The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore his chords asunder;
And said, 'No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!' T. MOORE.

685. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

686. THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

"TIS the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.

T. MOORE.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

T. MOORE.

687. WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

688. THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD

A GOLDEN gilliflower to-day

I wore upon my helm alway,

And won the prize of this tourney.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

However well Sir Giles might sit,
His sun was weak to wither it,
Lord Miles's blood was dew on it:

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Although my spear in splinters flew,
From John's steel-coat, my eye was true;
I wheeled about, and cried for you,
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Yea, do not doubt my heart was good,
Though my spear flew like rotten wood,
To shout, although I scarcely stood,

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

My hand was steady too, to take
My axe from round my neck, and break
John's steel-coat up for my love's sake.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

When I stood in my tent again,
Arming afresh, I felt a pain
Take hold of me, I was so fain,

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée,

T. MOORE.

To hear Honneur aux fils des preux!
Right in my ears again, and show
The gilliflower blossomed new.

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

The Sieur Guillaume against me came,
His tabard bore three points of flame
From a red heart: with little blame,
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Our tough spears crackled up like straw,
He was the first to turn and draw
His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw;
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

But I felt weaker than a maid,
And my brain, dizzied and afraid,
Within my helm a fierce tune played,
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Until I thought of your dear head,
Bowed to the gilliflower bed,
The yellow flowers stained with red;
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Crash! how the swords met: giroflée!
The fierce tune in my helm would play,
La belle! la belle ! jaune giroflée !

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Once more the great swords met again:
La belle! la belle!' but who fell then?
Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten;
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

And as with mazed and unarmed face,
Toward my own crown and the Queen's place,
They led me at a gentle pace,

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

I almost saw your quiet head
Bowed o'er the gilliflower bed,
The yellow flowers stained with red.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

W. MORRIS.

689. PRAISE OF MY LADY

Set gently waving in the wind; Or her long hands that I may find

On some day sweet to move o'er
me?

Beata mea Domina!
God pity me though, if I missed
The telling, how along her wrist
The veins creep, dying languidly
Beata mea Domina!

Inside her tender palm and thin.
Now give me pardon, dear,

wherein

My voice is weak and vexes thee.
Beata mea Domina!

All men that see her any time,
I charge you straightly in this
rhyme,

What, and wherever you may be,
Beata mea Domina!

To kneel before her; as for me
I choke and grow quite faint to see
My lady moving graciously.
Beata mea Domina!

690. SUMMER DAWN

PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips;
Think but one thought of me up in the stars.
The summer night waneth, the morning light slips

W. MORRIS.

Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars,

That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:

Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold
Waits to float through them along with the sun.
Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,
The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold
The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;

They pray the long gloom through for daylight new born,
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn.

Speak but one word to me over the corn,
Over the tender, bowed locks of the corn.

691. SHAMEFUL DEATH

W. MORRIS.

THERE were four of us about that He was not slain with the sword,

bed;

The mass-priest knelt at the side, I and his mother stood at the head, Over his feet lay the bride; We were quite sure that he was dead,

Though his eyes were open wide.
He did not die in the night,

He did not die in the day,
But in the morning twilight
His spirit passed away,
When neither sun nor moon was
bright,

And the trees were merely grey.

Knight's axe, or the knightly

spear,

Yet spoke he never a word

After he came in here;

I cut away the cord

From the neck of my brother dear.

He did not strike one blow,

For the recreants came behind, In a place where the hornbeams grow,

A path right hard to find,
For the hornbeam boughs swing so,
That the twilight makes it blind.