The village church beneath the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.
THE FAKENHAM GHOST
Robert Bloomfield
The lawns were dry in Euston park;
(Here Truth inspires my tale)
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.
Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made
To gain the vale of Fakenham
And hail its willow shade.
Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But followed faster still,
And echoed to the darksome copse
That whispered on the hill;
Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed,
Bespoke a peopled shade,
And many a wing the foliage brushed,
And hovering circuits made.
The dappled herd of grazing deer,
That sought the shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.
Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind—
When now a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.