Part 13 (2/2)
THE KNIGHT'S RETURN
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan, The raven croaks from the Raven-stone; What care I for his boding groan, Riding the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long have I wander'd by land and by sea, Long have I ridden by moorland and lea; Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee, Sits at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ.
There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear, Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't p.r.o.nounce it, dear), Which standeth in the meeting of n.o.ble valleys three-- One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me, One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can't mind its name, And one it is Llanberris Pa.s.s, which all men knows the same; Between which radiations vast mountains does arise, As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise, That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy, Just about ten o'clock at night; and then I wish you joy.
Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write, (Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can't mind it quite), And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week, For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties meek, And there to live like fighting-c.o.c.ks at almost a bob a day, And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and cut away, All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn pool, And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or I'm a fool.
And that's my game, which if you like, respond to me by post; But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days at most.
Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four will do, And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and sells 'em too.
Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise just now, And so, goes to my children's school and 'umbly makes my bow.
Eversley, 1857.
ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVONs.h.i.+RE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1862 {303}
Hence a while, severer Muses; Spare your slaves till drear October.
Hence; for Alma Mater chooses Not to be for ever sober: But, like stately matron gray, Calling child and grandchild round her, Will for them at least be gay; Share for once their holiday; And, knowing she will sleep the sounder, Cheerier-hearted on the morrow Rise to grapple care and sorrow, Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the children's play.
So go, for in your places Already, as you see, (Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried), Venus holds court among her sinless graces, With many a nymph from many a park and lea.
She, pensive, waits the merrier faces Of those your wittier sisters three, O'er jest and dance and song who still preside, To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide; And bids us, as she smiles or sighs, Tune our fancies by her eyes.
Then let the young be glad, Fair girl and gallant lad, And sun themselves to-day By lawn and garden gay; 'Tis play befits the noon Of rosy-girdled June: Who dare frown if heaven shall smile?
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