Hither the hounds have bent their way,
And hither come the sportsmen gay:
Sure such a sight was never seen,
At tournament, or listed green.
The neighing steeds were seen to prance,
As through the copse-wood green they came:
The sounding whip displaced the lance,
And sport has banished feudal flame.
In every face a smile of joy,
From titled peer, to huntsman-boy;
In every eye a flash of fire;
A flash of hope, but not of ire:
In every heart joy’s transport bounds,
As into cover dash the hounds:
And in they dash with such a clang,
That Norham’s empty castle rang:
And every bush in tremor shook,
And every sapling waved on high;
Each horseman gazed with eager look,
Or listened for the joyous cry:
And sideways on their steeds they sat,
With side-placed cap, or side-placed hat.