And how he caught the bird fast in the cage,
And made report of me with eager breath
For breach of duty. Right; it was a breach,
And that means, in our soldier-fashion, death!
Well, I can face it. I'm no craven hound
Like yonder Judas-spy. Nay, had I leave
To slit his weasand for him, as I'd slice
An onion, I'd meet death and never grieve.
W. Sawyer.
NAnd their hours are old and gray,
TO! those days are gone away,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden fall
Of the leaves of many years.
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North and chilly East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces
Since men knew not rent nor leases.
No! the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the horn so shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars, to light you,
Or the polar star to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John or Robin bold-
Never one of all the clan
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture bent;
For he left the merry tale-
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry noises dim!
Gone, the song of Gamelyn!
Gone, the tough belted Outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe!"
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his tufted grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest day,
She would weep and he would craze ;
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fallen beneath the Dockyard strokes,
Have rolled on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang to her-strange that honey
Can't be got without hard money.
So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle horn!
Honour to the roods and horn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to light Little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to Maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan!
THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
WOW happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace and gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend!
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
Sir Henry Wotton.
THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.
'HE king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the king!"
"And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your Oriflamme to-day, the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies-upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours, Mayenne hath turned his rein.
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