I looked upon the hill both far and near,
        More doleful place did never eye survey;
      It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
        And Nature here were willing to decay.

      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 top-most 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;
        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,
        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.