The Danish mounds of partial green,
Still, as each mouldering tower decays,
Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene
Proclaim their wond'rous length of days.
My burning feet, my aching sight,
Demanded rest,--why did I weep?
The moon arose, and such a night!
Good Heav'n! it was a sin to sleep.

All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs,
Sweet Melancholy, from my breast;
"'Tis here that eastern greatness lies,
"That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest!
"Here funeral rites the priesthood gave
"To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers,
"The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave,
"From Framlingham's imperial towers.

Full of the mighty deeds of yore,
I bade good night the trembling beam;
Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar,
Of what but slaughter could I dream?
Bless'd be that night, that trembling beam,
Peaceful excursions Fancy made;
All night I heard the bubbling stream,
Yet, Barnham Water wants a shade.

Whatever hurts my country's fame,
When wits and mountaineers deride,