Puslapio vaizdai

ness up ;

you safe

me, love,

I fear much more must flow from worthier Shall bear the weight of England's great

veins Ere England's hurt be healed.

Thy name, mine own dear kinsman's, shall Crom. How powerful are base things to

have sound destroy!

More royal than all crowned kings'; the The brute's part in them kills the god's in

slave us,

Shall murmur it in dreams of liberty, And robs the world of many glorious The patriot in his dungeon, and endure, deeds ;

The tyrant, and grow merciful for fear ; In all the histories of famous men

And when thou hast done high and songWe never find the greatest overthrown

worthy deeds, Of such as were their equals, but the head, At length shall come thy poet, whose purer Screened of its laurels from the lightning's

eyes flash,

God shall seclude from sight of our gross Falls by some chance blow of an obscure

Earth, hand,

And for the dull light of our darker day And glory cannot guard the hero's heart Give all heaven to his vision, star with Against the least knave's dagger.

star Натр.

You cannot help me. Shining, and splendid and sonorous spheres Save yourself, sir ; my best prayers keep To make him music; and those sacred lips,

More eloquent than the Mantuan's, praisI fain would win as far as yonder house ;

ing thee, It was my dear dead wife's ; such shapes Shall make thy fame a memory for all are there

time, As I would see about my dying bed, And set a loftier laurel on thy head To make me sure of heaven Forgive Than any gathered from red fields of war ;

So great shall England's great need make That I am loath to come yet to thy heart;

thee, Cromwell ; I have only lived without thee, O my best, Whom thou forget not still to love and That I might live for England ! Is Crom

serve, well come ?

Holding thy greatness given to make her Crom. How is it with you, cousin ?

great, Натр.

Very well ; Thy strength to keep her strong; then With hope to be soon better ; gentle cou

(since oblivion sin,

Is what men chiefly fear in death), dear I have scant time to speak and much to cousin, say,

I would not be forgotten of thy love. That thou must hear - Men's eyes more

And now I am loath the last words I shall clearly see,

speak Ere the long darkness ; and thus plagues, Must be of strife — yet I must utter them ;

Be not of those that vex the angry times Earthquake, and overthrow of prosperous With meek-mouthed proffers of rejected states,

peace ; Have been foretold by lips of dying men, When men have set the justice of their Who saw their country's end before their own;

To sharp arbitrament of answering arms, But I die happy ; with a joy too keen Tougues should keep mute, and steel hold For this weak wounded body, and delight

speech with steel, Of eager youth that dreams of noble deeds ; Till victory can plead the conquered's Knowing the greatness in thee, which occa


And make soft mercy no more dangerous. Has not yet shown the world, and thine We must o'ercome our foes to make them

friends. . Hast only dimly guessed at These Thy hand, dear cousin ... Sweet, I hear hands I hold

thy voice

and wars,



own self




That calls me, and leave England for thy | My life shall be as noble as this man's.

Farewell, dear cousin, perfect heart that Kiss me, dear love, and take my soul to

beats God!..

No more for England Think of me in Receive my soul, Lord Jesus! O God,


And help to make me all thou saidst I My country God be merciful to

should be, Crom. O Lord of Hosts, if thou wilt only (Kneels down by the bed. Rising, and lookgive me

ing steadfastly at the dead body of HAMPAn England with but three such English- DEN.] men,

Yea, and I shall be.


Oliver nyador Brown


Soulless alike for praise or blame

Too dead to dread the eternities whose Ah ! long ago since I or thou

heaven its shame destroyed. Glanced past these moorlands brow to

Our mixed hair streaming down the

So fleet! so sweet!

ALAS ! who knows or cares, my love,
I loved thy footsteps more than thou

If our love live or die, Loved my whole soul or body through - If thou thy frailty, sweet, should prove, So sweet ! so fleet! ere Fate outgrew the

Or my soul thine deny ? days wherein Life sinned !

Yet merging sorrow in delight,

Love's dream disputes our devious night. And ah ! the deep steep days of shame, Whose dread hopes shrivelled ere they None know, sweet love, nor care a thought came,

For our heart's vague desire, Or vanished down Love's nameless Nor if our longing come to naught, void

Or burn in aimless fire ;
So dread ! so dead !

Let them alone, we 'll waste no sighs : Dread hope stripped dead from each soul's Cling closer, love, and close thine eyes!


