Will McDonald

The Priestess of this ruined shrine,

Unable to survive the stroke,

Presents no more the ruddy wine,—

Her glasses gone, her china broke.

The friendly Host, whose social hand

Accosted strangers at the door,

Has left at length his wonted stand,

And greets the weary guest no more.

Old creeping Time, that brings decay,

Might yet have spared these mouldering walls,

Alike beneath whose potent sway

A temple or a tavern falls.