Here, where the reaper was at work of 11.
In this high field's dark corner, w
His coat, his basket, and his e
And in the sun all morning binds
Then here, at noon, comes 1.

use

Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands fa. The bleating of the folded floc With distant cries of reapers i All the live murmur of a summe

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, :
And here till sun-down, shepherd
Through the thick corn the sca:
And round green roots and yellow
Pale blue convolvulus in tendri
And air-swept lindens yiel
Their scent, and rustle down their

ers

Of bloom on the bent grass wh
And bower me from the August
And the eye travels down to Oxf

And near me on the grass lies Glanv
Come, let me read the oft-read ta'
The story of that Oxford schola
Of shining parts and quick inventi
Who, tired of knocking at prefe.
One summer morn forsook
His friends, and went to learn the

And roam'd the world with that wild brother

hood,

And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more.

But once, years after, in the country-lanes,
Two scholars whom at college erst he knew
Met him, and of his way of life inquir❜d.
Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy crew,
His mates, had arts to rule as they desired
The workings of men's brains;

And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.

"And I," he said, "the secret of their art,

When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill!"

This said, he left them, and return'd no more.
But rumours hung about the country-side

That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray, The same the gipsies wore.

Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors

Had found him seated at their entering,

But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly; And I myself seem half to know thy looks,

1

And put the shepherds, wanderer, on thy trace;
And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks
I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place;
Or in my boat I lie

Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats,

Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm green-muffled Cumner hills,

And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.