HAWKING.

I see them still, when poring o'er

Old volumes of romantic lore,

Ride forth to hawk in days of yore,

By woods and promontories;

Knights in gold lace, plumes and gems,

Maidens crowned with anadems,—

Whose falcons on round wrists of milk

Sit in jesses green of silk,—

From bannered Miraflores.

The laughing earth is young with dew;

The deeps above are violet blue;

And in the East a cloud or two

Empearled with airy glories:

And with laughter, jest and singing,

Silver bells of falcons ringing,

Hawkers, rosy with the dawn,

Gayly ride o'er hill and lawn

From courtly Miraflores.

The torrents silver down the crags;

Down dim-green vistas browse the stags;

And from wet beds of reeds and flags

The frightened lapwing hurries;

And the brawny wild-boar peereth

At the cavalcade that neareth;

Oft his shaggy-throated grunt

Brings the king and court to hunt

At royal Miraflores.

The May itself in soft sea-green

Is Oriana, Spring's high queen,

And Amadis beside her seen

Some prince of Fairy stones:

Where her castle's ivied towers

Drowse above her budded bowers,

Flaps the heron thro’ the sky,

And the wild swan gives a cry

By woody Miraflores.