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THE BEGGAR AND THE BISHOP.
“My lord bishop," said the béggar,
Thou and I in Christ are bréthren,
Lét us therefore live as brothers;
Í 'll begin, do thoú as I do.
“Here 's one hálf my crust and bacon,
Hére 's one of my two sixpences;
Nów give me one hálf the income
Óf thy see and presentátions."
“Yes, beyond doubt we are bréthren,"
Said the bishop with a gráve smile,
“And have bóth received our pórtions
From the sáme impártial Párent.
“T6 divide again were impious
Díscontentedness on oúr parts ;
Keep thou thine as I will mine keep,
Ánd let bóth praise the great giver.
“ Bút as Í am boúnd in fairness
Tó acknowledge í ’ve the lion's share,
Táke this cháritáble shilling
Ánd my blessing, and no móre say.”
Walking from CANTERBURY to SITTINGBOURNE (KENT), Nov. 23, 1854.
TONGUELESS thou 'st yét a triple voice, gray lock;
For, first, thou speakest of a time when soft,
Brown, glóssy, curly hair my temples shaded;
When súpple and elastic were my joints,
My stróng heart full of joy and hope and courage,
My infant reason breathless in pursuit
Of fugitive, light-foot, ignis - fatuus Knowledge;
A tíme when in my curling locks my mother
Her fingers used to wreathe and smiling say:
“Heaven bléss my boy and make him a good man.”
And next thou speakest of a time, gray lock,
When prématúrely with my yet brown hair
White hairs began to mingle, and my mother
With ténder hand would pluck them and say sighing:
“Thése might have wéll a little longer waited,
And spáred the sorrow to a mother's eyes.”
And I would smile, and press her hand and say:
“Bé of good heárt; we ’ve many a year before us,
Mother and son, to live, and love each other,
My vigorous mánhood sheltering and protecting
Hér in whose shélter sáfe I grew to manhood.”
And lást, thou speakest of a time, gray lock
A tíme, alás! no longer in perspective,
Distant and dím and dreaded, but here present
When the kind fingers, that in my brown curls
Once wreathed themselves or plucked the odd white hair,
Lie mouldering in the sepulchre, and I,
Three fourths my journey made to the same goal,
Play with my fingers in my daughter's curls
And sigh and say: – Already a white hair!”
Such triple voice hast thou, truthful gray lock.
FONTAINE L’EVEQUE, HAINAULT (BELGIUM); Nov. 12, 1854.
FOR THE TOMBSTONE OF MARAT.
Slaín by an ángel in the guise of woman
Here lies that fiend incarnate, Jean Marat;
The enemy of mankind, THE PEOPLE'S FRIEND. *
Alás, magnanimous Corday, that the world
Must búy its ríddance from the incubus
Át the too high price of thy virgin blood!
LILLE, DEP, DU NORD (FRANCE); Nov. 17, 1854.
LÉT men boást their Brútus,
Scévola and Cócles,
Wómen have their greater,
Nóbler, púrer Córday.
LILLE, DEP. DU NORD (FRANCE); Nov. 17, 1854.
DON'T know thee, Sorrow, Háve no wish to know thee, Dón't admire thy pále face Drooping líds and moist cheeks.
Yét methínks I 've seen thee
Ah! I now remember
Twice before I 've seen thee,
Dísmal, black - robed Sorrow.
First when on her deathbed
Láy my noble mother
And with failing breath breathed
Blessings on her children,
There beside the deathbed
f behéld thee, Sorrow,
Wring thy hánds in ánguish,
And the scálding tear shed.
Next I saw thee, Sorrow,
Sitting bý my Ann Jane's
Néw - made moúnd sepulchral
In the vále of Sárca.