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Our little lives are kept in equipoise
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
These perturbations, this perpetual jar
An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night, —
So from the world of spirits there descends
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE.
* IN the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; 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,
And foolish pomp of this world of ours ?
Or was it Christian charity,
The richest and rarest of all dowers?
Who shall tell us 2 No one speaks;
By those who are sleeping at her side.
Hereafter 2— And do you think to look
In your own secret sins and terrors!
THE EMPEROR'S BIRD’S-NEST.
ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
Some old frontier town of Flanders.
Up and down the dreary camp,
Striding with a measured tramp,
These Hidalgos, dull and damp,
Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.
. Thus as to and fro they went,
Yes, it was a swallow’s nest,
Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest,
Found on hedge-rows east and west,
After skirmish of the forces.
Then an old Hidalgo said,
“Sure this swallow overhead
Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed,
Hearing his imperial name
Coupled with those words of malice,