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The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand,
Watching the hour-glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?"
The beggar turned, and, pitying,
Replied like one in dream, "Of thee,
Nothing. I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by. "O man, thou must have known," he said "A greater king than I.”

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before His throne I stand?"

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king's hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced.
"This is his presence now."

At the king's gate the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;

Out of their sleep in terror soon
The guards waked one by one.

"Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen

The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know.

SPINNING

On the king's gate the moss grew gray;

151

The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day

Slave in his father's stead.

Helen Hunt Jackson.

SPINNING

LIKE a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days;

I know that all the threads will run

Appointed ways;

I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.

I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin:

I only know that some one came,
And laid within

My hand the thread, and said, "Since you
Are blind, but one thing you can do."

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,

I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I

Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.

I know not why, but I am sure
That tint and place,

In some great fabric to endure

Past time and race,

My threads will have; so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung
From one short word

Said over me when I was young,
So young, I heard

It, knowing not that God's name signed
My brow, and sealed me His, though blind.

But whether this be seal or sign

Within, without,

It matters not. The bond divine
I never doubt.

I know He set me here, and still,
And glad, and blind, I wait His will;

But listen, listen, day by day,

To hear their tread
Who bear the finished web away,

And cut the thread,

And bring God's message in the sun,

"Thou poor blind spinner, work is done.”

Helen Hunt Jackson.

MORS BENEFICA

GIVE me to die unwitting of the day,

And stricken in Life's brave heat, with senses clear:
Not swathed and couched until the lines appear

Of Death's wan mask upon this withering clay,
But as that old man eloquent made way

FALSTAFF'S SONG

153

From Earth, a nation's conclave hushed anear; Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hear The victory, one glorious moment stay. Or, if not thus, then with no cry in vain,

No ministrant beside to ward and weep, Hand upon helm I would my quittance gain In some wild turmoil of the waters deep, And sink content into a dreamless sleep (Spared grave and shroud) below the ancient main.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

FALSTAFF'S SONG

WHERE's he that died o' Wednesday?

What place on earth hath he?
A tailor's yard beneath, I wot,
Where worms approaching be;
For the wight that died o' Wednesday,
Just laid the light below,

Is dead as the varlet turned to clay
A score of years ago.

Where's he that died o' Sabba' day?

Good Lord, I'd not be he!
The best of days is foul enough

From this world's fare to flee;

And the saint that died o' Sabba' day,
With his grave turf yet to grow,
Is dead as the sinner brought to pray
A hundred years ago.

Where's he that died o' yesterday?
What better chance hath he

To clink the can and toss the pot
When this night's junkets be?
For the lad that died o' yesterday
Is just as dead ho! ho!

As the whoreson knave men laid away
A thousand years ago.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

PROVENÇAL LOVERS

AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE

WITHIN the garden of Beaucaire
He met her by a secret stair,
The night was centuries ago.
Said Aucassin, "My love, my pet,
These old confessors vex me so!
They threaten all the pains of hell
Unless I give you up, ma belle";
Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

"Now, who should there in Heaven be
To fill your place, ma très-douce mie?
To reach that spot I little care!
There all the droning priests are met;
All the old cripples, too, are there
That unto shrines and altars cling
To filch the Peter-pence we bring";
Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

"There are the barefoot monks and friars
With gowns well tattered by the briars,
The saints who lift their eyes and whine:
I like them not a starveling set!

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