With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, COLERIDGE. 160. HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. HOW many thousands of my poorest subjects Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafening clamours in the slippery shrouds, Deny it to a king? Then, happy, low lie down! SHAKESPEARE. 161. CHRISTIAN BROTHERHOOD. No distance breaks the tie of blood; Brothers are brothers evermore; Oft, ere the common source be known, Move heart towards heart by sympathy. So is it with true Christian hearts; Of holiest brotherhood: Oh! might we all our lineage prove, There is much need: for not as yet The holy house is still beset With leaguer of stern foes: KEBLE. 162. SHE DWELT AMIDST THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. (HE dwelt amidst the untrodden ways SHE Beside the springs of Dove, A maid, whom there were none to praise, And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown,-and few could know When Lucy ceased to be: But she is in her grave, and oh! The difference to me! WORDSWORTH. 163. THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? Who hollow-sounding and mysterious main! Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain.Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more!—what wealth untold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Yet more, the depths have mcre!-thy waves have roll'd Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry !-- Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! The battle-thunders will not break their rest.- Give back the lost and lovely!--those for whom To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, K 164. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. ING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and main, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!" De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be: He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!" She dropp'd her glove to prove his love; then looked on him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regained his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: “No love,” quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!” LEIGH HUNT. |