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 No more—to sprightly notes of pleasure, Swims the light dance in graceful measure. The festal spot can scarce be found: While shattered arches strewed around, And broken columns piled on high, Confused with crumbling turrets lie. Of sportive crowds the gay resort, Is now a lonely, grass-grown court, Where on each side, the time-struck wall Tottering, threats a final fall. The founders' deeply-graven name, Which fondly hoped a lasting fame, In love-knots carved on many a stone, With noxious plants is overgrown; The curious eye can hardly trace Its proudly once distinguished place. Perchance—where yonder casement gleams, Just chequered by the moon's pale beams, As waving through the lattice, twine The mountain ash, and eglantine— Some love-sick maid, at such an hour, Sleepless within the silent tower, Wrapt in lost scenes of past delight, Or fancied visions of the night, Gazing, has stood, with tearful eye, While love has breathed his softest sigh. Hard by this dismal, dreary room, Where darkness spreads a death-like gloom; And the foul, lurking adder breeds, Midst sculptured fragments, choked with weeds; Where solitude, and silence, reign, And desolation leads her train: Here, on this damp, encumbered floor, Once stood the hospitable Door—