Tower, that like some old pyramid dost rear August thy massive pile, which lightning strook In days of yore! while rolls this earthly sphere, The ages of mankind shall on thee look; For he, who pacing lone the river mead, Watch'd the sun's glory that around thee shone, With wild enthusiast gaze, though dark his deed, Hath found in thee a monumental stone. With no benignant hand outstretch'd to save, That boy his mortal slumber took; The bigot scowl'd upon his unblest grave, And Bristowe's sons his memory forsook— Thou the sole shrine that sepulchres his name, Dark as his fate, and solemn as his fame!
