Forth rode he across the lone trackless moor,
His thoughts on his errand bent
And hoped he right soon to come back again
The very same way he went.
The journey to Bakewell he safely made
A little before mid-day:
But Vicar and people were all at church,[109]
Where they were oft wont to pray.
"I'll put up my beast," quoth the Parson, "here,
At the White Horse hostelry;[110]
And go up to Church, that when prayers are done,
The Vicar I there may see."
But ere he could reach the Old Newark door,[111]
Both Priest and people were gone;
And the Vicar to soothe a dying man,
To Over-Haddon sped on.
'Twas three past noon when the Vicar came back,
The Parson he asked to dine,
And time stole a march on the heedless guest,
Six struck as he sat at wine.
Up rose he from table and took his leave,
Quite startled to find it late;
He called for his horse at the hostelry,
And homeward was soon agate.
As he rode up the hill, past All Saints' Church,
The moon just one glance bestowed,
And the wierd-like form of the old Stone Cross,
In the Church-yard, dimly shewed.
Still higher and higher he climbed the hill,
Yet more and more dark it grew;
The drizzling rain became sleet as he climbed,
And the wind more keenly blew.
Ah! thick was the mist on the moor that night,
Poor wight, he had lost his way!
The north-east wind blowing strong on his right,
To the left had made him stray.
And now he was close to lone Haddon Grove,
Bewildered upon the moor;
Slow leading his horse that followed behind,
Himself groping on before.