Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/151

Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex! where the hunter's dart has found me,
When a fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind!

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, thronged the numerous guests invited,
And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet;
And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly-freighted
All the air about the windows, with elastic laughters sweet.

For at eve, the open windows flung their light out on the terrace,
Which the floating orbs of curtains, did with gradual shadow sweep;
While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress,
Trembled downward through their snowy wings, at music in their sleep.

And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing,
Till the finches of the shrubberies, grew restless in the dark;
But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a moonlight ringing,
And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the hollows of the park.

And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches,
To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest,—
Oft I sate apart, and gazing on the river, through the beeches,
Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'er-float the rest.

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, and laugh of rider.