# Edward FitzGerald: an aftermath/Bredfield Hall

    Lo, an English mansion founded
       In the elder James's reign,
    Quaint and stately, and surrounded
       With a pastoral domain.
    With well-timber'd lawn and gardens
       And with many a pleasant mead,
    Skirted by the lofty coverts
       Where the hare and pheasant feed.
    Flank'd it is with goodly stables,
       Shelter'd by coeval trees
    So it lifts its honest gables
       Toward the distant German seas
    Where it once discern'd the smoke
       Of old sea-battles far away :
    Saw victorious Nelson's topmasts
       Anchoring in Hollesley Bay.
    But whatever storm might riot,
       Cannon roar, and trumpet ring,
    Still amid these meadows quiet
       Did the yearly violet spring
    Still Heaven's starry hand suspended
       That light balance of the dew,
    That each night on earth descended,
       And each morning rose anew
    And the ancient house stood rearing
       Undisturb'd her chimneys high,
    And her gilded vanes still veering
       Toward each quarter of the sky :
    While like wave to wave succeeding
       Through the world of joy and strife,
    Household after household speeding
       Handed on the torch of life
    First, sir Knight in ruff and doublet,
       Arm in arm with stately dame
    Then the Cavaliers indignant
       For their monarch brought to shame
    Languid beauties limn'd by Lely;
       Full-wigg'd Justice of Queen Anne :
    Tory squires who tippled freely ;
       And the modern Gentleman :
    Here they lived, and here they greeted,
       Maids and matrons, sons and sires,
    Wandering in its walks, or seated
       Round its hospitable fires :
    Oft their silken dresses floated
       Gleaming through the pleasure ground :
    Oft dash'd by the scarlet-coated
       Hunter, horse, and dappled hound.
    Till the Bell that not in vain
       Had summon'd them to weekly prayer,
    Call'd them one by one again
       To the church — and left them there !
    They with all their loves and passions,
       Compliment, and song, and jest,
    Politics, and sports, and fashions,
       Merged in everlasting rest !
    So they pass — while thou, old Mansion,
       Markest with unaltered face
    How like the foliage of thy summers
       Race of man succeeds to race.
    To most thou stand'st a record sad,
       But all the sunshine of the year
    Could not make thine aspect glad
       To one whose youth is buried here.
    In thine ancient rooms and gardens
       Buried — and his own no more
    Than the youth of those old owners,
       Dead two centuries before.
    Unto him the fields around thee
       Darken with the days gone by :
    O'er the solemn woods that bound thee
       Ancient sunsets seem to die.
    Sighs the selfsame breeze of morning
       Through the cypress as of old
    Ever at the Spring's returning
       One same crocus breaks the mould.
    Still though 'scaping Time's more savage
       Handywork this pile appears,
    It has not escaped the ravage
       Of the undermining years.
    And though each succeeding master,
       Grumbling at the cost to pay,
    Did with coat of paint and plaster
       Hide the wrinkles of decay
    Yet the secret worm ne'er ceases,
       Nor the mouse behind the wall ;
    Heart of oak will come to pieces,
       And farewell to Bredfield Hall !
"These verses on his old home were written originally by FitzGerald as early as 1839, and communicated to Bernard Barton. They were circulated in slightly differing forms among his friends, and probably never received the final touches of his hand, but they contain what, Professor Cowell informs me, were in his own judgment the best lines he had ever written, as shewing real imagination, and it seems better to print them though imperfect. In reply to an old friend, who had heard some of the lines quoted and supposed them to be from Tennyson, he wrote: 'I was astonisht to find I had three sheets to fold up; and now one half "cheer" more, only to prevent you wasting any more trouble in looking through Tennyson for those verses – I myself having been puzzled at first to what you alluded by that single line. No : I wrote them along with many others about my old home more than forty years ago, and they recur to me also as I wander about the Garden or the Lawn. Therefore I suppose there is some native force about them, though your referring them to A. T. proves that I was echoing him." —Letters and Literary Remains (1889), Vol. III., pp. 458-461