X. The Piper's face fell, and he cried: "Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he 's rich in, XI. "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook "Being worse treated than a Cook? "Insulted by a lazy ribald "With idle pipe and vesture piebald? "You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, "Blow your pipe there till you burst!" XII. Once more he stept into the street And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood To the children merrily skipping by, Right in the way of their sons and daughters! A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! "I can't forget that I 'm bereft "The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, "My lame foot would be speedily cured, "To go now limping as before, "And never hear of that country more!" Fear death? PROSPICE. to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, MATTHEW ARNOLD. Suffer that as thou takest boat to cross Grim Charon's tide, on voyage, heavy loss To England but to thee gain manifold I pluck thee by the shroud, and press thy cold Into its honoured palm! Ah! think on us Nor quite forsake the sad sphere where we dwell, How well they liked thee for thy "slashing blow;" How "sweet" thy "reasonableness" seemed; how right Thy lofty pleading for the long-dimmed "light!" Thou, that didst bear my Name, and deck it so Meet to be mentioned in one Age with thee Lay unreproved, these bay-leaves on thy brows! "FROM EDWIN ARNOLD." SHAKESPEARE. Others abide our question. Thou art free. Planting his stedfast footsteps in the sea, And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. Better so! |