’But now I must die between four stone walls
   In Byzant beside the sea: 
And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung,
   So God shall deal with thee.’

The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths,
   And he buried him royally,
And he set on his barrow an idol of gold,
   Where all Romans must bow the knee.

And now the Goths are the Kaiser’s men,
   And guard him with lance and sword,
And the little Baltung is his sworn son-at-arms,
   And eats at the Kaiser’s board,

And the Kaiser’s two sons are two false white lads
   That a clerk may beat with cane. 
The clerk that should beat that little Baltung
   Would never sing mass again.

Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without,
   And beaten gold within: 
But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung
   With the down upon his chin.

Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser’s garden
   Is Rome and Italian land: 
But it all shall fall to the little Baltung
   When he shall take lance in hand.

And when he is parting the plunder of Rome,
   He shall pay for this song of mine,
Neither maiden nor land, neither jewel nor gold,
   But one cup of Italian wine.

Eversley, 1864.

ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BELGIANS {319}

A King is dead!  Another master mind
   Is summoned from the world-wide council hall. 
Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind—­
   To read the mystic writing on the wall!

Be still, fond man:  nor ask thy fate to know. 
   Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings. 
Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe,
   Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings.

Windsor Castle,
   November 10, 1865.

EASTER WEEK

(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)

See the land, her Easter keeping,
   Rises as her Maker rose. 
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
   Burst at last from winter snows. 
Earth with heaven above rejoices;
   Fields and gardens hail the spring;
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,
   While the wild birds build and sing.

You, to whom your Maker granted
   Powers to those sweet birds unknown,
Use the craft by God implanted;
   Use the reason not your own. 
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,
   Each his Easter tribute bring—­
Work of fingers, chant of voices,
   Like the birds who build and sing.

Eversley, 1867.

DRIFTING AWAY:  A FRAGMENT

They drift away.  Ah, God! they drift for ever. 
I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea,
Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river,
Round whom the tide-waifs hang—­then drift to sea.