42. The Sweet Singer of Israel. THEN I tuned my harp,-took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide-those sunbeams like swords! And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine song, when hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand And grow one in the sense of this world's life. And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his journey—“ Bear, bear him along With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm seeds not here To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!" And then, the glad chaunt Of the marriage,—first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.— And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Nought can break; who shall harm them, our friends?— Then, the chorus intoned As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. R. BROWNING. 43. A Night Revel and a Sunrise. 'MID a throng Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid, 44. W. WORDSWORTH. A Bearer of Evil Tidings. The horse rushes home from the battlefield, thereby announcing the misfortune of his master. FAST, fast, with heels wild spurning, The dark-grey charger fled : He burst through ranks of fighting men; F His bridle far out-streaming, His flanks all blood and foam, The wolves they howled and whined; He rushed through the gate of Tusculum, And paused not from his race Till he stood before his master's door And straightway round him gathered And old men girt on their old swords, 45. LORD MACAULAY. The Soldier's Dream. OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw t from the battle-field's dreadful array, I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay-stay with us!-rest!-thou art weary and worn !"And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. T. CAMPBELL. 46. Oliver Basselin. IN the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, These words alone : Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old château, Nothing but the donjon-keep Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Looked-but ah! it looks no more, Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be bis best. All the lovely valley seemed; No destre Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt,' Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, Found other chimes. Newer to the earth than they. Pgh the French in 1415 |