View from an Old Tower

The story of a thousand years
In one brief morning lies unrolled;
Though other voices greet the ears,
'Tis still the moonlit tower of old.
The heroes of those thousand years?
Alas! like running water, gone;
Yet still the fever-blast one hears,
And still the plum-rain patters on.
'Twas here ambition marched sublime —
An empty fame scarce marks the spot;
Away! for I will never climb
To see flowers bloom and man forgot.