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As earth pours freely to the sea
THE PRINCE OF ORANGE IN 1672.
If the base violence of wicked men
Visit your fathers graves, take note of all
35 Wherein the Christ for centuries has smiled, And rich-robed haloed saints regarded Him; The Colleges of Leyden and Utrecht, The solemn libraries, with portraits hung Of Gerard and à Kempis, let him paint,
40 And let him paint the Liberator's grave : The artist that preserves our Holland for us Shall be much honoured in our Southern home. So, bearing with us all that can be moved, We will weigh anchor to the sound of psalms,
45 And winds from heaven shall waft us to the west, Between the shores of tyranny on the left, And the pale cliffs of falsehood on the right; While looking towards the north, our captains tell To wondering maidens and exulting boys, How through the helpless Medway's mouth they sailed, And saw the towering Keep of Rochester; While looking towards the south, another group Hangs on the lips of some book-learnèd man,
Who tells the tale of Egmont and St. Quentin:
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.
Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore ;
Who never looked before.
He stands in Elgin's place,
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,
He yet can call his own.
Bring cord, or axe, or fame:
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go ;
One sheet of living snow;
In gray soft eddyings hung :
Doomed by himself, so young?
Yes, honour calls !—with strength like steel
He put the vision by ;
An English lad must die.
With knee to man unbent,
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed ;
Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed,
35 The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring
A man of mean estate,
40 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.
ON A PICTURE BY TURNER. See how the small concentrate fiery force Is grappling with the glory of the main, That follows like some grave heroic corse, Dragged by a sutler from the heap of slain. Thy solemn presence brings us more than pain,- 5 Something which Fancy moulds into remorse, That we, who of thine honour held the gain, Should from its dignity thy form divorce. Yet will we read in thy high vaunting name, How Britain did what France could only dare, And, while the sunset gilds the darkening air, We will fill up thy shadowy lines with fame ; And, tomb or temple, hail thee still the same, Home of great thoughts, memorial Téméraire.
Lord Houghton. CCLXXV
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER ? In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
5 Made the black water with their beauty gay ; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being : Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew; But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.