Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side, And night came down over the solemn waste, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars CIX FLEE FRO' THE PRESS O BORN in days when wits were fresh and clear Before this strange disease of modern life, Its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife— Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away and keep thy solitude! Still nursing the unconquerable hope, With a free, onward impulse brushing through, Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! And we should win thee from thy own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers, And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made; And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, brine And knew the intruders on his ancient home, The young light-hearted masters of the waves— And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail; And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits; and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales. CX SCHOOL FENCIBLES WE come in arms, we stand ten score, Is threatening, and we see our Queen. Have duly hardened bones and thews At meek attire of blue and grey, To work the evil-thinkers woe. Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day, Bless the real swords that we shall wield, Repeat the call we now obey In sunset lands, on some fair field. Thy flag shall make some Huron rock As dear to us as Windsor's keep, And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock The surgings of th' Ontarian deep. The stately music of thy Guards, Which times our march beneath thy ken, We'll call to mind how cheers of ours Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate, Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien; And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen. CXI THE TWO CAPTAINS WHEN George the Third was reigning a hundred years ago, He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe. 'You're not afraid of shot,' said he, 'you're not afraid of wreck, So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called Quebec. |