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5 Jehane the brown ! Jehane the brown !
Give us Jehane to burn or drown !"
Eh-gag me Robert !sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet ;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it-So, an hour yet :
Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!'

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So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards : with her face
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep : and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again ; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said :
'I will not. Straightway Godmar's head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.

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For Robert—both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily

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He seem'd to watch the rain ; yea, too,
His lips were firm ; he tried once more
To touch her lips ; she reach'd out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips, and now the hem 135
Of his sleeve brush'd them.

With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail ; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand

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In Robert's hair ; she saw him bend
Back Robert's head ; she saw him send
The thin steel down ; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moan'd as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem : so then
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.
Then Godmar turn'd again and said :

So, Jehane, the first fitte is read !
Take note, my lady, that your way
Lies backward to the Chatelet!'
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.
This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.

W. MORRIS.

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390

SUMMER DAWN Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips,

Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, Faint and giey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen,

betwixt the cloud-bars, That are patiertly waiting there for the dawn :

Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,

The heavy elns wait, and restless and cold
The uneasy wind rises ; the roses are dun;
Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn,
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn.

Speak but one word to me over the corn,
Over the tender, bowed locks of the corn.

W. MORRIS.

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As we rush, as we rush in the train,

The trees and the houses go wheeling back,
But the starry heavens above the plain

Come flying on our track.
All the beautiful stars of the sky,

The silver doves of the forest of Night,
Over the dull earth swarm and fly,

Companions of our flight.
We will rush ever on without fear ;

Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet !
For we carry the Heavens with us, dear,
While the Earth slips from our feet !

J. THOMSON.

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392

7

ITYLUS
Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring ?

A thousand summers are over and dead. What hast thou found in the spring to follow ? What hast thou found in thine heart to sing ?

What wilt thou do when the summer is shed ? O swallow, sister, O fair swift swalow, Why wist thou fly after spring so the south,

The soft south whither thine heart is set ?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow ?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth ?

Hast thou forgotten ere I forget ?
Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the south ;

But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire,
Shedding my song upon height, won hollow,
From tawny body and sweet snall mouth

Feed the heart of the night vith fire.

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I the nightingale all spring through,
O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,

All spring through till the spring be done, Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,

Take flight and follow and find the sun. Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guest

chanıber,

How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet ?
For where thou fliest I shall not follow,
Till life forget and death remember,

Till thou remember and I forget.
Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,
I know not how thou hast heart to sing.

Hast thou the heart ? is it all past over ?
Thy lord the summer is good to follow,
Ănd fair the feet of thy lover the spring :

But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover ?
O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,
My heart in me is a molten ember

And over my head the waves have met. But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow, Could I forget or thou remember,

Couldst thou remember and I forget. O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, The heart's division divideth us.

Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree ;
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus,

The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.
O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,
I pray thee sing not a little space.

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Are not the roofs and the lintels wet ?
The woven web that was plain to follow,
The small slain body, the flowerlike face,

Can I remember if thou forget ?

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O sister, sister, thy first-begotten !
The hands that cling and the feet that follow,

The voice of the child's blood crying yet,
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten ?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.

A. C. SWINBURNE,

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THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE

Here, where the world is quiet ;

Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams ;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

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I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap :
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

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Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,

Weak ships and spirits steer ;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither ;
But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.

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