And horse, and man, and horn, and hound, Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; He listens for his trusty hounds; Still dark and darker frown the shades, High o'er the sinner's humbled head At length the solemn silence broke; And from a cloud of swarthy red, The awful voice of thunder spoke, 'Oppressor of creation fair! Apostate spirits' harden'd tool! Scorner of God, scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full. 'Be chas'd forever through the wood: Forever roam the affrighted wild ; And let thy fate instruct the proud, God's meanest creature is His child.' Twas hush'd one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forest's brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone. Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call; her entrails rend; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell. What ghastly huntsman next arose, The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, CII TO DAFFODILS Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; Stay, stay, Until the hastening day But to the even-song; And having prayed together, we We have short time to stay, as you; We die, As your hours do; and dry Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, R. Herrick CIII THE HOMES OF ENGLAND The stately homes of England! O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound And the swan glides by them with the sound The merry homes of England! What gladsome looks of household love How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from sabbath hours! The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And fearless there the lowly sleep, The free, fair homes of England! Where first the child's glad spirit loves F. Hemans CIV MARY THE MAID OF THE INN Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek ; On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac hath been; The traveller remembers who journey'd this way As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, But Richard was idle and worthless, and they |