Puslapio vaizdai
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The minutes flying faster than our feet
That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice,
Making fatigue more sweet by appetite.
There stood the graceful Reuben by my
sire,

Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun,
And, like him, stealing renovation
Into the darkest corner of the soul,
And filling it with light. There, women
group'd,

My sisters and their maids, with ears subdued,

With bosoms panting from the eager dance, Against each other lean'd; as I have seen A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale Oppress'd with rain, upon each other bend, While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some way off

My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for fame,

Each two with their two heifers harness'd fast

Unto the shaft, and labor'd till the sweat
Had crept about them like a sudden thaw.
Anon they tied an eagle to a tree,
And strove at archery; or with a bear
Struggled for strength of limb.

were no slaves

These

No villain's sons to rifle passengers.
The sports being done, the winners claim'd

the spoil:

Or hide, or feather, or renowned bow,
Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse.
And then my father bless'd us, and we sang
Our sweet way home again. Oft I have
ach'd

In memory of these so precious hours,
And wept upon those keys that were my
pride,

And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night. Alas! God willing, I'll be patient yet.

THE TRIUMPH OF JOSEPH

In the royal path Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in flowers,

Sweeping the ground with incense-scented palms :

Then came the sweetest voices of the land,

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Sat Pharaoh, whose bare head was girt around

By a crown of iron; and his sable hair, Like strakey as a mane, fell where it would, And somewhat hid his glossy sun-brent neck And carcanet of precious sardonyx.

His jewell❜d armlets, weighty as a sword, Clasp'd his brown naked arms - a crimson

robe, Deep edged with silver, and with golden thread,

Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd, Whose broad resplendent braid and shieldlike clasps

Were boss'd with diamonds large, by rubies

fir'd,

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His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword;
And on his head a crown of drooping corn
Mock'd that of Ceres in high holiday.
His robes were simple, but were full of
grace,

And (out of love and truth I speak him thus)

I never did behold a man less proud,
More dignified or grateful to admire.
His honors nothing teas'd him from him-
self;

And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man
Who did intend to honor them as much
As they could honor him.

Sir Henry Taplor

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Up to their natural eminence, and none, Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great; Where power was of God's gift, to whom he gave

Supremacy of merit, the sole means And broad highway to power, that ever then

Was meritoriously administer'd,

Whilst all its instruments from first to last, The tools of state for service high or low, Were chosen for their aptness to those ends Which virtue meditates. To shake the ground

Deep-founded whereupon this structure stood,

Was verily a crime; a treason it was,
Conspiracies to hatch against this state
And its free innocence. But now, I ask,
Where is there on God's earth that polity
Which it is not, by consequence converse,
A treason against nature to uphold?
Whom may we now call free? whom great?

whom wise?

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But in the cause of nature to stand forth, And turn this frame of things the right side up?

For this the hour is come, the sword is

drawn,

And tell your masters vainly they resist.

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Down lay in a nook my lady's brach,
And said- my feet are sore,

I cannot follow with the pack
A hunting of the boar.

And though the horn sounds never so clear
With the hounds in loud uproar,
Yet I must stop and lie down here,

Because my feet are sore.

The huntsman when he heard the same,
What answer did he give?
The dog that's lame is much to blame,
He is not fit to live.

SONG

Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife To heart of neither wife nor maid,

Lead we not here a jolly life

Betwixt the shine and shade?

Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife
To tongue of neither wife nor maid,
Thou wag'st, but I am worn with strife,
And feel like flowers that fade.

PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE

Dire rebel though he was, Yet with a noble nature and great gifts Was he endow'd, - courage, discretion, wit,

An equal temper, and an ample soul,
Rock-bound and fortified against assaults
Of transitory passion, but below
Built on a surging subterranean fire
That stirr'd and lifted him to high attempts.
So prompt and capable, and yet so calm,
He nothing lack'd in sovereignty but the
right,

Nothing in soldiership except good fortune.
Wherefore with honor lay him in his grave,
And thereby shall increase of honor come
Unto their arms who vanquish'd one so wise,
So valiant, so renown'd.

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And gently judged for evil and for good.
But whilst he mix'd not for his own behoof
In public strife, his spirit glow'd with zeal,
Not shorn of action, for the public weal,-
For truth and justice as its warp and woof,
For freedom as its signature and seal.
His life, thus sacred from the world, dis-
charged

From vain ambition and inordinate care,
In virtue exercis'd, by reverence rare
Lifted, and by humility enlarged,
Became a temple and a place of prayer.
In latter years he walk'd not singly there

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The cry of battle rises along their charging Then shake from sleeves and pockets their line:

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broad-pieces and lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools!

your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kiss'd your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl about the prey.

Where be your tongues, that late mock'd at heaven and hell and fate?

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?

Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths ?

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown,

With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope !

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's stalls;

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope.

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;

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