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Wise with the lore of centuries,
What tales, if there be “tongues in trees,”
Those giant oaks could tell,
Of beings born and buried here;
Tales of the peasant and the peer,
Tales of the bridal and the bier,
The welcome and farewell,
Since on their boughs the startled bird
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard
The Norman’s curfew-bell!

I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
And traced upon the chapel walls
Each high, heroic name,
From him³ who once his standard set
Where now, o’er mosque and minaret,
Glitter the Sultan’s crescent moons;
To him who, when a younger son,
Fought for King George at Lexington,⁴
A major of dragoons.

That last half stanza—it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup;
The light that o’er my eyebeam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world—is gone;
And Alnwick’s but a market town,
And this, alas! its market day,