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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
Of such as were their equals, but the head,
Screened of its laurels from the lightning's
flash,

Falls by some chance blow of an obscure hand,

And glory cannot guard the hero's heart
Against the least knave's dagger.
Hamp.
You cannot help me.
Save yourself, sir; my best prayers keep
you safe.

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,
To make me sure of heaven-

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,

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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,
The patriot in his dungeon, and endure,
The tyrant, and grow merciful for fear;
And when thou hast done high and song-
worthy deeds,

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

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These Thy hand, dear cousin . . . Sweet, I hear thy voice

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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:
It is the spot whereof the Seer spake
To nymph and faun a nightly trysting-
ground.

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
To witch the silence with a silver sound.
Now haply shall the vision trance our eyes,
By heedless mortals all too rarely scanned,
Of mystic maidens in immortal guise,
Who mingle shadowy hand with shadowy
hand,

And, moving o'er the lilies circle-wise,
Beat out with naked feet a saraband.

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,
Aware of him, of all else unaware :
If I could limn you, as you leap and fling
Your weight against his passage, like a
wall;

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—
Kitty," sobbed he, "led the other!

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
When swords are cross'd,
Now Kitty lieth dead ?"

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,
That they buzz so loud,
Like a restless cloud,
Among the orchard trees?"

No voice in the air, from Sedgemoor field,

Moan'd out how Grey and the horse had reel'd ;

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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

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