Edward Cracroft Lefroy



On shores of Sicily a shape of Greece !
Dear maid, what means this lonely com-

With winds and waves ? What fancy,

wbat caprice, Has drawn thee from thy fellows? Do

they fling

Rude jests at thee? Or seekest thou sur-
Of drowsy toil in noonday shepherding ?
Enough : our questions cannot break thy

peace ;
Thou art a sbade, - a long-e mbéd

thing. But still we see thy sun-lit face, O sweet, Shining eternal where it shone of yore;

Still comes a vision of blue-veinéd feet

A FOOTBALL-PLAYER That stand forever on a pebbly shore ; While round, the tidal waters flow and fleet IF I could paint you, friend, as you stand And ripple, ripple, ripple, evermore.


Guard of the goal, defensive, open-eyed, A SICILIAN NIGHT

Watching the tortured bladder slide and

glide Come, stand we here within this cactus- Under the twinkling feet; arms bare, brake,

head bare, And let the leafy tangle cloak us round : The breeze a-tremble through crow-tufts It is the spot whereof the Seer spake

of hair; To nymph and faun a nightly trysting- Red-brown in face, and ruddier having ground.

spied How still the scene ! No zephyr stirs to A wily foeman breaking from the side, shake

Aware of him,- of all else unaware : The listening air. The trees are slumber- If I could limn you, as you leap and fling bound

Your weight against his passage, like a In soft repose. There's not a bird awake To witch the silence with a silver sound. Clutch him, and collar him, and rudely Now haply shall the vision trance our eyes,

cling By heedless mortals all too rarely scanned, For one brief moment till he falls — you Of mystic maidens in immortal guise, Who mingle shadowy hand with shadowy My sketch would have what Art can never hand,

give And, moving o'er the lilies circle-wise, Sinew and breath and body ; it would Beat out with naked feet a saraband.



wall ;

fall :

anap Probpn

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17TH CENTURY BUZZING, buzzing, buzzing, my golden

belted bees : My little son was seven years old — the

mint-flower touched his knees ; Yellow were his curly locks ;

Yellow were his stocking-clocks ;
His plaything of a sword had a diamond in

its hilt;
Where the garden beds lay sunny,

And the bees were making honey, “ For God and the king to arms! to

arms !” the day long would he lilt. Smock'd in lace and flowered brocade, my

pretty son of seven Wept sore because the ten died, and

left the charge uneven. “I head one battalion, motherKitty,” sobbed he, “led the other!

And when we reach'd the bee-hive bench
We used to halt and storm the trench :
If we could plant our standard here,
With all the bees a-buzzing near,
And fly the colors safe from sting,

The town was taken for the king !”
Flitting, flitting over the thyme, my bees

with yellow band My little son of seven came close, and

clipp'd me by the hand ; A wreath of mourning cloth was wound

His small left arm and sword-hilt round, And on the thatch of every hive a wisp of

black was bound. “Sweet mother, we must tell the bees, or

they will swarm away : Ye little bees !” he called, “ draw nigh,

and hark to what I say, And make us golden honey still for our

white wheaten bread,

Though never more

We rush on war
With Kitty at our head :

Who 'll give the toast

When swords are cross'd, Now Kitty lieth dead ?

Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my bees of yel

low girth : My son of seven changed his mood, and

clasp'd me in his mirth. “Sweet mother, when I grow a man and

fall on battle-field, He cried, and down in the daisied grass

upon one knee he kneelid, “I charge thee, come and tell the bees

how I for the king lie dead; And thou shalt never lack fine honey for

thy wheaten bread!”

Flitting, flitting, flitting, my busy bees,

alas ! No footstep of my soldier son came clink

ing through the grass.
Thrice he kiss'd me for farewell,

And far on the stone his shadow fell ; He buckled spurs and sword-belt on, as the

sun began to stoop, Set foot in stirrup, and sprang to horse,

and rode to join his troop. To the west he rode, where the winds

were at play, And Moninouth's army mustering lay ; Where Bridgewater flew her banner

high, And gave up her keys, when the Duke

came by ; And the maids of Taunton paid him court With colors their own white hands had

wrought; And red as a field, where blood doth run,

Sedgemoor blazed in the setting sun. Broider'd sash and clasp of gold, my

soldier son, alas ! The mint was all in flower, and the clover in the grass :

