The king sat bowed beneath his crown, "Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?" 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 At the king's gate the crafty noon Out of their sleep in terror soon "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 know that all the threads will run Appointed ways; I know each day will bring its task, I do not know the use or name I only know that some one came, My hand the thread, and said, "Since you Sometimes the threads so rough and fast I know wild storms are sweeping past, Shall fall; but dare not try to find I know not why, but I am sure In some great fabric to endure Past time and race, My threads will have; so from the first, I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung Said over me when I was young, It, knowing not that God's name signed But whether this be seal or sign Within, without, It matters not. The bond divine I know He set me here, and still, But listen, listen, day by day, To hear their tread 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: Of Death's wan mask upon this withering clay, 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? Is dead as the varlet turned to clay Where's he that died o' Sabba' day? Good Lord, I'd not be he! From this world's fare to flee; And the saint that died o' Sabba' day, Where's he that died o' yesterday? To clink the can and toss the pot As the whoreson knave men laid away Edmund Clarence Stedman. PROVENÇAL LOVERS AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE WITHIN the garden of Beaucaire "Now, who should there in Heaven be "There are the barefoot monks and friars |