The wreath upon his head,
The cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:
So take him to his rest!
Call ye my Whole, ay, 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
SIR HILARY charged at Agincourt,-
Sooth 'twas an awful day!
And though in that old age of sport
The rufflers of the camp and court
Had little time to-pray,
'Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there
Two syllables by way of prayer.
My First to all the brave and proud
Who see to-morrow's sun;
My Next with her cold and quiet cloud
To those who find their dewy shroud
Before to-day's be done;
And both together to all blue eyes
That weep when a warrior nobly dies.
He talked of daggers and of darts,
Of passions and of pains,
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
Of kisses and of chains;
He said, though love was kin to grief,
He was not born to grieve;
He said, though many rued belief,
She safely might believe;
But still the lady shook her head,
And swore, by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.
He said, my First-whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,
Veiled in a vapor faint and far
Though the unfathomed sky—
Was like the smile whose rosy light
Across her young lips passed,
Yet oh! it was not half so bright,
It changed not half so fast;
But still the lady shook her head,
And swore, by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.
And then he set a cypress wreath
Upon his raven hair,
And drew his rapier from its sheath,
Which made the lady stare;
And said, his life-blood's purple flow
My second there should dim,
If she he loved and worshipped so
Would only weep for him;
But still the lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.
My First came forth in booted state,
For fair Valencia bound;
And smiled to feel my Second's weight, And hear its creaking sound.
"And here's a goaler 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 guide
My Whole across the plain,
With a handsome cavalier beside,
To hold her bridle-rein:
And "blessings on the bonds," quoth he, "Which wrinkled age imposes,
If woman must a prisoner be,
Her chain should be of roses."
I graced Don Pedro's revelry,
All dressed in fire and feather,
When loveliness and chivalry,
Were met to feast together.
He flung the slave who moved the lid,
A purse of maravedis;
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me and for the ladies.
He vowed a vow, that noble knight,
Before he went to table,
To make his only sport the fight,
His only couch the stable,
Till he had dragged as he was bid
Five score of Turks to Cadiz ;-
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me and for the ladies.
To ride through mountains, where my First
A banquet would be reckoned;
Through deserts, where to quench their thirst
Men vainly turn my Second.
To leave the gates of fair Madrid,
And dare the gates of Hades;—
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me and for the ladies.
PRIZE POEM AT TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 1823.
THE sun is high in heaven; a favoring breeze
Fills the white sail, and sweeps the rippling seas,
And the tall vessel walks her destined way,
And rocks and glitters in the curling spray.
Among the shrouds, all happiness and hope,
The busy seaman coils the rattling rope,
And tells his jest, and carols out his song,
And laughs his laughter, vehement and long;
Or pauses on the deck, to dream awhile
Of his babe's prattle, and their mother's smile,
And nods the head, and waves the welcome hand,
To those who weep upon the lessening strand.
His is the roving step and humor dry,
His the light laugh, and his the jocund eye;
And his the feeling, which, in guilt or grief,
Makes the sin venial, and the sorrow brief.
But there are hearts, that merry deck below,
Of darker error, and of deeper wo,
Children of wrath and wretchedness, who grieve
Not for the country, but the crimes they leave,
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