None could tell if it were night-time, 65 Night or day, at even or morn; No one's eye had seen him enter, No one's ear had heard the Horn.[7] But bold Hubert lives in glee: Months and years went smilingly; 70 With plenty was his table spread; And bright the Lady is who shares his bed. Likewise he had sons and daughters; And, as good men do, he sate At his board by these surrounded, 75 Flourishing in fair estate. And while thus in open day Once he sate, as old books say, A blast was uttered from the Horn, Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80 'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace! He is come to claim his right: Ancient castle, woods, and mountains Hear the challenge with delight. Hubert! though the blast be blown 85 He is helpless and alone: Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word! And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord. Speak!--astounded Hubert cannot; And, if power to speak he had, 90 All are daunted, all the household Smitten to the heart, and sad. 'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be Living man, it must be he! Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 95 And by a postern-gate he slunk away.[8] Long, and long was he unheard of: To his Brother then he came, Made confession, asked forgiveness, Asked it by a brother's name, 100 And by all the saints in heaven; And of Eustace was forgiven: Then in a convent went to hide His melancholy head, and there he died. But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 105 Had preserved from murderers' hands, And from Pagan chains had rescued, Lived with honour on his lands. Sons he had, saw sons of theirs: And through ages, heirs of heirs, 110 A long posterity renowned, Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound. The following note is appended to this poem in the edition of 1807, and in those of 1836 to 1850:-- "This Story is a Cumberland tradition; I have heard it also related of the Hall of Hutton John, an antient residence of the Huddlestones, in a sequestered Valley upon the River Dacor."