ROBIN
HOOD TO A FRIEND.
No!
those days are gone away,
And
their hours are old and gray,
And
their minutes buried all
Under
the down-trodden pall
Of the
leaves of many years:
Many
times have winter's shears,
Frozen
North, and chilling East,
Sounded
tempests to the feast
Of the
forest's whispering fleeces,
Since
men knew nor rent nor leases.
No,
the bugle sounds no more,
And
the twanging bow no more;
Silent
is the ivory shrill
Past
the heath and up the hill;
There
is no mid-forest laugh,
Where
lone Echo gives the half
To
some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting,
deep in forest drear.
On the
fairest time of June
You
may go, with sun or moon,
Or the
seven stars to light you,
Or the
polar ray to right you;
But
you never may behold
Little
John, or Robin bold;
Never
one, of all the clan,
Thrumming
on an empty can
Some
old hunting ditty, while
He
doth his green way beguile
To
fair hostess Merriment,
Down
beside the pasture Trent;
For he
left the merry tale
Messenger
for spicy ale.
Gone,
the merry morris din;
Gone,
the song of Gamelyn;
Gone,
the tough-belted outlaw
Idling
in the "grenè shawe;"
All
are gone away and past!
And if
Robin should be cast
Sudden
from his turfed 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 dockyard strokes,
Have
rotted on the briny seas;
She
would weep that her wild bees
Sang
not to her—strange! that honey
Can't
be got without hard money!
So it
is: yet let us sing,
Honour
to the old bow-string!
Honour
to the bugle-horn!
Honour
to the woods unshorn!
Honour
to the Lincoln green!
Honour
to the archer keen!
Honour
to tight little John,
And
the horse he rode upon!
Honour
to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping
in the underwood!
Honour
to maid Marian,
And to
all the Sherwood-clan!
Though
their days have hurried by
Let us
two a burden try.
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