For all she lies so lonely,
  Far off from towns and seas,
The village holds not only
  The roofs beneath her trees: 
While Life is sweet and tragic
  And Death is veiled and dumb,
Hither, by singer’s magic,
  The pilgrim world must come.

Among The Tombs

She is a lady fair and wise,
  Her heart her counsel keeps,
And well she knows of time that flies
  And tide that onward sweeps;
But still she sits with restless eyes
  Where Memory sleeps—–­
  Where Memory sleeps.

Ye that have heard the whispering dead
  In every wind that creeps,
Or felt the stir that strains the lead
  Beneath the mounded heaps,
Tread softly, ah! more softly tread
  Where Memory sleeps—–­
  Where Memory sleeps.

A Sower

With sanguine looks
  And rolling walk
Among the rooks
  He loved to stalk,

While on the land
  With gusty laugh
From a full hand
  He scattered chaff.

Now that within
  His spirit sleeps
A harvest thin
  The sickle reaps;

But the dumb fields
  Desire his tread,
And no earth yields
  A wheat more red.

A Song Of Exmoor

The Forest above and the Combe below,
  On a bright September morn! 
He’s the soul of a clod who thanks not God
  That ever his body was born! 
So hurry along, the stag’s afoot,
  The Master’s up and away! 
Halloo!  Halloo! we’ll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

    So hurry along, the stag’s afoot,
      The Master’s up and away! 
    Halloo!  Halloo! we’ll follow it through
      From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Hark to the tufters’ challenge true,
  ’Tis a note that the red-deer knows! 
His courage awakes, his covert he breaks,
  And up for the moor he goes! 
He’s all his rights and seven on top,
  His eye’s the eye of a king,
And he’ll beggar the pride of some that ride
  Before he leaves the ling!

Here comes Antony bringing the pack,
  Steady! he’s laying them on! 
By the sound of their chime you may tell that it’s time
  To harden your heart and be gone. 
Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott’s passed,
  Right for the North they race: 
He’s leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate,
  And he’s setting a pounding pace!

We’re running him now on a breast-high scent,
  But he leaves us standing still;
When we swing round by Westland Pound
  He’s far up Challacombe Hill. 
The pack are a string of struggling ants,
  The quarry’s a dancing midge,
They’re trying their reins on the edge of the Chains
  While he’s on Cheriton Ridge.

He’s gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor,
  He’s gone by Woodcock’s Ley;
By the little white town he’s turned him down,
  And he’s soiling in open sea. 
So hurry along, we’ll both be in,
  The crowd are a parish away! 
We’re a field of two, and we’ve followed it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!