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And rule and compass to plan and trace Each door and window, and terrace and wall, And the tower that should rise to crown them all.
Ha! many a summer sunrise found
Wise John at his great and patient toil,
And many, a night he burnt the oil,
Long lines of sunny southern wall,
With mullioned windows, row on row, And balustrades, and parapets,
Where the western wind should wildly blow; And cresting all the vanes, to burn And glisten over miles of fern.
When thirteen Junes had burnt away,
The house arose as out of a dream :
With windows to catch the sunset gleam;
Two hundred feet of western front,
And chapel and turret, and acres of roof,
And gate that would keep no beggar aloof;
One day the builder smiling sat,
His red-lined parchments slowly rolled,
He bound and numbered them, fold by fold;
Yes, there his life's work stately stood,
With its shining acres of beaten lead, Its glittering windows, row on row,
That centuries hence, when he was dead, Should shine as they were shining then, – A landmark unto other men.
And there were the long white terraces,
And the great wide porch, like an open hand
That rose like a fountain o'er the land;
The singing-birds' green citadels.
They found him there when daybreak came,
In the selfsame posture, selfsame place,
A frozen smile was on his face;
THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
May meet at noontide, — Fear and trembling Hope,
Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord With the baronial castle's sterner mien : Union significant of God adored, And charters won and guarded by the sword Of ancient honor; whence that goodly state Of polity which wise men venerate, And will maintain, if God his help afford. Hourly the democratic torrent swells ; For airy promises and hopes suborned The strength of backward-looking thouglıts is scorned. Fall if ye must, ye towers and pinnacles, With what ye symbolize; authentic story Will say ye disappeared with England's glory!
William Wordsworth. STANZAS
WRITTEN IN LADY LONSDALE'S ALBUM, AT LOWTAER CASTLE.
NOMETIMES in youthful years,
When in some ancient ruin I have stood,
I felt my cheeks bedewed,
No monuments behind.
Not for themselves alone
Which yet adorn the land :
The creatures of a day.
With other feelings now,
And hospitable halls.
Thy towers with sanctity.