The huntsman drove through the cover dark,
His merry bugle ringing,

Till the rous'd up deer sped from his lair,

Across the green sward springing!

Then, away! away! the live-long day,

His flying steps they follow,

With many a jocund laugh and lay,
And many a deep ton'd hollo!

Then homewards, ere the evening's chime,
The hunters rode in the Olden Time.

IV.

The lofty old baronial hall,

Where many a tatter'd banner

Hung silent from the 'scutcheon'd wall,

Recording deeds of honour.

The blazing fire-the plenteous feast,

The Baron's courteous duty,

The dance by many a warrior grac'd
And many a high-born beauty!

The Minstrel's Harp, and his witching rhyme,
Beguil'd the night in the Olden Time.

The falcon sat on his lady's wrist,
With his ringing bells and jesses,
And with playful pride his glances hid
Amid her sable tresses!

Till the heron sprang from the streamlet's brink
To the clear blue depths of heaven,

And the falcon follow'd with flight as swift
As the course of the fiery levin;

Till a path in the skies they seem'd to climb,
The cloudless skies of the Olden Time!

VI.

The May-pole rose on the village green,
Festoon'd with fairest flowers,

And linked bands of laughing girls
Danc'd through the morning hours!
In England's good old manly games,
The village gallants tried them,

And their gray hair'd sires sat smiling by,
With their nut brown ale beside them,

And thus, unknown to care or crime,

Liv'd the yeomen true of the Olden Time.

VII.

The "Yule Log" "* shed a blaze upon

A group of happy faces,

Which closed around the Christmas hearth,

All in their 'customed places:

The tale went round, the joke, the gibe,
And laughter louder swelling-

* The "Yule Log" was a huge Log of Wood, or Root of a Tree, placed on the fire on Christmas Eve, and with which there were various ceremonies connected.

Till the wint'ry wind was heard no more
Which raved around their dwelling,
And thus, with merry masque and mime,
Was Christmas kept in the Olden Time.

VIII.

In the single strife on the lone hill side,
In the crowded battle's hour,

In the pride of the glittering tournament.

In lady's gentle bower,

How many a deed of matchless might
Has unrecorded perish'd!

How many a heart is low in dust,

Once proudly, fondly cherish'd!

Ah! where are the pride of England's clime,
The gallant and the fair of the Olden Time?

IX.

Alas! for the happy days gone by,
When "merrie England's" yeomen,
Her nobles, knights, and peasantry,
Were honour'd by their foemen !

It seems to me, as the blackbird sang,

More sweetly in the wild wood,

That the skies were lovelier ev'n than those

Which rose above our childhood!

And the streams and the hills of England's clime

Were fairer than now, in the Olden Time!

X.

And where are they-the fair, the brave,
The fears, the hopes they cherish'd?
Alas! their very memories

For centuries have perish'd!

And save some moss-grown mould'ring stone,

Or quaint black letter'd story,

No record now remains of all

Their greatness and their glory:

And their history sounds like a funeral chime,
Alas alas! for the Olden Time!

R

ON THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.

Here where the rippling sun-bright wave

Steals o'er the golden sand,

Or winds through each melodious cave
Far stretching o'er the strand,

While summer stars are all abroad,
Deeply I feel thee near, my God!

Oh! I have heard the stormy sea
Shout to the stars on high,
In tones that seemed Eternity
Conversing with the sky!

Yet felt not in that raptured hour
As now thy presence and thy power.