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"How they'll greet us!"-and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

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Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS.

WHERE the quiet-colored end of evening smiles
Miles and miles

WHER

On the solitary pastures where our sheep,

Half-asleep,

Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop, —

Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

Now,

-the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all,

Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest,
Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

Now,

the single little turret that remains
On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eve
Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray

Melt away

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there

In the turret, whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,

When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb,
Till I come.

But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,

All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, - and then,
All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand

On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and north,

And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,

Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force, -
Gold, of course.

O heart! O blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth's returns

For whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin!
Shut them in,

With their triumphs and their glories and the rest.
Love is best!

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A WOMAN'S LAST WORD.

L

ET 'S conténd no more, Love,

Strive nor weep,

All be as before, Love,

- Only sleep!

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