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187
ROBIN HOOD. A.D. 1190.
“In this time, (about the year 1190, in the reign of Richard I.) were many
outlaws and robbers, among the which, Robin Hood and Little John, renowned
thieves, continued in woods, despoiling and robbing the goods of the
rich. They killed none but such us would invade them; or by resistance for
their own defence. The said Robert entertained an hundred tall men, and
good archers, with such spoiles and thefts as he got, upon whom four hundred
(were they never so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman
to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested; poore men's goods he
spared, abundantle relieving them with that which by theft, he got from
abbeys and the houses of rich Earles; whom Maior, (the historian) blameth
for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves, he affirmeth him to be the prince
and the most gentle theefe.—
Stowe's Annals, page 159.
The autumn winds among the pine-trees roam,
Carving strange ditties of unearthly sound;
Each summer bird hath sought some quiet home;
Yet still my Muse doth make her joyous round,
And still my cheerful fancies do abound;
All things opposing, still I tune my lay—
Still, like a stag, among the mountains bound.
Grief, sickness, hate nor scorn can stop my way,
Who trust but to myself, and hold the rest at bay.
Carving strange ditties of unearthly sound;
Each summer bird hath sought some quiet home;
Yet still my Muse doth make her joyous round,
And still my cheerful fancies do abound;
All things opposing, still I tune my lay—
Still, like a stag, among the mountains bound.
Grief, sickness, hate nor scorn can stop my way,
Who trust but to myself, and hold the rest at bay.
When I began, the trees, the grass was green,
The summer dust was light, the winds were low,
The brooks were dry, the ocean lay serene,
The forests and the mountains all a-glow;
Now, what a change!—the leaves in whirlwinds flow,
The trees are skeletons—their freshness gone,
And the rude winds, upstirr'd, as tempests blow:
Brooklet and ocean now do nought but moan—
The forests and the hills with lamentation groan;
The summer dust was light, the winds were low,
The brooks were dry, the ocean lay serene,
The forests and the mountains all a-glow;
Now, what a change!—the leaves in whirlwinds flow,
188
And the rude winds, upstirr'd, as tempests blow:
Brooklet and ocean now do nought but moan—
The forests and the hills with lamentation groan;
And weep for the sweet wild-flowers blooming there,
And the rich heath-blooms, with their fragrant light;
And clouds of gold that perfum'd all the air—
And weep the silver moss that now is blight;
The silent trees, whose leaves are on the night;
The merry birds, whose melody is o'er.
Hues, mists, and sunbeams, sights and sounds of might,
And glorious impulse—wither'd at their core,
Past on the hollow winds, and gone for evermore.
And the rich heath-blooms, with their fragrant light;
And clouds of gold that perfum'd all the air—
And weep the silver moss that now is blight;
The silent trees, whose leaves are on the night;
The merry birds, whose melody is o'er.
Hues, mists, and sunbeams, sights and sounds of might,
And glorious impulse—wither'd at their core,
Past on the hollow winds, and gone for evermore.
O, woeful change!—and whither do you go,
Ye summer melodies, ye sounds of spring?
O'er what far lands, ye breezes do ye blow?
Ye pleasant brooks, where do your murmurs sing?
Where is the parent unto whom ye cling?
Sun, moon, and stars, blue skies, and realms of air,
Where are your cast off garments?—Who shall bring
Ye back, that now are gone, we know not where;
Past, past—and your return will ne'er be half so fair!
Ye summer melodies, ye sounds of spring?
O'er what far lands, ye breezes do ye blow?
Ye pleasant brooks, where do your murmurs sing?
Where is the parent unto whom ye cling?
Sun, moon, and stars, blue skies, and realms of air,
Where are your cast off garments?—Who shall bring
Ye back, that now are gone, we know not where;
Past, past—and your return will ne'er be half so fair!
Ye never will rejoice mine eyes again,
As in past days!—Ye cannot be so bright!
Your gorgeous hues are gone!—the glories wane
That lit my brow! I look—and it is night!
Come—come—I yearn—I seek your former light:
Greet me again, as in my boyhood's prime!
It cannot be, my heart hath got a blight
That then was green;—I feel the sear of time—
My dreams are in the dust, that then did soar sublime.
As in past days!—Ye cannot be so bright!
Your gorgeous hues are gone!—the glories wane
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Come—come—I yearn—I seek your former light:
Greet me again, as in my boyhood's prime!
It cannot be, my heart hath got a blight
That then was green;—I feel the sear of time—
My dreams are in the dust, that then did soar sublime.
And I must wander in the woods alone,
Amid the wither'd fern, and shaken grass,
And ghosts of leaves that ever shriek and moan—
And I must list the hollow winds—alas,
As o'er the rattling craggs and wastes they pass;
And shudder in the storm—as he I sung—
“The Wandering Bard,” whom time can ne'er efface—
So great he was, when e'en his death-dirge rung,
To tell of whose vast woes, my very heart was wrung!
