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THE HERON. 
And over towers and castles high, 
And o’er the armed men, 
Skirmishing on the border-lands, 
Or crouching in the glen; 
Thy heavy wings were seen to flit, 
Thy azure shape was known 
To pilgrim and to anchorite, 
In deserts scorched and lone. 
Old Heron, in those feudal times 
Thou wast in dangerous grace, 
Secured by mandates and by laws 
All for the royal chase. 
No meaner head might plot thy death 
Than one which wore a crown; 
No meaner hand might loose the shaft, 
From the skies to strike thee down. 
And out came trooping courtly dames, 
And men of high degree, 
On steeds caparisoned in gold, 
With bridles ringing free. 
