O ALTITUDO!

BY SARAH N. CLEGHORN

Into the loud surf,

Down over the sands of safety,
I come running and shouting.
Against me the breakers

Crouch and spring, hurtle and roar.
I make myself an arrow;

Dizzily I dive through them,
Blinded, with singing ears,
And pounding heart.

Suddenly I am in the clear water,
The deep-sea water,

The buoyant and calm water
Beyond the breasted danger,

On the far side of courage.

TO HIS HEART, BIDDING IT HAVE NO FEAR

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Be you still, be you still, trembling heart;
Remember the wisdom out of the old days:
Him who trembles before the flame and the flood,
And the winds that blow through the starry ways,
Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood
Cover over and hide, for he has no part
With the lonely, majestical multitude.

JONNË ARMSTRONG

(OLD BALLAD)

There dwelt a man in faire Westmerland,
Jonnë Armstrong men did him call,
He had nither lands nor rents coming in,
Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.

He had horse and harness for them all,
Goodly steeds were all milke-white;
O the golden bands an about their necks,
And their weapons, they were all alike.

Newes then was brought unto the king
That there was sicke a won as hee,

That lived lyke a bold out-law,

And robbed all the north country.

The king he writt a letter then,

A letter which was large and long;

He signed it with his owne hand,

And he promised to doe him no wrong.

When this letter came Jonnë untill,

His heart was as blyth as birds on the tree: "Never was I sent for before any king,

My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee.

"And if wee goe the king before,

I would wee went most orderly;

Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak, Laced with silver laces three.

"Every won of you shall have his velvett coat,
Laced with silver lace so white;

O the golden bands an about your necks,
Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.”

By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock,
Towards Edenburough gon was hee,

And with him all his eight score men;

Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see!

When Jonne came befower the king,
He fell downe on his knee;

"O pardon, my soveraine leige," he said,
"O pardon my eight score men and mee."

"Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, For thy eight score men nor thee;

For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock,
Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow-tree."

But Jonnë looked over his left shoulder,

Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee!
Saying, "Asking grace of a graceles face-
Why there is none for you nor mee."

But Jonne had a bright sword by his side,
And it was made of the mettle so free,
That had not the king stept his foot aside,

He had smitten his head from his faire boddee.

Saying, "Fight on, my merry men all,
And see that none of you be taine;
For rather than men shall say we were hangd,
Let them report how we were slaine."

Then, God wott, faire Edenburough rose,
And so besett poore Jonnë rounde,
That fower score and tenn of Jonnës best men
Lay gasping all upon the ground.

Then like a mad man Jonnë laid about,
And like a mad man then fought hee,
Untill a falce Scot came Jonnë behinde,
And runn him through the faire boddee.

Saying, "Fight on my merry men all,

I am a little hurt, but I am not slain;
I will lay me down for to bleed a while,
Then I'le rise and fight with you again."

PROSPICE

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attain'd,
And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gain'd,
The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

LAST LINES

BY EMILY BRONTË

No coward soul is mine,

No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: