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, And bright the lady is who shares his bed. Likewise he had sons and daughters; At his board by these surrounded, 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 helpless and alone: Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word! 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, Long, and long was he unheard of: But Sir Eustace, whom good angels A long posterity renown'd, Sounded the horn which they alone could sound. WE ARE SEVEN. A simple child That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage girl : She was eight years old she said; She had a rustic, woodland air, " Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?' |