The poor Hart toils along the mountain side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy;
He neither smack'd his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd;
And foaming like a mountain cataract.
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd:
His nose half touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath has fetch'd,
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Was never man in such a joyful case !)
Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling place.
And climbing up the hill (it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now
Such sight was never seen by living eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
"I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
"A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell !
And they, who do make mention of the same
From this day forth shall call it 'Hart-Leap Well.'
“And, gallant brute! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
"And in the summer time, when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour;
And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song,
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
"Till the foundations of the mountains fail,
My mansion with its arbour shall endure ;-
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"
Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone dead,
With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring.
-Soon did the Knight perform what he had said,
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer'd,
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall,
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,-
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer days were long,
Sir Walter journey'd with his paramour;
And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song,
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.-
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.
THE moving accident is not my trade:
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw, standing in a dell,
Three aspens at three corners of a square;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine :
And, pulling now the rein, my horse to stop,
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;
Halt-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 look'd upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seem'd 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 stopp'd, 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 cursed.
'You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood-
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;
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 guess'd, 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 pass'd! Even from the topmost 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 deathbed near the well.
"Here on the grass, perhaps, asleep he sank,
Lull'd by this fountain in the summer-tide;
This water was perhaps the first he drank,
When he had wander'd 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 selfsame 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."
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 mourn'd 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."
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 rightiul 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 help'd 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 utter'd 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 royalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hour-
Though she is but a lonely tower!
Silent, deserted of her best,
Without an inmate or a guest,
Knight, squire, or yeoman, page or groom;
We have them at the feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon-though the sleep
Of years be on her!-She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely tower :-
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair house by Emont's side,
This day distinguish'd without peer;
To see her master and to cheer
Him, and his lady mother dear!
"Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the fatherless was born-
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die!
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the mother and the child.
Who will take them from the light?
-Yonder is a man in sight-
Yonder is a house-but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks,
To the clouds of heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, mother mild,
Maid and mother undefiled,
Save a mother and her child!
"Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be he who hither came
In secret, like a smother'd flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed,
For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the child; and God hath will'd
That those dear words should be fulfill'd,
The lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her babe did say,
'My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best!'
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