Whose doings are a horror to the east,
A hissing in the west!" Strike!

I challenge thee to meet me before God.
Answer me there.

El. [raising the dagger.] This in thy bosom, fool!

[Enter BECKET from behind. Catches hold of her arm.] Becket. Murderess!

[The dagger falls; they stare at one another. After a pause:] El. My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand, But having now admired it long enough,

We find that it is mightier than it seems

At least mine own is frailer - you are laming it.

Becket. And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better
Than raised to take a life which Henry bade me
Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death
To wail in deathless flame. [To ROSAMUND.]
Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee.

Leave it, daughter,
Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery,

And live what may be left thee of a life
Saved as by miracle alone with Him
Who gave it.

-Lord Tennyson.

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.

Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?

"Why say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'”

"My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.

"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say at break of day,

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way,

For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say "
He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:
"This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.

He curls his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth, as if to bite!
Brave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?
The words leapt as a leaping sword:

"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck-

A light! A light! A light! A light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: "On and on!"

-Joaquin Miller.

LORRAINE

"Are you ready for your steeplechase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree?
You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee,
You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see,
To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win the run for me."

She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree. "I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,

And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee; He's killed a boy, he 's killed a man, and why must he kill me?"

"Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee,

And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me."

"That husbands could be cruel," said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three; But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me,

And be killed across a fence at last, for all the world to see?"

She mastered young Vindictive oh! the gallant lass was she! And she kept him straight, and won the race, as near as near

could be;

But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow tree,

Oh! he killed her at the brook the brute! - for all the world

to see,

And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree.

- Charles Kingsley.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown:
You thought to break a country heart

For pastime, ere you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired:
The daughter of a hundred earls,
You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name,
Your pride is yet no mate for mine,
Too proud to care from whence I came.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake
A heart that dotes on truer charms.
A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.

The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh! your sweet eyes, your low replies; A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you.

Indeed, I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear;

Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a specter in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

"T is only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:

You pine among your halls and towers:
The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,

You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,
Nor any poor about your lands?
Oh! teach the orphan boy to read,

Or teach the orphan girl to sew,
Pray Heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go.
-Lord Tennyson.

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and wey,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly, I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrow