“Then, lass, thy grandsire’s footsteps guide To Bulmer’s Tree, the giant oak, Whose boughs the keeper’s cottage hide, And part the church-way lane o’erlook; A boy, I climb’d the topmost bough, 170 And I would feel its shadow now! “Or, lassie, lead me to the west, Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall, Where rooks unnumber’d build their nest— Deliberate birds, and prudent all: Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude, But they’re a social multitude.” “The rooks are shot, the trees are fell’d, And nest and nursery all expell’d; With better fate the giant-tree, 180 Old Bulmer’s Oak, is gone to sea. The church-way walk is now no more, And men must other ways explore; Though this indeed promotion gains, For this the park’s new wall contains; And here I fear we shall not meet A shade—although, perchance, a seat.” “O then, my lassie, lead the way To Comfort’s Home, the ancient inn: That something holds, if we can pay— 190 Old David is our living kin; A servant once, he still preserves His name, and in his office serves.” “Alas! that mine should be the fate Old David’s sorrows to relate! But they were brief; not long before He died, his office was no more. The kennel stands upon the ground, With something of the former sound.” “O then,” the grieving Man replied, 200 “No further, lassie, let me stray; Here’s nothing left of ancient pride, Of what was grand, of what was gay; But all is chang’d, is lost, is sold— All, all that’s left is chilling cold. I seek for comfort here in vain; Then lead me to my cot again!” TALE XI. _THE MERCHANT._ I.