So my hero's arm Held the battle straight. Terror went before him, Death behind his back; Seven bloody battles He broke upon his foes; Once he fought at Fossud, At the Boundary Stream Fought the Royal Hound, And for Bernas battle Stands his name renowned. Here he fought with Leinster- TO MY BICYCLE. In the airy whirling wheel is the springing strength of steel, Till you feel your pulses leap at the easy swing and sweep Then it's out to the kiss of the morning breeze And the rose of the morning sky, And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load Black-and-silver, swift and strong, with a pleasant undersong From the steady rippling murmur of the chain, Half a thing of life and will, you may feel it start and thrill With a quick elastic answer to the strain, As you ride to the kiss of the morning breeze And the rose of the morning sky, And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load Miles a hundred you may run from the rising of the sun, To the gleam of the first white star. You may ride through twenty towns, meet the sun upon the downs, Or the wind on the mountain scaur. Then it's out to the kiss of the morning breeze And the rose of the morning sky, And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load Down the pleasant country-side, through the woodland's summer pride, You have come in your forenoon spin. And you never would have guessed how delicious is the rest When you have sought the kiss of the morning breeze, And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load There is many a one who teaches that the shining riverreaches Are the place to spend a long June day, But give me the whirling wheel and a boat of air and steel To float upon the King's highway! Oh give me the kiss of the morning breeze, And the rose of the morning sky, And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load EVENSONG. In the heart of a German forest I followed the winding ways Where the cushioned moss was barred with the sunset's slant ing rays, When I heard a sound of singing, unearthly sad and clear, I thought of the spirits told of in dark old forest lore And stopped and wondered and waited, as nearer the music grew, Louder and still more loud, till at last came into view A troop of Saxon maidens, tanned with the rain and sun, The strong steps faltered not, and the chanting passed away In the fragrant depths of the pinewood, and died with the dying day. No spirit in truth! yet it seemed, as while in dreams I stood, That a music more than earthly had swept through the darkening wood. And it seemed that the Day to the Morrow bequeathed in that solemn strain The whole world's hope and labor, its love and its ancient pain. THE SPELL-STRUCK. She walks as she were moving For once to fairy harping And through her brain and bosom Her eyes are bright and tearless, But wide with yearning pain; She longs for nothing earthly. The sound that held her listening Upon her moonlit path! The rippling fairy music That filled the lonely rath. Her lips, that once have tasted With maiden smile or kiss. |