Half forms of men, without their hands and feet; These and what more within that hall might be She saw, and oh! how long’d her son to see! Yet could he hope to view that noble place, Who dared not look the porter in the face? Forth went the pony, and the rider’s knees Cleaved to her sides—he did not ride with ease; One hand a whip, and one a bridle, held, 240 In case the pony falter’d or rebell’d. The village boys beheld him as he pass’d, And looks of envy on the hero cast; But he was meek, nor let his pride appear; Nay, truth to speak, he felt a sense of fear, Lest the rude beast, unmindful of the rein, Should take a fancy to turn back again. He found, and wonder ’tis he found, his way, The orders many that he must obey: “Now to the right, then left, and now again 250 Directly onward, through the winding lane; Then, half way o’er the common, by the mill, Turn from the cottage and ascend the hill; Then—spare the pony, boy!—as you ascend, You see the Hall, and that’s your journey’s end.” Yes, he succeeded, not remembering aught Of this advice, but by his pony taught. Soon as he doubted he the bridle threw On the steed’s neck, and said—“Remember you!” For oft the creature had his father borne, 260 Sound on his way, and safe on his return. So he succeeded, and the modest youth Gave praise, where praise had been assign’d by truth. His business done—for fortune led his way To him whose office was such debts to pay, The farmer-bailiff; but he saw no more } Than a small room, with bare and oaken floor, } A desk with books thereon—he’d seen such things before; } “Good day!” he said, but linger’d as he spoke “Good day,” and gazed about with serious look; 270 Then slowly moved, and then delay’d awhile, In dumb dismay which raised a lordly smile In those who eyed him—then again moved on, As all might see, unwilling to be gone. While puzzled thus, and puzzling all about, Involved, absorb’d, in some bewildering doubt, A lady enter’d, Madam Johnson call’d, Within whose presence stood the lad appall’d. A learned Lady this, who knew the names Of all the pictures in the golden frames; 280 Could every subject, every painter, tell, And on their merits and their failures dwell; And if perchance there was a slight mistake— These the most knowing on such matters make. “And what dost mean, my pretty lad?” she cried, } “Dost stay or go?”—He first for courage tried, } Then for fit words—then boldly he replied, } That he “would give a hundred pounds, if so He had them, all about that house to go; For he had heard that it contain’d such things 290 As never house could boast, except the king’s.” The ruling Lady, smiling, said, “In truth Thou shalt behold them all, my pretty youth. Tom! first the creature to the stable lead, Let it be fed; and you, my child, must feed;