To him the injured make their sufferings known,
And he relieved all sorrows but his own;
Ladies who owed their freedom to his might
Were grieved to find his heart another's right.

The brood of giants, famous in those times, Fell by his arm, and perished for their crimes. Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought, When he the crown of good Athelstan sought, Fell by the prowess of our champion brave, And his huge body found an English grave.

But what to Guy were men or great or small, Or one or many? he despatched them all; A huge dun cow, the dread of all around, A master-spirit in our hero found:

'Twas desolation all about her den,

Her sport was murder, and her meals were men.
At Dunmore Heath the monster he assailed,
And o'er the fiercest of his foes prevailed.

Nor feared he lions, more than lions fear Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear; A fiery dragon, whether green or red

The story tells not, by his valor bled:

What more I know not, but by these 'tis plain
That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain.

When much of life in martial deeds was spent,

His sovereign lady found her heart relent,

And gave her hand. Then all was joy around,
And valiant Guy with love and glory crowned;
Then Warwick castle wide its gate displayed,
And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made.

Alas! not long, a hero knows not rest; A new sensation filled his anxious breast. His fancy brought before his eyes a train Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain; His dreams presented what his sword had done; He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run, And dying men, with every ghastly wound, Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground.

Alarmed at this, he dared no longer stay, But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray,

With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast and pray.

In vain his Felice sighed, nay, smiled in vain; With all he loved he dare not long remain,

But roved he knew not where, nor said, "I come again."

The widowed countess passed her years in grief, But sought in alms and holy deeds relief; And many a pilgrim asked, with many a sigh, To give her tidings of the wandering Guy.

Perverse and cruel! could it conscience ease, A wife so lovely and so fond to tease?

Or could he not with her a saint become,

And, like a quiet man, repent at home?

How different those who now this seat possess ! No idle dreams disturb their happiness:

The lord who now presides o'er Warwick's towers To nobler purpose dedicates his powers;

No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear,

Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear: The lovely Felice of the present day

Dreads not her lord should from her presence stray; He feels the charm that binds him to a seat Where love and honor, joy and duty meet.

But forty days could Guy his fair afford; Not forty years would weary Warwick's lord: He better knows how charms like hers control All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul; He better knows that not on mortal strife Or deeds of blood depend the bliss of life, But on the ties that first the heart enchain, And every grace that bids the charm remain: Time will, we know, to beauty work despite, And youthful bloom will take with him its flight; But love shall still subsist, and, undecayed, Feel not one change of all that time has made. George Crabbe.

Oxford

YE

E sacred nurseries of blooming youth!

In whose collegiate shelter England's flowers
Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours
The air of liberty, the light of truth;

Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth,
Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!
Gardens and grove! your presence overpowers
The soberness of reason; till, in sooth,
Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange,
I slight my own beloved Cam, to range
Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet,
Pace the long avenue, or glide adown

The stream-like windings of that glorious street,
An eager novice robed in fluttering gown!

Oxford

William Wordsworth.

(From Preface to Essays in Criticism)

BEAUTIFUL city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of our century, so serene!

"There are our young barbarians, all at play!"

And yet, steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age, who will deny that Oxford, by her

ineffable charm, keeps calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection, to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from another side? nearer, perhaps, than all the science of Tübingen. Adorable dreamer, whose heart has been so romantic! Who hast given thyself so prodigally, given thyself to sides and to heroes not mine, only never to the Philistines ! Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names and impossible loyalties!

Matthew Arnold.

The Scholar Gypsy

(Oxford)

O,

Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill;

Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes:
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,

Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head.
But when the fields are still,

And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green;

Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest.

Here where the reaper was at work of late,

In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves