By England’s king; a bargain, as is thought.
Are we worth more? Let’s prove it now we can;
For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun,
Or Mary Stark’s a widow.” It was done.
IX.
Hers are not Tempe’s nor Arcadia’s spring,
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales,
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling
Such wild enchantment o’er Boccaccio’s tales
Of Florence and the Arno; yet the wing
Of life’s best angel, Health, is on her gales
Through sun and snow; and in the autumn-time
Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime.
X.
Her clear, warm heaven at noon—the mist that shrouds
Her twilight hills—her cool and starry eves,
The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds,
The rainbow beauty of her forest-leaves,
Come o’er the eye, in solitude and crowds,
Where’er his web of song her poet weaves;
And his mind’s brightest vision but displays
The autumn scenery of his boyhood’s days.
XI.
And when you dream of woman, and her love;
Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power;
