No memory of its former state,
⁠No record of its fame,
A broken wall, a fallen tower,
⁠A half-forgotten name;
A gloomy shadow on the wave,
And silence deep as in the grave.

And yet it had its glorious days,
⁠It had its hour of pride,
When o'er the drawbridge gallantly
⁠Its warriors wont to ride;
When silver shield, and plume of snow,
Were mirror'd in the wave below.

In sooth, that was a stirring time
⁠Of chivalry and song,
When the bright spear was put in rest,
⁠And the right arm was strong;
When minstrel meed, and ladye's glove,
Were high rewards of war and love.

Oh! vain delusion, cruel days
⁠Were then upon the land;
A battlement on every wall,
⁠A sword in every hand;
And rose the cry, and poured the flood,
Of human wrong, and human blood.

​Then many a stately castle stood
⁠O'er dungeons dark and deep;
Then many a noble robber wont
⁠The king's highway to keep.
Ah! these were not the times to praise,
Thank God, we know more peaceful days.

Oh! better that the ivy wreath
⁠Should clothe the mouldering tower,
Than it should be a place of strength,
⁠For passion and for power.
All glory to those stern old times,
But leave them to their minstrel rhymes.