'Bring me this man,' the caliph cried: the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. 'Welcome, brave cords,' cried he; 'From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver'd me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restor'd me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?'

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great.

He said, 'Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still.

Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.'

'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took; and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaim'd, 'This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar.'

_Leigh Hunt_

LIV

_COLIN AND LUCY_

Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring; And shrieking at the window thrice, The raven flapp'd his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew The solemn boding sound; And thus, in dying words bespoke, The virgins weeping round:

'I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away.

By a false heart and broken vows, In early youth I die: Was I to blame, because his bride Was thrice as rich as I?

'Ah, Colin, give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone: Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, Nor think him all thy own.

To-morrow in the church to wed, Impatient, both prepare!

But know, fond maid, and know, false man, That Lucy will be there!

'Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, This bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay, I, in my winding-sheet.'

She spoke, she died, her corse was borne The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay, She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?

How were these nuptials kept?

The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead, And all the village wept.

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, At once his bosom swell: The damps of death bedew'd his brow, He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

_T. Tickell_

LV

_THE REDBREAST CHASING THE b.u.t.tERFLY_

Art thou the bird whom man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English robin?

The bird that comes about our doors When autumn winds are sobbing?

Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?

Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland?

The bird, that by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother: The darling of children and men?

Could father Adam open his eyes, And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again.

--If the b.u.t.terfly knew but his friend, Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me, Under the branches of the tree: In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird to man so good, That after their bewildering, Cover'd with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood?

What ail'd thee, robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky, From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer, thou, of our in-door sadness, He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together?

His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A crimson as bright as thine own: Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, Oh, pious bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone!

_W. Wordsworth_

LVI

_THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD_

Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light.

A gentleman of good account In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die, No help his life could save; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possess'd one grave.

No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind; In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind.

The one, a fine and pretty boy, Not pa.s.sing three years old; The other, a girl more young than he.

And framed in beauty's mould, The father left his little son, As plainly doth appear, When he to perfect age should come Three hundred pounds a year.

And to his little daughter Jane, Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on her marriage day, Which might not be controll'd: But if the children chanced to die, Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth; For so the will did run.

'Now, brother,' said the dying man, 'Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here: To G.o.d and you I recommend My children dear this day; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay.

'You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; G.o.d knows what will become of them, When I am dead and gone.'

With that bespake their mother dear, 'O, brother kind,' quoth she, 'You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.

'And if you keep them carefully, Then G.o.d will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, G.o.d will your deeds regard.'

With lips as cold as any stone, They kiss'd their children small: 'G.o.d bless you both, my children dear;'

With that their tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there: 'The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear.

G.o.d never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear When you are laid in grave.'

The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight unto his house, Where much of them he makes.

He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away.

He bargain'd with two ruffians strong Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife an artful tale: He would the children send To be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind, They should on c.o.c.k-horse ride.

They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay.