XXVIII.

For there we might not rest. Alas! to leave Those native towers, and know that they must fall By slow decay, and none remain to grieve When the weeds cluster’d on the lonely wall! We were the last--my boy and I--the last Of a long line which brightly thence had pass’d! My father bless’d me as I left his hall-- With his deep tones and sweet, though full of years, He bless’d me there, and bathed my child’s young head with tears.