Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?
O’er holt or hill there never flew,
From leash or slip there never sprang,
More fleet of foot or sure of fang.—Introd. to +Marmion+ Cant. +ii.+
Oh! dear is the naked wold to me,
Where I move alone in my majesty!
Thyme and cistus kiss my feet,
And spread around their incense sweet;
The laverock, springing from his bed,
Pours royal greeting o’er my head;
My gallant guards, my greyhounds tried,
March in order by my side;
And every thing that’s earthly born,
Wealth and pride and pomp, I scorn;
And chiefly thee
Who lift’st so high thy little horn,
Philosophy!
Wilt thou say that life is short,
That wisdom loves not hunter’s sport,
But virtue’s golden fruitage rather
Hopes in cloister’d cells to gather?
Gallant greyhounds, tell her, here
Trusty faith, and love sincere—
Here do grace and zeal abide,
And humbly keep their master’s side.
Bid her send whate’er hath sold
Human hearts—lust, power, and gold—
A cursed train—
And blush to find, that on the wold
They bribe in vain.
Then let her preach! the muse and I
Will turn to _Gracchus_, _Gaze_, and _Guy_;
And give to worth its proper place,
Though found in nature’s lowliest race.
And when we would be great or wise,
Lo! o’er our heads are smiling skies;
And thence we’ll draw instruction true,
That worldly wisdom never knew.
Then let her argue as she will!
I’ll wander with my greyhounds still
(Halloo! Halloo!)
And hunt for health on the breeze-worn hill
And wisdom too.