THE WORLD'S DEATH-NIGHT

I THINK a stormless night-time shall ensue Unto the world, yearning for hours of calm:

Not these the end, palm

Of a God's hand beneath the skies we knew,

Nor fall from a fierce heaven of fiery dew In place of the sweet dewfall, the world's balm,

Nor swell of elemental triumph-psalm Round the long-buffeted bulk, rent through and through.

But in the even of its endless night, With shoreless floods of moonlight on its breast,

And baths of healing mist about its scars, An instant sums its circling years of flight, And the tir'd earth hangs crystall'd into rest,

Girdled with gracious watchings of the

stars.

THE OLD CAVALIER

"FOR our martyr'd Charles I pawn'd my plate,

For his son I spent my all,

'That a churl might dine, and drink my wine,
And preach in my father's hall :
That father died on Marston Moor,
My son on Worcester plain;
But the king he turn'd his back on me
When he got his own again.

"The other day, there came, God wot!
A solemn, pompous ass,

Who begged to know if I did not go
To the sacrifice of Mass:

I told him fairly to his face,

That in the field of fight

I had shouted loud for Church and King,
When he would have run outright.

"He talk'd of the Man of Babylon
With his rosaries and copes,
As if a Roundhead was n't worse
Than half a hundred Popes.

I don't know what the people mean,
With their horror and affright;
All Papists that I ever knew
Fought stoutly for the right.

"I now am poor and lonely,

This cloak is worn and old,
But yet it warms my loyal heart,
Through sleet, and rain, and cold,
When I call to mind the Cavaliers,
Bold Rupert at their head,

Bursting through blood and fire, with cries
That might have wak'd the dead.

“Then spur and sword was the battle word,
And we made their helmets ring,
Howling like madmen, all the while,
For God and for the King.
And though they snuffled psalms, to give
The Rebel-dogs their due,

When the roaring shot pour'd close and hot
They were stalwart men and true.

"On the fatal field of Naseby,

Where Rupert lost the day

By hanging on the flying crowd Like a lion on his prey,

I stood and fought it out, until,
In spite of plate and steel,
The blood that left my veins that day
Flow'd up above my heel.

"And certainly, it made those quail
Who never quail'd before,
To look upon the awful front

Which Cromwell's horsemen wore. I felt that every hope was gone, When I saw their squadrons form, And gather for the final charge

Like the coming of the storm.

"Oh! where was Rupert in that hour
Of danger, toil, and strife?

It would have been to all brave men
Worth a hundred years of life

To have seen that black and gloomy force,
As it poured down in line,
Met midway by the Royal horse
And Rupert of the Rhine.

"All this is over now, and I

Must travel to the tomb,

Though the king I serv'd has got his own,
In poverty and gloom.

Well, well, I serv'd him for himself,
So I must not now complain,
But I often wish that I had died
With my son on Worcester plain."

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS

LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff'd, and swore :
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never look'd before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewilder'd, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame :

He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd,
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke, above his father's door,
In gray soft eddyings hung :
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes, honor calls! - with strength like steel
He put the vision by.

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram'd;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untam'd,
The strong heart of her sons.

So, let his name through Europe ring-
A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

AT THE CHURCH GATE

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming ;
They've hush'd the minster bell:
The organ 'gins to swell;

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast

And hastening thither,

With modest eyes downcast ;
She comes she's here, she's past!
May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

THE AGE OF WISDOM

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin :

Wait till you come to forty year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;
Billing and cooing is all your cheer
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window panes :
Wait till you come to forty year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass;
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,

Once you have come to forty year.

Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,

AH good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was pass'd away?

The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd,

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper and we not list, Or look away and never be miss'd,

Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead! God rest her bier
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married; but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

SORROWS OF WERTHER

WERTHER had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,

And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sigh'd and pin'd and ogled, And his passion boil'd and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out,

And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person,

Went on cutting bread and butter.

THE PEN AND THE ALBUM

"I AM Miss Catherine's book" (the Album speaks);

"I've lain among your tomes these many weeks;

I'm tir'd of your old coats and yellow cheeks.

“Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace;

Come! draw me off a funny little face; And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place."

PEN

I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen; I've serv'd him three long years, and drawn since then

Thousands of funny women and droll men.

O Album! could I tell you all his ways And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days,

Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze !

PEN

Since he my faithful service did engage
To follow him through his queer pilgrimage,
I've drawn and written many a line and page.

Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes,
And dinner cards, and picture pantomimes,
And merry little children's books at times.

I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain; The aimless jest that, striking, hath caus'd pain;

The idle word that he 'd wish back again.

Iv'e help'd him to pen many a line for bread;

To joke, with sorrow aching in his head; And make your laughter when his own heart bled.

I've spoke with men of all degree and

sort

Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court; O, but I've chonicled a deal of sport.

Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago, Biddings to wine that long hath ceas'd to flow,

Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low;

Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, Tradesman's polite reminders of his small Account due Christmas last - I've answer'd all.

Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half Guinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph; So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,

Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff, Day after day still dipping in my trough, And scribbling pages after pages off.

Day after day the labor 's to be done,
And sure as comes the postman and the sun,
The indefatigable ink must run.

ALBUM

me a few;

Tell me a curious anecdote or two,

And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!

To a fair mistress and a pleasant home, Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we

come.