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SPEKE HALL.
Oh, fair old House—how Time doth honour thee,
Giving thee what to-day may never gain,
Of long respect and ancient poesy;
The yew-trees at thy doors are black with years,
And filled with memories of those warlike days,
When from each bough was lopped a gallant bow;
For then the yew was what the oak is now,
And what our bowmen were, our sailors are.
How green the ivy grows upon the walls,
Ages have lent their strength to those frail boughs,
A venerable wreath upon the past,
Which here is paramount;—the past, which is
Imagination's own gigantic realm.
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