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XII.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread-and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

XIII.

Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum.

XVII.

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his destin'd Hour, and went his way.

XXI.

Ah, my Belovéd, fill the cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regret and future Fears:
To-morrow!-Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

XXIV.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

Sir Francis Hastings Charles Doyle

1810-1888

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS

(1866)

Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff'd, and swore:
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never look'd before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewilder'd, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame:
He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd,
One sheet of living snow;

The smoke, above his father's door,
In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,

Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!-with strength like steel He put the vision by.

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,

With knee to man unbent,
-Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram'd;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untam'd,
The strong heart of her sons.

So, let his name through Europe ring-
A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

William Makepeace Thackeray

1811-1863

AT THE CHURCH GATE

(From Pendennis, 1849-1850)

Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming:
They've hush'd the Minster bell:

The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast:

She comes-she's here—she's past—
May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute

Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

THE END OF THE PLAY

(From Dr. Birch and His Young Friends, 1848-1849)

The play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome word and task;

And, when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends,
Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
And pledge a hand to all young friends,

As fits the merry Christmas time.
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts,
That Fate ere long shall bid you play;
Good night! with honest gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway!

Good night!-I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page,

The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain, than those of men;
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say, we suffer and we strive,
Not less nor more as men than boys;
With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys.

And if, in time of sacred youth,

We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school,

I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
The prize be sometimes with the fool,
The race not always to the swift.

The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vulgar clown,

The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

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