Classic Poem

XLI

But out, alas! for maidens oaths!
When Love puts on his Sunday-clothes
In vain their hearts are chary;
Before three months had gone about
The Lechlade bells were pealing out,
And George was marrying Mary.

XLII

They bought the " Starling and the Thrush
Just out of Bampton-in-the-Bush,
And long they lived together;
For many a cheerful day they throve
Contented in each other's love,
Through sun and stormy weather.

XLIII

In Bampton Churchyard now they lie,
Their grave is open to the sky,
No tombstone weighs above them,
But pinks and pansies in a row,
And mignonette, and myrtle show
That still their children love them. "

XLIV

The old man, sipping at his ale,
Wound up the ending of his tale,
As dryly as he started,
Shook out the ashes from his pipe,
Then gave his old thin lips a wipe,
And rose, and slow departed.

XLV

For, lightened of their load of rain,
The great loose clouds, grown white again,
Down in the west were blending;
While high o'erhead the sun rode through
A radiant plain of sparkling blue,
His noonday throne ascending.

XLVI

The Windrush beamed, like polished steel;
The lark, in mounting, seemed to reel
With airs too sweet to utter;
The roses shook their laden leaves,
The martins underneath the eaves
Began to peep and flutter.

XLVII

And so, dissolving in the sun,
Our rustic synod, one by one,
Stole out to workday labour;
The fisher found his lines and bait,
Nor would the brown haymakers wait
To pledge the chattiest neighbour.

XLVIII

The women rose, among the fields
To reap what the rank margin yields,
Tall seeded docks that shiver;
We, loth to leave the " Rose Revived, "
Went last, although we first arrived,
Down to the brimming river.