Against the sky these walls their shadows cast,
Tottering and crumbling in their mossy age,
Like dim remembrances of moments past
Which time hath almost swept from memory's page:
Long ages they have faced the bitter blast,
As the stern stoic bears the world's rage;
But now the ceaseless breath of cold decay
Is wasting them, like snows of spring, away!
Four walls!—four roofless walls!—and this is all
That desolation's gathering hand hath left
Of tower, and pinnacle, and gilded hall;
The roof is gone—the wall of rock is cleft—
The moonlight through each crevice down doth fall,
Giving the spider light to weave its weft!
Is this the end of pride, and pomp, and power?—
The vanity and glory of an hour!
Is this the hearth round which have often met
The young, the fair, the manly, and the gay?—
Is this the hall where dancers oft were set,
With joyful mirth, till broke the lagging day!
Are these the chambers of luxurious state,
Where men were far too proud to kneel and pray?
Is this the home where joy both loud and free
From year to year so blithesome used to be?
Is this the hearth? A tree with fruit and flowers
Doth o'er it spread its branches, budding green!
Is this the hall? The nettle buildeth bowers
Where loathesome toad and beetle black are seen!
Are these the chambers? Fed by dankest showers
The slimy worm hath o'er them crawling been!
Is this the home? The owlet's dreary cry
Unto that asking makes a sad reply!
Where are the bright young eyes that here have beam'd?
Where are the happy hearts that here have beat?
Where is the warrior, grim and proud who seem'd?
Where is the sitter in the old man's seat?
Where is the joy that like rich sunlight gleam'd?
Where are the faces fair, the nimble feet?
Where are the love, the glory, and the light,
That here had built for them a temple bright?
Bright eyes are dim, and mouldering in the clay;
The happy hearts are moveless evermore;—
The warrior,—death hath met him in the fray;—
The old man sits no longer by the door;
The light of joy grew dim, and pass'd away;
Fair faces keep not now the smile they wore;
Now love, and light, and glory, all have gone;
And nought remains but moss-clad dreary stone!
Is this the whole? and has this work been wrought
To fill our hearts with gloom while dwelling here?—
Amid decaying ruins have we sought
And found no search-rewarding jewel near?—
No! we have learn'd a lesson cheaply bought—
A lesson which our gloom doth brightly cheer,
That though this earth be woe and vanity,
There is a brighter land beyond yon holy sky!
Tottering and crumbling in their mossy age,
Like dim remembrances of moments past
Which time hath almost swept from memory's page:
Long ages they have faced the bitter blast,
As the stern stoic bears the world's rage;
But now the ceaseless breath of cold decay
Is wasting them, like snows of spring, away!
Four walls!—four roofless walls!—and this is all
That desolation's gathering hand hath left
Of tower, and pinnacle, and gilded hall;
The roof is gone—the wall of rock is cleft—
The moonlight through each crevice down doth fall,
Giving the spider light to weave its weft!
Is this the end of pride, and pomp, and power?—
The vanity and glory of an hour!
Is this the hearth round which have often met
The young, the fair, the manly, and the gay?—
Is this the hall where dancers oft were set,
With joyful mirth, till broke the lagging day!
Are these the chambers of luxurious state,
Where men were far too proud to kneel and pray?
Is this the home where joy both loud and free
From year to year so blithesome used to be?
Is this the hearth? A tree with fruit and flowers
Doth o'er it spread its branches, budding green!
Is this the hall? The nettle buildeth bowers
Where loathesome toad and beetle black are seen!
Are these the chambers? Fed by dankest showers
The slimy worm hath o'er them crawling been!
Is this the home? The owlet's dreary cry
Unto that asking makes a sad reply!
Where are the bright young eyes that here have beam'd?
Where are the happy hearts that here have beat?
Where is the warrior, grim and proud who seem'd?
Where is the sitter in the old man's seat?
Where is the joy that like rich sunlight gleam'd?
Where are the faces fair, the nimble feet?
Where are the love, the glory, and the light,
That here had built for them a temple bright?
Bright eyes are dim, and mouldering in the clay;
The happy hearts are moveless evermore;—
The warrior,—death hath met him in the fray;—
The old man sits no longer by the door;
The light of joy grew dim, and pass'd away;
Fair faces keep not now the smile they wore;
Now love, and light, and glory, all have gone;
And nought remains but moss-clad dreary stone!
Is this the whole? and has this work been wrought
To fill our hearts with gloom while dwelling here?—
Amid decaying ruins have we sought
And found no search-rewarding jewel near?—
No! we have learn'd a lesson cheaply bought—
A lesson which our gloom doth brightly cheer,
That though this earth be woe and vanity,
There is a brighter land beyond yon holy sky!