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My path with things familiar spread
Death's foot had seldom cross'd,

And when they said that John was dead,

I stood in wonder lost.

New muffin-men, from lamp to lamp,

With careless gaze I scan;

For none can e'er erase thy stamp,

Oh, John, thou muffin-man!

Thou standest, snatch'd from time and storm, A statue of the soul;

And round thy carved and goblin form

Past days-past days unroll!

We will not part,-affection dim

This song shall help to fan, And memory firmer bound to him Shall keep her muffin-man.

Little Roland.

In her cavern of rock Dame Bertha stay'd,
And wail'd her bitter lot;

In open air young Roland play'd

Small wail made he I wot.

"O Charles! my brother true and great

Why fled I thus from thee?

For love I left renown and state,

Now frown'st thou sore on me.

"O Milon! consort dear and kind!
The flood thy life hath reft!
For love I left all wealth behind-
Now love too me hath left.

"Come hither, come hither, my little Roland,
Both love and honour now;

Come hither in haste, my little Roland,
For solace is none but thou.

"Young Roland! to the city go,
And beg a morsel of bread;
And he who shall but a crust bestow,
Crave blessings on his head."

In his golden hall, high festival

Kept Charles with his paladins bold;
Small rest was there for the serving-men,
With platter and dish of gold.

And loud harps rang, and minstrels sang,
And every heart wax'd gay;

But the sound reach'd not the dreary spot
Where lonesome Bertha lay.

And round about the outer court
Sat crowds of beggars free,
Who held the feasting braver sport
Than rede and minstrelsy.

The king he gazed the press along

Right through an open door,

When a gallant boy, through the thickest throng Full manfully him bore.

His garb it was of fourfold hue,
And wondrous fair to see;
He tarried not by the beggar-crew,
Straight to the hall pass'd he.

Into the hall walk'd little Roland,
As 'twere his own abode :

On a golden dish he laid his hand,

And silent forth he strode.

"What may this mean?" our good king thought;

"It passes, by my fay!"

But since the deed he question'd not,
None else said Roland nay.

There did but pass a little space,
Ere back came Roland bold;
He sped to the king with hasty pace,
And seized his cup of gold.

"Now out and hold, thou urchin bold!"

Our good king loud did cry; Young Roland still retain'd his hold,

And dared him with his eye.

The king frown'd awhile, but soon must he smile, And mirthsome wax'd his mood:

"Thou tread'st as bold in our hall of gold As in thy good green wood.

"Thou bearest a dish from a royal board

Like an apple from the tree;

Thou fetchest, as though from the streamlet's flow, My wine so red to see."

"The peasant girl drinks of the running stream,
The apple she breaks from the tree;
But venison and lamprey my mother beseem,
And thy wine so red to see."

"Now an thy mother so noble be,
As thou dost boast, fair boy,
I ween a gallant train has she,
And a bower for state and joy.

"And who may be sewer to carve at her board, And who may bear her cup ?"

"My right hand is sewer to carve at her board, My left hand bears her cup."

"And pr'ythee, who may her warders be?”


My little eyen so blue;"

"And who may be her minstrel free? "My mouth of the rosy hue."

"A goodly train hath thy fair ladye,
But her livery is strange, I trow;
With colours many, and bright to see,
Like the tints of the watery bow."

"In every quarter of the town,'

Eight boys this arm o'erthrew,

And they brought to me, for liegeman's fee,
This coat of the fourfold hue."

"A gallant page hath thy dame I ween,

A better there could not be:

I trow she is some beggar-queen,
And open hall keeps she.

"Gramercy, 'twere shame so noble a dame
Far from our court should be;

So rise, three ladies! rise, three knights!
Lead in the dame to me."

Forth from the hall went little Roland,

And bore the golden prize.

At the royal word, three knights from the board, And three bright ladies rise.

The king he tarried a little space,
Then down the hall gazed he,
And he saw return with speedy pace
His knights and his ladies three.

He fix'd his eye, and loud 'gan cry,
"Help, heaven, and saints of grace!.
In my open court have I made a sport
Of my own imperial race!

"Help, heaven! My sister Bertha, pale,
In weeds of a pilgrim gray!
Help, heaven! in this our royal hall,
In beggar's vile array."

Dame Bertha at his footstool fell,

That ladye meek and mild;

Still seem'd that feud his heart to swell,

He stared on her so wild.

Dame Bertha that look could scarcely brook,
No word to speak had she;

Young Roland raised his eyes and gazed,

And hail'd his uncle free.

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