And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh,
"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden
For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory.'
“Now tell me what 'twas all about,” Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.
"Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."
I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces.
How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [1775-1864]
Ан what avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.
STAND close around, ye Stygian set, With Dirce in one boat conveyed,
Or Charon, seeing, may forget
That he is old, and she a shade.
"ARTEMIDORA! Gods invisible,
While thou art lying faint along the couch, Have tied the sandal to thy slender feet And stand beside thee, ready to convey Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness Away, and voices like thy own come near And nearer, and solicit an embrace."
Artemidora sigh'd, and would have pressed The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. Iris stood over her dark hair unseen
While thus Elpenor spake. He looked into Eyes that had given light and life ere-while To those above them, but now dim with tears And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy, Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more: Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sob Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber; 'twas not hers.
PAST ruin'd Ilion Helen lives,
Alcestis rises from the shades;
Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids.
Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me.
ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR
BORGIA, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust; All that remains of thee these plaits unfold, Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold.
IPHIGENEIA, when she heard her doom At Aulis, and when all beside the King Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, "O father! I am young and very happy. I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood While I was resting on her knee both arms And hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might he not also hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?" The father placed his cheek upon her head, And tears dropped down it, but the king of men Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. "O father! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st thou not Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, Listened to fondly, and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, When it was inarticulate as theirs,
And the down deadened it within the nest?" He moved her gently from him, silent still, And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, "I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed Her polished altar with my virgin blood;
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