Bamborough Castle

Ye holy Towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
  Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
  Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time
  Assail you, and the winds of winter sweep
  Round your dark battlements; for far from halls
  Of Pride, here Charity hath fixed her seat,
  Oft listening, tearful, when the tempests beat
  With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
  And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
  Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
  Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower,
  And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
  Blessed if her aid some fainting wretch may save,
  And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave.