English

As our king lay musing on his bed,
He bethought himself upon a time
Of a tribute that was due from France,
Had not been paid for so long a time.
Fal la la la la

He called for his lovely page,
His lovely page then called he,
Saying, "You must go to the King of France,
To the King of France, sir, ride speedily.'

Oh then went away this lovely page,
This lovely page then away went he;
And when he came to the King of France,
Low he fell down on his bended knee.

"My master greets you, worthy sir;

A strange square house, all battered, used to stand
Upon the Gascon coast, where sparse pines keep
A doubtful footing, as the salt winds sweep
The restless hillocks of ill-bladed sand.

A house? it was the bell-loft, Norman-plann'd,
Of long-lost Soulac's minster, buried deep
In sand, which Ocean never ceased to heap
In its eternal battle with the land.

All else was gone: fit image of the fate
That overtakes the rich and stately pile
Which, arch on arch, life's early dreams create.

As one who follows a departing friend,
Destined to cross the great, dividing sea,
I watch and follow these departing days,
That go so grandly, lifting up their crowns
Still regal, though their victor Autumn comes.
Gifts they bestow, which I accept, return,
As gifts exchanged between a loving pair,
Who may possess them as memorials
Of pleasures ended by the shadow — Death.
What matter which shall vanish hence, if both
Are transitory — me, and these bright hours —
And of the future ignorant alike?

1

As one who dreams, in a light sleep, may hear
Sounds through his dream, — bells, or passing steps
On the floor above him, or in the street below, —
Rhythmic, precise and clear:
Or voices muttering in an adjacent room,
Lifting a moment, to die again; —
Yet all the while he will pursue his dream,
Guessing a sinister purport in well-known sounds,
And still in his own deep silent world remain:
So now I guess the world from which I came,
In flares of light, ghosts of remembered sound,

As one advances up the slow ascent
Along the pathway in the woods, the trees
Change aspect, nor alone in this, but change
In stature and in power till Solitude
Seems cut out of the ancient forest. Here
Was Solitude! where man had lived of old,
Loved, serving God, and built himself a home.
Man smooths an acre on the rolling earth,
Turns up the mould and reaps the gifts of God;
Plucks down the apple from the tree, the tree
From empire in the forest, builds a home;
Turns for a bout among his brothers, wins

As oft as I behold and see
The sovereign beauty that me bound,
The nigher my comfort is to me,
Alas, the fresher is my wound.

As flame doth quench by rage of fire,
And running streams consume by rain,
So doth the sight that I desire
Appease my grief and deadly pain.

Like as the fly that seeth the flame
And thinks to play her in the fire,
That found her woe, and sought her game
Where grief did grow by her desire,

When first I saw these crystal streams
Whose beauty made this mortal wound;

To Minister and Mrs. Lincoln, on the death of their son A. Lincoln.

As o'er thy loved one now in grief ye bendeth,
 A Nation bows with thee, its sorrow lendeth,
That ye, grief-stricken should's not weep alone,
 Above the shrouded form of thy dear one.

But, as we shed with thee our silent tears,
 For him who bore himself beyond his years,
Hope bids us cease and banisheth our pain,
 And pleads your loss, his soul's eternal gain.

The reaper cuts the grain and lovely flowers,

As o'er the hill we roam'd at will,
My dog and I together,
We mark'd a chaise, by two bright bays
Slow-moved along the heather:

Two bays arch-neck'd, with tails erect,
And gold upon their blinkers;
And by their side an ass I spied;
It was a travelling tinker's.

The chaise went by, nor aught cared I;
Such things are not in my way:
I turned me to the tinker, who
Was loafing down a byway:

I ask'd him where he lived — a stare
Was all I got in answer,
And on he trudged; I rightly judged

As o'er my latest book I pored,
Enjoying it immensely,
I suddenly exclaimed " Good Lord!"
And gripped the volume tensely.
" Golly!" I cried. I writhed in pain.
" They've done it on me once again!"
And furrows creased my brow.
I'd written (which I thought quite good)
" Ruth, ripening into womanhood,
Was now a girl who knocked men flat
And frequently got whistled at",
And some vile, careless, casual gook
Had spoiled the best thing in the book

As OCEAN'S stream girdles the ball of earth,
From circling seas of dream man's life emerges,
And as night moves in silence up the firth
The secret tide around our mainland surges.

The voice of urgent waters softly sounds;
The magic skiff uplifts white wings of wonder.
The tide swells swiftly and the white sail rounds,
Where the blind waves in shoreless darkness thunder.

And the wide heavens, starred and luminous,
Out of the deep in mystery aspire.
The strange abyss is burning under us;