The peril, see, is past. 80 All are harbored to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas, "Anchor!"--sure as fate Up the English come--too late!

VIII

So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave 85 On the heights o'erlooking Greve.

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

"Just our rapture to enhance; Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth, and glare askance 90 As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"

How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!

Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for h.e.l.l! 95 Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!"

What a shout, and all one word, "Herve Riel!"

As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise 100 In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

IX

Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. 105 Praise is deeper than the lips; You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward.

'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!

Demand whate'er you will, 110 France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

X

Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through 115 Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- 120 Since the others go ash.o.r.e-- Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"

That he asked and that he got--nothing more.

XI

Name and deed alike are lost. 125 Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 130 All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.

Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank!

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. 135 So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

"GOOD, TO FORGIVE"

Good, to forgive; Best, to forget!

Living, we fret; Dying, we live.

Fretless and free, 5 Soul, clap thy pinion!

Earth have dominion, Body, o'er thee!

Wander at will, Day after day-- 10 Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar!

Body may slumber: Body shall c.u.mber 15 Soul-flight no more.

Waft of soul's wing!

What lies above?

Sunshine and Love, Skyblue and Spring! 20 Body hides--where?

Ferns of all feather, Mosses and heather.

Yours be the care!

"SUCH A STARVED BANK OF MOSS"

Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born!

Sky--what a scowl of cloud 5 Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star!

World--how it walled about Life with disgrace 10 Till G.o.d's own smile came out: That was thy face!

EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC

What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, 5 While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, 10 Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly 15 Quite as singing--I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, 20 --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss--such ears Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly, 25 Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile, "In vain one tries Picking faults out; take the prize!" 30

When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed?

Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed 35 One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew 40 With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, 45 What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Aye and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, 50 Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges 55 Cry with one a.s.sent, "Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument?

Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" 60

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done?

That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent 65 For aiding soul-development.