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 yet!
Lady, 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 flank 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!

(1829.)

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 :
Ay, 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 !

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."