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When all among the thundering drums

Thy soldier in the battle stands,
Thy face across his fancy comes

And gives the battle to his hands :
A moment while the trumpets blow,

He sees his brood about thy knee-
The next-like fire he meets the foe,

Strikes him dead for them and thee!

Tara ta tantara !

So Lilia sang : we thought her half-possess'd
She struck such warbling fury through the words ;
And, after, feigning pique at what she call’d
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime-

Like one that wishes at a dance to change

The music-clapt her hands and cried for war,
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end :

And he that next inherited the tale

Half turning to the broken statue, said,

• Sir Ralph has got your colours : if I prove Your knight and fight your battle, what for me?

It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb
Lay by her like a model of her hand.

She took it and she flung it. Fight' she said,

• And make us all we would be, great and good.' He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, A

cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall, Arranged the favour and assumed the Prince.


Now scarce three paces measured from the mound

We stumbled on a stationary voice
And · Stand, who goes

?' • Two from the palace ' I. • The second two: they wait,' he said, 'pass on ;

His Highness wakes :' and one, that clash'd in arms,
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, led
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent

Whispers of war.

Entering, the sudden light

Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd to hear,

As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies,

Each hissing in his neighbour's ear; and then

A strangled titter, out of which there brake

On all sides, clamouring etiquette to death
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old kings
Began to wag their baldness up and down,
The fresh young captains flash'd their glittering teeth,
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew,
And slain with laughter roll’d the gilded Squire.

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears,

Panted from weary sides • King, you are free!
We did but keep you surety for our son,
If this be he,—or a draggled mawkin, thou,
That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge :

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For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers,

More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath,
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel :
• But hence' he said indue yourselves like men.

Your Cyril told us all.'

As boys that slink

From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye,

Away we stole, and transient in a trice

From what was left of faded woman-slough

To sheathing splendours and the golden scale

Of harness, issued in the sun that now
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth,

And hit the northern hills. Here Cyril met us

A little shy at first, but by and by
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace,


Followed his tale. Amazed he fled away

Thro' the dark land, and later in the night

Had come on Psyche weeping : 'then we fell


your father's hand, and there she lies, But will not speak, nor stir.'

He show'd a tent

A stone-shot off : we entered in, and there Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak,

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