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III. BOOT AND SADDLE
Boot, saddle, to horse and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. CHORUS.-Boot, saddle, to horse and away!
By just his horse's mane, a boy :
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
We 've got you Ratisbon !
The Marshal's in the market-place,
Soared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presently
When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You 're wounded!" Nay," the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead..
MY LAST DUCHESS
THAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart-how shall I say?-too soon made glad.
Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approv ing speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,good! but thanked Somehow I know not how-as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech-(which I have not)-to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark"-and if she
-E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands ['ll meet As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We
Say after me, and try to say
Since words are only words. Give o'er!
Unless you call me, all the same,
Ask of me, too, command me, blame,-
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! [grass Now pluck a great blade of that ribbonTo plait in where the foolish jewel was, I flung away: since you have praised my hair,
'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.
Row home? must we row home? Too surely
Know I where its front 's demurely
I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o'er the balcony
To catch him ere he climbed too high
This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,
Stay longer yet, for others' sake Than mine! What should your cham. ber do?
-With all its rarities that ache
Around them such a magic tether