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WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.
For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,
And thrumming on the table :
He looks not like the common breed
That with the napkin dally ;
From some delightful valley.
Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg,
And cramm'd a plumper crop; Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
Crow'd lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God,
And raked in golden barley.
Half fearful that, with self at strife,
I take myself to task ;
I leave an empty flask :
To prove myself a poet : But, while I plan and plan, my hair
Is gray before I know it.
A private life was all his joy,
Till in a court he saw
That knuckled at the taw :
Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood
Stock-still for sheer amazement.
But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,
And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire
Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,
Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter.
So fares it since the years began,
Till they be gather'd up ; The truth, that flies the flowing can,
Will haunt the vacant cup : And others' follies teach us not,
Nor much their wisdom teaches ; And most, of sterling worth, is what
Our own experience preaches. Ah, let the rusty theme alone !
We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone ;
'Tis gone, and let it go. 'Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt
Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt
Of darken’d forms and faces.
But whither would my fancy go ?
How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks ! 'Tis but a steward of the can,
One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man
As any born of woman.
Into the common day?
Which I shall have to pay ?
Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went
Long since, and came no more ;
From many a tavern-door,
From misty men of letters;
Thine elders and thy betters.
Had yet their native glow : Nor yet the fear of little books
Had made him talk for show;
I trow they did not part in scorn :
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : They too will wed the morrow morn :
God's blessing on the day!
But thou wilt never move from hence,
The sphere thy fate allots :
Go down among the pots :
In haunts of hungry sinners,
Of thirty thousand dinners. We fret, we fume, would shift our skins,
Would quarrel with our lot ;
To serve the hot-and-hot ;
Returning like the pewit,
That trifle with the cruet.
He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well,' said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the nurse,
• To-morrow he weds with me.'
Live long, ere from thy topmost head
The thick-set hazel dies ; Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread
The corners of thine eyes:
"O God be thank'd!' said Alice the
nurse, “That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare.'
A LEGEND OF THE NAVY.
He that only rules by terror
Doeth grievous wrong.
Let him hear my song.
Made a gallant crew,
Sailors bold and true.
Stern he was and rash;
Doom'd them to the lash.
Seem'd the Captain's mood.
Burnt in each man's blood. Yet he hoped to purchase glory,
Hoped to make the name Of his vessel great in story,
Wheresoe'er he came. So they past by capes and islands, .
Many a harbour-mouth,
Far within the South.
O'er the lone expanse,
Rose a ship of France.
Joyful came his speech :
In the eyes of each. *Chase,' he said : the ship flew forward,
And the wind did blow;
Till she neard the foe.
Mute with folded arms they waited
Not a gun was fired.
Roaring out their doom ;
Crashing went the boom, Spars were splinterd, decks were shat
ter'd, Bullets fell like rain; Over mast and deck were scatter'd
Blood and brains of men. Spars were splinter'd; decks were broken:
Every mother's son-
Each beside his gun.
Were their faces grim.
Did they smile on him.
For his noble name,
Sold him unto shame.
Pale he turn'd and red,
Falling on the dead.
Years have wander'd by,
Crew and Captain lie ;
O'er them mouldering,
With one wast of the wing.
THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
In her ear he whispers gaily,
If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily,
And I think thou lov'st me well.'