CLXXVII. ROBIN HOOD. TO A FRIEND. O! those days are gone away, JOHN KEATS, 1795-1821. And their hours are old and grey, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall No, the bugle sounds no more, Past the heath and up the hill; On the fairest time of June Gone, the merry morris din ; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the 'grené shawe;' All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his tufted grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; So it is; yet let us sing Honour to the woods unshorn ! And to all the Sherwood clan ! CLXXVIII. N a drear-nighted December, IN Too happy, happy trec, Thy branches ne'er remember The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them In a drear-nighted December, But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy; But were there ever any To know the change and feel it, CLXXIX. HARTLEY COLERIDGE, 1796-1849 SONG. HE is not fair to outward view SHE As many maidens be, Until she smiled on me ; But now her looks are coy and cold, The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far, Than smiles of other maidens are. |