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There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope

and breathing-space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they

shall run,

Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in

the sun ;

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of

the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words

are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian


I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious

gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower

pains !

Mated with a squalid savage—what to me were sun or

clime ?

I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time

I that rather held it better men should perish one by

one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon

in Ajalon!

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let

us range. Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves

of change.

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger

day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Mother-age (for mine I knew not) help me as when

life begun : Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings,

weigh the Sun

0, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not


Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet.

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley

Hall !

Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof

tree fall.

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath

and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunder


Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or

snow ;

For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.


I waited for the train at Coventry ;
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped
The city's ancient legend into this :

Not only we, the latest seed of Time,
New men, that in the flying of a wheel
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well,
And loathed to see them overtax'd; but she

and underwent, and overcame,
The woman of a thousand summers back,
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought

Did more,

Their children, clamouring, “ If we pay, we starve
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode
About the hall, among his dogs, alone,
His beard a foot before him, and his hair
A yard behind. She told him of their tears,
And pray'd him, “If they pay this tax, they starve.”
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed,
“ You would not let

your little finger ache For such as these ? "_" But I would die,” said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; “O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! ”_“Alas !” she said, “ But prove me what it is I would not do.” And from a heart, as rough as Esau's hand, He answer'd, “ Ride you naked thro’ the town, And I repeal it ;” and nodding, as in scorn, He parted, with great strides among his dogs.

So left alone, the passions of her mind,
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
Made war upon each other for an hour,
Till pity won.

She sent a herald forth,
And bad him cry, with sound of trumpet, all

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