LXV. By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands, Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.
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