MR. THOMAS THORN HILL MORLAND 183 



Where waters of the Isis lave 

 The meadows with the classic wave, 

 O'er those wide meadows speeding on 

 He neared the bridgeway of St. John ; 

 He paus'd a moment on the bank, 

 His footsteps in the ripples sank, 

 He felt how cold, he saw how strong 

 The rapid river rolled along ; 

 Then turned away, as if to say, 

 "All those who like to cross it may." 



The Huntsman, though he viewed him back, 



View'd him too late to turn the pack, 



Which o'er the tainted meadow press'd. 



And reached the river all abreast ; 



In with one plunge, one billowy splash, 



In — altogether — in they dash. 



Together stem the wintry tide. 



Then shake themselves on t'other side ! 



" Hark, hollo back ! " that loud hallo 



Then eager, and more eager grew. 



Till ev'ry hound, recrossing o'er, 



Stoop'd forward to the scent once more ; 



No further aid, throughout the day, 



From Huntsman or from Whip had they. 



Away ! away ! unchecked in pace 



O'er grass and fallow swept the chase ; 



To hounds, to horses, or to men. 



No child's play was the struggle then ! 



A trespasser on Milward's ground 



He climbed the pale that fenced it round, 



Then close by Little Hemel* sped 



To Fairford pointing straight ahead, 



* Little Lemhill. 



