Away through the twilight sped.

A horror fell on those holy men,
(The faithful legends say,)
And one by one from the face of earth
They pined and vanished away.


IV.

So goes the tale of the monkish books,
The moral who runs may read,--
He has no ears for Nature's voice
Whose soul is the slave of creed.

Not all in vain with beauty and love
Has God the world adorned;
And he who Nature scorns and mocks,
By Nature is mocked and scorned.



The Enchanted Shirt


Fytte the First: _wherein it shall be shown how the Truth is too mighty
a Drug for such as he of feeble temper_.


The King was sick. His cheek was red