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Suddenly the pathway ends,

Sheer the precipice descends,

Loud the torrent roars unseen;

Thirty feet from side to side

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Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine.

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Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot

Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
Halted with his hundred men,

Shouting upward from the glen, "La Illáh illa Alláh!"

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Gently Roushan Beg caressed

Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes,
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.

"O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Round and slender as a reed,

Carry me this peril through!

Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,

O thou soul of Kurroglou !

"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; O life of mine,

Leap, and rescue Kurroglou !

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Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
Drew together his four white feet,

Paused a moment on the verge,
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embrace

Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.

As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss
Fragments of the precipice

Rolled like pebbles on a shore.

Roushan's tasselled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head,

Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,
As he galloped out of sight.

Flash of harness in the air,

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Seen a moment like the glare

Of a sword drawn from its sheath; Thus the phantom horseman passed, And the shadow that he cast

Leaped the cataract underneath.

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Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death

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Passed above him. "Allahu!"

Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man

As this Robber Kurroglou !"

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

HENRY WADSWORTH Longfellow

"October 16, 1845. Before church, wrote The Arrow and the Song, which came into my mind as I stood with my back to the fire, and glanced on to the paper with arrow's speed. Literally an improvisation." Diary of H. W. Longfellow.

I SHOT an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterwards, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

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THE BELL OF ATRI

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

AT Atri in Abruzzo, a small town

Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
One of those little places that have run
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest, as if to say,
"I climb no farther upward, come what may,"
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,

So
many monarchs since have borne the name,
Had a great bell hung in the market-place
Beneath a roof, projecting some small space,
By way
of shelter from the sun and rain.
Then rode he through the streets with all his train,
And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,
Made proclamation, that whenever wrong
Was done to any man, he should but ring
The great bell in the square, and he, the King,
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.
Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped,

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What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. 20
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,

The hempen rope at length was worn away,
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand,
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,.
Till one, who noted this in passing by,
Mended the rope with braids of briony,

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So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

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By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports
And prodigalities of camps and courts ;-
Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, 35
His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,
Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all,
To starve and shiver in a naked stall,
And day by day sat brooding in his chair,
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.

At length he said: "What is the use or need
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,
Eating his head off in my stables here,
When rents are low and provender is dear?
Let him go feed upon the public ways;
I want him only for the holidays."

So the old steed was turned into the heat

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Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,

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Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime
It is the custom in the summer time,

With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,

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