And her head was on his breast where she smiled as one "Ring," she cried, "O vesper-bell in the beechwood's old chapelle, But the passing-bell rings best!" They have caught out at the rein which Sir Guy threw loose-in vain, Toll slowly. For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air On the last verge rears amain. Now he hangs, he rocks between, and his nostrils curdle Now he shivers head and hoof, and the flakes of foam. fall off, And his face grows fierce and thin : And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go, Toll slowly. And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," still she cried, “i' the old chapelle!" Toll slowly. Then back-toppling, crashing back- a dead weight flung out to wrack, Horse and riders overfell. - E. B. BROWNING. 17. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory. DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more; the cock crows - hark! They come ! they come! the knell is rung Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung What collared hound of lawless sway, What pensioned slave of Attila, Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar, Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar ? They do his will. Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette, Nor plume, nor torse H No splendor gilds, all sternly met, But, dark and still, we inly glow, Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire. In vain your pomp, ye evil Insults the land; powers, Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours, And God's right hand! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave. - EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 19. THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR. THE mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; To carry off the latter. We made an expedition; On Dyfed's richest valley, To furnish our carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us; As we drove our prize at leisure, But his people could not match us. And, ere our force we led off, The spearmen and the bowmen. And much their land bemoaned them, Two thousand head of cattle, And the head of him who owned them: Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, His head was borne before us; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow, our chorus. |