O come Georgiana!’ the rose is full blown,

      The riches of Flora are lavishly strown,

      The air is all softness, and crystal the streams,

      The West is resplendently clothed in beams.

      O come! let us haste to the freshening shades,

      The quaintly carv’d seats, and the opening glades;

      Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns,

      And in the last sunbeam the sylph lightly swims.

      And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed,

      Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head:

      And there Georgiana I’ll sit at thy feet,

      While my story of love I enraptur’d repeat.

      So fondly I’ll breathe, and so softly I’ll sigh,

      Thou wilt think that some amorous Zephyr is nigh:

      Yet no – as I breathe I will press thy fair knee,

      And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.

      Ah! why dearest girl should we lose all these blisses?

      That mortal’s a fool who such happiness misses:

      So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand,

      With love looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.

      No! those days are gone away,

      And their hours are old and gray,

      And their minutes buried all

      Under the down-trodden pall

      Of the leaves of many years:

      Many times have winter’s shears,

      Frozen North, and chilling East,

      Sounded tempests to the feast

      Of the forest’s whispering fleeces,

      Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

      No, the bugle sounds no more,

      And the twanging bow no more;

      Silent is the ivory shrill

      Past the heath and up the hill;

      There is no mid-forest laugh,

      Where lone Echo gives the half

      To some wight, amaz’d to hear

      Jesting, deep in forest drear.

      On the fairest time of June

      You may go, with sun or moon,

      Or the seven stars to light you,

      Or the polar ray to right you;

      But you never may behold

      Little John, or Robin bold;

      Never one, of all the clan,

      Thrumming on an empty can

      Some old hunting ditty, while

      He doth his green way beguile

      To fair hostess Merriment,

      Down beside the pasture Trent;

      For he left the merry tale

      Messenger for spicy ale.

      Gone, the merry morris din;

      Gone, the song of Gamelyn;

      Gone, the tough-belted outlaw

      Idling in the “grenè shawe;”

      All are gone away and past!

      And if Robin should be cast

      Sudden from his turfed grave,

      And if Marian should have

      Once again her forest days,

      She would weep, and he would craze:

      He would swear, for all his oaks,

      Fall’n beneath the dockyard strokes,

      Have rotted on the briny seas;

      She would weep that her wild bees

      Sang not to her – strange! that honey

      Can’t be got without hard money!

      So it is: yet let us sing,

      Honour to the old bowstring!

      Honour to the bugle-horn!

      Honour to the woods unshorn!

      Honour to the Lincoln green!

      Honour to the archer keen!

      Honour to tight little John,

      And the horse he rode upon!

      Honour to bold Robin Hood,

      Sleeping in the underwood!

      Honour to maid Marian,

      And to all the Sherwood-clan!

      Though their days have hurried by

      Let us two a burden try.

      St. Agnes’ Eve – Ah, bitter chill it was!

      The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

      The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,

      And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

      Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told

      His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

      Like pious incense from a censer old,

      Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,

      Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.

      His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

      Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

      And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

      Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

      The sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,

      Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails:

      Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,

      He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

      To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

      Northward he turneth through a little door,

      And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue

      Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor;

      But no – already had his deathbell rung;

      The joys of all his life were said and sung:

      His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve:

      Another way he went, and soon among

      Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,

      And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.

      That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;

      And so it chanc’d, for many a door was wide,

      From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,

      The silver, snarling trumpets ‘gan to chide:

      The