James Chapman Woods THE WORLD'S DEATH-NIGHT I THINK a stormless night-time shall ensue Unto the world, yearning for hours of calm: Not these the end, nor sudden-closing palm Of a God's hand beneath the skies we knew, Nor fall from a fierce heaven of fiery dew In place of the sweet dewfall, the world's balm, Nor swell of elemental triumph-psalm Round the long-buffeted bulk, rent through and through. But in the even of its endless night, With shoreless floods of moonlight on its breast, And baths of healing mist about its scars, An instant sums its circling years of flight, And the tir'd earth hangs crystall'd into rest, Girdled with gracious watchings of the stars. Sir Francis Hastings Dople THE OLD CAVALIER "FOR our martyr'd Charles I pawn'd my plate, For his son I spent my all, That a churl might dine, and drink my wine, My son on Worcester plain; "The other day, there came, God wot! A solemn, pompous ass, I told him fairly to his face, That in the field of fight I had shouted loud for Church and King, "He talk'd of the Man of Babylon I don't know what the people mean, "I now am poor and lonely, This cloak is worn and old, Bold Rupert at their head, Bursting through blood and fire, with cries That might have wak'd the dead. "Then spur and sword was the battle word, When the roaring shot pour'd close and hot "On the fatal field of Naseby, Where Rupert lost the day By hanging on the flying crowd Like a lion on his prey, I stood and fought it out, until, "And certainly, it made those quail Which Cromwell's horsemen wore. When I saw their squadrons form, And gather for the final charge Like the coming of the storm. "Oh! where was Rupert in that hour It would have been to all brave men To have seen that black and gloomy force, "All this is over now, and I Must travel to the tomb, Though the king I serv'd has got his own, Well, well, I serv'd him for himself, THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS LAST night, among his fellow roughs, Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, A heart, with English instinct fraught, Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd, Yes, honor calls! - with strength like steel He put the vision by. Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram'd; So, let his name through Europe ring- Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, William Makepeace Thackeray AT THE CHURCH GATE ALTHOUGH I enter not, Ofttimes I hover; The minster bell tolls out And noise and humming; She's coming, she 's coming! My lady comes at last, And hastening thither, With modest eyes downcast; Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint! I will not enter there, But suffer me to pace THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des petits Champs its name is The New Street of the Little Fields; And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; All these you eat at Terré's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is ; And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is as before; The smiling, red-cheeked écaillère is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terré still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table, And hop'd you lik'd your Bouillabaisse. We enter; nothing's changed or older. "How 's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder;"Monsieur is dead this many a day. "It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terré 's run his race!" "What will Monsieur require for dinner?” "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" "Oh, oui, Monsieur, "'s the waiter's an swer; "Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?" "Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir; The Chambertin with yellow seal. "So Terré's gone," I say and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustom'd corner here is — I'd scarce a beard upon my face, |