Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? The poor hart toils along the mountain side; But now the knight beholds him lying dead. Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn; Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Upon his side the hart was lying stretched; His nose half touched a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched, 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 walked 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 'I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 'A cunning artist will I have to frame A bason for that fountain in the dell; From this day forth shall call it HART-LEAP Well. 'And, gallant brute, to make thy praises known, 'And in the summer-time, when days are long, 'Till the foundations of the mountains fail, My mansion with its arbour shall endure, Then home he went, and left the hart stone-dead, Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, 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, The knight Sir Walter died in course of time, PART THE SECOND. The moving accident is not my trade; As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 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 trees were gray, with neither arms nor head, Half-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 looked upon the hill both far and near, 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 stopped, 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 curst. '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! 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; 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 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, Till trees and stones and fountain all are gone.' |