So the Parson was praised, and the scandal stayed, Till, a long time after, the church decayed, And, laying the floor anew, they found In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound. As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells No more of him the story tells; Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince, And died and was buried a century since. And whether his view was right or wrong Has little to do with this my song; Something we owe him, you must allow; And perhaps he has changed his mind by now. The Squire in the family chantry sleeps, The marble still his memory keeps: Remember, when the name you spell, There rest Fidele's bones as well. For the Sexton's grave you need not search, 'Tis a nameless mound by the island church: An ignorant fellow, of humble lot-- But he knew one thing that a Bishop did not. {192} _Moonset_ Past seven o'clock: time to be gone; Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up: A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup, Down to the door, and there is Coachman John. Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye; But John it appears has none of your grins and winks; Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks: Words come once in a mile, and always dry. Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right, Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night, Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon. Strangely near she seems, and terribly great: The world is dead: why are we travelling still? Nightmare silence grips my struggling will; We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate. {193} "When you come to consider the moon," says John at last, And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand; "And then there's some will say there's never a hand That made the world!" A flick, and the gates are passed. Out of the dim magical moonlit park, Out to the workday road and wider skies: There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise, And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark. {194} _A Song of Exmoor_ The Forest above and the Combe below, On a bright September morn! He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God That ever his body was born! So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay! _So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!_ Hark to the tufters' challenge true, 'Tis a note that the red-deer knows! His courage awakes, his covert he breaks, And up for the moor he goes! He's all his rights and seven on top, His eye's the eye of a king, And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride Before he leaves the ling! {195}