I looked upon the hill both far and near, I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen wood The Arbour 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, Some say that here a murder has been done, What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have past! Even from the topmost Stone, upon the Steep, For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; What cause the Hart might have to love this place, Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, In April here beneath the scented thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing; Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; 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, For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. The Pleasure-house is dust: - behind, before, 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 shews, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.” XXX. SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS. HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, "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; She lifts her head for endless spring, For everlasting blossoming: Both Roses flourish, Red and White. |