LVII

ROBIN REDBREAST

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,
Our swallows flown away,-
But Robin's here in coat of brown,
And scarlet breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!
Robin sings so sweetly
In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near.

The fire-side for the cricket,

The wheatstack for the mouse,

When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow,-
Alas! in winter dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And a crumb of bread for Robin,

His little heart to cheer.

W. Allingham

LVIII

THE OWL

In the hollow tree in the grey old tower,
The spectral owl doth dwell;

Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk, he's abroad and well :

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him ;
All mock him outright by day ;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away;

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then is the reign of the horned owl!

And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom;

And with eyes like the shine of the moonshine cold She awaiteth her ghastly groom!

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill !

O, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl,
Then, then is the cry of the horned owl!

Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight !
The owl hath his share of good:

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark green wood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate;
They are each unto each a pride—

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside !

So when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing Ho! for the reign of the horned owl!

We know not alway who are kings by day,
But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.
B. Cornwall

LIX

HART LEAP WELL

PART I

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor,
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud,
And now, as he approach'd a vassal's door,
'Bring forth another horse !' he cried aloud.

'Another horse!' that shout the vassal heard,
And saddled his best steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
And as they galloped made the echoes roar ;
But horse and man are vanished, one and all ;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain ;
Blanche, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight halloed, he cheered and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
This chase, it looks not like an earthly chase:
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned,
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet:

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched;

His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,

And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched, The waters of the spring were trembling still,

And now, too happy for repose or rest,

(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, And gazed, and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill, (it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks, which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted in the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, "Till now Such sight was never seen by human eyes; Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies.

'I'll build a pleasure house upon this spot,
And a small arbour made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.

'A cunning artist will I have to frame

A basin for that fountain in the dell !

And they who do make mention of the same, From this day forth shall call it Hart Leap Well.

'And, gallant stag, to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.