As one in boisterous pastime rarely seen;
Who little loved the hunter's cruel pride,

Or maddening shout that rends the forest green,
Or their poor quarry's groan the bugle notes between.

VII.

Loth was her lord to miss, that livelong day,
Her soft sweet glances and her converse sweet;
Yet cared he not to cross her purposed stay;
And forth he fared, but still with ling'ring feet
And backward look, and "Oh when lovers meet,
How bless'd," he thought, "the evening's tranquil hour,
From care and cumbrous pomp a glad retreat."

Not since his youth first quaff'd the cup of power,
Had Arthur praised before the calm sequester'd bower.

VIII.

And forth he fared; while from her turret high
That smiling form beheld his hunter crew;
Pleased she beheld, whose unacquainted eye
Found in each varying scene a pleasure new.
Nor yet had pomp fatigued her sated view,

Nor custom pall'd the gloss of royalty.

Like some gay child, a simple bliss she drew

From every gaud of feudal pageantry,

And every broider'd garb that swept in order by.

XIX.

And sooth, it was a brave and antic sight,

Where plume, and crest, and tassel wildly blending,

And bended bow, and javelin flashing bright,
Mark'd the gay squadron through the copse descending;
The greyhound, with his silken leash contending,

Wreathed the lithe neck; and on the falconer's hand,
With restless perch and pinions broad depending,
Each hooded goshawk kept her eager stand,

And to the courser's tramp loud rang the hollow land.

X.

And over all, in accents sadly sweet,

The mellow bugle pour'd its plaintive tone, That echo joy'd such numbers to repeat,

Who from dark glade or rock of pumice-stone, Sent to the woodland nymphs a softer moan; While listening far from forth some fallow brown,

The swinkèd ploughman left his work undone; And the glad schoolboy from the neighbouring town Sprang o'er each prisoning rail, nor reck'd his master's frown.

XI.

Her warm cheek pillow'd on her ivory hand,

Her long hair waving o'er the battlement,

In silent thought Ganora kept her stand,

Though feebly now the distant bugle sent
Its fading sound; and, on the brown hill's bent,
Nor horse, nor hound, nor hunter's pomp was seen.
Yet still she gazed on empty space intent,
As one who, spell-bound, on some haunted green
Beholds a faëry show, the twilight elms between.

XII.

That plaintive bugle's well remember'd tone.

Could search her inmost heart with magic sway;

To her it spoke of pleasures past and gone,
And village hopes, and friends far, far away,
While busy memory's scintillating play