It was a bright summer's day; strong masses of light and shade lay
sleeping on the walls of the ruins, the dungeons were partially lighted by
the rays which broke into their gloom, and it chanced to be a village
holiday:

"Within the massy prison's mouldering courts,
Fearless and free the ruddy children played,
Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent brows
With the green ivy and the red wall-flower,
That mocks the dungeon's unavailing gloom;
The ponderous chains and gratings of strong iron,
There rusted amid heaps of broken stone
That mingled slowly with their native earth.
There the broad beam of day, which feebly once
Lighted the cheek of lean captivity
With a pale and sickly glare, then freely shone
On the pure smiles of infant playfulness.
No more the shuddering voice of hoarse despair
Pealed through the echoing vaults, but soothing notes
Of joy fingered winds and gladsome birds
And merriment were resonant around."

Such were our feelings as we wandered musing and admiring amid the
stupendous ruins of this once magnificent fabric.

"Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the scene,
Closes in stedfast darkness."

The pomp of its splendour has passed away, and the stern wardour disputing