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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
passed! Even from the top-most 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 this 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 scented thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing ;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
But now here's 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
Tor 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 shews, and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”
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,
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;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming :
Both Roses flourish, Red and White.
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.-
Joy! joy to both! but most to her
Who is the Flower of Lancaster!
Behold her how She smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array!
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the Hall;
But, chiefly, from above the Board
Where sits in state our rightful Lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!
They came with banner, spear, and shield;
And it was proved in Bosworth-field.
Not long the Avenger was withstood,
Earth helped him with the cry of blood :
St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.
Loud voice the Land hath uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful North :