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THE NORMAN BARON.
(Dans les moments de la vie où la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, od l'intérêt et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image.]
THIERRY · CONQUETE DE L'ANGLETERRE.
In his chamber, weak and dying, | “ Wassail for the kingly stranger
Born and cradled in a manger !
Christ is born to set us free !"
And the lightning showed the sainted Spite of vassal and retainer,
l'igures on the casement painted, And the lands his sires had plundered,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
"Miserere, Domine !" By his bed a monk was seated,
In that bour of deep contrition, Who in a humble voice repeated
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.
All the pomp of earth had vanished, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Falsehood and deceit were banished, Bells, that, from the neighbouring klos Reason spake more loud than passion, ter,
And the truth wore no disguise.
Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor, sail;
All those wronged and wretcbed crea
tures Many a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits.
By his hand were freed again. And so loud these Saxon gleemen
And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features, · Knocking at the castle-gates.
And the monk replied, “Amen!" Till at length the lays they chanted
Many centuries have been numbered Reached the chamber terror-haunted,
Since in death the baron slumbered Where the monk, with accents holy,
By the convent's sculptured portal, Whispered at the baron's ear.
Mingling with the common dust : Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
But the good deer, through the ages As he paused awhile and listened,
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.
THE INDIAN HUNTER.
WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in,
RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain !
Near at hand, After the dust and heat,
From under the sheltering trees, In the broad and fiery street,
The farmer sees In the narrow lane,
His pastures, and his fields of grain, How beautiful is the rain !
As they bend their tops How it clatters along the roofs,
To the numberless beating drops Like the tramp of hoofs !
Of the incessant rain. How it gushes and struggles out
He counts it as no sin From the throat of the overflowing spout!
That he sees therein Across the window pane
Only his own thrift and gain. It pours and pours;
These, and far more than these, And swift and wide,
The Poet sees With a muddy tide,
He can behold
Walking the fenceless fieids of air,
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere Breath of each little pool;
The showery rain, His fevered brain
As the farmer scatters his grain. Grows calm again,
He can behold And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
Things manifold From the neighbouring school
That have not yet been wholly told, Come the boys,
Have not been wholly sung nor said. With more than their wonted noise For his thought, that never stops, And commotion ;
Follows the water drops And down the wet streets
Down to the graves of the dead, Sail their mimic fleets,
Down through chasms and gulfs proTill the treacherous pool
found, Engulfs them in its whirling
To the dreary fountain-head And turbulent ocean.
Of lakes and rivers underground; In the country, on every side
And sees them, when the rain is done, Where far and wide,
On the bridge of colours seven
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer, How welcome is the rain !
With vision clear, In the furrowed land
Sees forms appear and disappear, The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; In the perpetual round of strange, Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, Mysterious change With their dilated nostrils spread, From birth to death, from death to birth, They silently inhale
From earth to heaven, from heaven to The clover-scented gale,
earth; And the vapours that arise
Till glimpses more sublime
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Seem to thank the Lord,
Turning for evermore More than man's spoken word
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.
TO A CHILD.
DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the brave bashaw With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin. With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! Those silver bells Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or Potosí's o'erhanging pines ! And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape; For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath the burning, tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the pirate, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at the sound, Thon turnest round
With quick and questioning eyes,