I fear much more must flow from worthier veins Ere England's hurt be healed. Crom. How powerful are base things to destroy ! The brute's part in them kills the god's in us, And robs the world of many glorious deeds; In all the histories of famous men We never find the greatest overthrown Falls by some chance blow of an obscure hand, And glory cannot guard the hero's heart I fain would win as far as yonder house; It was my dear dead wife's; such shapes are there As I would see about my dying bed, me, love, Forgive That I am loath to come yet to thy heart; I have only lived without thee, O my best, That I might live for England! Is Cromwell come? Crom. How is it with you, cousin? Hamp. Very well; With hope to be soon better; gentle cousin, I have scant time to speak and much to say, Shall bear the weight of England's greatness up; Thy name, mine own dear kinsman's, shall have sound More royal than all crownèd kings'; the slave Shall murmur it in dreams of liberty, At length shall come thy poet, whose purer eyes God shall seclude from sight of our gross Earth, And for the dull light of our darker day Give all heaven to his vision, star with These Thy hand, dear cousin . . . Sweet, I hear thy voice Still comes a vision of blue-veinéd feet That stand forever on a pebbly shore; While round, the tidal waters flow and fleet And ripple, ripple, ripple, evermore. A SICILIAN NIGHT COME, stand we here within this cactusbrake, And let the leafy tangle cloak us round: How still the scene! No zephyr stirs to shake The listening air. The trees are slumberbound In soft repose. There's not a bird awake And, moving o'er the lilies circle-wise, A FOOTBALL-PLAYER IF I could paint you, friend, as you stand there, Guard of the goal, defensive, open-eyed, Watching the tortured bladder slide and glide Under the twinkling feet; arms bare head bare, The breeze a-tremble through crow-tufts of hair; Red-brown in face, and ruddier having spied A wily foeman breaking from the side, Clutch him, and collar him, and rudely cling For one brief moment till he falls - yon fall: My sketch would have what Art can never give Sinew and breath and body; it would live. Map Probyn THE BEES OF MYDDELTON MANOR 17TH CENTURY BUZZING, buzzing, buzzing, my goldenbelted bees : - My little son was seven years old — the mint-flower touched his knees; Yellow were his curly locks; Yellow were his stocking-clocks; His plaything of a sword had a diamond in its hilt; Where the garden beds lay sunny, And the bees were making honey, "For God and the king-to arms! to arms!" the day long would he lilt. Smock'd in lace and flowered brocade, my pretty son of seven Wept sore because the kitten died, and left the charge uneven. “I head one battalion, mother— And when we reach'd the bee-hive bench We used to halt and storm the trench: If we could plant our standard here, With all the bees a-buzzing near, And fly the colors safe from sting, The town was taken for the king!” Flitting, flitting over the thyme, my bees with yellow band My little son of seven came close, and clipp'd me by the hand; A wreath of mourning cloth was wound His small left arm and sword-hilt round, And on the thatch of every hive a wisp of black was bound. "Sweet mother, we must tell the bees, or they will swarm away: Ye little bees!" he called, "draw nigh, and hark to what I say, And make us golden honey still for our white wheaten bread, Though never more We rush on war With Kitty at our head : Who 'll give the toast Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my bees of yellow girth : My son of seven changed his mood, and clasp'd me in his mirth. "Sweet mother, when I grow a man and fall on battle-field," He cried, and down in the daisied grass upon one knee he kneel'd, "I charge thee, come and tell the bees how I for the king lie dead; And thou shalt never lack fine honey for thy wheaten bread!" Flitting, flitting, flitting, my busy bees, alas! No footstep of my soldier son came clinking through the grass. Thrice he kiss'd me for farewell, And far on the stone his shadow fell ; He buckled spurs and sword-belt on, as the sun began to stoop, Set foot in stirrup, and sprang to horse, and rode to join his troop. To the west he rode, where the winds were at play, And Monmouth's army mustering lay ; Where Bridgewater flew her banner high, And gave up her keys, when the Duke came by; And the maids of Taunton paid him court With colors their own white hands had wrought; And red as a field, where blood doth run, Sedgemoor blazed in the setting sun. Broider'd sash and clasp of gold, my soldier son, alas! The mint was all in flower, and the clover in the grass: "With every bed In bloom," I said, "What further lack the bees, No voice in the air, from Sedgemoor field, Moan'd out how Grey and the horse had reel'd ; I knew not how, ere the cocks did crow, the fight was fought in the dark, With naught for guide but the enemy's guns, when the flint flash'd out a spark, Till, routed at first sound of fire, the cavalry broke and fled, And the hoofs struck dumb, where they spurn'd the slain, and the meadow stream ran red; I saw not the handful of horsemen spur through the dusk, and out of sight, My soldier son at the Duke's left hand, and Grey that rode on his right. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my honey-making bees, They left the musk, and the marigolds and the scented faint sweet-peas; They gather'd in a darkening cloud, and sway'd, and rose to fly; A blackness on the summer blue, they swept across the sky. Gaunt and ghastly with gaping wounds (my soldier son, alas!) Footsore and faint, the messenger came halting through the grass. The wind went by and shook the leaves the mint-stalk shed its flowerAnd I miss'd the murmuring round the hives, and my boding heart beat slower. His soul we cheer'd with meat and wine; With women's craft and balsam fine |