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Prepared against that day,

Against their bridal day, which was not long; Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

"Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
Of your love's complement;

And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
For ever to assoil.

Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessed plenty wait upon your board;
And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
That fruitful issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,

And make your joys redound

Upon your bridal day, which is not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song."

So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,

Which said their bridal day should not be long,
And gentle Echo from the neighbor ground
Their accents did resound.

So forth those joyous birds did pass along
Adown the lee that to them murmured low,
As he would speak but that he lacked a tongue,
Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
Making his stream run slow.

And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser stars. So they, enrangèd well,
Did on those two attend,

And their best service lend

Against their wedding day, which was not long.

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

At length they all to merry London came,
To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
That to me gave this life's first native source,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of ancient fame!

There when they came, whereas those bricky towers
The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
Till they decayed through pride;

Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
Where oft I gainèd gifts and goodly grace

Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
But ah! here fits not well

Old woes, but joys, to tell

Against the bridal day, which is not long;

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,

Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder; Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder And Hercules' two pillars standing near

Did make to quake and fear:

Fair branch of honor, flower of chivalry!

That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame

Joy have thou of thy noble victory,

And endless happiness of thine own name
That promiseth the same;

That through thy prowess and victorious arms
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
And great Eliza's glorious name may ring
Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms
Which some brave Muse may sing

To ages following,

Upon the bridal day, which is not long;

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

From those high towers this noble lord issuing
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
In th' ocean billows he hath bathèd fair,

Descended to the river's open viewing

With a great train ensuing.

Above the rest were goodly to be seen

Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature
Fit for so goodly stature,

That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight,
Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
Which, at th' appointed tide,

Each one did make his bride

Against their bridal day, which is not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Edmund Spenser.

* 107 *

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon :
A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow,
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,”-

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect,

By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect-
So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through-
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace.
We've got you Ratisbon!
The marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes :

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" and, his chief beside,

Smiling, the boy fell dead.

* 108*

Robert Browning

TO A SKY-LARK.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

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Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

3

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

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Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

2 All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;

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