What secret charms this silent spot endear? 
   Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro’ the trees. 
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arch’d with ivy’s brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heav’n convey’d. 
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleas’d, for life itself was new,
And the heart promis’d what the fancy drew. 
   See, thro’ the fractur’d pediment reveal’d,
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptur’d shield,
The martin’s old, hereditary nest. 
Long may the ruin spare its hallow’d guest! 
   As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! 
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! 
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
   Now stain’d with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweeten’d every meal with social glee. 
The heart’s light laugh pursued the circling jest;
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
’Twas here we chas’d the slipper by the sound;
And turn’d the blindfold hero round and round. 
’Twas here, at eve, we form’d our fairy ring;
And Fancy flutter’d on her wildest wing. 
Giants and genii chain’d each wondering ear;
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
Oft with the babes we wander’d in the wood,
Or view’d the forest-feats of Robin Hood: 
Oft, fancy-led, at midnight’s fearful hour,
With startling step we seal’d the lonely tower: 
O’er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Murder’d by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 
   Ye Household Deities! whose guardian eye
Mark’d each pure thought, ere register’d on high;
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. 
   As o’er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the wilder’d sight;
And still, with Heraldry’s rich hues imprest,
On the dim window glows the pictur’d crest. 
The screen unfolds its many-colour’d chart. 
The clock still points its moral to the heart. 
That faithful monitor ’twas heav’n to hear! 
When soft it spoke a promis’d pleasure near: 
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feather’d feet of Time? 
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought,
Whence the caged linnet sooth’d my pensive thought;
Those muskets, cas’d with venerable rust;
Those once-lov’d forms, still breathing thro’ their dust,
Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life—­all whisper of the past! 
   As thro’ the garden’s desert paths I rove,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove! 
How oft, when purple evening ting’d the west,
We watch’d the emmet to her grainy nest;