Page:Enoch Arden, etc - Tennyson - 1864.djvu/93

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AYLMER’S FIELD.
77
A mockery to the yeomen over ale,And laughter to their lords: but those at home,As hunters round a hunted creature drawThe cordon close and closer toward the death,Narrow'd her goings out and comings in;Forbad her first the house of Averill,Then closed her access to the wealthiest farms,Last from her own home-circle of the poorThey barr'd her: yet she bore it: yet her cheekKept colour: wondrous! but, O mystery!What amulet drew her down to that old oak,So old, that twenty years before, a partFalling had let appear the brand of John—Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but nowThe broken base of a black tower, a caveOf touchwood, with a single flourishing spray.There the manorial lord too curiouslyRaking in that millennial touchwood-dustFound for himself a bitter treasure-trove;Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read
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