The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

Could the sweet moon laugh, its light
Had surely been convuls'd that night,
To see fifteen old horsemen wag
Their beards, to one poor maiden's nag;
Fifteen old beards in chat and cough,
Rumbling to keep the robbers off,
And ever and aye, when lanes grew close,
Following each the other's nose,
And with the silver beam she cast
Tipp'd, like every tree they pass'd.
The owls they seem'd to hoot their folly
With a staring melancholy.

After jealous sort, I wis,
Cull'd Sir Grey these guests of his,
Not a soul so young as he
Gracing all his chivalry:
Six there were of toothless fame,
With each his man, of jaws as tame;
Then his own, the palsiest there;
And last, Sir Guy's, with whitest hair:
And each had snugg'd him for the night
In old flapp'd hat, and cap as white,
In double cloak, and threefold hose,
Besides good drink to warm his toes,
And so they jog it, beard and nose,
And in the midst the palfrey goes;
Oh! ever well the palfrey goes;
He knows within him what he knows,
And so, full well the palfrey goes.

But in his hamlet, hous'd apart,
How far'd meantime, Sir William's heart?
Oh, when the sun first went to bed,
Not richer look'd the sun's own head,
Nor cast a more all-gladdening eye:
He seem'd to say, “My heav'n is nigh.”
For he had heard of rare delights
Between those two old feasting knights,
And of a pillion, new and fair,
Ordain'd to go some road as rare;
With whom? For what sweet rider's art?
Whose, but the dancer's at his heart,
The light, the bright, yet balmy she,
And who shall fetch her home but he?
Who else be summon'd speedily
By the kind uncle full of glee
To fetch away that ecstasy?
So, ever since that news, his ear,
Listening with a lofty fear
Lest it catch one sound too late,
Stood open, like a palace gate
That waits the bride of some great king,

Heard with her trumpets travelling.
At length a letter. Whose? Sir Guy's,
The father's own. With reverent eyes,
With heart impatient to give thanks,
And tears that top their glimmering banks,
He opens, reads, turns pale as death;
His noble bosom gasps for breath;
His Anne has left his love for gold,
But in her kindness manifold
Extorted from his uncle's hoard
Enough to leave him bed and board.
Ah! words like those were never Anne's;
Too plainly they the coarse old man's;
But still the letter; still the fact;
With pangs on pangs his heart is rack'd.
Love is an angel, has no pride;
She'll mourn his love when he has died:
Yet love is truth; so hates deceit;
He'll pass and scorn her in the street.
Now will he watch her house at night
For glimpse of her by some brief light,
Such as perhaps his own pale face
May show: and then he'll quit the place.
Now he will fly her, hate, detest,
Mock: make a by-word and a jest:
Then he hates hate; and who so low
As strike a woman's fame! No, no;
False love might spite the faithless Anne,
But true was aye the gentleman.

Thus paceth he, 'twixt calm and mad,
Till the mid-watch, his chamber sad;
And then lies down in his day-dress,
And sleeps for very weariness,
Catching and starting in his moan,
And waking with a life-long groan.
Sometimes he dreams his sorrow makes
Such weeping wail, that, as he wakes,
He lifts his pitying hand to try
His cheek, and wonders it is dry.

Sometimes his virgin bride and he
Are hous'd for the first time, and free
To dwell within each other's eyes;
And then he wakes with woful cries.
Sometimes he hears her call for aid;
Sometimes beholds her bright arrayed,
But pale, and with her eyes on earth;
And once he saw her pass in mirth,
And look at him, nor eye let fall,
And that was wofull'st dream of all.
At length he hears, or thinks he hears,—
(Or dreams he still with waking ears?)
A tinkle of the house's bell!
What news can midnight have to tell?
He listens. No. No sound again.
The breeze hath stirr'd the window pane;
Perchance it was the tinkling glass;
Perchance 'twas his own brain, alas!
His own weak brain, which hears the blood
Pulse at his ears,—a tingling flood,
Strange mantler in as strange a cup.
Yet hark again!—he starts, leans up;
It seems to fear to wake a mouse,
That sound;—then peals, and wakes the house.

But first, to end what I began,
The journey of sweet houseless Anne.