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Lifting its head, no less
Cajoling a caress,

Our winsome collie wraith,
Than in glad faith

The door will open wide,
Or kind voice bid: "Abide,
A threshold soul to greet
The longed-for feet."

Ah, Keeper of the Portal,
If Love be not immortal,
If Joy be not divine,

What prayer is mine?

Katharine Lee Bates [1859

"HOLD"

I KNOW, where Hampshire fronts the Wight,
A little church, where "after strife"
Reposes Guy de Blanquely, Knight,
By Alison his wife:

I know their features' graven lines
In time-stained marble monotone,
While crouched before their feet reclines

Their little dog of stone!

I look where Blanquely Castle still

Frowns o'er the oak wood's summer state,

(The maker of a patent pill

Has purchased it of late),

And then through Fancy's open door

I backward turn to days of old,

And see Sir Guy-a bachelor
Who owns a dog called "Hold"!

I see him take the tourney's chance,
And urge his coal-black charger on

"Hold"

To an arbitrament by lance
For lovely Alison;

I mark the onset, see him hurl

From broidered saddle to the dirt
His rival, that ignoble Earl-
Black-hearted Massingbert!

Then Alison, with down-dropped eyes,
Where happy tears bedim the blue,
Bestows a valuable prize

And adds her hand thereto;

My lord, his surcoat streaked with sand,
Remounts, low muttering curses hot,
And with a base-born, hireling band
He plans a dastard plot!

1833

'Tis night-Sir Guy has sunk to sleep,
The castle keep is hushed and still-
See, up the spiral stairway creep,
To work his wicked will,

Lord Massingbert of odious fame,

Soft followed by his cut-throat staff; Ah, "Hold" has justified his name And pinned his lordship's calf!

A growl, an oath, then torches flare;
Out rings a sentry's startled shout;
The guard are racing for the stair,

Half-dressed, Sir Guy runs out;
On high his glittering blade he waves,
He gives foul Massingbert the point,
He carves the hired assassin knaves
Joint from plebeian joint!

The Knight is dead-his sword is rust,
But in his day I'm certain "Hold"

Wore, as his master's badge of trust,
A collarette of gold:

And still I like to fancy that,

Somewhere beyond the Styx's bound, Sir Guy's tall phantom stoops to pat

His little phantom hound!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18

THE BARB OF SATIRE

THE VICAR OF BRAY

IN good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high-churchman was I,
And so I got preferment.

To teach my flock I never missed:
Kings were by God appointed,
And lost are those that dare resist
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law that I'll maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,

Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possessed the crown, And popery grew in fashion,

The penal laws I hooted down,

And read the Declaration;

The Church of Rome I found would fit

Full well my constitution;

And I had been a Jesuit

But for the Revolution.

When William was our king declared,
To ease the nation's grievance,
With this new wind about I steered,
And swore to him allegiance;

Old principles I did revoke,

Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance.

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When royal Anne became our queen,
The Church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory;
Occasional conformists base,

I blamed their moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
By such prevarication.

When George in pudding-time came o'er,
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, sir;
And thus preferment I procured
From our new Faith's defender,
And almost every day abjured
The Pope and the Pretender.

The illustrious house of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I do allegiance swear-
While they can keep possession:
For in my faith and loyalty

I nevermore will falter,

And George my lawful king shall be

Until the times do alter.

And this is law that I'll maintain

Until my dying day, sir,

That whatsoever king shall reign,

Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

Unknown

THE LOST LEADER

[WILLIAM WORdsworth]

JUST for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat-
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;

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