Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang— "Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into a bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life. 66 Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. "Who 'd serve the state? for if I carv'd my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all: but let me live my life. 66 Oh! who would love? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn life." Turns from the sea: but let me live my He sang his song, and I replied with mine: I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, Came to the hammer here in March-and this I set the words, and added names I knew. 66 Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 66 Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. "Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night I come to-morrow morn. The pilot of the darkness and the dream. So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, my life, Did what I would; but ere the night we rose And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down The bay was oily-calm; the harbour-buoy With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins James. Yes. John. And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock. John. What is it now? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see Beyond the watermills? James. Sir Edward Head's: But he's abroad: the place is to be sold. John. Oh, his. He was not broken. |