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 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!

From the stone upon the summit of 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 death-bed near the Well.

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by this 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 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 self-same 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,

e;

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain all are gone."

"Gray-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 them the quiet 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."

There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs
And Islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the stars had just begun
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth.
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls

That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout aga'n

Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced