107
And tread, in summer's rosy hours,
His native fields and verdant bow'rs.
His native fields and verdant bow'rs.
Oh! could I frame my artless lays
To speak, in accents meet, thy praise,
Northumberland! my rustic string
Of many a beauty wild should ring;
Of those fair ruins, which your sire
With all a chieftain's pride inspire,
As pointing to the mould'ring walls:
"Behold," he cries, "our father's halls!"
Of Kirkley's hospitable bow'rs:
Of stately Alnwick's gothic tow'rs;
And Cheviot! of thy mountains grey,
Bedew'd by Linskill's dashing spray:
But all unequal are my lays
To speak, of scenes like these, the praise.
To speak, in accents meet, thy praise,
Northumberland! my rustic string
Of many a beauty wild should ring;
Of those fair ruins, which your sire
With all a chieftain's pride inspire,
As pointing to the mould'ring walls:
"Behold," he cries, "our father's halls!"
Of Kirkley's hospitable bow'rs:
Of stately Alnwick's gothic tow'rs;
And Cheviot! of thy mountains grey,
Bedew'd by Linskill's dashing spray:
But all unequal are my lays
To speak, of scenes like these, the praise.
And see! amid these landscapes wild,
The vale in gentler beauties mild,
The vale in gentler beauties mild,
