Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/164

124 And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,

The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.

32.

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake;

What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!

The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.

33.

Ah happy days! too happy to endure!

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:

No splendid vices glitter'd to allure;

Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

34.

From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed;

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;

Another Chief impels the foaming steed,

Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.

35.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;

The last and youngest of a noble line,

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.

36.

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;