Sonnet (There is a hill where time's devouring teeth)

There is a hill where time's devouring teeth
Feed on the ruins of an ancient tower;
A little city lifts its head beneath,
And a small house which linden-trees embower.
Upon its heaven-regarding roof, the sun
Pours forth the very brightest of his rays:
It is the temple of a mighty one,
Whom fame hath visited with loud-voic'd praise.
For many a year, had fearful signs of weeping,
And frightful sounds of woe, that dwelling fill'd;
Now 'tis beneath the wings of silence sleeping:
Love hath the dreams, the wounds, the sorrows still'd
Which broke the rest of fame, and driven away
The bear, the lion, and the beasts of prey.