And all I remember is friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I pour'd down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
R. Browning.

THE FERRYMAN, VENUS, AND CUPID.

As I a fare had lately past,
And thought that side to ply,
I heard one, as it were, in haste,
"A boat! a boat!" to cry;
Which as I was about to bring,
And came to view my fraught,

Thought I, what more than heavenly thing

Hath fortune hither brought?

She, seeing mine eyes still on her were,

Soon, smilingly, quoth she,

Sirrah, look to your rudder there,
Why look'st thou thus at me?”
And nimbly stepp'd into my boat,
With her a little lad,

Naked and blind; yet did I note
That bow and shafts he had,

And two wings to his shoulders fix'd,
Which stood like little sails,

With far more various colors mix'd
Than be your peacocks' tails!
I seeing this little dapper elf
Such arms as these to bear,
Quoth I, thus softly to myself,
What strange things have we here?
I never saw the like, thought I,
'Tis more than strange to me,
To have a child have wings to fly,
And yet want eyes to see.
Sure this is some devised toy,
Or it transform'd hath been,

For such a thing, half bird, half boy,

I think was never seen.

* Freight.

And in my boat I turn'd about,
And wistly view'd the lad,

And clearly I saw his eyes were out,
Though bow and shafts he had.

As wistly she did me behold,

"How lik'st thou him?

quoth she.

Why, well," quoth I, "the better should, Had he but eyes to see."

How say'st thou, honest friend," quoth she, "Wilt thou a 'prentice take?

I think, in time, though blind he be,
A ferryman he'll make."

"To guide my passage-boat," quoth I,
"His fine hands were not made;
He hath been bred too wantonly
To undertake my trade."

"Why, help him to a master, then,"
Quoth she, "such youths be scant;
It cannot be but there be men
That such a boy do want."

Quoth I, "When you your best have done,
No better way you'll find,

Than to a harper bind your son,
Since most of them are blind."
The lovely mother and the boy
Laugh'd heartily thereat,
As at some nimble jest or toy,
To hear my homely chat.
Quoth I "I pray you let me know,
Came he thus first to light,

Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow,

Deprived of his sight?"

Nay, sure," quoth she, "he thus was born." ""Tis strange, born blind!" quoth I; I fear you put this as a scorn

On my simplicity.'

دو

Quoth she, "Thus blind I did him bear."

Quoth I, "If 't be no lie,

Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear,

E'er practised archery."

"A man!" quoth she, "nay, there you miss,

He's still a boy as now,

Nor to be elder than he is
The gods will him allow."
"To be no elder than he is!
Then sure he is some sprite,"

I straight replied. Again at this
The goddess laugh'd outright.
"It is a mystery to me,

An archer, and yet blind!"
Quoth I again, how can it be,
That he his mark should find?"

"The gods," quoth she, "whose will it was
That he should want his sight,

That he in something should surpass,
To recompense their spite,

Gave him this gift, though at his game
He still shot in the dark,

That he should have so certain aim

As not to miss his mark."

By this time we were come ashore,
When me my fare she paid,
But not a word she utter'd more,
Nor had I her bewray'd.
Of Venus nor of Cupid I
Before did never hear,

But that a fisher coming by
Then told me who they were.

Drayton.

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
"To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo!"
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

And thronging serfs their lords pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,*

Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,

And calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd.

i.e.. freed from their leashes.

66

But still the Wildgrave onward rides
Halloo, halloo! and, hark again!"
When spurring from opposing sides,
Two stranger horsemen join the train.

Who was each stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess but dare not tell;
The right-hand steed was silver white,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

The right-hand horseman, young and fair,
His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,
Shot midnight lightning's lurid* ray.

He waved his huntsman's cap on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,

To match the princely chase afford ?"

"Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,”
Cried the fair youth with silver voice;
"And for devotion's choral swell,

Exchange this rude unhallow'd noise;

"To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear,
Yon bell yet summons to the fane,t
To-day the warning Spirit hear,

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain."

"Away, and sweep the glades along!"
The sable hunter hoarse replies;
"To muttering monks leave matin song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries."

The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed,
And, launching forward with a bound,
Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, §
Would leave the jovial horn and hound?

"Hence, if our manly sport offend !

With pious fools go chant and pray;
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend,
Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away !”

+ Fane, temple, house of worship.
§ Rede, advice, counsel.

* Lurid, gloomy.
Matin, morning; opp. vesper.

The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt* and hill;
And on the left and on the right,

Each stranger horseman follow'd still.

Up springs from yonder tangled thorn
A stag more white than mountain snow;
And louder rang the Wildgrave's horn,
"Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!"

A heedless wretch has cross'd the way;
He gasps, the thundering hoofs below;
But live who can, or die who may,

Still "Forward, forward!" on they go.

See where yon simple fences meet,
A field with autumn's blessing crown'd;
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman, with toil embrown'd.

"Oh mercy, mercy, noble lord!

Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, "Earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd, In scorching hour of fierce July."

Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.

Away, thou hound! so basely born!
Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!"
Then loudly rang his bugle horn,

"Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!"

So said, so done; a single bound

Clears the poor laborer's humble pale ;†
While follow man, and horse, and hound,
Like dark December's stormy gale.

And man, and horse, and hound, and horn,
Destructive sweep the field along;

While, joying o'er the wasted corn,

Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.