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What the Knight and what his Dame were

Now they are not so.

III.

Merry cheeps of madcap swallows
Reach them, darting by,

Changeful shadows from the sallows

On their white brows lie;
Changeful shadows from the sallows,
Constant from the limes;

For light friends go, if winds do blow,
As in their ancient times.

IV.

Certes, lovely was the Lady!
Eyes, I guess, whose blue,
Calm and cold, but gleaming steady,
Tender was and true.

Of a noble presence surely,

Dutiful and staid,

Worthinesse was glad before her,

Worthlessnesse afraid.

V.

Read beneath, in golden letters,

Proudly written down,

Names of all her " sonnes and daughteres,'

Each a matron crown:

Deftly cut in ruff and wimple,

Kneeling figures show

Small heads over smaller rising,

In a solemn row.

VI.

These her triumphs. Sterner token

Chronicles her lord:

Hangs above him, grim and broken,

Gilded helm and sword.

Sometimes, when with quire and organ
All the still air swings,

Red with the rust and gray with the dust,
Low rattles that blade, and rings.

VII.

Time was, Knight, that tiny treble
Should have stirred thy soul
More than drums and trumpets rebel

Braying health to Noll.

No more fight now!-nay, nor flight now!
The rest that thou hast given

In chancel shade to that good blade
God gives thy soul in heaven.

VIII.

Somewhere on this summer morning,
In this English isle,

Blooms a cheek whose rich adorning

Herits, Dame, thy smile:

Some one in the realm whose fathers
Suffered much, and long,

Owes that sword and its good lord
Thanks for a righted wrong.

IX.

Therefore for that maiden say I:

"Dame, God thee assoil;"

Therefore for that freeman pray I: "Knight, God quit thy toil;" And for all Christian men and me

Grace from the gracious Lord

To write our name with no more shame,
And sheathe as clean a sword.

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HO! ye who in noble work

Win scorn, as flames draw air,

And in the way where lions lurk,
God's image bravely bear;

Though trouble-tried and torture-torn,
The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

Life's glory, like the bow in heaven,
Still springeth from the cloud;

And soul ne'er soared the starry seven,
But pain's fire-chariot rode.

They've battled best who've boldest borne,
The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

The martyr's fire-crown on the brow

Doth into glory burn;

And tears that from love's torn heart flow,

To pearls of spirit turn :

Our dearest hopes in pangs are born,

The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

As beauty in Death's cerement shrouds,
And stars bejewel night,

God-splendours live in dim heart-clouds,
And suffering worketh might.

The murkiest hour is mother o' morn,
The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

Sydney Dobell.

"HOW'S MY BOY?"

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sailor of the sea!

How's my boy-my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?”

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"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman,

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish

But knows my John.

"How's my boy-my boy?

And unless you let me know,

I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no—

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton" ""Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud

I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor ?”-
"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor-
I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John ?"

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"Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother—

How's my boy-my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!

How's my boy-my boy?”

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