Austere

As we drove past the crumbling walls of Barnard Castle, Durham

By Sir Walter Scott

But mountain peak and village spire
Retain reflection of his fire
Old Barnard's towers are purple still
To those that gaze from Toller Hill
Distant and high the towers of Bowes
Like steel upon the anvil glows;
And Stainmore's ridge behind that lay
Rich with the spoils of parting day.

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