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Few think what human hearts can bear,
It lasted long, but not for aye;
What sorrows shook the strong man's soul,
We know not,
time may not unroll
The page of his despair.
He sleeps in yonder nameless ground,
And if ye mourn that man of tears,
A day may mar the rest, that years
Nor think that deserts soothe despair,
Then waft, ye winds, this tale of fear,
Till reckless hearts grow hushed to hear
Robert Stephen Hawker.
HART-LEAP WELL is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg.
THE knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor, show motion of a summer's cloud;
And now, as he approached a vassal's door,
"Another horse!" That shout the vassal heard,
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
The knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The poor hart toils along the mountain-side;
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned
Upon his side the hart was lying stretched;
And now, too happy for repose or rest, (Never had living man such joyful lot!)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
And climbing up the hill (it was at least
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
And they who do make mention of the same
MOON, that shinest on this heathy wild
And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy ray, How am I with thy sad delight beguiled, How hold with fond imagination play! By thy broad taper I call up the time When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay, Though great in glory, overstained with crime, And fallen by his fate from kingly sway! On bleeding knights, and on war-broken arms, Torn banners, and the dying steeds you shone, When this fair England and her peerless charms, And all but honor, to the foe were gone!
Here died the king, whom his brave subjects chose, But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes.
ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.
the deep blue of eve,
Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,
Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,
I climbed to yon heights,
Where the Norman encamped him of old,