And off the heads of doughty giants stroke:
Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;
No sound of feet alarm’d the drowsy ear;
No English blood their Pagan sense could smell,
But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell.
These are the Peasant’s joy, when, placed at ease,
Half his delighted offspring mount his knees.
To every cot the lord’s indulgent mind
Has a small space for garden-ground assign’d;
Here - till return of morn dismiss’d the farm -