glimmering moonlight falls, Where screeching owls, and bats obscene, And crawling vermin creep between— These once, with gorgeous hangings drest, The blazoned shield, and towering crest; Where conquerors, with laurel crowned, And patriots from the canvas frowned, Or beauteous dames alternate smiled, For whom those heroes fought and toiled: See—o'er their tops the wild ash grows, And each rank weed luxuriant blows. The swallow, undisturbed, hath hung Her nest on roofs, which erst have rung With sound of harp, and minstrelsy; Of pageants, pomp, and revelry, When at the high-born lady's call, The feast, and dance, in bannered hall, At winter evening's welcome close, To ancient warlike music rose. No more—the mirth-inspiring song Echoes the lofty hall along;