'Tis night--Sir Guy has sunk to sleep, The castle keep is hushed and still-- See, up the spiral stairway creep, To work his wicked will, Lord Ma.s.singbert of odious fame, Soft followed by his cut-throat staff; Ah, "Hold" has justified his name And pinned his lordship's calf!

A growl, an oath, then torches flare; Out rings a sentry's startled shout; The guard are racing for the stair, Half-dressed, Sir Guy runs out; On high his glittering blade he waves, He gives foul Ma.s.singbert the point, He carves the hired a.s.sa.s.sin knaves Joint from plebeian joint!

The Knight is dead--his sword is rust, But in his day I'm certain "Hold"

Wore, as his master's badge of trust, A collarette of gold: And still I like to fancy that, Somewhere beyond the Styx's bound, Sir Guy's tall phantom stoops to pat His little phantom hound!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18-

THE BARB OF SATIRE

THE VICAR OF BRAY

In good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high-churchman was I, And so I got preferment.

To teach my flock I never missed: Kings were by G.o.d appointed, And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed.

And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possessed the crown, And popery grew in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my const.i.tution; And I had been a Jesuit But for the Revolution.

When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Pa.s.sive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance.

When royal Anne became our queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional conformists base, I blamed their moderation, And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication.

When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, My principles I changed once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured From our new Faith's defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender.

The ill.u.s.trious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear-- While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty I nevermore will falter, And George my lawful king shall be-- Until the times do alter.

And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

Unknown

THE LOST LEADER [William Wordsworth]

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud-- We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Sh.e.l.ley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, --He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,--not through his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to G.o.d!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

ICHABOD [Daniel Webster]

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be pa.s.sion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains; A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS