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my fay,



Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there few Boos, saddle, to horse, and away!

A rider, bound on bound Rescue my castle before the hot day

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,

Until he reached the mound. CHORUS: Boot, saddle, to horse, and

Then off there Aung, in smiling joy, away!

And held himself erect Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd By just his horse's manc, a boy: say;

5 You hardly could suspect Many's the friend there, will listen and So tight he kept his lips compressed, pray

Scarce any blood came through – "God's luck to gallants that strike up the You looked twice ere you saw his breast lay

Was all but shot in two. CHORUS: Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's

grace Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,

We've got you Ratisbon! Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads’ | The marshal's in the market-place; array.

And you'll be there anon Who laughs, “Good fellows ere this, by

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire, CHORUS: Boot, saddle, to horse, and

Perched him!” The chief's eye Aashed:

his plans Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye Aashed; but presently Laughs when you talk of surrendering: “Nay!

Softened itself, — as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye I've better counsellors; what counsel

When her bruised eaglet breathes: they?

15 CHORUS: Boot, saddle, to horse, and

“You're wounded!” — “Nay," the soldier's

Touched to the quick, he said -

“I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH

Smiling, the boy fell dead.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

(1845) A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Stood on our storming-day;

Just for a riband to stick in his coat With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, — 5

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft

us, Legs wide, arms locked behind,

Lost all the others she lets us devote. As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.

They, with the gold to give, doled him out

silver, Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans So much was theirs who so little alThat soar, to earth may fall,

lowed! Let once my army-leader, Lannes,

How all our copper had gone for his servWaver at yonder wall,” —


and gay,











Rags were they purple, his heart had SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH been proud!

CLOISTER We that had loved him so, followed him,

(1842) honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 10

Gr-r-r — there go, my heart's abhorrence! Learned his great language, caught his Water your damned flower-pots, do! clear accents,

If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, Made him our pattern to live and to die!

God's blood, would not mine kill you! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for

What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?

5 us, Burns, Shelley, were with us: they Oh, that rose has prior claims — watch from their graves!

Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? He alone breaks from the van and the Hell dry you up with its Aames!

freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the

At the meal we sit together:

Salve tibi! I must hear slaves !

Wise talk of the kind of weather,

Sort of season, time of year: We shall march prospering, - not through

Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely

Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt his presence;

What's the Latin name for "parsley? Songs may inspiritus,

not from his

What's the Greek name for Swine's lyre; Deeds will be done, while he boasts his

Snout? quiescence,

Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade

Laid with care on our own shelf! aspire.

With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, Blot out his name, then: record one lost

And a goblet for ourself,

Rinsed like something sacrificial One task more declined, one more foot

Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps — path untrod,

Marked with L for our initial ! One more devils’-triumph and sorrow for

(He-he! There his lily snaps!) angels, One wrong more to man, one more in

Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores 25 sult to God!

Squats outside the Convent bank Life's night begins: let him never With Sanchicha, telling stories, back to us!

Steeping tresses in the tank, There would be doubt, hesitation, and

Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, pain,

- Can't I see his dead eye glow, 30 Forced praise on our part, the glimmer Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? of twilight,

(That is, if he'd let it show!) Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him When he finishes refection, strike gallantly,

Knife and fork he never lays Menace our heart ere we master his Cross-wise, to my recollection,

As do I, in Jesu's praise. Then let him receive the new knowledge I the Trinity illustrate, and wait us,

Drinking watered orange-pulp – Pardoned in heaven, the first by the In three sips the Arian frustrate: throne!

While he drains his at one gulp.



soul more,









Will't please you sit and look at her?
I said

5 "Frà Pandolf” by design: for never

read Strangers like you that pictured coun

tenance, The depth and passion of its earnest

glance, But to myself they turned (since none

puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but

I) And seemed as they would ask me, if

they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not

the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas




Oh, thosc melons! If he's able

We're to have a feast! so nice! One goes to the Abbot's table,

All of us get each a slice. How go


flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange! and I, too, at such trouble

Keep them close-nipped on the sly! There's a great text in Galatians,

Once you trip on it, entails Twenty-nine distinct damnations,

One sure, if another fails: If I trip him just a-dying,

Sure of heaven as sure can be,
Spin him round and send him flying 55

Off to hell, a Manichee?
Or, my scrofulous French novel

On gray paper with blunt type !
Simply glance at it, you grovel

Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: If I double down its pages

At the woeful sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages,

Ope a sieve and slip it in't? Or, there's Satan! one might venture 65

Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave Such a faw in the indenture

As he'd miss till, past retrieve, Blasted lay that rose-acacia We're proud of! Hy, Zy,

Hine .. 'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ,

Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r — you swine!




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Her husband's presence only, called that

spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: per

haps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle

laps Over my lady's wrist too much"; or

"Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:”

such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause

enough For calling up that spot of joy. She

had A heart how shall I say? - too soon

made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went every

where. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her

breast, The dropping of the daylight in the

West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white

mule She rode with round the terrace

all and each Would draw from her alike the approving






That's my last Duchess painted on the

wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's

hands Worked busily a day, and there she



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Else it loses what it lived for,

And eternally must lose it; Better ends may be in prospect,

Deeper blisses, (if you choose it); But this life's end and this love-bliss Have been lost here: - Doubt you

whether This she felt as, looking at me,

Mine and her souls rushed together?


"This woman's heart and soul and brain Are mine as much as this gold chain She bids me wear; which” (say again) “I choose to make, by cherishing, A precious thing, or choose to fling Over the boat-side, ring by ring." And yet once

more say ... no word more, Since words are only words! Give o'er!



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call all the same, Familiarly by my pet name, Which if the Three should hear you call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all. Ask of me, too, command me, blame Do: break down the partition-wall 'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds ! What's left but all of me to take? I am the Three's: prevent them, slake Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage, In practising with gems, can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!


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He sings: I send my heart up to thee, all my heart

In this my singing. For the stars help me, and the sea bears

part; The very night is clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space

5 Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its

dwelling place.

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She speaks: Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way:

She sings:
The moth's kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made believe
You were not sure,


eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up: so, here and there


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