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Fight as thy father fought;

Fall as thy father fell;

Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought;

So; forward and farewell!

Toll ye my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light;

And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!

The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed.

So, take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, ay, call

The lord of lute and lay!

And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day;

Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.

I add a few more of these graceful pleasantries:


He talked of daggers and of darts,

Of passions and of pains,

Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,

Of kisses and of chains;

He said, though love was kin to grief,

He was not born to grieve;

He said, though many rued belief,

She safely might believe.

But still the lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said
And all that he could say.

He said my First whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,
Veiled in a vapour faint and far
Through the unfathomed sky,
Was like the smile whose rosy light
Across her young lips passed,
Yet, oh! it was not half so bright,
It changed not half so fast.
But still the lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

And then he set a cypress wreath
Upon his raven hair,

And drew his rapier from its sheath,—
Which made the lady stare;
And said his life blood's purple glow

My Second there should dim,
If she he loved and worshipped so,
Would only weep for him.
But still the lady shook her head,

And swore by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said

And all that he could say.


My First came forth in booted state,

For fair Valencia bound;

And smiled to feel my Second's weight, And hear its creaking sound.

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'And here's a gaoler sweet," quoth he,

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And "blessings on the bonds," quoth he, "Which wrinkled age imposes,

If woman must a prisoner be,

Her chain should be of roses."


My First was dark o'er earth and air,
As dark as she could be!

The stars that gemmed her ebon Kair

Were only two or three:

King Cole saw thrice as many there
As you or I could see.

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'Away, King Cole," mine hostess said,

"Flaggon and flask are dry;

Your steed is neighing in the shed,

For he knows a storm is nigh.”

She set my Second on his head,
And she set it all awry.


Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt,—

Sooth 'twas an awful day!

And though in that old age of sport
The rufflers of the camp and court
Had little time to pray,

'Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there
Two syllables by way of prayer.

My First to all the brave and proud
Who see to-morrow's sun;

My Next with her cold and quiet cloud
To those who find their dewy shroud
Before to-day's be done;

And both together to all blue eyes
That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

This charade is still a mystery to me.

Solve it,

fair readers!




NEARLY at the same period, when Macaulay and Praed sprang into public life, the world of letters was startled by the announcement of a new poet, a Northamptonshire peasant, whose claims to distinction were vouched for by judges of no ordinary sagacity, little given to mistake, and by no means addicted to enthusiasm. His character was blameless and amiable. Although of a frame little suited to severity of toil, he had for many years supported his aged parents by manual labour, and in bringing his powers into the light of day, he had undergone more than the ordinary amount of delay, of suspense, of disappointment, and of "the hope deferred that maketh the heart sick."

From the prefaces of his three publications, the "Poems, Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery,"

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