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“ The Bull, the Fleece are cramm’d, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court."
I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea. “With all my heart," Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd through the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn.
We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd
There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid
how scarce it was This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split,
And came again together on the king
“Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch,
life. 6 Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live my
life. 6 Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all : but let me live my life.
66 Oh! who would love? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, Ard all
my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea : but let me live
life. He sang his song, and I replied with mine, I found it in a volume, all of songs,
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, His books the more the pity, so I said
Came to the hammer here in March
- and this
I set the words, and added names I knew.
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me, Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine.
“Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm, Emilia, fairer than all else but thou,
For thou art fairer than all else that is.
“ Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast. Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip, I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn.
but I return: I would I were
So sang we each to either, Francis Hale,
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf