XXVIII.

MORNING is beaming o'er brake and bower, Hark! to the chimes from yonder tower, Call ye my First from her chamber now, With her snowy veil and her jewelled brow.

Lo! where my Second, in gallant array,
Leads from his stable her beautiful bay,
Looking for her, as he curvets by,

With an arching neck and a glancing eye.

Spread is the banquet, and studied the song;
Ranged in meet order the menial throng,
Jerome is ready with book and stole,
And the maidens fling flowers, but where is
my Whole?

Look to the hill, is he climbing its side? Look to the stream-is he crossing its tide? Out on him, false one! he comes not yetLady, forget him, yea, scorn and forget.

XXIX.

My First was dark o'er earth and air,
As dark as she could be;

The stars that gemmed her ebon hair
Were only two or three;

King Cole saw twice as many there
As you or I could see.

"Away, King Cole!" mine hostess said "Flagon and flask are dry;

Your nag is neighing in the shed,

For he knows a storm is nigh:"

She set my Second on his head,
And she set it all awry.

He stood upright upon his legs;
Long life to good King Cole!
With wine and cinnamon, ale and eggs,
He filled a silver bowl;

He drained the draught to the very dregs,

And he called that draught-my Whole.

XXX.

COME from my First, ay, come

The battle dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and the thundering

drum

Are calling thee to die! Fight as thy father fought,

Fall as thy father fell,

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; So-forward! and farewell!

Toll ye, my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul,

Beneath the silent night!

The helm upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:

Now take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, go, call!
The lord of lute and lay;
And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day;

Go, call him by his name;

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.

(1829.)

XXXI.

My First, in its usual quiet way,

Was creeping along on a wintry day,

When a minstrel came to its muddy bed,

With a harp on his shoulder, a wreath on his

head;

And "How shall I cross," the poor bard cried, "To the cloisters and courts on the other side?'

Old Euclid came; he frowned a frown;
He flung the harp and the green wreath down;
And he led the boy with a stately march
To my Second's neat and narrow Arch;
And "See," quoth the sage, "how every ass
Over the sacred stream must pass."

The youth was mournful, the youth was mute;
He sighed for his laurel, and sobbed for his lute;
The youth took courage, the youth took snuff;
He followed in faith his teacher gruff;
And he sits ever since on my Whole's kind lap,
In a silken gown, and a trencher cap.

XXXII.

AN aged man, with locks of snow,
Sits o'er his glass serenely gay;
Plain Tom, the weaver, long ago,

Sir Thomas Clover, Knight, to-day:
My First beside his grandsire stands,
A comely stripling, stout and tall,
The future lord of his broad lands,
And of his hospitable hall.

"What can it mean, my pretty toy,

With all its wheels, and threads, and springs?"

And, as he speaks, the wondering boy
His arms around his grandsire flings:
He's puzzled, puzzled, more and more;
And putting on a look of thought,
He turns my Second o'er and o'er,
A silver model deftly wrought.

The good Knight hears with placid smile,
And bids him in the plaything view

A proud memorial of the toil

By which his grandsire's fortunes grew: And tells them this, my Whole, shall be Still handed down from son to son,

To teach them by what industry

Their titles and their lands were wou.