The poem
YE holy tow'rs, that crown the azure deep, Still may ye shade the wave-worn rock sublime, Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time Assail you, and the winter Whirlwind's sweep! For far from blazing Grandeur's crowded halls, Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat, Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat, With hollow bodings, round your ancient walls; And Pity's self, at the dark stormy hour Of Midnight, when the Moon is hid on high, Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tow'r, And turns her ear to each expiring cry; Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, And snatch him speechless from the whelming wave.