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Few think what human hearts can bear,
Before their sinews burst.
It lasted long, but not for aye;
The hour of freedom came :
A cold and silent frame.
What sorrows shook the strong man's soul,
What guilt was rankling there,
The page of his despair.
A cross hath marked the stone:
The peace to life unknown.
Take heed lest ye too fall;
Shall seek but not recall.
Nor think that deserts soothe despair,
Or shame in cells is screened ;
And Memory, the fiend.
Then waft, ye winds, this tale of fear,
Breathe it in hall and hower,
Robert Stephen Hawker.
HART-LEAP WELL is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg.
HE knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor,
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud; And now, as he approached a vassal's door, · Bring forth another horse!” he cried aloud.
Another horse!” That shout the vassal heard,
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
The knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ?
The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ;
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned
Upon his side the hart was lying stretched;
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
And climbing up the hill (it was at least
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, “Till now
“I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
“A cunning artist will I have to frame
MOON, that shinest on this heathy wild
And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy ray, How am I with thy sad delight beguiled, How hold with fond imagination play! By thy broad taper I call up the time When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay, Though great in glory, overstained with crime, And fallen by his fate from kingly sway ! On bleeding knights, and on war-broken arms, Torn banners, and the dying steeds you shone, When this fair England and her peerless charms, And all but honor, to the foe were gone ! Here died the king, whom his brave subjects chose, But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes.
ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.
IN the deep blue
Or the lark took his leave
I climbed to yon heights,