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140 THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF.
Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades, old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm!
So, whene'er I turn my eye Back upon the days gone by, Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends who closed their course before me.
Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more!
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
Take, — I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me!
THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF. - Old
Why fearest thou the outward foe,
When thou thyself thy harm doth feed?Of grief or hurt, of pain or woe,
Within each thing is sown the seed.
So fine was never yet the cloth,
No smith so hard his iron did beat,
But the one consumed was by moth,
T' other with canker all to fret.
The knotty oak, and wainscoat old,
Within doth eat the silly worm;
Even so a mind in envy rolled
Always within itself doth burn.
Thus everything that nature wrought
Within itself his hurt doth bear;
No outward harm need to be sought,
Where enemies be within so near.
THE KING OF THE CROCODILES. — Soutkey.
'Now, woman, why without your veil?
And wherefore do you look so pale?
And, woman, why do you groan so sadly,
And wherefore beat your bosom madly?"
"O, I have lost my darling boy,
In whom my soul had all its joy;
And I for sorrow have torn my veil;
And sorrow hath made my very heart pale.
"O, I have lost my darling child,
And that's the loss that makes me wild;
He stooped to the river down to drink,
And there was a crocodile by the brink.
142 THE KING OF THE CROCODILES.
"He did not venture in to swim, He only stooped to drink at the brim;But under the reeds the crocodile lay, And struck with his tail and swept him away.
"Now take me in your boat, I pray,
For down the river lies my way,
And me to the Eeed Island bring,
For I will go to the Crocodile King.
"The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong,
He has no tail so stiff and strong,
He has no tail to strike and slay,
But he has ears to hear what I say.
"And to the King I will complain,
How my poor child was wickedly slain;
The King of the Crocodiles he is good,
And I shall have the murderer's blood."
The man replied, — " No, woman, no,
To the Island of Reeds I will not go;
I would not for any worldly thing
See the face of the Crocodile King."
"Then lend me now your little boat, And I will down the river float,
I tell thee that no earthly thing Shall keep me from the Crocodile King."
The woman she leapt into the boat,
And down the river alone did she float;
And fast with the stream the boat proceeds,
And now she is come to the Island of Eeeds.
The King of the Crocodiles there was seen, —
He sat upon the eggs of the Queen, —
And all around, a numerous rout,
The young Prince Crocodiles crawled about.
The woman shook every limb with fear,
As she to the Crocodile King came near,
For never man without fear and awe
The face of his Crocodile Majesty saw.
She fell upon her bended knee,
And said, — " O King, have pity on me,
For I have lost my darling child,
And that's the loss that makes me wild.
"A crocodile ate him for his food;
Now let me have the murderer's blood,
Let me have vengeance for my boy,
The only thing that can give me joy.
"I know that you, sire! never do wrong,
You have no tail so stiff and strong,
You have no tail to strike and slay,
But you have ears to hear what I say."
"You have done well," the King replies,
And fixed on her his little eyes;
"Good woman, yes, you have done right,
But you have not described me quite.
"I have no tail to strike and slay,
And I have ears to hear what you say;
I have teeth, moreover, as you may see,
And I will make a meal of thee,"
144 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
BURIAL OP SIR JOHN MOORE. — Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning, — By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he '11 reck, if they '11 let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.