The man who could unmov'd survey
What ruin, piecemeal, sweeps away;
Works of the pow'rful and the brave,
All sleeping in the silent grave;
Unmov'd reflect that here were sung
Carols of joy, by beauty's tongue,
Is fit, where'er he deigns to roam,
And hardly fit--to stay at home.
Spent here in peace one solemn hour,
'Midst legends of the YELLOW TOWER,
Truth and tradition's mingled stream,
Fear's start, and superstition's dream[1]
[Footnote 1: A village woman, who very officiously pointed out all that
she knew respecting the former state of the castle, desired us to remark
the descent to a vault, apparently of large dimensions, in which she had
heard that no candle would continue burning; "and," added she, "they say
it is because of the damps; but for my part, I think the devil is there."]
Is pregnant with a thousand joys,
That distance, place, nor time destroys;
That with exhaustless stores supply
Food for reflection till we die.

ONWARD the rested steeds pursu'd
The cheerful route, with strength renew'd,
For onward lay the gallant town,
Whose name old custom hath clipp'd down,
With more of music left than many,
So handily to ABERGANY.
And as the sidelong, sober light