Heaven helped me in sore strait,
And in a March morn's radiance wan
Turned back the edge of fate!
"My father a stout yeoman was,
And I, in childish pride,
That morning through the dew-drenched grass,
Walked gladly by his side,
"Till here he paused, with glittering steel,
A prostrate trunk to smite;
How the near woodland seemed to reel