THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS

En los nidos de antaño

No hay pájaros hogaño.

-SPANISH PROVERB.

EA, I am passed away, I think, from this; Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here, But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss, And witness ye, I go without a fear. Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see,

As once I dreamed, the show of shield and crest,

Gone southward to the fighting by the sea;—
There is no bird in any last year's nest!

Yea, with me now all dreams are done, I ween,
Grown faint and unremembered; voices call
High up, like misty warders dimly seen

Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall; And all things swim-as when the charger stands Quivering between the knees, and East and West

Are filled with flash of scarves and waving

hands;

There is no bird in any last year's nest!

Is she a dream I left in Aquitaine ?

My wife Giselle,-who never spoke a word, Although I knew her mouth was drawn with pain, Her eyelids hung with tears; and though I

heard

The strong sob shake her throat, and saw the cord

Her necklace made about it ;-she that prest To watch me trotting till I reached the ford ;There is no bird in any last year's nest!

Ah! I had hoped, God wot,-had longed that she

Should watch me from the little-lit tourelle,
Me, coming riding by the windy lea-

Me, coming back again to her, Giselle;
Yea, I had hoped once more to hear him call,
The curly-pate, who, rushen lance in rest,
Stormed at the lilies by the orchard wall;-
There is no bird in any last year's nest!

But how, my Masters, ye are wrapt in gloom! This Death will come, and whom he loves he

cleaves

Sheer through the steel and leather; hating whom He smites in shameful wise behind the greaves. 'Tis a fair time with Dennis and the Saints,

And weary work to age, and want for rest, When harness groweth heavy, and one faints, With no bird left in any last year's nest!

Give ye good hap, then, all.

For me, I lie

Broken in Christ's sweet hand, with whom shall

rest

To keep me living, now that I must die ;—
There is no bird in any last year's nest!

PALOMYDES

HIM best in all the dim Arthuriad,

Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,--.

The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad
Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,
Nor joy he had.

But, unloved ever, still must love the same,
And riding ever through a lonely world,
Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,
Against the danger desperately hurled,
Crying her name.

So I, who strove to You I may not earn, Methinks, am come unto so high a place, That though from hence I can but vainly yearn For that averted favour of your face,

I shall not turn.

No, I am come too high.

Whate'er betide,

To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,

Towards the mountain tops I still shall ride,

And cry your name in my extremity,

As Palomyde,

Until the issue come. Will it disclose

No gift of grace, no pity made complete, After much labour done,-much war with woes? Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet ;— Ah, Death-who knows?