I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him told An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. Giles then, the soul of honor-there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good-but the scene shifts-faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. A sudden little river crossed my path This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof-to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. So petty, yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. Which, while I forded,-good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! -It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh, it sounded like a baby's shriek. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galleyslaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. And more than that-a furlong onwhy, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel-that harrow fit to reel fair Men's bodies out like silk? with all the Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware. Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. Not see? because of night perhaps?— why, day Came back again for that! before it left The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, "Now stab and end the creature-to the heft!" Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Na.mes in my Pick up a manner nor discredit you: Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets And count fair prize what comes into their net? He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbors me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) And all 's come square again. I'd like his face His, elbowing on his comrade in this door With the pike and lantern,-for the slave that holds John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) my mew, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song,— Flower o' the broom, Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! Flower o' the quince, I let Lisa go, and what good in life since? Flower o' the thyme-and so on. Round they went. 'T was not for nothing-the good bellyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, And day-long blessed idleness beside! "Let's see what the urchin 's fit for" -that came next. Not overmuch their way, I must confess. |