. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. e talk of beeves and whisper, that by reason of some crimeHanging like mill-stone round me, am I comeTo expiate the past. And here, in truth,I pace the flags each day ; and muse, as oftI watch the spiders weave athwart the wallTheir silken death-nets for the foolish flies, So weaved his webs around my helpless youth,Th unloyal crafty head, where sits my crown :Founder, methinks, of a long line of so I dreamed last night it is Merovingian race should pass awayFor ever,—sicut herba transeat—Then these in turn, gave p
. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. e talk of beeves and whisper, that by reason of some crimeHanging like mill-stone round me, am I comeTo expiate the past. And here, in truth,I pace the flags each day ; and muse, as oftI watch the spiders weave athwart the wallTheir silken death-nets for the foolish flies, So weaved his webs around my helpless youth,Th unloyal crafty head, where sits my crown :Founder, methinks, of a long line of so I dreamed last night it is Merovingian race should pass awayFor ever,—sicut herba transeat—Then these in turn, gave place, their work being builder setteth up, and pulleth his towr. We are but stocks and stonesShaped to his mighty purpose. Hark ! the bellRings into vespers ; and the brothers pass I40 KING CHILD ERIC IN THE CLOISTER. Down the side-cloister, eyeing me sunshine—bird, upon the cloister roof,Farewell until to-morrow. Now they sing, Ecce quam bonum habitare estFratres in utmni. .... What a mockry tis ! I. 141 GEORGE LEE. CHIVALRY is dead among us !So sigh those who read the taleOf Arthur and his Knights. They wrong us. Not alone to knights in mailDoes that noble self-disdain,That recks not peril, strife, and painIn succour of the oppressed, pertain. There are now, too, lives sublime,Heroes (let us thank God for it !) Whose bright deeds, from time to time, Cast a glow on these our days—Some like beacons from a turret, Some uplighting lowly , while I tell the story Of a humble man, George Lee,Who, in life unknown to glory. Will in death remembered be,By the men mong whom he example and their pride. FIRE, FIRE, FIRE ! That dread cry in dead of nightRouses the sleepers with affright. 142 GEORGE LEE. Adown the narrow squalid street; And while men stumble to their feet, And snatch their earnings up with oaths, Wives clasp their babes and tattered clothes. And all run out into the ways. On which the lurid firelight plays.
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookpublisherlondonbell, bookyea
