The helpless aged poor survey, This building as it stands; In moving anguish heard to say, (And weeping wring their hands) The bounteous earl, he is no more, Who once adorn’d this plain; Reliev’d the needy at his door, And freely did sustain. Here flowing plenty once did reign, Which gladden’d ev’ry face; But now, alas! reversed scene, For owls a dwelling place. The tim’rous deer hath left the lawn, The oak a victim falls; The gentle trav’ler sighs when shewn, These desolated walls. Each gen’rous mind emotion feels, With pious pity mov’d; No breast its anguish yet conceals, For one so well belov’d. Let no unhallow’d tongue, or servile slave, Their partial clamour vent beyond the grave; But let the noble Dead his honours wear; His fault deplore, his virtue still revere: Tho’ err he did, he finish’d the debate, With his own blood, and Radclyffe’s fair estate. The aged farmer, tott’ring o’er the green, Leans on his staff, recounts the days he’s seen: Informs the list’ning youth by his record, How bless’d his roof, how plenteous was his board; Nor rack’d by Derwent’s hospitable lord. He stops his tale, involv’d in grief profound; He sighs, he weeps, and feebly strikes the ground; Cries, why rehearse these golden days of yore, Since they to me, to me can be no more! The clement heart, and curious, often calls To view the naked park, and stripped walls: E’en the damp walls their stony tears impart, As if their master’s wound had pierc’d their heart. Ye pensive mutes, ’tentive on Dilston wait, And mourn, eternal Radclyffe’s tragic fate! HEXHAM WOOD. In former times where Hexham town doth stand, A wood there was which cover’d miles of land; Even all the trees that on the common stood, Were merely twigs compar’d to this great wood. In all directions on each side of Tyne, More boundless than the noted Apennine; And by some modern authors ’tis agreed, Some branches of this wood are planted near to Tweed. These northern parts confess’d it’s balmy shade, An asylum to those reduced in trade: Resource they found--the charter was so good, They were secure if shelter’d by this wood. In Sherwood Forest many a prank was play’d, Which thro’ tradition is to us display’d: Though Hexham could ne’er boast a Robin Hood, Yet little John did much frequent this wood. A motley race--the libertine and harlot, Supplied the place of Stutely and Will Scarlet. Within the covert of this wood did rove, The town bred bucks, with sly intrigues of love: The yielding females felt an equal flame, To taste love’s joys when near this wood they came; Nor justice fac’d, nor e’er a penance stood, The offspring still was call’d by name of wood.