Once we journeyed to explore
the Northern icy roar,
flushed with childish infancy
it ways ourselves to see,
quiet treasures there did find,
unknown before to Southern minds,
amidst some spinney green lit grove,
nature's splendour carefully wove,
where scented thoughts belong,
the noble artistry of nature's song,
now interned in a murky bower,
grandeur's fire now turned sour,
here, Longhill's jewel wrapt in cloak,
by stately Beech, Ash and Oak,
masked in all its misty gloom,
as a dying flower that once did bloom,
now eroding time of all that's left,
awaits the lingering pain of death,
yet fervently and proudly still
stands the monarch of this captive hill,
in quiet lines of beauty's grace,
its architect with care did trace,
and ancient man with mason's pride,
his sculptured craft with skill applied,
with visions belief as God adores,
like oft their fathers did before,
artisans, butlers, maids and all,
were naught but puppets to this Hall,
Alas! They long since have gone away,
alone, to life's fast fading day;
still, lofty trees stand guard the door,
their leafy shadows seemingly implore
some guardian fate, that fate may know,
with torch, to renew its fired glow,
With fear my burning heart grew cold,
knowing youth lay in some distant fold,
along with flowers of springtime spent,
Alas! Naught have I to employ,
nor sinful wealth its spoils enjoy,
but there is time yet to live,
an English heart it breath to give,
so, not whilst I breathe,
shall ruinous time conceive
the erosion or the fall,
the history of Longhills Hall.