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Never again shall he,
Never again with lute
The cool, moon-whitened calm
Yet, in his dreams and songs,
This robe upon either side.
Still through the haunted aisles
"A braggart's threat, for a brave man's scorning!”
And Hugo laughed at his rival's ire,
To his castle gate came with tidings dire.
The first a-faint and with armor riven :
“In peril sore have I left thy bride,False Rolf waylaid us. For love and Heaven!
Sir Hugo, quick to the rescue ride!”
Stout Hugo muttered a word unholy ;
He sprang to horse and he flashed his brand, But a hand was laid on his bridle slowly,
And a herald spoke : “By the king's command
“This to Picardy's trusty warder :
France calls first for his loyal sword, The Flemish spears are across the border,
And all is lost if they win the ford.”
Sir Hugo paused, and his face was ashen,
His white lips trembled in silent prayerGod's pity soften the spirit's passion
When the crucifixion of Love is there!
What need to tell of the message spoken?
Of the hand that shook as he poised his lance ? And the look that told of his brave heart broken,
As he bade them follow, “For God and France !”
On Cambray's field next morn they found him,
Mid a mighty swath of foemen dead;
With his loyal blood was baptizéd red.
It is all writ down in the book of Glory,
On crimson pages of blood and strife, With scanty thought for the simple story
Of duty dearer than love or life.
Only a note obscure, appended
By warrior scribe or monk perchance, Saith : "The good knight's ladye was sore offended
That he would not die for her but France.”
Did the ladye live to lament her lover?
Or did roystering Rolf prove a better mate ? I have searched the records over and over,
But nought discover to tell her fate.
And I read the moral.—A brave endeavor
To do thy duty, whate'er its worth, Is better than life with love forever
And love is the sweetest thing on earth.
Y the time this paper out, and the hours are "numbered and appears, I shall have imputed," and the days go by; and when been talking for twelve the last of these finds us, we have been a
months ; and it is long time dying, and what else? The thought I should take my leave in a very length is something, if we reach formal and seasonable manner. Vale- that hour of separation undishonored ; dictory eloquence is rare. Even death- ' and to have lived at all is doubtless (in bed sayings have not often hit the mark the soldierly expression) to have served. of the occasion ; and perhaps there are There is a tale in Tacitus of how the but three that may be profitably cited. veterans mutinied in the German wilderCharles Second, wit and sceptic, a man ness ; of how they mobbed Germanicus, whose life had been one long lesson in clamoring to go home; and of how, seizhuman incredulity, an easy-going com- ing their general's hand, these old, warrade, a manoeuvring king-remembered worn exiles passed his finger along their and embodied all his wit and scepticism toothless gums. Sunt lacrymo rerum : along with more than his usual good this was the most eloquent of the songs humor in the famous “I am afraid, gen- of Simeon. And when a man has lived tlemen, I am an unconscionable time to a fair age, he bears his marks of sera-dying.” Marcus Aurelius in that last vice. He
may have never been remarked passage did not forget that he was upon the breach at the head of the army; Cæsar : “ Vale vobis dico, vos precedens." at least he shall have lost his teeth on And there is yet another passing-word: the camp bread. “Father, forgive them, for they know The idealism of serious people in this not what they do."
age of ours is of a noble character. It never seems to them that they have
served enough ; they have a fine impaI.
tience of their virtues. It were perhaps
more modest to be singly thankful that The attitude and the words of Charles we are no worse. It is not only our Second are what best become humanity. enemies, those desperate characters-it An unconscionable time a-dying—there is we ourselves who know not what we is the picture ("I am afraid, gentlemen") do ;—thence springs the glimmering of your life and of mine. The sands run hope that perhaps we do better than we