And idle scorn of those he would not know.
Once when the lights of English Autumn time,
Clear, vigorous, spirit-cheering, morning lights,
Were dancing on a thousand thousand trees,
Were streaming on a thousand fertile fields,
And smoking on a hundred cottage tops,
He felt that these, once his, were his no more:
A stranger ploughed his very garden plots;
The Halls, where his forefathers fed the shire,
Were fallen, and the stones and timbers sold;