In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. 
        Go to Paris; rank on rank
        Search the heroes flung pell-mell
        On the Louvre, face and flank! 
You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. 
        So, for better and for worse,
        Herve Riel, accept my verse! 
        In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

LOCHINVAR.

I.

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,—­
Through all the wild border his steed was the best! 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,—­
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

II.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none. 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

III.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
’Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: 
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)
“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

IV.

“I long wooed your daughter—­my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

V.

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up;
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar;
“Now tread we a measure?” said young Lochinvar.

VI.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”