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once, forlorn, he strayed,

Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the convent's guest,
The single boon for which he prayed
Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.

Peace dwells not here this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.

Such was his mien when first arose

The thought of that strange tale divine—
When hell he peopled with his foes,

Dread scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now.
Before his name the nations bow;
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.
Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]



ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

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And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths entwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly

This spray of Western pine!

Bret Harte [1839-1902]


[SIR FRANCIS DRAKE, 1540?-1596]

DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Rovin' though his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them
long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',

They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

Henry Newbolt [1862

Not His Name!" 3375



turf above thee, better days!

e but to love thee, thee but to praise.

n thou wert dying,
nused to weep,
e thou art lying,

he cold turf steep.

whose truth was proven, are laid in earth,

a wreath be woven world their worth;

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