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He who can make my First to roll
When not a breath is blowing, May very slightly turn my Whole
To set a mountain going :
He who can curb my Second's will
When she’s inclined for roving, May turn my Whole more slightly still
To cure the moon of moving !
Across my First, with flash and roar,
The stately vessel glides alone; And silent on the crowded shore
There kneels an aged crone, Watching my Second's parting smile As he looks farewell to his native isle.
My Whole comes back to other eyes
With beauteous change of fruits and flowers; But black to her are those bright skies,
And sad those joyous bowers;
Sir EUSTACE goes to the far Crusade
In radiant armor drest;
And broidered on his breast.
And a flush is on his cheek and brow,
And a fever in his blood,
And gazes on the flood.
Away, away !—the canvas drives
Like a sea-bird's rustling wing; My Whole hath a score of Moslem lives
Upon its twanging string.
My First came forth in booted state,
For far Valencia bound;
And hear its creaking sound.
“ And here's a jailer sweet,” quoth he,
“ You cannot bribe or cozen; To keep one ward in custody
Wise men will forge a dozen.”
But daybreak saw a lady ride
My Whole across the plain, With a handsome cavalier beside,
To hold her bridle-rein:
And “Blessing on the bonds,” quoth he,
“Which wrinkled agé imposes, If woman must your prisoner be,
Your chain should be of roses."
Oh yes ! her childhood hath been nurst
Why doth she look where the ripples play
Hath she not heard in her lonely bower