Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.

Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer days were long,
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.

PART SECOND.

THE moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:

'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,
The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
"Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey ;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, Came up the hollow: him did I accost,

And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.

"A jolly place," said he, " in times of old! But something ails it now: the spot is curst.

aspen-wood,

"You see these lifeless stumps of
Some say that they are beeches, others elms,
These were the bower; and here a mansion stood
The finest palace of a hundred realms !

"The arbor does its own condition tell ;

You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; But as to the great Lodge! you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

"There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

"Some say that here a murder has been done, And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part, I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

"What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past!

Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,
Are but three bounds, - and look, Sir, at this last.

O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; And in my simple mind we cannot tell

What cause the Hart might have to love this place, And come and make his death-bed near the well.

"Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, Lulled by the fountain in the summer tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side.

"In April here beneath the flowering thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that selfsame spring.

"Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade: The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; So will it be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone."

Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine: This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

"The Being, that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care

For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

"The pleasure-house is dust: - behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom;

But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

"She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
That what we are, and have been, may be known;
But at the coming of the milder day,
These monuments shall all be overgrown.

"One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals;
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

1800.

XXV.

SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD,

TO THE ESTATES AND HONORS OF HIS ANCESTORS.

HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. -
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long:-

"From town to town, from tower to tower,
The red rose is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,

The red rose is revived at last;