202 KENILWORTH.
The watchful warder lay his mace aside, And through the pent-horn blow a mighty blast, To warn his master, the good, stalwart knight, Geoffry de Clinton, that his patron-king, The Norman Beauclerc, with a hunting train, Swept o er the Warwick hills, intent to prove His hospitality, perchance to explore His new-reared fortress.
Let a century pass, And from yon bastion, with a fiery glance, That speaks the restless and vindictive soul, Simon de Montfort counts his men at arms, Warning his archers that their bows be strong, And every arrow sharply ring that day, Against their lawful sovereign.
Change hath swept,
With wave on wave, the feudal times away, And from their mightiest fabrics plucked the pride. The patriarchs, and the men before the flood, Who trod the virgin greenness of the earth, While centuries rolled on centuries, dwelt in tents, And tabernacles, deeming that their date Was all too short, to entrench themselves, and hold Successful warfare with oblivious death. But we, in the full plenitude and hope Of threescore years and ten, (how oft curtailed !) Add house to house, and field to field, and heap Stone upon stone ; then, shuddering, sink and die : While in our footsteps climb another race, Graves all around them, and the booming knell Forever in their ears.
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