To his castle Hubert sped;

He has nothing now to dread.

But silent and by stealth he came,

And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn ;
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee :
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread;

And bright the lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate

At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.

And, while thus in open day,

Once he sate, as old books say,

A blast was utter'd from the horn,

Where, by the castle gate, it hung forlorn.

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace !
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown,

He is helpless and alone:

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord.

Speak! astounded Hubert cannot ;

And if power to speak he had,

All are daunted, all the household,

Smitten to the heart and sad, 'Tis Sir Eustace: if it be

Living man, it must be he!

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern gate he slunk away.

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his brother then he came,
Made confession, ask'd forgiveness,
Ask'd it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven :
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs :
And through ages, heirs of heirs,

A long posterity renown'd,

Sounded the horn which they alone could sound.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl :

She was eight years old she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
- Her beauty made me glad.

" Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?'

That an accursed thing it is to gaze

On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor, touch'd with due abhorrence of their guilt
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labours in extremity,

Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!

MINOR POEMS