I fear much more must flow from worthier veins

Ere England's hurt be healed.

Crom. How powerful are base things to destroy!

The brute's part in them kills the god's in

us,

And robs the world of many glorious deeds;

In all the histories of famous men

We never find the greatest overthrown
Of such as were their equals, but the head,
Screened of its laurels from the lightning's
flash,

Falls by some chance blow of an obscure hand,

And glory cannot guard the hero's heart
Against the least knave's dagger.
Hamp.
You cannot help me.
Save yourself, sir; my best prayers keep
you safe-

I fain would win as far as yonder house; It was my dear dead wife's; such shapes are there

As I would see about my dying bed,
To make me sure of heaven

me, love,

Forgive

That I am loath to come yet to thy heart; I have only lived without thee, O my best, That I might live for England! Is Cromwell come?

Crom. How is it with you, cousin ? Hamp. Very well; With hope to be soon better; gentle cou

Shining, and splendid and sonorous spheres To make him music; and those sacred lips, More eloquent than the Mantuan's, praising thee,

Shall make thy fame a memory for all time,

And set a loftier laurel on thy head
Than any gathered from red fields of war ;
So great shall England's great need make
thee, Cromwell;

Whom thou forget not still to love and serve,

Holding thy greatness given to make her great,

Thy strength to keep her strong; then (since oblivion

Is what men chiefly fear in death), dear cousin,

I would not be forgotten of thy love.
And now I am loath the last words I shall

Still comes a vision of blue-veinéd feet That stand forever on a pebbly shore ; While round, the tidal waters flow and fleet And ripple, ripple, ripple, evermore.

A SICILIAN NIGHT

COME, stand we here within this cactusbrake,

And let the leafy tangle cloak us round:
It is the spot whereof the Seer spake
To nymph and faun a nightly trysting-
ground.

How still the scene! No zephyr stirs to shake

The listening air. The trees are slumberbound

In soft repose. There's not a bird awake
To witch the silence with a silver sound.
Now haply shall the vision trance our eyes,
By heedless mortals all too rarely scanned,
Of mystic maidens in immortal guise,
Who mingle shadowy hand with shadowy
hand,

And, moving o'er the lilies circle-wise,
Beat out with naked feet a saraband.

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 yellow 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 kneel'd,

"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 clinking 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 Monmouth's army mustering lay ; Where Bridgewater flew her banner high,

And gave up her keys, when the Duke

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 flitting 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 cavalry 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-making 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 slower.

His soul we cheer'd with meat and

wine;

With women's craft and balsam fine