Puslapio vaizdai
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THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS.

En los nidas antaño no hay pajaros hogaño.

Last WORDS OF Don QUIXOTE.

YEA, I am passed away, I think, from this ;

7EA,

I Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here, But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss,

And witness ye, I go without a fear. Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see,

As once I dreamed, the show of shield and crest, Gone southward to the fighting by the sea;

There is no bird in any last year's nest !

Yea, with me now all dreams are done, I ween,

Grown faint and unremembered ; voices call High up, like misty warders dimly seen

Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall ; And all things swim-as when the charger stands

Quivering between the knees, and East and West Are filled with flash of scarves and waving hands ;

There is no bird in any last year's nest !

Is she a dream I left in Acquitaine ?

My wife Giselle,—who never spoke a word,

Although I knew her mouth was drawn with pain,

Her eyelids hung with tears; and though I heard The strong sob shake her throat, and saw the cord

Her necklace made about it ;she that prest
To watch me trotting till I reached the ford ;-

There is no bird in any last year's nest !
Ah ! I had hoped, God wot,—had longed that she

Should watch me from the little-lit tourelle,
Me, coming riding by the windy lea-

Me, coming back again to her, Giselle ; Yea, I had hoped once more to hear him call,

The curly-pate, who, rushen lance in rest,
Stormed at the lilies by the orchard wall;

There is no bird in any last year's nest !
But how, my Masters, ye are wrapt in gloom !

This Death will come, and whom he loves he cleaves Sheer through the steel and leather; hating whom

He smites in shameful wise behind the greaves. 'Tis a fair time with Dennis and the Saints,

And weary work to age, and want for rest, When harness groweth heavy, and one faints,

With no bird left in any last year's nest ! Give ye good hap, then, all. For me, I lie

Broken in Christ's sweet hand, with whom shall rest To keep me living, now that I must die ;

There is no bird in any last year's nest!

THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH.

UNTO

NTO Seyd the vizier spake the Caliph Abdallah :

“Now hearken and hear, I am weary, by Allah ! I am faint with the mere over-running of leisure ; I will rouse me and rear up a palace to Pleasure !"

To Abdallah the Caliph spake Seyd the vizier :
“All faces grow pale if my Lord draweth near;
And the breath of his mouth not a mortal shall scoff it ;-
They must bend and obey, by the beard of the Prophet!"

Then the Caliph that heard, with becoming sedateness, Drew his hand down his beard as he thought of his great

ness ; Drained out the last bead of the wine in the chalice : “I have spoken, O Seyd ; I will build it, my palace !

As a drop from the wine where the wine-cup hath

spilled it, As a gem from the mine, O my Seyd, I will build it; Without price, without flaw, it shall stand for a token That the word is a law which the Caliph hath spoken!”

Yet again to the Caliph bent Seyd the vizier : “ Who shall reason or rail if my Lord speaketh clear? Who shall strive with his might? Let my Lord live for

ever ! He shall choose him a site by the side of the river.”

Then the Caliph sent forth unto Kür, unto Yemen,-
To the South, to the North,—for the skilfullest freemen;
And soon, in a close, where the river breeze fanned it,
The basement uprose, as the Caliph had planned it.

Now the courses were laid and the corner-piece fitted ;
And the butments and set-stones were shapen and knitted,
When lo ! on a sudden the Caliph heard frowning,
That the river had swelled, and the workmen were

drowning.

Then the Caliph was stirred and he flushed in his ire as
He sent forth his word from Teheran to Shiraz;
And the workmen came new, and the palace, built faster,
From the bases up-grew unto arch and pilaster.

And the groinings were traced, and the arch-heads were

chasen, When lo ! in hot haste there came flying a mason, For a cupola fallen had whelmed half the workmen ; And Hamet the chief had been slain by the Turc'men.

Then the Caliph's beard curled, and he foamed in his rage

as

Once more his scouts whirled from the Tell to the Hedjaz; my

word not my word ?” cried the Caliph Abdallah ; I will build it up yet .

by the aiding of Allah !

Is

Though he spoke in his haste like King David before him, Yet he felt as he spoke that a something stole o'er him ; And his soul grew as glass, and his anger passed from it As the vapours that pass from the Pool of Mahomet.

And the doom seemed to hang on the palace no longer,
Like a fountain it sprang when the sources feed stronger ;
Shaft, turret and spire leaped upward, diminished,
Like the flames of a fire,-till the palace was finished !

Without price, without flaw. And it lay on the azure
Like a diadem dropped from an emperor's treasure ;
And the dome of pearl white and the pinnacles fleckless,
Flashed back to the light, like the gems in a necklace.

So the Caliph looked forth on the turret-tops gilded ;
And he said in his pride, “Is my palace not builded ?
Who is more great than I that his word can avail if
My will is my will,”—said Abdallah the Caliph.

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