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Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,

With his swarthy, grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,

Some old frontier town of Flanders.
Up and down the dreary camp,

In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp,

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went,

Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor's tent,

In her nest they spied a swallow. Yes, it was a swallow's nest,

Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane or tail, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedgerows east and west,

After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said,

As he twirled his grey mustachio, “ Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed,

And the Emperor but a Macho!"*
Hearing his imperial name

Coupled with those words of malice,
Half in anger, half in shame,
Forth the great campaigner came
Slowly from his canvas palace.

• "Macho" is Spanish for "mule."

“Let no hand the bird molest,"

Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!”
Adding then, by way of jest,
“Golondrina * is my guest,

'Tis the wife of some deserter!”
Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,

Through the camp was spread the rumour,
And the soldiers, as they quaffed
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed

At the Emperor's pleasant humour.
So unharmed and unafraid

Sat the swallow still and brooded,
Till the constant cannonade
Through the walls a breach had made,

And the siege was thus concluded.
Then the army, elsewhere bent,

Struck its tents as if disbanding,
Only not the Emperor's tent, .
For he ordered, ere he went,

Very curtly, “Leave it standing."
So it stood there all alone,

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
Till the brood was fledged and flown,
Singing o'er those walls of stone

Which the cannon-shot had shattered.

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In the village churchyard she lies,
Dust is in her beautiful eyes,

No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;

• “Golondrina." A swallow is also a cant word for a deserter.

At her feet and at her head
Lies a slave to attend the dead,

But their dust is white as hers.

Was she a lady of high degree,
So much in love with the vanity

And foolish pomp of this world of ours;
Or was it Christian charity,
And lowliness and humility,

The richest and rarest of all dowers ?

Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ;
No colour shoots into those cheeks,

Either of anger or of pride,
At the rude question we have asked;
Nor will the mystery be unmasked

By those who are sleeping at her side.

Hereafter ?-And do you think to look
On the terrible pages of that Book

To find her failings, faults, and errors?
Ah, you will then have other cares,
In your own shortcomings and despairs,

In your own secret sins and terrors !


Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,

Passed o'er our village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,

The sombre houses hearsed with pluines of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same,

Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,

And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.

I saw them pause on their celestial way;

Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, “ Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray

The place where thy beloved are at rest!" And he who wore the crown of asphodels,

Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in wells

The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. I recognized the nameless

agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me,

And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest,

And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best,

Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. Then with a smile, that filled the house with light,

“My errand is not Death, but Life," he said ; And, ere I answered, passing out of sight,

On his celestial embassy he sped. 'Twas at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine,

The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with voice divine,

Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,

A shadow on those features, fair and thin ; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,

Two angels issued, where but one went in. All is of God! If he but wave his hand,

The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,

Lo ! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his ;

Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er ; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,

Against his messengers to shut the door ?

In the Valley of the Vire

Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
And beneath the window-sill,

On the stone,

These words alone:
“Oliver Basselin lived here.
Far above it, on the steep,

Ruined stands the old château;
Nothing but the donjon-keep
Left for shelter or for show,

Its vacant eyes

Stare at the skies,
Stare at the valley green and deep.
Once a convent, old and brown,

Looked, but ah! it looks no more,
From the neighbouring hillside down
On the rushing and the roar

Of the stream

Whose sunny gleam
Cheers the little Norman town.
In that darksome mill of stone,

To the water's dash and din,
Careless, humble, and unknown,
Sang the poet Basselin

Songs that fill

That ancient mill
With a splendour of its own.

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