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He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fallen 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,
Honor to the old bow-string!
Honor to the bugle-horn!

Honor to the woods unshorn!
Honor to the Lincoln green!
Honor to the archer keen!
Honor to tight Little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honor to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honor to Maid Marian,

And to all the Sherwood-clan!

Though their days have hurried by, Let us two a burden1 try.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

45

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55

бо

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The level chambers, ready with their Were glowing to receive a thousand pride,

guests:

The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the

cornice rests,

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With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts.

At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay

Of old romance.

away,

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These let us wish

And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,

Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,

On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly

care,

As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

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They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of

delight,

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