t.

"You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood--125
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 arbour does its own condition tell;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; 130
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, 135
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. 140

"What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past!
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, [24]
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; 145
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 [25] fountain in the summer tide; 150
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother's side.

"In April here beneath the flowering [26] thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 155
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

"Now, here is [27] 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." 160

"Grey-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, 165
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures [28] whom he loves.

"The pleasure-house is dust:--behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom; 170
But Nature, in due course of time, on