That she would eat—yet Jacob little eats; When she forbears, his supplicating eye Intreats the noble dame once more to try. Their years the same; and he has never known Another place; and this he deems his own— All appertains to him. Whate’er he sees Is _ours_!—“our house, our land, our walks, our trees!” But still he fears the time is just at hand, When he no more shall in that presence stand; And he resolves with mingled grief and pride, 50 To serve no being in the world beside. “He has enough,” he says, with many a sigh, “For him to serve his God, and learn to die: He and his lady shall have heard their call, And the new folk, the strangers, may have all.” But, leaving these to their accustom’d way, The Seat itself demands a short delay. We all have interest there—the trees that grow } Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe; } They take, but largely pay, and equal grace bestow. 60} They hide a part, but still, the part they shade Is more inviting to our fancy made; And, if the eye be robb’d of half its sight, Th’ imagination feels the more delight. These giant oaks by no man’s order stand; Heaven did the work, by no man was it plann’d. Here I behold no puny works of art; } None give me reasons why these views impart } Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the heart. } These very pinnacles, and turrets small, 70 And windows dim, have beauty in them all. How stately stand yon pines upon the hill; How soft the murmurs of that living rill; And o’er the park’s tall paling, scarcely higher, Peeps the low Church and shows the modest spire. Unnumber’d violets on those banks appear, And all the first-born beauties of the year; The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring The large wild bees upon the labouring wing. Then comes the Summer with augmented pride, 80 Whose pure small streams along the valleys glide; Her richer Flora their brief charms display, And, as the fruit advances, fall away. Then shall th’ autumnal yellow clothe the leaf, What time the reaper binds the burden’d sheaf; Then silent groves denote the dying year, The morning frost, and noon-tide gossamer; And all be silent in the scene around— All, save the distant sea’s uncertain sound, Or here and there the gun, whose loud report 90 Proclaims to man that Death is but his sport. And then the wintry winds begin to blow; Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow; When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue, Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew; The aged moss grows brittle on the pale; The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale; And every changing season of the year Stamps on the scene its English character. Farewell! a prouder Mansion I may see, 100 But much must meet in that which equals thee! II.