Ours is a great wild country: 
        If you climb to our castle’s top,
        I don’t see where your eye can stop;
For when you’ve passed the cornfield country,
Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 10
And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract,
And cattle-tract to open-chase,
And open-chase to the very base
Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace,
Round about, solemn and slow,
One by one, row after row,
Up and up the pine-trees go,
So, like black priests up, and so
Down the other side again
        To another greater, wilder country, 20
That’s one vast red drear burnt-up plain,
Branched through and through with many a vein
Whence iron’s dug, and copper’s dealt;
        Look right, look left, look straight before—­
Beneath they mine, above they smelt,
        Copper-ore and iron-ore,
And forge and furnace mould and melt,
        And so on, more and ever more,
Till at the last, for a bounding belt,
        Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea shore 30
—­And the whole is our Duke’s country.

III

I was born the day this present Duke was—­
        (And O, says the song, ere I was old!)
In the castle where the other Duke was—­
        (When I was happy and young, not old!)
I in the kennel, he in the bower: 
We are of like age to an hour. 
My father was huntsman in that day;
Who has not heard my father say
That, when a boar was brought to bay, 40
Three times, four times out of five,
With his huntspear he’d contrive
To get the killing-place transfixed,
And pin him true, both eyes betwixt? 
And that’s why the old Duke would rather
He lost a salt-pit than my father,
And loved to have him ever in call;
That’s why my father stood in the hall
When the old Duke brought his infant out
        To show the people, and while they passed 50
The wondrous bantling round about,
        Was first to start at the outside blast
As the Kaiser’s courier blew his horn
Just a month after the babe was born. 
“And,” quoth the Kaiser’s courier,” since
The Duke has got an heir, our Prince
        Needs the Duke’s self at his side:” 
The Duke looked down and seemed to wince,
        But he thought of wars o’er the world wide,
Castles a-fire, men on their march, 60
The toppling tower, the crashing arch;
        And up he looked, and awhile he eyed
The row of crests and shields and banners
Of all achievements after all manners,
        And “ay,” said the Duke with a surly pride. 
        The more was his comfort when he died
At next year’s end, in a velvet suit,
With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot
In a silken shoe for a leather boot,
Petticoated like a herald,