The woof and shears the Monk, the Spy, the Headsman.

And this is power? Alas! I am not happy.
[After a pause.
And yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds
Its rising roots not up; but never yet
Did one least barrier by a ripple vex
My onward tide, unswept in sport away.
Am I so ruthless then that I do hate
Them who hate me ? Tush, tush! I do not
hate;

Nay, I forgive. The Statesman writes the doom,

But the Priest sends the blessing. I forgive them,

But I destroy; forgiveness is mine own, Destruction is the State's! For private life, Scripture the guide - for public, Machiavel. Would fortune serve me if the Heaven were wroth?

For chance makes half my greatness. I was born

Beneath the aspect of a bright-eyed star,
And my triumphant adamant of soul
Is but the fix'd persuasion of success.
Ah! - here! that spasm!

How Life and Death

again!

O beautiful, all golden, gentle youth! Making thy palace in the careless front And hopeful eye of man, ere yet the soul Hath lost the memories which (so Plato dream'd)

Breath'd glory from the earlier star it dwelt in

Oh, for one gale from thine exulting morn

ing,

Stirring amidst the roses, where of old Love shook the dew-drops from his glancing hair!

Could I recall the past, or had not set
The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt soul

In one slight bark upon the shoreless sea; The yoked steer, after his day of toil, Forgets the goad, and rests: to me alike Or day or night- Ambition has no rest! Shall I resign? who can resign himself? For custom is ourself; as drink and food Become our bone and flesh, the aliments Nurturing our nobler part, the mind, thoughts, dreams,

Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle Of the great alchemy, at length are made Our mind itself; and yet the sweets of leisure,

An honor'd home far from these base intrigues,

An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights of wisdom.

[Taking up the book. Speak to me, moralist! I'll heed thy

counsel.

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE
QUIET SKIES

WHEN stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea!

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest when they shine;
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light
Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep
Familiar watch o'er men,

When coarser souls are wrapp'd in sleep —
Sweet spirit, meet me then!
There is an hour when holy dreams

Through slumber fairest glide;
And in that mystic hour it seems
Thou shouldst be by my side.

And blew the note with yell and shout
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,
To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.

There stood the Whig west-country lords,
In balcony and bow;

There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames,
And their daughters all a-row.
And every open window

Was full as full might be

With black-rob'd Covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,
He look'd so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forbore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder

Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turn'd aside and wept.

For seven long years thou hast not dar'd To look him in the face."

Had I been there with sword in hand,
And fifty Camerons by,
That day through high Dunedin's streets
Had peal'd the slogan-cry.

Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailed men,
Not all the rebels in the south

Had borne us backwards then!
Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,

Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there!

It might not be. They placed him next
Within the solemn hall,

Where once the Scottish kings were thron'd

Amidst their nobles all.

But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,
And perjur'd traitors fill'd the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warristoun
To read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room.

"Now, by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
That waves above us there,
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath
And oh, that such should be!
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me,
I have not sought in battle-field

A wreath of such renown,
Nor dar'd I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown!

"There is a chamber far away

Where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye have nam'd for

me

Than by my father's grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,

This hand hath always striven, And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower, Give every town a limb,

And God who made shall gather them: I go from you to Him!

The morning dawn'd full darkly,

The rain came flashing down, And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town:

The thunder crash'd across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;

Yet aye broke in with muffled beat
The 'larum of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below
And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 't is to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree !
Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms
The bells begin to toll-
"He is coming! he is coming!
God's mercy on his soul !

One last long peal of thunder:

The clouds are clear'd away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down

Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walk'd to battle More proudly than to die : There was color in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turn'd him to the crowd;
But they dar'd not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look'd upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within-
All else was calm and still.

THE MEN OF GOTHAM

SEAMEN three! what men be ye?
Gotham's three Wise Men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?

To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim n; the moon doth shine ;

And our ballast is old wine :
And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?

I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree -
In a bowl Care may not be :
In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?

No: in charmed bowl we swim.

What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.

The bowl goes trim; the moon doth shine;

And our ballast is old wine:
And

your ballast is old wine.

THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR

THE mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deem'd it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition;
We met an host and quell'd it ;
We forced a strong position
And kill'd the men who held it.

On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rush'd to meet us;
We met them, and o'erthrew them :
They struggled hard to beat us,
But we conquer'd them, and slew them.

As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king march'd forth to catch us :
His rage surpass'd all measure,
But his people could not match us.
He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sack'd his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.

We there, in strife bewildering,
Spilt blood enough to swim in :
We orphan'd many children
And widow'd many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen :
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.

We brought away from battle,

And much their land bemoan'd them, Two thousand head of cattle

And the head of him who own'd them: Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,

His head was borne before us;

His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow, our chorus.

MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK

THREE YEARS OLD

LONG night succeeds thy little day :
O, blighted blossom! can it be
That this gray stone and grassy clay
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee?

The half-form'd speech of artless thought, That spoke a mind beyond thy years, The song, the dance by Nature taught, The sunny smiles, the transient tears,

The symmetry of face and form,

The eye with light and life replete, The little heart so fondly warm,

The voice so musically sweet, —

These, lost to hope, in memory yet

Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling, Shadowing with long and vain regret The too fair promise of thy Spring.