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Never feeling of unrest
Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest,
All the lovely valley seemed;
Of soaring higher
Stirred or fluttered in his breast.
True, his songs were not divine;
Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine,
Find an answer in each heart;
But the mirth
Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line.
From the alehouse and the inn,
Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din,
Singing and applause of feet,
The laughing lays
That in those days Sang the poet Basselin.
In the castle, cased in steel,
Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Watched and waited, spur on heel; But the poet sang for sport
Songs that rang
Songs that lowlier hearts could feel.
In the convent, clad in gray,
Sat the monks in lonely cells, Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,
And the poet heard their bells ;
But his rhymes
Found other chimes,
Nearer to the earth than they.
Gone are all the barons bold,
Gone are all the knights and squires, Gone the abbot stern and cold,
And the brotherhood of friars;
Not a name
Remains to fame,
From those mouldering days of old !
But the poet's memory here
Of the landscape makes a part;
In the Valley of the Vire.
UNDER the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,
In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
“ Come forth to thy death,
Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
« Come forth to thy death,
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry,
And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 6. Take good aim; I am ready to die!"
Thus challenges death
Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped ;
Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ;
And they only scath