'And I desire thee do thy worst.'

'Ho, ho!' quoth Tarquin, 'tho: One of us two shall end our lives Before that we do go.

"If thou be Lancelot du Lake,
Then welcome shalt thou be.
Wherefore see thou thyself defend,
For now defy I thee.'

They buckled then together so

Like unto wild boars rashing;

And with their swords and shields they ran, At one another slashing:

The ground besprinkled was with blood:
Tarquin began to yield;
For he gave back for weariness,

And low did bear his shield.

This soon Sir Lancelot espied,
He leapt upon him then,
He pull'd him down upon his knee,
And, rushing off his helm,

Forthwith he struck his neck in two,
And, when he had so done,

From prison threescore knights and four
Delivered every one.

Old Ballad

CLV

TH

THE THREE FISHERS

HREE fishers went sailing away to the west, Away to the west as the sun went down ; Each thought on the woman who loved him best,

And the children stood watching them out of the

town;

For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down ; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and

brown.

But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town;

For men must work and women must weep,

And the sooner 't is over, the sooner to sleep,

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

C. Kingsley

CLVI

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY

HE post-boy drove with fierce career,

When, as we hurried on, my ear
Was smitten with a startling sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound, — and more and more;

It seem'd to follow with the chaise,

And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy call'd out;
He stopp'd his horses at the word,
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smack'd his whip, and fast
The horses scamper'd through the rain;
But hearing soon upon the blast

The cry,

I made him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground,

drown'd;

'Whence comes,' said I, 'that piteous moan?'

And there a little girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise alone.

'My cloak!' no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her innocent heart would break;
And down from off her seat she leapt.

'What ails you, child?' — she sobb'd, 'Look here!'

I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scarecrow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
A miserable rag indeed!

'And whither are you going, child,
To-night, along these lonesome ways?'
'To Durham,' answer'd she, half wild.
'Then come with me into the chaise.'

Insensible to all relief

Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, as if her grief
Could never, never have an end.

'My child, in Durham do you dwell?'
She check'd herself in her distress,
And said, 'My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

'And I to Durham, sir, belong.'
Again, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tatter'd cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she had lost her only friends,
She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the host,
To buy a new cloak for the old :

'And let it be of duffil gray,

As warm a cloak as man can sell !'
Proud creature was she the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell!

W. Wordsworth

TH

CLVII

THE FIRST SWALLOW

flowers are gay,

HE gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speedwell
The oaks are budding, and, beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring,
The swallow, too, has come at last ;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hail'd her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch

At the gray dawn of day.

C. Smith