It joined the sounding streams--with his blue waters blending.
Behind a lofty wood along the steep
Fenced from the chill north-east this quiet glen:
And green hills, gaily sprinkled o'er with sheep,
Spread to the south; while by the brightening pen,
Rose the blithe sound of flocks and hounds and men,
At summer dawn, and gloaming; or the voice
Of children nutting in the hazelly den,
Sweet mingling with the winds' and waters' noise,
Attuned the softened heart with Nature to rejoice.
Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower,
By time and outrage marked with many a scar,
Told of past days of feudal pomp and power
When its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar.
But that was long gone by: and waste and war,
And civil strife more ruthless still than they,
Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden's star,
Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray,
O'er this secluded spot,--sole remnant of their sway.
Lynden's lord, and possessor of this tower, is now "a grave, mild,
husbandman," and his wife--
She he loved in youth and loved alone,
Was his.
* * * * *
And now his pleasant home and pastoral farm
Are all the world to him: he feels no sting
Of restless passions; but, with grateful arm,
Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling,
Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the spring.
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