Fallen pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; 
But when the winds, slow wafted from the main, 
Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, 
Come hollow to my ear, I meditate 
On this world's passing pageant, and the lot 
Of those who once majestic in their prime 
Stood smiling at decay, till bowed by time 
Or injury, their early boast forgot, 
They may have fallen like thee! Pale and forlorn, 
Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, 
They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn 
This short-lived scene of vanity and woe; 
Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear 
The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care!