Locksley Hall

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn

Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!

Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still!

O for the scent of the glen when the bushes are wet with the dew!