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The trees were grey, 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.

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen woodSome say that they are beeches, others elmsThese 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 lastO 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 self-same 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."

“ 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,
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.”

1900,

SONNET.-NOVEMBER First. HOW

OW clear, how keen, how marvellously bright

The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed, Shines like another sun-on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering headTerrestrial, but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained ? nor shall the aerial Powerg Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.

I.

WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,

Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? Oh, find me, prosperous or undone ! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same ? That I may rest; and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

II.
Seven
years,

alas ! to have received
No tidings of an only child ;
To have despaired, have hoped, believed.
And been for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss !
I catch at them, and then I miss :-
Was ever darkness like to this?

III.

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold ;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base :
And never blush was on my face.

IV.

Ah ! little doth the young-one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares !

He knows it not, he cannot guess :
Years to a mother bring distress ;
But do not make her love the less.

V.

Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought; and, being blind,
Said, 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:' and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.

VI.

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honor and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain :
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

VII.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight.
They mount—how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight !
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

VIII.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;

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