II-THE FAIRY PRINCE'S ARRIVAL

I

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt,

There rose a noise of striking clocks,
And feet that ran and doors that clapt,
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;
A fuller light illumin'd all,

A breeze through all the garden swept,
A sudden hubbub shook the hall,
And sixty feet the fountain leapt.

2

The hedge broke in, the banner blew,
The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd,
The fire shot up, the martin flew,

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd,
The maid and page renew'd their strife,
The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt,
And all the long pent stream of life

Dash'd downward in a cataract.

3

And last with these the king awoke,
And in his chair himself uprear'd,
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke,
'By holy rood, a royal beard!

How say you? we have slept, my lords.

My beard has grown into my lap.' The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap.

4

'Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still
My joints are something stiff or so.
My Lord, and shall we pass the bill
I mention'd half an hour ago?'
The chancellor sedate and vain

In courteous words return'd reply:
But dallied with his golden chain,
And, smiling, put the question by.

A. Tennyson

CLXV

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS

Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!

To the meadows trip away.

Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay:

For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse:
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay:

For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

S. T. Coleridge

CLXVI

THE DESTRUCTION CF SENNACHERIB

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold, And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron

CLXVII

THE WIDOW BIRD

A widow bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;

The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground,

And little motion in the air

Except the mill-wheel's sound.

P. B. Shelley

CLXVIII

DORA

With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.'
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, be

cause

He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day

When Allan call'd his son, and said: 'My son,
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die :
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too, beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,
For many years.' But William answer'd short:
I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:
'You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus !
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to't;
Consider, William ; take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack
And nevermore darken my doors again!'
But William answer'd madly, bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he look'd at her
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son,