Of Bourne Park House.

 

What sparkling lights of lineage

Scattered about this noble place,

In quiet splendour's foliage,

The heirs of the Rockingham race;

By the gentle river's roaming,

By the grazing sheep and horses,

It is pleasant in the gloaming,

And perambulating courses.

Here a little dam trills in rills,

Before the house's good prospect,

In fine set windows, in white sills,

And grandest brick in pink protect--

Its occupant's noble person,

In excellence's symmetry,

While high nearby the village shone

In preservation perfectly.

Here where immortal Mozart stayed,

And wondered at the house's form,

Which all in splendour is arrayed,

And beneath its chimney tops would warm;

The finest windows glowed amber,

With celebrating joy at him,

To walk to a stool and clamber,

And play his music on a whim.

It was a serene circumstance,

Amid the pastures of the grounds,

In winter winds to play and dance

As the trees its border surrounds.

Never may these grand environs

Fall a prey to modern distaste,

To the worthless workman's irons,

And render its parklands a waste

 

I sometimes wonder when I see
Such visions of the country's past
Why now this nation cannot be
What once it was, now all aghast;

When Rockingham in primest place,
Governed the nation in wisdom,
When the shudder of a disgrace
Rallied the cries of the kingdom;

When honour passed around its cup,
And every man drank up its health,
Chivalrous and golden stirrup,
A long-betiding general wealth.

 

Tip up again the cup, this land,
Drink once again the tonic's good,
Let every man and knight up stand,
And do the righteous things they should.

 

Why, only regard the fallen,
Who fought to the last for its sake,
Which scattered abroad like pollen,
And left their loves grieving in wake.

Only think of the peoples freed
By the might of their sacrifice,
Who gave their lives for others' need,
Were they tributed for our vice?

This excellent manor was built
To the glory of artisans,
It was not built for men of silt,
For ignorance's partisans.

 

It shines like a bastioned fire,
To an oncoming armada,
Let not it fade in ill and ire,
Let not it dim with our ardour.

 

This house built after good Queen Anne--
Fashion of stately rooms and sweeps,
Recalls to mind that sovereign's span,
Beyond the battlements and keeps;

Then was England's safety assured,
By Marlborough's dominating hand,
When on the fields of Blenheim lured,
Our enemies, to touch to sand.

When Queen Anne reigned our land was true
To all the beautifying airs,
Which made a pleasantry a new
And freshly-scented list of prayers.
 

O see the pictured form of it,
And recall the handsome old ways
That deported this life with wit,
Better by far those times and days!

I see the arched roof's stucco slopes,
I see the circled windows light,
I see the mounting on the copes,
Enrapt of the beauteous sight.

 

And where within with papered hues,
The walls supply an ornament,
And grand old clocks tell out the news,
And furnitures well complement.

The dignity encompasses
A very excellent design,
As when a pair of compasses,
Draws out a circle of a line.

 

What wonder to behold a mound
Of heaped up soul and artistry,
Refined into a perfect ground;
Taste described intelligently;

No more should example be left,
But let this village and manor,
Drive onward, forward, English zest,
To befit St. George's banner!