Man little cares for what Time leaves beside;
And when an orchard and a moat, half dry,
Remain, sole relics of a power passed by,
Should we not think of what ourselves shall be,
And view our coffins in the stones of Leigh.
For what within yon space was once the abode
Of peace or war to man, and fear of God,
Is now the daily sport of shower or wind,
And no acquaintance holds with human kind.
Some who can be loved, and love can give,