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“ St-St,” he 'd whisper, “the Corregidor ! ”
I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, To have just looked, when this man came to die, And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides, And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death, Doing the King's work all the dim day long, In his old coat and up to knees in mud, Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,And, now the day was won, relieved at once ! No further show or need of that old coat, You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I ! A second, and the angels alter that. Well, I could never write a verse,—could you? Let's to the Prado and make the most of time.
Violets instead of laurel in the hair,
Now read here. “Protus ends a period “ Of empery beginning with a god; “ Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, “ Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant : “ And if he quickened breath there, 't would like fire “ Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. “ A fame that he was missing, spread afar : “ The world, from its four corners, rose in war, “ Till he was borne out on a balcony “ To pacify the world when it should see. “ The captains ranged before him, one, his hand “ Made baby points at, gained the chief command. “ And day by day more beautiful he grew “ In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, " While young Greek sculptors gazing on the child “ Became, with old Greek sculpture, reconciled. “ Already sages laboured to condense “ In easy tomes a life's experience : “ And artists took grave counsel to impart “ In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art, “ And make his graces prompt as blossoming “ Of plentifully-watered palms in spring : “ Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, “ For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, “ And mortals love the letters of his name.”
-Stop! Have you turned two pages ? Still the same. New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day, “ John the Pannonian, groundedly believed “ A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved “ The Empire from its fate the year before, “ Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore
" The same for six years, (during which the Huns
Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great
eye, Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper. What a man !
MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA.
Hist, but a word, fair and soft !
Forth and be judged, Master Hugues ! Answer the question I've put you so oft :
What do you mean by your mountainous fugues ? See, we 're alone in the loft,
Hugues, the composer of note,
Let's have a colloquy, something to quote, Make the world prick up its ear!
See, the church ernpties apace :
Fast they extinguish the lights.
Here 's a crank pedal wants setting to rights, Baulks one of holding the base.
See, our huge house of the sounds,
Hushing its hundreds at once,
-O you may challenge them, not a response Get the church-saints on their rounds !
(Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt ?
—March, with the moon to admire, Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about,
Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire, Put rats and mice to the rout
Aloys and Jurien and Just
Order things back to their place,
Rub the church-plate, darn the sacrament-lace, Clear the desk-velvet of dust.)
Here's your book, younger folks shelve !
Played I not off-hand and runningly, Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve ?
Here's what should strike, could one handle it
cunningly : Help the axe, give it a helve !
Every bar's rest, where one wipes
O'er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes
Sure you were wishful to speak,
You, with brow ruled like a score,
Like two great breves, as they wrote them of yore, Each side that bar, your straight beak !
x Sure you said " Good, the mere notes !
“ Still, couldst thou take my intent, 6 Know what procured me our Company's votes
“ A master were lauded and sciolists shent, “ Parted the sheep from the goats !"
Well then, speak up, never flinch !
Quick, ere my candle 's a snuff -Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost inch
I believe in you, but that 's not enough: Give my conviction a clinch !
XII . First you deliver your phrase
-Nothing propound, that I see, Fit in itself for much blame or much praise