And one by one, through a hole in the wall,
In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all;

And a very astonishing sight was that,
When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat.
And there they hid;

And Reuben slid

The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark!" said he,

"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."

As knights of old put on their mail,—
From head to foot

An iron suit,

Iron jacket and iron boot,

Iron breeches, and on the head

No hat, but an iron pot instead,
And under the chin the bail,

(I believe they called the thing a helm,)
Then sallied forth to overwhelm

The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm,—
So this modern knight,

259

What's he got on? I van, it's wings!

An' that 't other thing? I vum, it's a tail!
An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail!

Steppin' careful, he travels the length

Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.
Now he stretches his wings like a monstrous bat;
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that,
Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by ;
But the''s on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.
They turn up at him a wonderin' eye,

To see

The dragon! he's goin' to fly: Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump! Flop-flop-an' plump

To the ground with a thump!

Flutt'rin an' flound'rin', all 'n a lump!"

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,
Heels over head, to his proper sphere,―
Heels over head, and head over heels,
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-
So fell Darius. Upon his crown,

In the midst of the barn-yard he came down,
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,
Broken braces and broken springs,
Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting-stars, and various things,—
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff,
And much that was n't so nice by half.

MORAL.

I have just room for the moral here;
And this is the moral,-Stick to your sphere.
Or if you insist, as you have the right,

On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is,-Take care how you light!

XCI.

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

The ship was still as she could be;

Her sails from heaven received no motion;
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothock

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the surge's swell
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.

The sun in heaven was shining gay ;

All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,

A darker speck on the ocean green;

Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,

But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,

And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound;

The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the rock, Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock."

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He cursed himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear,

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,

A sound, as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiend below was ringing his knell.

XCII.

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

ROBERT LOWELL.

Oh that last day in Lucknow fort!

We knew that it was the last,

That the enemy's mines had crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death,
And the men and we all worked on ;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,

Wasted with fever in the siege,

And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid,

And I took her head on my knee;

“When my father comes hame frae the pleugh,” she said,

"Oh! please then waken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor,

In the flecking of woodbine shade,

When the house dog sprawls by the half-open door,

And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke, and roar, and powder stench,

And hopeless waiting for death;