Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower,
  By time and outrage marked with many a scar,
  Told of past days of feudal pomp and power
  When its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar. 
  But that was long gone by:  and waste and war,
  And civil strife more ruthless still than they,
  Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden’s star,
  Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray,
  O’er this secluded spot,—­sole remnant of their sway.

Lynden’s lord, and possessor of this tower, is now “a grave, mild, husbandman,” and his wife—­

She he loved in youth and loved alone,
Was his.

* * * * *

And now his pleasant home and pastoral farm
Are all the world to him:  he feels no sting
Of restless passions; but, with grateful arm,
Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling,
Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the spring.

Another prattler, too, lisps on his knee,
The orphan daughter of a hapless pair,
Who, voyaging upon the Indian sea,
Met the fierce typhon-blast—­and perished there: 
But she was left the rustic home to share
Of those who her young mother’s friends had been: 
An old affection thus enhanced the care
With which those faithful guardians loved to screen
This sweet forsaken flower, in their wild arbours green.

* * * * *

But dark calamity comes aye too soon—­
And why anticipate its evil day? 
Ah, rather let us now in lovely June
O’erlook these happy children at their play: 
Lo, where they gambol through the garden gay,
Or round the hoary hawthorn dance and sing,
Or, ’neath yon moss-grown cliff, grotesque and grey
Sit plaiting flowery wreaths in social ring,
And telling wondrous tales of the green Elfin King.

* * * * *

Ah! evil days have fallen upon the land;
A storm that brooded long has burst at last;
And friends, like forest trees that closely stand
With roots and branches interwoven fast,
May aid awhile each other in the blast;
But as when giant pines at length give way
The groves below must share the ruin vast,
So men who seemed aloof from Fortune’s sway
Fall crushed beneath the shock of loftier than they.

  Even so it fared.  And dark round Lynden grew
  Misfortune’s troubles; and foreboding fears,
  That rose like distant shadows nearer drew
  O’ercasting the calm evening of his years;
  Yet still amidst the gloom fair hope appears,
  A rainbow in the cloud.  And, for a space,
  Till the horizon closes round of clears,
  Returns our tale the enchanted path to trace
  Where youth’s fond visions rise with fair but fleeting grace. 
  Far up the dale, where Lynden’s ruined towers