THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD.
Down sunny till-sides sloping to the west,
From Rookwood's towers the morning shadows fall
In long-drawn lines. A wooded eminence
Lifts o'er the walls and from its shoulders drops
A mantle of close tree-tops, right and left
Far trailing through the valleys. To the brink
Of a broad willowy stream the lawn descends,
Halved by an avenue of elms that winds
Up to gray Rookwood's portals. Here the roofs
Are thatched with moss, the massive stones worn smooth.
The windows blind with parasites. Whole miles—
Hill, vale, and river—are fenced in around.
From Rookwood's towers the morning shadows fall
In long-drawn lines. A wooded eminence
Lifts o'er the walls and from its shoulders drops
A mantle of close tree-tops, right and left
Far trailing through the valleys. To the brink
Of a broad willowy stream the lawn descends,
Halved by an avenue of elms that winds
Up to gray Rookwood's portals. Here the roofs
Are thatched with moss, the massive stones worn smooth.
The windows blind with parasites. Whole miles—
Hill, vale, and river—are fenced in around.