Amid the wither'd fern, and shaken grass,
And ghosts of leaves that ever shriek and moan—
And I must list the hollow winds—alas,
As o'er the rattling craggs and wastes they pass;
And shudder in the storm—as he I sung—
“The Wandering Bard,” whom time can ne'er efface—
So great he was, when e'en his death-dirge rung,
To tell of whose vast woes, my very heart was wrung!
The shepherd slept upon the grassy sward,
Tuning his pipe unto the early May,
Or chanting love-lorn ditties of old bard,
Merry as any bird upon the spray—
Or sung unto his nymph the tender lay,
Whilst she, far wandering from her summer hall,
Sought fresh and full-blown flowers the live-long day,
Or weav'd gay garlands for the rural ball,
Or sigh'd 'mid evening's gloom, to passion's tender call.
Tuning his pipe unto the early May,
Or chanting love-lorn ditties of old bard,
Merry as any bird upon the spray—
Or sung unto his nymph the tender lay,
Whilst she, far wandering from her summer hall,
Sought fresh and full-blown flowers the live-long day,
Or weav'd gay garlands for the rural ball,
Or sigh'd 'mid evening's gloom, to passion's tender call.
190
The eagle on his cliff might live and die;
The wild deer cropp'd fresh pastures at his will;
The forest depths were shut from earth and sky,
To all but the sweet songster's cheerful bill,
Or noise of falling leaf or sounding rill.
There breath'd strange voices from the peaceful rest—
There breath'd a spirit from each cavern'd hill,
And Freedom spake aloud to every breast,
As Robin Hood full well can from his grave attest.
The wild deer cropp'd fresh pastures at his will;
The forest depths were shut from earth and sky,
To all but the sweet songster's cheerful bill,
Or noise of falling leaf or sounding rill.
There breath'd strange voices from the peaceful rest—
There breath'd a spirit from each cavern'd hill,
And Freedom spake aloud to every breast,
As Robin Hood full well can from his grave attest.
What time attir'd in robes of silken green,
Glad fairies danc'd upon the moss and grass,
Or festively, in sparred halls, were seen
Quaffing from emerald goblets as they pass.
What time each monarch hill and forest was
Haunted by grim enchanter in his tower:
What time fair Una walk'd each sunlit place
Of all the forest depths, the fairest flower;
What time dwarfs, dragons, sprites possess'd each woodland bow'r.
Glad fairies danc'd upon the moss and grass,
Or festively, in sparred halls, were seen
Quaffing from emerald goblets as they pass.
What time each monarch hill and forest was
Haunted by grim enchanter in his tower:
What time fair Una walk'd each sunlit place
Of all the forest depths, the fairest flower;
What time dwarfs, dragons, sprites possess'd each woodland bow'r.
A fresher garland never monarch wore,
Than Robin Hood hath borne from hungry time;
And he was greater in his woods of yore,
Than any lord or duke of ancient rhyme;
And he might go where none could follow him.
He saw the first dews sparkling at his feet—
He saw the first hues on the heavens climb—
He heard the first birds where they warbled sweet;
And freedom, hope, and joy, were in his footsteps fleet.
Than Robin Hood hath borne from hungry time;
And he was greater in his woods of yore,
Than any lord or duke of ancient rhyme;
And he might go where none could follow him.
He saw the first dews sparkling at his feet—
He saw the first hues on the heavens climb—
He heard the first birds where they warbled sweet;
And freedom, hope, and joy, were in his footsteps fleet.
191
His was the royal chace of antler'd deer—
The conqueror's power upon his own domain—
The joyous outlaw's gladdness everywhere,
Fearless of winter snows, or summer rain—
Fearless of loudest tempests in their pain.
Whate'er he took, he spent it honestly
To help the poor, he gave the rich man's gain;
To lift the low—to tame the proud and high—
To prove man's freedom just, brave Robin Hood did try.
The conqueror's power upon his own domain—
The joyous outlaw's gladdness everywhere,
Fearless of winter snows, or summer rain—
Fearless of loudest tempests in their pain.
Whate'er he took, he spent it honestly
To help the poor, he gave the rich man's gain;
To lift the low—to tame the proud and high—
To prove man's freedom just, brave Robin Hood did try.
What, though he knew not of the pomp of state—
The dance, the masquerade, the lighted hall,
The feast, the revelry, and, what the great
Delight in, song and music, masque and ball;
Yet had he greater raptures than them all;
A heart stirr'd only to the voice of truth;
Health, strength, and freedom, circling as a wall,
And cheerfulness, that scar'd the shapes of ruth,
And pastimes ever fresh, and thoughts of constant youth.
