For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before; I always wanted to make a clean breast of it, And now it is made-why, my heart's-blood, that went trickle, Trickle, but anon, in such muddy dribblets, Is pumped up brisk now, thro' the main ventricle, And genially floats me about the giblets! I'll tell you what I intend to do: I must see this fellow his sad life thro' -He is our Duke after all, And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall; But there's no mine to blow up and get done with, And breast in a hauberk, his heels he 'll kick up Slain by some onslaught fierce of hiccup. And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lies o'ergrown with a blue crust, Then, I shall scrape together my earnings; For, you see, in the Churchyard Jacynth reposes, One needs but little tackle to travel in, So, just one stout cloak shall I indue, And for a staff, what beats the javelin With which his boars my father pinned you? I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly? What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all And arrive one day at the land of the gypsies And find my lady, or hear the last news of her His forehead chapletted green with wreathy hop, And when my Cotnar begins to operate And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, I shall drop in with-as if by accident"You never knew then, how it all ended, "What fortunes good or bad attended "The little lady your Queen befriended?" -And when that's told me, what's remaining? This world's too hard for my explainingThe same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four-year-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, And for strong Cotnar drank French weak wine, Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau, Now up, now down, the world's one see-saw ! EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES. FAME. SEE, as the prettiest graves will do in time, LOVE. So, the year's done with! April's endeavour; June needs must sever! Now snows fall round me, SONG I. NAY but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? So fair, see, ere I let it fall! II. Because, you spend your lives in praising; If earth holds aught-speak truth-above her? Above this tress, and this I touch But cannot praise, I love so much! THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. MORNING, evening, noon, and night, "Praise God," sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Hard he laboured, long and well; But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise God." Then back again his curls he threw, Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done; “I doubt not thou art heard, my son: "As well as if thy voice to-day "Were praising God, the Pope's great way. "This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome "Praises God from Peter's dome." Said Theocrite," Would God that I "Might praise Him, that great way, and die!" |