With every bed

In bloom," I said,
“ What further lack the bees,

That they buzz so loud,

Like a restless cloud, Among the orchard trees ? " No voice in the air, from Sedgemoor

field, Moan'd out how Grey and the horse had

reeld ;

Met me no ghost, with haunting eyes,
That westward pointed 'mid its sighs,
And pull’d apart a bloody vest,

And show'd the sword-gash in its breast. Empty hives, and fitting bees, and sunny

morning hours : I snipp'd the blossom'd lavender, and the

pinks, and the gillyflowers ; No petal trembled in my hold — I saw not the dead stretched stark and

cold On the trampled turf at the shepherd's

door, In the cloak and the doublet Monmouth

wore, With Monmouth's scarf and headgear

on, And the eyes, not clos'd, of my soldier

son ; I knew not how, ere the cocks did crow,

the fight was fought in the dark, With naught for guide but the enemy's

guns, when the flint flash'd out a

spark, Till, routed at first sound of fire, the cav

alry broke and fled, And the hoofs struck dumb, where they

spurn'd the slain, and the meadow

stream ran red ; I saw not the handful of horsemen spur

through the dusk, and out of sight, My soldier son at the Duke's left hand,

and Grey that rode on his right. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my honey-mak

ing bees, They left the musk, and the marigolds

and the scented faint sweet-peas ; They gather'd in a darkening cloud, and

sway'd, and rose to fly ; A blackness on the summer blue, they

swept across the sky. Gaunt and ghastly with gaping wounds

(my soldier son, alas !) Footsore and faint, the messenger came

halting through the grass. The wind went by and shook the leaves

the mint-stalk shed its flowerAnd I miss'd the murmuring round the

hives, and my boding heart beat

His soul we cheer'd with meat and

wine ;
With women's craft and balsam fine

We bath'd his hurts, and bound them And a mound, unnamed, in Sedgemoor soft,

grass, While west the wind played through the That laps my soldier son, alas ! croft,

The bloom is shed
And the low sun dyed the pinks blood red,

The bees are fied -
And, straying near the mint-flower shed, Myddelton luck it's done and dead.
A wild bee wanton'd o'er the bed.

“IS IT NOTHING TO YOU?” He told how my son, at the shepherd's

door, kept guard in Monmouth's We were playing on the green together, clothes,

My sweetheart and I While Monmouth donned the shepherd's Oh! so heedless in the gay June weather, frock, in hope to cheat his foes.

When the word went forth that we must A couple of troopers spied him stand,

die. And bade him yield to the King's com- Oh! so merrily the balls of amber mand :

And of ivory tossed we to the sky, “ Surrender, thou rebel as good as While the word went forth in the King's dead,

chamber, A price is set on thy traitor head ! ”

That we both must die. My soldier son, with secret smile, Held both at bay for a little while, Oh! so idly, straying through the pleasDealt them such death-blow as he fell,

aunce, Neither was left the tale to tell ;

Plucked we here and there With dying eyes, that asked no grace,

Fruit and bud, while in the royal presence They stared on him for a minute's The King's son was casting from his hair space,

Glory of the wreathen gold that crowned it, And felt that it was not Monmouth's And, ungirdling all his garments fair, face.

Flinging by the jewelled clasp that bound it, Crimson'd through was Monmouth's cloak, With his feet made bare,

when the soldier dropped at their
side -

Down the myrtled stairway of the palace, “ Those knaves will carry no word,” he

Ashes on his head, said, and he smil'd in his pain, and Came he, through the rose and citron died.

alleys, “ Two days,” told the messenger, “did we In rough sark of sackcloth habited, lie

And in a hempen halter - oh! we jested, Hid in the field of peas and rye,

Lightly, and we laughed as he was led Hid in the ditch of brake and sedge, To the torture, while the bloom we breasted With the enemy's scouts down every

Where the grapes grew red. hedge, Till Grey was seized, and Monmouth seized, Oh! so sweet the birds, when he was dying, that under the fern did crouch,

Piped to her and me Starved, and haggard, and all unshaved, Is no room this glad June day for sighing with a few raw peas in his pouch." He is dead, and she and I go free !

When the sun shall set on all

our pleasure

We will mourn him What, so you No music soundeth in my ears, but a pass

decree ing bell that tolls

We are heartless — Nay, but in what For gallant lords with head on block


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sweet Heaven receive their souls ! Do you more than we ?


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