Evening Walk to imagine the figure of the old Man, he must stamp it down in black and white, and it is henceforth sacred. I don't mean to deny Wordsworth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I mean to say we need not be teased with grandeur and merit when we can have them uncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let us have the old Poets and Robin Hood. Your letter and its sonnets gave me more pleasure than will the Fourth Book of Childe Harold and the whole of anybody's life and opinions. In return for your Dish of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins, I hope they'll look pretty. TO J. H. R. IN ANSWER TO HIS ROBIN HOOD SONNETS. No! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years. Many times have Winter's shears, Frozen North and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men paid no rent on Leases. No! the Bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the Hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go with Sun or Moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John or Robin bold; Never any of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair Hostess Merriment Down beside the pasture Trent, For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. Gone the merry morris din, Gone the song of Gamelyn, Gone the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grene shawe": All are gone away and past! And if Robin _should_ be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian _should_ have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the Dock-yard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her--"strange that honey Can't be got without hard money!" So it is! yet let us sing, Honour to the old bow-string, Honour to the bugle-horn, Honour to the woods unshorn, Honour to the Lincoln green, Honour to the archer keen, Honour to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon: Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood! Honour to maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan-- Though their days have hurried by Let us two a burden try. I hope you will like them--they are at least written in the Spirit of Outlawry. Here are the Mermaid lines,