Classic Poem

Grand sepulchre of royal hates, dank grave
Of bitter thoughts morose, of cares and spleens,
Cyclops of granite, where at midnight rave
Through gelid crypts the souls of kings and queens,
What art thou in thy dismal desert, save—
The silent phantom of Spain's bygone scenes?
Does not grim Philip's spirit haunt the naves
Of thy stern cloisters with his mind's gangrenes?
Oh, walls of groans! oh, blood-hewn aisles and domes!
A sad, drear monotone of echoes roams
From Guadarramian heights around thy gloom,
The frozen prayers of Torquemada's slain!
Cursed be thy silence, monstrous, chilly tomb!
Crumble and rot, gray fiend of stone and pain!