Classic Poem

The elms are waving in the nightly squall,
And fallen leaves below them overspread
The mossy pathway, in a rustling bed,
As winds blow hoarsely through the empty hall,
Where once the glitt'ring knight and lady led
The happy train of dancers at the ball.
The weeds are growing o'er the mould'ring wall,
The long-forsaken pride of owners dead,

Whose hounds no more are heard upon the blast,
All answering the horn's uprousing call;
And crackling chariot wheels have ceas'd to roll

Through these forsaken portals, still and fast.
When thus I look on some deserted hall
How soft a sadness steals upon my soul.