Warwick is nothing; Melrose is nothing, compared with it.

A thousand great facts look out through the broken windows.

Earls and kings and queens sit along the shattered sides of the banqueting halls.

The stairs are worn deep with the feet that have clambered them for eight hundred years.

As a loving daughter arranges the dress of an old man, so every season throws a thick mantle of ivy over the mouldering wall.