Thence we sail'd against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung by cruel tortures from the Indian folk of old;

Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,

Which flog men and keel-haul them and starve them to the bone.

Oh, the palms grew high in Avés and fruits that shone like gold,

And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to

behold;

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And the negro maids to Avés from bondage fast did flee, 15 To welcome gallant sailors a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh, sweet it was in Avés to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you while you listen'd to the roar

Of the breakers on the reef outside that never touched the shore.

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But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be, So the King's ships sail'd on Avés and quite put down were we.

All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;

And I fled in a piragua sore wounded from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, 25 Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing

she died;

But as I lay a-gasping a Bristol sail came by,

And brought me home to England here to beg until
I die.

And now I'm old and going I'm sure I can't tell

where;

One comfort is, this world's so hard I can't be worse
off there:

If I might but be a sea-dove I'd fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avés, to look at it once

again.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE OLD, OLD SONG'

WHEN all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;

And every goose a swan, lad,

And every lass a queen;

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away;

Young blood must have its course, lad,

And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown;

And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down:

Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:

God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

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THE THREE TROOPERS

DURING THE PROTECTORATE

INTO the Devil tavern

Three booted troopers strode,

From spur to feather spotted and splash'd
With the mud of a winter road.

In each of their cups they dropp'd a crust,
And star'd at the guests with a frown;
Then drew their swords, and roar'd for a toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,

Their sword blades were still wet;

There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,

As the table they overset.

Then into their cups they stirr'd the crusts,

And curs'd old London town;

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Then wav'd their swords, and drank with a stamp, 15

"God send this Crum-well-down!"

The 'prentice dropped his can of beer,
The host turn'd pale as a clout;

The ruby nose of the toping squire

Grew white at the wild men's shout. Then into their cups they flung the crusts,

And show'd their teeth with a frown; They flash'd their swords as they gave the toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

The gambler dropp'd his dog's-ear'd cards,
The waiting-women scream'd,

As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,
On the wild men's sabres gleam'd.

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25

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Then into their cups they splash'd the crusts,
And curs'd the fool of a town,

And leap'd on the table, and roar'd a toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,

And the troopers sprang to horse;

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And the eldest mutter'd between his teeth,

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In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,

Hot curses deep and coarse.

And cried as they spurr'd through the town,

With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cock'd,

"God send this Crum-well-down!"

Away they dash'd through Temple Bar,

Their red cloaks flowing free,

Their scabbards clash'd, each back-piece shone

None lik'd to touch the three.

The silver cups that held the crusts
They flung to the startled town,
Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.

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45

MARY MAGDALENE

AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE

(For a drawing by D. G. R.1)

"WHY wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair?

Nay, be thou all a rose, wreath, lips, and cheek.

1 In the drawing Mary has left a procession of revellers, and is ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her lover has followed her, and is trying to turn her back.

Nay, not this house, that banquet-house we seek;
See how they kiss and enter; come thou there.
This delicate day of love we two will share
Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak.
What, sweet one, - hold'st thou still the foolish freak?
Nay, when I kiss thy feet they 'll leave the stair."

-

"Oh loose me! Seest thou not my Bridegroom's face
That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss,
My hair, my tears He craves to-day : and oh!
What words can tell what other day and place
Shall see me clasp those blood-stain'd feet of His?
He needs me, calls me, loves me: let me go!"

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

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ALAS, SO LONG!

AH! dear one, we were young so long,
It seemed that youth would never go,
For skies and trees were ever in song

And water in singing flow

In the days we never again shall know.
Alas, so long!

Ah! then was it all Spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together.

Ah! dear one, I've been old so long,

It seems that age is loth to part,
Though days and years have never a song,
And oh! have they still the art

That warmed the pulses of heart to heart?

Alas, so long!

Ah! then was it all Spring weather?

Nay, but we were young and together.

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