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James Chapman Woods

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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.

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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,
And preach in my father's hall :
That father died on Marston Moor,

My son on Worcester plain;
But the king he turn'd his back on me
When he got his own again.

"The other day, there came, God wot!

A solemn, pompous ass,
Who begged to know if I did not go
To the sacrifice of Mass:

I told him fairly to his face,

That in the field of fight

I had shouted loud for Church and King,
When he would have run outright.

"He talk'd of the Man of Babylon
With his rosaries and copes,
As if a Roundhead was n't worse
Than half a hundred Popes.

I don't know what the people mean,
With their horror and affright;
All Papists that I ever knew
Fought stoutly for the right.

"I now am poor and lonely,

This cloak is worn and old,
But yet it warms my loyal heart,
Through sleet, and rain, and cold,
When I call to mind the Cavaliers,

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,
And we made their helmets ring,
Howling like madmen, all the while,
For God and for the King.
And though they snuffled psalms, to give
The Rebel-dogs their due,

When the roaring shot pour'd close and hot
They were stalwart men and true.

"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,
In spite of plate and steel,
The blood that left my veins that day
Flow'd up above my heel.

"And certainly, it made those quail
Who never quail'd before,
To look upon the awful front

Which Cromwell's horsemen wore.
I felt that every hope was gone,

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
Of danger, toil, and strife?

It would have been to all brave men
Worth a hundred years of life

To have seen that black and gloomy force,
As it poured down in line,
Met midway by the Royal horse
And Rupert of the Rhine.

"All this is over now, and I

Must travel to the tomb,

Though the king I serv'd has got his own,
In poverty and gloom.

Well, well, I serv'd him for himself,
So I must not now complain,
But I often wish that I had died
With my son on Worcester plain."

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS

LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff'd, and swore :
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never look'd before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewilder'd, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame :
He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd,
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke, above his father's door,
In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom'd by himself, so young?

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,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram'd;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untam'd,
The strong heart of her sons.

So, let his name through Europe ring-
A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

William Makepeace Thackeray

AT THE CHURCH GATE

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hush'd the minster bell:
The organ 'gins to swell;

She's coming, she 's coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast

And hastening thither,

With modest eyes downcast;
She comes - she's here, she's past!
May heaven go with her!

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Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

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
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

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 true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good
drinks.

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 —
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,

I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

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