Tells how for Robin a good fight was fought
And our old Witch a spell mysterious wrought.
* * * * *
Phoebus, the young and gladsome god of day,
His fiery steeds had yoked to flaming car
(By which, my Gill, you may surmise
The sun was just about to rise)
And that be-feathered, crook-billed harbinger,
The rosy-wattled herald of the dawn,
Red comb aflaunt, bold-eyed and spurred for strife,
Brave Chanticleer, his strident summons raised
(By which fine phrase I'd have you know,
The cock had just begun to crow)
And gentle Zephyr, child of Boreas,
Stole soft the hush of dewy leaves,
And passing kissed the flowers to wakefulness.
Thus, laden with their sweetness, Zephyr came
O'er hill and dale, o'er battlement and wall,
Into the sleeping town of Canalise,
Through open lattice and through prison-bars,
To kiss the cheek of sleeping Innocence
And fevered brows of prisoners forlorn,
Who, stirring 'neath sweet Zephyr's soft caress,
Dreamed themselves young, with all their sins unwrought.
So, gentle Zephyr, messenger of dawn,
Fresh as the day-spring, of earth redolent,
Through narrow loophole into dungeon stole,
Where Robin the bold outlaw fettered lay,
Who, sighing, woke to feel her fragrant kiss,
And, breathing in this perfume-laden air,
He seemed to smell those thousand woodland scents
He oft had known, yet, knowing, never heeded:
Of lofty bracken, golden in the sun,
Of dewy violets shy that bloomed dim-seen
Beside some merry-laughing, woodland brook
Which, bubbling, with soft music filled the air;
The fragrant reek of smouldering camp-fire
Aglow beside some dark, sequestered pool
Whose placid waters a dim mirror made
To hold the glister of some lonely star;
He seemed to see again in sunny glade
The silky coats of yellow-dappled deer,
With branching antlers gallantly upborne;
To hear the twang of bow, the whizz of shaft,
And cheery sound of distant-winded horn.
Of this and more than this, bold Robin thought,
And, in his dungeon's gloomy solitude,
He groaned full deep and, since no eye could see,
Shed bitter tears.
My daughter GILLIAN supplicateth:
GILL: Poor Robin! Father, promise me
To save him from the gallows-tree.
He's much too nice a man to kill;
So save him, father; say you will!
MYSELF: But think of poor Ranulph with no one to hang!