But thou wilt never move from hence,
The sphere thy fate allots :
Thy latter days increased with pence
Go down among the pots:
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam
In haunts of hungry sinners,

Old boxes, larded with the steam

Of thirty thousand dinners.

In there came old Alice the nurse,

་

Said, 'Who was this that went from thee ?'

'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, 'To-morrow he weds with me.'

'O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse,

'That all comes round so just and fair :

Would quarrel with our lot; Thy care is, under polish'd tins,

To serve the hot-and-hot ;

To come and go, and come again,
Returning like the pewit,
And watch'd by silent gentlemen,
That trifle with the cruet.

Live long, ere from thy topmost head

The thick-set hazel dies;

Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread
The corners of thine eyes:

Live long, nor feel in head or chest
Our changeful equinoxes,

Till mellow Death, like some late guest,
Shall call thee from the boxes.

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease
To pace the gritted floor,
And, laying down an unctuous lease
Of life, shalt earn no more;
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death,
Shall show thee past to Heaven :
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath,
A pint-pot neatly graven.

LADY CLARE.

IT was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn:

Lovers long-betroth'd were they : They two will wed the morrow morn:

God's blessing on the day!

'He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth,

And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse,

'I speak the truth: you are my child. 'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.'

"Falsely, falsely have ye done,

O mother,' she said, if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the

nurse,

But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.'

'If I'm a beggar born,' she said,

'I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.' 'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the

nurse,

But keep the secret all ye can.' She said, 'Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.'

'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice the

nurse,

'The man will cleave unto his right.' 'And he shall have it,' the lady replied, 'Tho' I should die to-night.'

'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.' O mother, mother, mother,' she said, 'So strange it seems to me.

'Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go.'

She clad herself in a russet gown,

She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought

Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?'

'If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,' she said, 'And not the Lady Clare.'

Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald,

For I am yours in word and in deed. I'lay me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, Your riddle is hard to read.'

O and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn:
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she
stood:

If you are not the heiress born,
And I,' said he, the next in blood-

If you are not the heiress born,

And I,' said he, the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn,

And you shall still be Lady Clare.'

THE CAPTAIN.

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY.

HE that only rules by terror
Doeth grievous wrong.
Deep as Hell I count his error.
Let him hear my song.

Brave the Captain was: the seamen
Made a gallant crew,

Gallant sons of English freemen,

Sailors bold and true.

But they hated his oppression,
Stern he was and rash;
So for every light transgression
Doom'd them to the lash.
Day by day more harsh and cruel
Seem'd the Captain's mood.
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel
Burnt in each man's blood.
Yet he hoped to purchase glory,
Hoped to make the name
Of his vessel great in story,

Wheresoe'er he came.

So they past by capes and islands,
Many a harbour-mouth,
Sailing under palmy highlands

Far within the South.

On a day when they were going
O'er the lone expanse,

In the north, her canvas flowing,

Rose a ship of France.

Then the Captain's colour heighten'd, Joyful came his speech:

But a cloudy gladness lighten'd

In the eyes of each.

'Chase,' he said: the ship flew forward,

And the wind did blow;

Stately, lightly, went she Norward,
Till she near'd the foe.

Then they look'd at him they hated,

Had what they desired:

Mute with folded arms they waited—
Not a gun was fired.

But they heard the foeman's thunder
Roaring out their doom;
All the air was torn in sunder,
Crashing went the boom,

Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatter'd, Bullets fell like rain;

Over mast and deck were scatter'd

Blood and brains of men.

Spars were splinter'd; decks were broken: Every mother's son--

Each beside his gun.

On the decks as they were lying,
Were their faces grim.

In their blood, as they lay dying,
Did they smile on him.

Those, in whom he had reliance
For his noble name,

With one smile of still defiance

Sold him unto shame.

Shame and wrath his heart confounded,
Pale he turn'd and red,
Till himself was deadly wounded
Falling on the dead.
Dismal error! fearful slaughter!
Years have wander'd by,
Side by side beneath the water

Crew and Captain lie;
There the sunlit ocean tosses

O'er them mouldering,
And the lonely seabird crosses
With one waft of the wing.

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

IN her ear he whispers gaily,

'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.' She replies, in accents fainter,

There is none I love like thee.'
He is but a landscape-painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,

Presses his without reproof:
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave her father's roof.
'I can make no marriage present:

Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,

And I love thee more than life.' They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand:

Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid

Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady,

Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain will spend their days
O but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,

Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic

Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,

'All of this is mine and thine.'
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.

All at once the colour flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes,

And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover,

And he cheer'd her soul with love.

So she strove against her weakness,

Tho' at times her spirit sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness

To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he,

And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her,

And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honour

Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter,

And she murmur'd, 'Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter, Which did win my heart from me!' So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early,

Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,

And he look'd at her and said,
'Bring the dress and put it on her,
That she wore when she was wed.'
Then her people, softly treading,

Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.

THE VOYAGE.

I.

WE left behind the painted buoy

That tosses at the harbour-mouth; And madly danced our hearts with joy, As fast we fleeted to the South: How fresh was every sight and sound On open main or winding shore! We knew the merry world was round, And we might sail for evermore.

II.

Warm broke the breeze against the brow,

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail :

For blasts would rise and rave and cease,

But whence were those that drove the

sail

Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, And to and thro' the counter gale?

XII.

Again to colder climes we came,

For still we follow'd where she led : Now mate is blind and captain lame, And half the crew are sick or dead, But, blind or lame or sick or sound,

We follow that which flies before: We know the merry world is round, And we may sail for evermore.

SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE.

A FRAGMENT.

LIKE Souls that balance joy and pain,
With tears and smiles from heaven again
The maiden Spring upon the plain
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain.

In crystal vapour everywhere
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between,
And far, in forest-deeps unseen,
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green

From draughts of balmy air. Sometimes the linnet piped his song: Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong:

By grassy capes with fuller sound
In curves the yellowing river ran,
And drooping chestnut-buds began
To spread into the perfect fan,

Above the teeming ground.

Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer,
With blissful treble ringing clear.

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Closed in a golden ring.