And mirth makes every hour it’s own.
Where spreads this grove it’s umbrage wide
Late the bold Outlaw fought and died.[[19]]
Oft in it’s dark recess the oak
Had fall’n beneath his secret stroke,
Full many a deer the night’s dim ray
Beheld his silent arrow slay,
Deep furze conceal’d the fawns in vain,
And lust of lucre thinn’d the plain.
Here, by no power before controll’d,