The dance, the masquerade, the lighted hall,
The feast, the revelry, and, what the great
Delight in, song and music, masque and ball;
Yet had he greater raptures than them all;
A heart stirr'd only to the voice of truth;
Health, strength, and freedom, circling as a wall,
And cheerfulness, that scar'd the shapes of ruth,
And pastimes ever fresh, and thoughts of constant youth.
Quiet and calm as hermit's was his life;
Yet, as a warrior's, full of incident;
Pure as a poet's, and as free from strife;
Yet following out the world's most strict intent:
His soul was as a wind-stirr'd instrument;
And, 'mid the billows, came a ship of light,
With freshest breezes, by young morning sent;
And all the forest depths were glad and bright,
When the maid Marion rose from out the gloom of night.
Yet, as a warrior's, full of incident;
Pure as a poet's, and as free from strife;
Yet following out the world's most strict intent:
His soul was as a wind-stirr'd instrument;
And, 'mid the billows, came a ship of light,
With freshest breezes, by young morning sent;
And all the forest depths were glad and bright,
When the maid Marion rose from out the gloom of night.
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And she went with him o'er the hill-tops far,
And by the dells to hunt the stately deer;
And, e'er the sun had dimm'd the morning star,
Like Dian she put on the hunting spear,
And join'd the chorus with voice silver clear;
And, with her lover, at sweet even-time,
Lay on the grass, and to his voice gave ear,
And watch'd the clouds amid their golden clime,
And heard the ocean chant his monodies sublime.
And by the dells to hunt the stately deer;
And, e'er the sun had dimm'd the morning star,
Like Dian she put on the hunting spear,
And join'd the chorus with voice silver clear;
And, with her lover, at sweet even-time,
Lay on the grass, and to his voice gave ear,
And watch'd the clouds amid their golden clime,
And heard the ocean chant his monodies sublime.
Brave Robin Hood is gone—his silver horn
Shall sound no more; no more on Sherwood green
His merry men shall trip at early morn;
No more, on cottage hearths, his form be seen,
Where yet he lives, and long shall live, I ween.
The deer hath left our isle—the mighty trees
Are shrunk away from each gigantic scene;
And shapes so strange now haunt the troubled breeze,
That scarce the wondering eye can know of what it sees.
Shall sound no more; no more on Sherwood green
His merry men shall trip at early morn;
No more, on cottage hearths, his form be seen,
Where yet he lives, and long shall live, I ween.
The deer hath left our isle—the mighty trees
Are shrunk away from each gigantic scene;
And shapes so strange now haunt the troubled breeze,
That scarce the wondering eye can know of what it sees.
The gun's loud echo frights the startled hare,
And, when gray winter's foot is on the ground,
The hunter's clarion beats the startled air,
And sounding woods rejoice the deep-voic'd hound.
Aye, time hath roar'd since then a mighty sound;
Great cities mock the heaven's with tower and spire,
And giant engines meet the waves rebound;
And victory hath crown'd our hills with fire,
Till we have risen so high, we can no more aspire.
And, when gray winter's foot is on the ground,
The hunter's clarion beats the startled air,
And sounding woods rejoice the deep-voic'd hound.
Aye, time hath roar'd since then a mighty sound;
Great cities mock the heaven's with tower and spire,
And giant engines meet the waves rebound;
And victory hath crown'd our hills with fire,
Till we have risen so high, we can no more aspire.
191
Knowledge hath wav'd her wings, and lit her torch;
The mighty abbey towers are rent in twain;
Slow-footed Freedom hath begun her march,
And they who long were slaves are men again;
Great worlds have risen from out the hungry main;
Small empires now are great, that erst were none;
And some are small, that o'er the world did reign:
And still doth England bear earth's loudest tone,
In spite of traitors' guile, and all that slaves have done.
The mighty abbey towers are rent in twain;
Slow-footed Freedom hath begun her march,
And they who long were slaves are men again;
Great worlds have risen from out the hungry main;
Small empires now are great, that erst were none;
And some are small, that o'er the world did reign:
And still doth England bear earth's loudest tone,
In spite of traitors' guile, and all that slaves have done.
Yea, spite of all that treason's hounds can do—
The hate of lofty heads—the burning hate,
Bred in the anarch's soul; and, spite the woe
Of fire and bloodshed at each castle gate—
Of sword and cannon in the city street,
They cannot tear the trident from the wave,
Nor stain the roses on the brow of state:
England shall mock the loudest storms that rave,
And plant her stedfast feet even on the rebel's grave.
The hate of lofty heads—the burning hate,
Bred in the anarch's soul; and, spite the woe
Of fire and bloodshed at each castle gate—
Of sword and cannon in the city street,
They cannot tear the trident from the wave,
Nor stain the roses on the brow of state:
England shall mock the loudest storms that rave,
And plant her stedfast feet even on the rebel's grave.
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