Mide lake that laps with a most liquid tongue
The base of these worn ruins. Have ye naught
Within thy caverns that can aid the thought
To grasp the vanish'd years whose breath has flung
A mist o'er all I see, so that I stand
A prey to keenest torture? Speak, and tell
The wonders that thy waves repictured well
When these worn ruins had strength o'er all the land.
What visions of high dames, what pages meek,
What warriors of firm mould, what glorious deeds,
What trappings of high pomp, what foaming steeds,
What chivalry of action? Speak, O, speak,
That I may grasp the past, and open up
Its hidden feasts, and bid my being sup.