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In the far North, my child, by the eternal sea,
stands the Castle of Burdock, — all day, statelily
looking forth, watching the white-haired billows
coming up from Ocean's great deep bosom, as emo-
tions from the heart of man ; all night, listening
to its awful and perpetual melody.
Proud banners fan not its donjon now, nor does
wild minstrelsy at midnight burst from its halls as
of yore. The glory of the Esecals has departed.
The sun of their prosperity set at mid-day. The
perpetual night of infamy fell upon them. Mourn
we for the great of other years; — for those whose
darings and sufferings and triumphs are hid therein,
invisible to the eye of man ! — Mourn we for them.
Nature, and her great handmaiden, Art, gave
stately strength to the castle of Burdock. But they
gave beauty also. Long rows of tall poplar trees ; —
forests of towering, spreading, gnarled oak ; — long
avenues, canopied overhead, — sweet resting-places
for meditative age, for high, thoughtful manhood,
for loving, passionate youth, for merry childhood ; —
ever- recurring open spaces, — the sun in summer
laughing down, and herds of deer gambolling in its
glorious beams ; while far away the blue hills encom-
pass all, like a girdle of angel's wings. Strong, and

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