272 SELECT POETRY

No child laughs kindly in my face,
As in my own sweet land.
Mrs. Hemans.

 

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 2 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 !