The ancient men in secret say
'Tis the first chief of Aspin grey
That haunts his feudal home;
But why around that alien grave,
Three thousand miles beyond the wave,
Where his exiled ashes lie,
Under the cope of England's sky,
Doth he not rather roam?
I've seen his picture in the hall,
It hangs upon an eastern wall;
And often when the sun declines
That picture like an angel shines.
And when the moonbeam still and blue
Streams the spectral windows through
That picture's like a spectral too.
The hall is full of portraits rare,
Beauty and mystery mingle there;
At his right hand an infant fair
Looks from its golden frame;
And just like his its ringlets bright,
Its large dark eyes of shadowy light,
Its cheek's pure hue, its forehead white,
And like its noble name.
Daughter divine! and could his gaze
Fall coldly on thy peerless face?
And did he never smile to see
Himself restored to infancy?
