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All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,
Feed, and begone! I wish to weep_I bring you out my store-
The Spanish woman speaks for Spain; for her butchered love, the
wife, To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life.” I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on, Nor count the crowded brave who sleep under a single stone; I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by, I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die. But though upon her wrenchéd limbs they leap'd like beasts of
prey, And with fierce hands like madmen tore the quivering life awayTriumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain, Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain. And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild, Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds, around the mother and her
childWhile she, distinct in raiments white, stands silently the while, And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging
A. W. PINERO,
THE SOLDIER'S STORY.
Each heading a goodly troop;
As kites on a dove might swoop
And could peck and claw right well,
And shattered wing could tell).
Yet, to give the fiend his due,
Or shaken a single screw
With all our valor and pride,
Fought on the English side.
They were rough, tall fellows, and churlish,
Though many of gentle blood (But your Scot will christen a Palace
What we term a Hovel of Mud): Men without home or country,
And without a care, we thought, An it were for Edward Longshanks
Or Satan himself they fought. Still fight they did like tigers,
And the stronghold quickly fell, Chief thanks to those valiant traitors
Who knew their own land so well.
Of their feudal rancors hot;
As can hungry Scot hate Scot.
But the bird from the nest bad flown;
Brooding, but not alone. Two eaglets fair, beside her
Delicate maids, I meanOne of a blooming twenty,
One of a sweet sixteen. There was combing of beards and ringlets,
Trimming of gloves and plumes ;
Essences and perfumes.
And our chivalrous bent so proved,
The ladies, at length, were moved. But the hireling Scots were sulky,
They would neither wash nor trim; They sat at the board in armor
Late stained by the carnage grim. We were vexed at one, especial,
Who in silence took his seat
And never opened his mouth at all,
Except, like a hog, to eat.
May have been that in the fray
And the hero of the day.
With a tall and knitted brow-
I could paint his picture now !
We sang our Provençal lays,
By our courtly acts of praise.
And drinking enough for ten,
Of Lord Aymer's gentlemen.
He tore the meat with his teeth;
With never a shirt beneath.
Where they were not black from mud.
Mixed with his native blood !" Then the Scot laid down the goblet,
Crushing it flat in his hand; I can see his blue eyes staring,
And his jaws wide open stand'Twas a frenzy fit of passion;
Which at once be overcame,
“My Lords, I am much to blame. I am but a Scot and a savage,
And your blame deserve, I wis, In a company of English knights
To sit in a plight like this.
But a man may mend his manners,
So I pray you let me go;
Before you next to show.”
With reverence deep to all;
ot, leave not the hall;
Thou hast helped King Edward's bands Like a liegeman true” But the Scotsman smiled,
“I go but to wash my hands." None dare impede his egress;
To smile or frown none knew;
Aymer's own kinsman true)
For a paltry jest like this The help of so brave a warrior
"Twere a shame and folly to miss." We sought him down in the court-yard,
Out in the marsh below;
No one bad seen him go.
Who had vanished up in the air ;
Why for one Scotsman care ?
Into the banquet hall;
Behind a pillar'd wall ;
(With a face that made him gasp) And hug the steps of the altar
With impassioned, feverish clasp. Had heard him pray the Virgin
To cleanse his traitorous hand