The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down,
Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town:
Why, their dainty white necks t were but pastime to wring
Ay! my muscles are firm still; / fought gainst the King!
Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all
The sheathed sabers that hang there, uplooped on the wall;
Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp;
Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp
The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweep
I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep
That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling
To those gallant old times when we fought gainst the King.
THE PINE S MYSTERY
Listen! the somber foliage of the Pine A swart Gitana of the woodland trees, In answering what we may but half divine To those soft whispers of the twilight breeze! Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves, Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain, Whose monotone of long, low anguish grieves^ For something lost that shall not live again!
THE W T ILL AND THE WING
To have the will to soar, but not the wings, Eyes fixed forever on a starry height, Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings Flash down the splendors of imperial light;
