WARWICK CASTLE.
Stout Guy of Warwick, may we pass unharmed
Thy wicket-gate? And wilt thou not come forth,
With thy gigantic mace to break our bones,
Nor seethe us in thy caldron, whence of yore
The blood-red pottage flowed?
A glorious haunt
Thy race have had 'neath these luxuriant shades
From age to age. Around the mighty base
Of the time-honored castle, lifting high
Rampart and tower and battlement sublime,
Winds the soft-flowing Avon, pleased to clasp
An infant islet in her nursing arms.
Anon her meek mood changes, and in sport
She leaps with frolic foot from rock to rock,
Taking a wild dance on their pavement rude;
Then half complaining, half in weariness
Resumes her quiet way.
Would that I knew
The very turret in this ancient pile,
Where the sixth Henry had his tutelage,
Wearing with tasks ten tedious years away
