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OCTOBER DUSK.

O THE saffrons and the purples of the wild October

eves,

When the gold of autumn withers, and the wind plucks off the leaves.

When the grey drifts slowly deepen, losing all their inward light,

When the dark night, dull and leaden, presses on the dimming sight.

Cold the last night's rain is lying in the furrows bright and still,

Glistening in between the ridges, that the dead leaves choke and fill.

Ghastly glimmers, of weird whiteness, streak between the ashen grey,

Clefts of crimson, pale green lustres, bar the shroud of dying day,

U

Like the rags of purple splendour, dropping from a mummy king

Now the night wind, rising slowly, moans, blaspheming God and spring.

Stifling darkness, black and solid, gathers round the dim, white road,

Damp oppression, as of evil, crushing man beneath

the load.

Still from dead leaves in the silence now and then a twitter's borne,

As of lone bird chilled, yet dreaming of the April and the dawn.

THE RIDE TO THE SHRINE.

FIRST the herald's gilded show;
How the lusty trumpets blow!
Then the merchants, rank and file,
Next the nuns that pray and smile;
Then the strong knights in their mail,
Banner blowing like a sail,

Gilded housings shining out

Through the dust that wraps the rout; So our band of pilgrims went

To A'Becket's shrine in Kent.

Shields that with their burn and blaze All the peasants' eyes amaze;

Starred and tongued with herald gold, Blood-red crosses manifold,

Bars of azure, spots of sable,
Scutcheons gay with scroll and label,

Silver tears on purple field,
Crimson lattice, azure shield,

Bezants, each one like a sun,
From the Moslem Sultans won;
So our band of sinners went
To the holy shrine in Kent.

Rare devices, strange and quaint,
As the king-at-arms can paint;
Broken daggers, dripping gore,
Eagles chained that cannot soar;
Bleeding hart and wyvern's wing;
Viper with his poison sting;
Griffin with the golden scale,
Dragon with the emerald mail;
Tiger-cat with gory tongue,
Bear that to the pine tree clung:
So in stately guise we went
Flaunting to that shrine in Kent.

Legends, too, so full of pride, Blazoned letters, bright and wide; On one pennon, blowing free, "Strike "'s the only word I see; "Try me," in defiance writThere was lion's wrath in it; "I may break, but never bend," On a flag from end to end.

"God alone," another bore
On the tabard that he wore.
So in knightly garb we went,
Tramping to the shrine in Kent.

Then the abbot with his ring,
And the white-clad boys that sing;
Monks in grey, and friars in black,
Shouting chorus at his back.
Then the crosier, gold and stately,
Born aloft and held sedately;
Fuming incense, tossed and flung,
From the silver censers swung.
Mitres shining with the gem,
Marked the bishops each of them,
As the band of sinners went
Ambling to the shrine in Kent.

Blubber lip and leering eye,
Downcast face that blushes dye;
Lolling tongue, and brutal jaw,
Wrinkled foreheads full of law.
Sallow visage, envy wrung,
Where the sweat-drops clammy hung;
Hypocrite! among the rest,

Fat hands clasped upon his breast.

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