I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,

So, Joris broke silence with, 'Yet there is time!'

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;

And one eye's black intelligence, ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master,

askance !

And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and

anon

His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay spur!

'Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her, 'We'll remember at Aix'-for one heard the quick wheeze

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like
chaff;

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And 'Gallop,' gasped Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!

'How they'll greet us!'-and all in a moment his

roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news

from Ghent.

Robert Browning.

185

THE OLD BUCCANEER

OH England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,

But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;

And such a port for mariners I shall ne'er see again

As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish Main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,

All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;

And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free

To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;

Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,

Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold,

And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;

And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,

To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from

sea.

Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward

breeze

A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,

With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar

Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;

So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we.

All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;

And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,

Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;

But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going-I'm sure I can't tell where ;

One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there:

If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the

main,

To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once Charles Kingsley.

again.

186

THE RETURN OF THE GUARDS

(July 9th, 1856.)

YES, they return-but who return?
The many or the few?

Clothed with a name, in vain the same,
Face after face is new.

We know how beat the drum to muster,
We heard the cheers of late,

As that red storm, in haste to form,
Burst through each barrack-gate.

The first proud mass of English manhood,
A very sea of life,

With strength untold, was Eastward rolled,-
How ebbs it back from strife?

The steps that scaled the heights of Alma
Wake but faint echoes here;

The flags we sent come back, though rent,
For other hands to rear.

Through shouts, that hail the shattered banner, Home from proud onsets led,

Through the glad roar, which greets once more Each bronzed and bearded head,

Hushed voices, from the earth beneath us,

Thrill on the summer air,

And claim a part of England's heart
For those who are not there.

Not only these have marched from battle
Into the realms of peace-

A home attained—a haven gained,
Where wars and tumults cease.