Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower,
By time and outrage marked with many a scar,
Told of past days of feudal pomp and power
When its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar.
But that was long gone by: and waste and war,
And civil strife more ruthless still than they,
Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden's star,
Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray,
O'er this secluded spot,--sole remnant of their sway.

Lynden's lord, and possessor of this tower, is now "a grave, mild,
husbandman," and his wife--

She he loved in youth and loved alone,
Was his.

* * * * *

And now his pleasant home and pastoral farm
Are all the world to him: he feels no sting
Of restless passions; but, with grateful arm,
Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling,
Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the spring.

Another prattler, too, lisps on his knee,
The orphan daughter of a hapless pair,
Who, voyaging upon the Indian sea,
Met the fierce typhon-blast--and perished there:
But she was left the rustic home to share
Of those who her young mother's friends had been: