Golden Numbers Part 62

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king,--a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

LEIGH HUNT.

_How's My Boy?_

Ho, sailor of the sea!

How's my boy--my boy?

"What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good s.h.i.+p sailed he?"

My boy John-- He that went to sea-- What care I for the s.h.i.+p, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town.

There's not an a.s.s in all the parish But he knows my John.

How's my boy--my boy?

And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Bra.s.s b.u.t.ton or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no!

Sure his s.h.i.+p was the _Jolly Briton_-- "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town!

Why should I speak low, sailor?

"That good s.h.i.+p went down."

How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the s.h.i.+p, sailor, I never was aboard her.

Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?

"Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her."

How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!

How's my boy--my boy?

SYDNEY DOBELL.

_The Child-Musician_

He had played for his lords.h.i.+p's levee, He had played for her ladys.h.i.+p's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim.

And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright; And they said--too late--"He is weary!

He shall rest, for at least to-night!"

But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room, With the sound of a strained cord breaking, A something snapped in the gloom.

'Twas the string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed:-- "Make room for a tired little fellow, "Kind G.o.d!" was the last he said.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

_How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix_

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he: I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through, Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace-- Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the c.o.c.ks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom a great yellow star came out to see; At Duffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime-- So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past; And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each b.u.t.ting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray; And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other p.r.i.c.ked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance; And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Ha.s.selt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her; We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"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.

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

And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate 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.

ROBERT BROWNING.

_The Inchcape Rock_

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The s.h.i.+p was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion; Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was s.h.i.+ning gay; All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round.

And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring; It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.