Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,And with the last deep groan his breath had fetchedThe waters of the spring were trembling still.And now, too happy for repose or rest,(Never had living man such joyful lot!)Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.And climbing up the hill-(it was at leastFour roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter foundThree several hoof-marks which the hunted BeastHad left imprinted on the grassy ground.Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, 'Till nowSuch sight was never seen by human eyes:Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,Down to the very fountain where he lies.'I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,And a small arbour, made for rural joy;'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,A place of love for damsels that are coy.'A cunning artist will I have to frameA basin for that fountain in the dell!And they who do make mention of the same,From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.'And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known,Another monument shall here be raised;Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.'And, in the summer-time when days are long,I will come hither with my Paramour;And with the dancers and the minstrel's songWe will make merry in that pleasant bower.'Till the foundations of the mountains failMy mansion with its arbour shall endure; —The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.— Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,A cup of stone received the living well;Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,And built a house of pleasure in the dell.And near the fountain, flowers of stature tallWith trailing plants and trees were intertwined, —Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.And thither, when the summer days were long,Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;And with the dancers and the minstrel's songMade merriment within that pleasant bower.The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,And his bones lie in his paternal vale. —But there is matter for a second rhyme,And I to this would add another tale.PART SECONDTHE moving accident is not my trade;To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 0As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,It chanced that I saw standing in a dellThree aspens at three corners of a square;And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
