On the rude board the common banquet steam’d. 20
Astonish’d peasants fear’d the dreadful skill
That placed such wonders on their favourite hill;
The soldier praised it as he march’d around,
And the dark building o’er the valley frown’d.
A Norman Baron, in succeeding times,
Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes,
In feudal pomp appear’d. It was his praise
A loftier dome with happier skill to raise;
His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose;