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"Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun

upon the hill,

And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still?

So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will."

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'Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir Bishop?" Canute cried;

"Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride?

If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide.

"Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?"

Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, "Land and sea, my lord, are thine.

Canute turned towards the ocean-"Back!" he said, "thou foaming brine.

"From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat;

Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat:

Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet !"

But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar,

And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore;

Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the King and courtiers bore.

And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,

But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey:

And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.

King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist alway.

FRIAR'S SONG.

SOME love the matin-chimes, which tell
The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far's the mid-day bell,
Which speaks the hour of dinner ;
For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drown'd in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing my ave.

My pulpit is an alehouse bench,
Whereon I sit so jolly;

A smiling rosy country wench
My saint and patron holy.
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
press her ringlets wavy,

And in her willing ear I speak
A most religious ave.

And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind,
And holy saints forgiving;

For sure he leads a right good life
Who thus admires good living.

Above, they say, our flesh is air,
Our blood celestial ichor :

Oh, grant! 'mid all the changes there,
They may not change our liquor!

ATRA CURA.

BEFORE I lost my five poor wits,
I mind me of a Romish clerk,

Who sang how Care, the phantom dark,
Beside the belted horseman sits.
Methought I saw the grisly sprite
Jump up but now behind my Knight.

And though he gallop as he may,
I mark that cursed monster black
Still sits behind his honor's back,
Tight squeezing of his heart alway.
Like two black Templars sit they there,
Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.

No knight am I with pennoned spear,
To prance upon a bold destrere :
I will not have black Care prevail
Upon my long-eared charger's tail;
For lo, I am a witless fool,

And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.

REQUIESCAT.

UNDER the stone you behold,
Buried, and coffined, and cold,
Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold.

Always he marched in advance, Warring in Flanders and France, Doughtly with sword and with lance.

Famous in Saracen fight,

Rode in his youth the good knight, Scattering Paynims in flight.

Brian, the Templar untrue,

Fairly in tourney he slew,
Saw Hierusalem too.

Now he is buried and gone,
Lying beneath the gray stone:
Where shall you find such a one?

Long time his widow deplored,
Weeping the fate of her lord,
Sadly cut off by the sword.

When she was eased of her pain,
Came the good Lord Athelstane,
When her ladyship married again

THE WILLOW-TREE.

KNOW ye the willow-tree
Whose gray leaves quiver,
Whispering gloomily
To yon pale river?
Lady, at even-tide

Wander not near it :
They say its branches hide
A sad, lost spirit!

Once to the willow-tree

A maid came fearful;

Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful.

Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter;
No one was there-ah me!
No one to meet her!

Quick beat her heart to hear
The far bells' chime
Toll from the chapel-tower
The trysting time:

But the red sun went down
In golden flame,

And though she looked round,
Yet no one came!

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