'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 'Nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he, 'And every body praised the Duke 'Why that I cannot tell,' said he, 'But 'twas a famous victory.' R. Southey XCIV THE SAILOR'S MOTHER One morning (raw it was and wet A foggy day in winter time) A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight ; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms like one in poor estate; I looked at her again nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, She answered, soon as she the question heard, 'A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing bird.' And, thus continuing, she said, And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught that he had owned might still remain for me. The bird and cage they both were his : The singing bird had gone with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.' W. Wordsworth XCV MAHMOUD There came a man, making his hasty moan 'Sorrow,' said Mahmoud, ‘is a reverend thing: Speak on.' 'A fiend has got into my house,' And the wild villain comes and makes me mad with life.' 'Is he there now?' said Mahmoud. 'No, he left And Oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!' The Sultan comforted the man and said, 'Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread, (For he was poor,) and other comforts. Go; And should the wretch return let Sultan Mahmoud know.' In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard, 'Go in,' said Mahmoud, ‘and put out the light; The man went in. There was a cry, and hark! Forth rush the breathless women, and behind 'Now light the light,' the Sultan cried aloud. In reverent silence the spectators wait, Then bring him at his call both wine and meat; The man amaz'd, all mildness now and tears, The Sultan said, with much humanity, 'Since first I heard thee come, and heard thy cry, I could not rid me of a dread that one By whom such daring villanies were done, Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd The first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st my solitude.' L. Hunt XCVI A Dirge The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead Is lying. Come, Months, come away, In your saddest array,— Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone |