Or how, from his depression raised, The Father on his Son had gazed; Suffice it that the Son gave way, Nor strove that passion to allay, His Brothers' wisdom or their love- Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. CANTO FOURTH. FROM cloudless ether looking down, On the steep rocks of winding Tees; Of quiet to the neighbouring fields; The courts are hushed; for timely sleep The Grey-hounds to their kennel creep; The Peacock in the broad ash-tree Aloft is roosted for the night, He who in proud prosperity Of colours manifold and bright Walked round, affronting the day-light; And higher still, above the bower Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower The Hall-clock in the clear moon-shine With glittering finger points at nine. - Ah! who could think that sadness here Had any sway? or pain, or fear? A soft and lulling sound is heard The garden pool's dark surface, stirred -- Not distant far, the milk-white Doe : When Francis uttered to the Maid Where now, within this spacious plot For pleasure made, a goodly spot, With lawns, and beds of flowers, and shades Of trellis-work in long arcades, And cirque and crescent framed by wall Of close-clipt foliage green and tall, Beneath yon cypress spiring high, That, far from human neighbourhood, Range, unrestricted as the wind, Through park, or chase, or savage wood. But where at this still hour is she, The consecrated Emily? Even while I speak, behold the Maid To open moonshine, where the Doe Upon a bed of herbage green, Nor more regard doth she bestow Upon the uncomplaining Doe! Yet the meek Creature was not free, - O welcome to the viewless breeze! |