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There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
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,
-O Master! it has been a cruel leap.
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 scented thorn
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;
The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
The Pleasure-house is dust:-behind, before,
She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
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,
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,
Both Roses flourish, Red and White.
The two that were at strife are blended,
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;
Earth helped him with the cry of blood:
Of blessed Angels crown'd the right. Loud voice the Land hath uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful North: