66 ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782-THE GOOSE. Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away- Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes: And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : To-morrow yet would reap to-day, As we bear blossom of the dead; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. O THOU, that sendest out the man What wonder, if in noble heat Those men thine arms withstood, Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, And in thy spirit with thee fought Who sprang from English blood! But Thou rejoice with liberal joy, Lift up thy rocky face, And shatter, when the storms are black, In many a streaming torrent back, The seas that shock thy base! Whatever harmonies of law Thy work is thine-The single note smote Will vibrate to the doom. THE GOOSE. I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm, He utter'd rhyme and reason, 'Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season.' She caught the white goose by the leg, With cackle and with clatter. She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 'A quinsy choke thy cursed note !' Then wax'd her anger stronger. 'Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.' Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat ; As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather: He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning; 'So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.' The wild wind rang from park and plain, Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, AT Francis Allen's on the Christmas- To hold by.' Francis, laughing, clapt Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held I mean of verse (for so we held it then), His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books' And then to me demanding why? Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing—that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased me well enough.' 'Nay, nay,' said Hall, 'Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.' 'But I,' Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again Said Francis, 'pick'd the eleventh from To rule once more--but let what will be, was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he Then spake King Arthur to Sir Where lay the mighty bones of ancient a sleep men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind He, They sleep-the men I loved. I think By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, that we Shall never more, at any future time, deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Came on the shining levels of the lake. Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills." So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost.' So spake he, clouded with his own And hid Excalibur the second time, Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds.' To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 'My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the My wound hath taken cold, and I shall sword, And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick! 'Now see I by thine eyes that this is I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' |