et Hortense of Clare, the day
Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst
To trail with its galling jesses away;
An untrained haggard the falconer cursed,
Vain whistled to lure; when the eyas sped
Slant, low and heavily overhead
By us; and Sir Hugh,--who had just then cast
His peregrine fierce at a heron-quarry,--
In his stirrups rising, thus--as it passed,
By the jesses caught and to her did carry,
Lingering slender and tall by a rose
Whence she pulled the berries--But no two foes
Her eyes and Sir Hugh's!--And I swear each felt
A song in their hearts!--For I heard him quaver
Somewhat and then--by Mary!--he knelt!--
And the Lady herself in her words did waver
And wonder with smiles. Then daintily took
The hawk on her fist where it pruned and shook
Its callowness ragged, as Hugh did seize
Softly the other hand long and white,--
Reached forth to him craving him rise from his knees,--
And mouthed with moist kisses an hundred quite.
Tho' she blushed up burning, no frowned "Beware!"
But seemed so happy! when crushing thro'--
Her sturdy retainer with swarthy stare--
The underwoods burst; and her maiden crew
Drew near them naming her name, and came
With leaves and dim Autumn blossoms aflame.--
"Their words?" I know not! for how should I?--
I paged my master but was no spy.
Nothings, I think, as all lovers', you know;
Yet how should I hear such whispered low,
Quick by the wasted woodland yellow?
When up thro' the brush thrashed that burly fellow
With his ale-coarse face, and so made a pause
In the pulse of their words, there my lord Sir Hugh
Stood with the soil on his knee: No cause
Had he--but his hanger he halfway drew--
Then paused, thrust it _clap_ in its sheath again
And bowed to the Lady and strode away;
Up, vault, on his steed--and we rode amain
Gay to his towers that merry day.

He loved and was loved,--why, I knew!--for look,
All other sports for the chase he forsook;
To ride in the Raglan marches and hawk
And to hunt and to wander. And found a lair,
In the Strongbow forest, of bush and of rock,
Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare,
How often I wis not, met him by chance--
Perhaps!--Sweet sorceress out of romance,
Those tomes of Geoffrey--for she was fair!
Her large, warm eyes and hair,... ah, hair,
How may one picture or liken it!
With the golden gloss of its full brown, fit
For the Viv