Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . the king,Found lying with his urns and ornaments,Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven,Slipt into ashes, and was found no more. Here is a story which in rougher shapeCame from a grizzled cripple, whom I sawSunning himself in a waste field alone —Old, and a mine of memories — who had served,Long since, a bygone Rector of the been himself a part of what he told. Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that almighty county God — in whose capacious with a hundred shields, the family treeSprang from the midriff of a prostrate king —Whose blazing w
Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . the king,Found lying with his urns and ornaments,Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven,Slipt into ashes, and was found no more. Here is a story which in rougher shapeCame from a grizzled cripple, whom I sawSunning himself in a waste field alone —Old, and a mine of memories — who had served,Long since, a bygone Rector of the been himself a part of what he told. Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that almighty county God — in whose capacious with a hundred shields, the family treeSprang from the midriff of a prostrate king —Whose blazing wyvern weathercockd the from his walls and wingd his entry-gatesAnd swang besides on many a windy sign —Whose eyes from under a pyramidal headSaw from his windows nothing save his own —What lovelier of his own had he than her, (239) 240 Aylmers Field. His only child, his Edith, whom he lovedAs heiress and not heir regretfully ?But he that marries her marries her name,This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife,. A GRIZZLED CRIPPLE, SUNNING HIMSELF IN A WASTEFIELD. His wife a faded beauty of the Baths,Insipid as the Queen upon a card;Her all of thought and bearing hardly moreThan his own shadow in a sickly sun. Aylmers Field. 241 A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn,Little about it stirring save a brook !A sleepy land, where under the same wheelThe same old rut would deepen year by year;Where almost all the village had one name ;Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at the HallAnd Averill Averill at the RectoryThrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall,Bound in an immemorial intimacy,Were open to each other ; tho to dreamThat Love could bind them closer well had madeThe hoar hair of the Baronet bristle upWith horror, worse than had he heard his priestPreach an inverted scripture, sons of men,Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the land. And might not Averill, had he willd it so,Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs,Have also set his many-shielded tree ?There was a
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