As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, What this imported I could ill divine : I saw three pillars standing in a line,— The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head; 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; 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 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 flowering thorn * *the scented thorn.-Edit. 1815. And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." "Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; The Being, that is in the clouds and air, The pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before, She leaves these objects to a slow decay, These monuments shall all be overgrown.* * "Over the poem of Hart-Leap Well the mysterious spirit of the noonday, Pan, seems to brood. Out of suffering is there evoked the image of peace. Out of the cruel leap, and the agonising race through thirteen hours; out of the anguish in the perishing brute, and the headlong courage of his final despair, 'Not unobserved by sympathy divine,' the Poet calls up a vision of palingenesis; he interposes his solemn images of suffering, of decay, and ruin, only as a visionary haze, through which gleams transpire of a trembling dawn far off, but surely on the road."— DE QUINCEY. 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.”* SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE.† UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, "From town to town, from tower to tower, Both roses flourish, red and white : The two that were at strife are blended, * There is a delightful harmony here between the benignity of the sentiment, and the sweetness of the verse.-ED. + Written at Coleorton, Leicestershire, 1806. "The transitions and vicissitudes in this noble lyric, I have always thought, rendered it one of the finest specimens of modern subjective poetry which our age has seen."-SARA COLERIDGE. See the notes to the Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. Behold her how She smiles to-day On this great throng, this bright array! But chiefly from above the board 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 crowned the right. Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, We loudest in the faithful north : Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, Our streams proclaim a welcoming; Our strong-abodes and castles see The glory of their loyalty.* How glad is Skipton at this hourThough lonely, a deserted Tower ; † Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom: We have them at the feast of Brough'm. How glad Pendragon-though the sleep years be on her!-She shall reap Of A taste of this great pleasure, viewing * The glory of their royalty.-Edit. 1815. Though she is but a lonely tower, Without an inmate or a guest.-Edit. 1815. |