HERBERT Nay,
You are too fearful; yet must I confess,
Our march of yesterday had better suited
A firmer step than mine.


IDONEA That dismal Moor--
In spite of all the larks that cheered our path,
I never can forgive it: but how steadily
_You_ paced along, when the bewildering moonlight
Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!--
I thought the Convent never would appear;
It seemed to move away from us: and yet,
That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods--
A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy,
Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut
We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
And thankfully there rested side by side
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength,
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,--
That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
To fling't away from you: you make no use
Of me, or of my strength;--come, let me feel
That you do press upon me. There--indeed
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile