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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 !

Vol. II.-18

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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;
Alas! my First is dark and deep,
And my Second cannot hear her weep!

XXII.

Sir EUSTACE goes to the far Crusade

In radiant armor drest;
And my First is graven on his blade,

And broidered on his breast.

And a flush is on his cheek and brow,

And a fever in his blood,
As he stands upon my Second now,

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.

XXIII.

My First came forth in booted state,

For far Valencia bound;
And smiled to feel my Second's weight,

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."

XXIV.

Oh yes ! her childhood hath been nurst
In all the follies of my First;
And why doth she turn from the glittering throng,
From the Courtier's jest, and the Minstrel's song ?

Why doth she look where the ripples play
Around my Second in yon fair bay,
While the boat in the twilight nears the shore,
With her speechless crew, and her muffled oar ?

Hath she not heard in her lonely bower
My Whole’s fond tale of magic power ?
Softer and sweeter that music flows
Than the Bulbul's hymn to the midnight rose.

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