Full long the pilgrim’s sandall’d foot would tread, 445
Thy wood-paths, Wanstead, by affection led;
But hark! yon deep and silent woods among,
Wakes the low music of the poet’s song;
The breath of his sweet lyre, on breezes borne,
Floats, where of old the hunter’s stirring horn[[7]] 450
Called to the echoes, that through dell and glade
Spake in their jocund tongues, from every shade.
Whilst knight and damsel, in their vests of green,
Throng’d, gay and graceful, round their huntress-queen;