POEMS OLD AND NEW
Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly—
The blackbird, picking food,
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all ;
So often has he known thee past him stray,
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither5d spray,
And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
And once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers
go>
Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge,
Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, 10
Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge ?
And thou hast climb Jd the hill,
And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range ;
Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes
fall,
The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall-
Then sought thy straw in some sequesterJd
grange.
But what—I dream ! Two hundred years are flown
Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls
To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe ; 21
And thou from earth art gone
Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown
grave
Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave,
Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade.
—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours !
For what wears out the life of mortal men ?
'Tis that from change to change their being rolls;
'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, 30
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