The sleeping or waking is known of none.
Yet bides the gift of the darkness — sleep!
"Turn out, boys!"—"What's up with our super. to-night?
And many on board still, and some wash'd on shore.
From the township; and we — we can do little more.
Half-dress'd, in the dark, to the stockyard we ran.
And sharply "The Sugarloaf" rear'd on our right.
Till round the man's armpits the waves seemed to curl.
We stagger'd, then out on the skirts of the plain.
At a stiff leap; 'twas little he cared on the black.
"You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried.
Of the ranges to eastward. The mare — could she stay?
"The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't blown.
You know your way now." So I rode on alone.
This sinner was a loving one."— Mrs. Browning.
"What does it matter for one soul lost?
Would I give him one moment's grace to pray?
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay."— Browning.
And what was a man to do?
Someone had watered his beast on foot.
'Twas he — he had gone. Which way?
Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss!
See the livid face through the flame!
When his life depends on his aim!
The tip of my ear. Flash! bang!
I had shot him dead in his den!
Better than most men," whispered one.
Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin?
So shapen — so conceived in sin?
Aye, what they will, such trifles kill.
Than ever — he swears he can win all the way.
But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock?
He rides, too, like thunder — he sits like a rock.
"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello!
Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag!
So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag.
He mutter'd — lock'd level the hurdles we flew.
A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat.
To land him, and what does he weigh?
Thus you would not teach that peasant, though he calls you "father".
Melchior: Yet the difference is but slight.
He does well"— your saints and martyrs were examples here on earth.
Chaunt the noble Nunc Dimittis — Benedicimur, my son.
(Takes up a pamphlet.) What has this man got to say?
I nunc, ora, sine mora — orat etiam Sancta Virgo.
Poor Estelle! her friends forsake her; what has this to do with me?
Revel in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl?
You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave.
I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please.
Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end?
Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend?
Wilful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle?
You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul?
Aye, 'tis the road to Avernus, n'est ce pas vrai donc, ma belle?
Am I your lord or your vassal? Are you my sun or my torch?
An open country. LAURENCE RABY and FORREST, BRIAN AYLMER and PRESCOT.
And I shoot skyward — the heart.
Though death were indeed new birth.
In the potter's perishing clay?
Is it well for the sinner that souls endure?
As of old, are you dreaming still?
Where the young dreams longer are nursed?
Though the seas have sundered us twain?
But the young dreams surely have faded!
Shall the new dream vex us as they did?
Or as things worth censure or praise?
What fair reward had Achilles?
What rest could Alcides win?
Or strengthen our weakness? Wherefore?
With love was the sunshine fraught?
Can they favour man? Can they wrong man?
Or rest from a toilsome day?
The dream I would fain forego.
What visions under the stone lie?
What dreams in the shroud sleep dwell?
Cut down — cast forth for the burning.
On the threshold of Mary's chapel?
That through prayer and penance is pardoned.
Aye, father! hast thou come at last?
And one was doom'd to bleed.
The threshold with a crash!
See, life for life is fairly spilt!
"Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
And thus ——" But suddenly she halted there.
We burst on the Westbrooke Bridge —"What haste?
Next morn — we buried her — brave old girl!
Gwendoline! — why do you ask for her?
Good-night! — and — Good-bye!