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20 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,