To the bitter north-east wind.
Call the maidens up and find
Who lies longest, that she may
Be chidden for untimed delay.
Feed faithful dogs, and pray
Heaven to keep you from decay;
So unfold, and then away.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
FOLDING THE FLOCKS.
SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of little beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus2 down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures, where they come
Striking dead both bud and bloom:
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
1 'Gins-for begins.
2 Hesperus-the evening star.
From the mountain, and ere day
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these
Be not too secure in ease;
So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.
Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eye-lids! so farewell;
Thus I end my evening knell.
WHEREFORE so sad and faint
The stranger's land is fair;
Yet, weary, weary, still thou art—
What find'st thou wanting there?
What wanting ?-All, oh! all I love!
Am I not lonely here?
Through a fair land in sooth, I rove,
But what like home is dear?
My home! oh! thither would I fly,
Where the free air is sweet,
My father's voice, my mother's eye,
My own wild hills to greet;
My hills, with all their soaring steeps,
With all their glaciers1 bright,
1 Glaciers-fields of ice, such as are met with in the hollows of the Alps.
Where in his joy the chamois sleeps,
Mocking the hunter's might.
Here no familiar look I trace,
I touch no friendly hand;
No child laughs kindly in my face,
As in my own sweet land.
A HAWKING PARTY IN THE OLDEN TIME.
HARK! hark! the merry warder's horn
Far o'er the wooded hills is borne,
Far o'er the slopes of ripening corn,
On the free breeze away!
The bolts are drawn, the bridge is o'er
The sullen moat-and steeds a score
Stand saddled at the castle door,
For 'tis a merry day!
With braided hair of gold or jet,
There's many a May and Margaret
Before her stately mirror set,
With waiting woman by;
There's scarlet cloak, and hat and hood,
And riding dress of camlet good,
Green as the leaf within the wood,
To shroud those ladies high.
And then into the castle-hall
Come crowding gallant knights and tall,
Equipped as for a festival,
For they will hawk to-day ;—
And then out breaks a general din
From those without, as those within
Upon the terrace steps are seen
In such a bright array!
The kenneled hounds' long bark is heard,
The falconer talking to his bird,
The neighing steeds, the angry word
Of grooms impatient there.
But soon the bustle is dismissed,
The falconer sets on every wrist
A hooded hawk,' that's stroked and kissed
By knight and lady fair.
And sitting in their saddles free,
The brave, the fair of high degree,
Forth rides that gallant company,
Each with a bird on hand;
And falconers with their hawking gear,2
And other birds, bring up the rear,
And country-folk from far and near
Fall in and join the band.
And merrily thus in shine and shade,
Gay glancing through the forest glade,
On rides the noble cavalcade,
To moorlands wild and grey;
And then the noble sport is high;
The jess is loosed, the hood thrown by ;
1 Hooded hawk.-The falcon's head was kept covered until the moment that he was let loose after his prey.
2 Hawking gear--the apparatus used in hawking.
3 Jess-one of the short straps round the leg of a hawk by which it was held on the wrist.
And "leurre!" the jolly falconers cry,
And wheeling round the falcons fly
Impatient of their prey.
A moment and the quarry's1 ta’en,
The falconer's cry sounds forth amain,
The true hawk soars and soars again,
Nor once the game is missed!
And thus the jocund day is spent,
In joyous sport and merriment;
And baron old were well content
To fell his wood, and pawn his rent,
For the hawk upon his wrist.
Oh, falcon proud, and goshawk gay,
Your pride of place has passed away,
The lone wood is your home by day,
Your resting perch by night;
The craggy rock your castle-tower,
The gay green wood your "ladies' bower,"
Your own wild will the master power
That can control your flight!
Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine,
Still liv'st thou in the minstrel's line;
Still in old pictures art the sign
Of high and pure degree;
And still, with kindling hearts we read,
How barons came to Runnymede,
Falcon on wrist, to do the deed
That made all England free!
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