BALLADE DEDICATORY,
TO
_MRS. ELTON_
_OF WHITE STAUNTON_.
_THE painted Briton built his mound_,
_And left his celts and clay_,
_On yon fair slope of sunlit ground_
_That fronts your garden gay_;
_The Roman came_, _he bore the sway_,
_He bullied_, _bought_, _and sold_,
_Your fountain sweeps his works away_
_Beside your manor old_!
_But still his crumbling urns are found_
_Within the window-bay_,
_Where once he listened to the sound_
_That lulls you day by day_;—
_The sound of summer winds at play_,
_The noise of waters cold_
_To Yarty wandering on their way_,
_Beside your manor old_!
_The Roman fell_: _his firm-set bound_
_Became the Saxon’s stay_;
_The bells made music all around_
_For monks in cloisters grey_,
_Till fled the monks in disarray_
_From their warm chantry’s fold_,
_Old Abbots slumber as they may_,
_Beside your manor old_!
_ENVOY_.
_Creeds_, _empires_, _peoples_, _all decay_,
_Down into darkness_, _rolled_;
_May life that’s fleet be sweet_, _I pray_,
_Beside your manor old_.