The summer day throws dying fire From Stanmore's height, from Harrow's spire; Fair Headstone's lowlands swiftly fade In gathering mist and closing shade; And, Cardinal! the pensive hour Sheds sadness on thy ruin'd bower. Dim flits the bat o'er Harrow-weald, And owl hoots hoarse in Pinner-field: 'Tis darker yet, and yet more still, By watery vale, and wooded hill; Like baby hush'd on mother's breast, Meek nature droops, and sinks to rest.
The moon, half-hid, and half-display'd, Shows like warm blush of Highland maid; But, redder as it gleams through Heaven, Blushes like sinner unforgiven. Why sleeps it thus on new-rais'd grave? Minstrel! it sleeps, thy pride to save. Go, ponder by the red moon-light, And read such aweful warning right! The grave is emblem of distress To dreaming child of happiness; That grave thy wandering step will guide, In winter, or in summer tide; That grave will bid thee put aside (Aside, proud bard, for ever put!) Both £100 and malmsey butt. Oh! follow such monition high, And, Minstrel, say not "I am P—e!"
