The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace | ||
XXIV.
The waning flame is waxing low,'Tis all one smoking ruin now.
The blacken'd walls, the charred pine,
No more in blazing splendour shine;
And the once animated scene,
Is now, as if it ne'er had been.
Where late the passing trav'ller view'd,
A little nest of houses strew'd,
Was nothing now, but mouldering wall,
Already nodding to its fall;
As it old time in wrathful spite,
Had silent come that fatal night,
And did, to shew his wondrous power,
The work of years, in one sad hour.
The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace | ||