Ye grey and mouldering walls!--ye ivied towers!
From whence the midnight-loving bird doth pour
Her dreary note upon the solemn hour!
Ye dim arcades!--ye fancy-haunted bowers!
Ruined--but how majestic in decay!
I love thee well; and gazing thus on thee
In twilight solitude, it seems to me
A spirit voice comes stealing up this way--
The voice of vanished years--and many a tale
It tells my musing mind of gallant lords
And ladies gay--of moonlight-whispered words,
And deeds of high renown--of crimes that pale
The cheek to dream--and the malignant scowl
Of evil eyes beneath the monkish cowl.