With one back-handed blow that wrote

In blood men's verdict there. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, And damned, and truth stood up instead.

XIV.

This glads me most, that I enjoyed
The heart of the joy, with my content
In watching Gismond unalloyed
By any doubt of the event:

God took that on him I was bid
Watch Gismond for my part: I did.

XV.

Did I not watch him while he let
His armorer just brace his greaves,
Rivet his hauberk, on the fret

my memory

The while! His foot.
No least stamp out, nor how anon
He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

XVI.

And e'en before the trumpet's sound
Was finished, prone lay the false knight,
Prone as his lie, upon the ground:

Gismond flew at him, used no sleight
O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,
Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

XVII.

Which done, he dragged him to my feet
And said, "Here die, but end thy breath
In full confession, lest thou fleet

From my first, to God's second death!
Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied
To God and her," he said, and died.

XVIII.

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked

leaves

What safe my heart holds, though no word

Could I repeat now, if I tasked

My powers forever, to a third

Dear even as you are.

Pass the rest

Until I sank upon his breast.

XIX.

Over my head his arm he flung

Against the world; and scarce I felt
His sword (that dripped by me and swung)
A little shifted in its belt:

For he began to say the while

How South our home lay many a mile.

XX.

So 'mid the shouting multitude

We two walked forth to never more
Return. My cousins have pursued
Their life, untroubled as before

I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place
God lighten! May his soul find grace!

XXI.

Our elder boy has got the clear

Great brow; though when his brother's black Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here? And have you brought my tercel back?

I just was telling Adela

How many birds it struck since May.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

Morning, evening, noon and night, "Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my sɔn:

"As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I
Might praise him, that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight."

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew :
The man put off the stripling's hue:

The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:

"So sing old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways: I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

"T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed ;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped — Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

INSTANS TYRANNUS.

I.

Of the million or two, more or less,
I rule and possess,

One man, for some cause undefined,
Was least to my mind.

II.

I struck him, he grovelled of course
For, what was his force?

I pinned him to earth with my weight

And persistence of hate:

And he lay, would not mon, would not curse,

As his lot might be worse.

III.

"Were the object less mean, would he stand

At the swing of my hand!

For obscurity helps him and blots

The hole where he squats.'

So, I set my five wits on the stretch

To inveigle the wretch.

All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,

Still he couched there perdue;

I tempted his blood and his flesh,

Hid in roses my mesh,

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:

Still he kept to his filth.

Who could pay me in person or pelf

What he owes me himself!

No: I could not but smile through my
For the fellow lay safe

As his mates do, the midge and the nit,
-Through minuteness, to wit.

chafe :