AND this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled,
Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did ye not see her gleaming through the glade!
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet, aye, she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd;
And, aye, beside her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And through those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when through broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full orb'd harvest moon!