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In the low, stifling armory,
Whence we could hear, but might not flee,
The roar of that engirdling sea,
Whose waves were helmet-crests of foes,
Winding the cords we sat, in rows,
Beside a mound of stringless bows.

Since the first hill-scouts panted in,
Before siege-fires and battle din
Filled night and day, and filled within
Our hearts and brains with flame and sound,
We had sat, huddled on the ground,
Our tears hot on the cords we wound.

We knew, when the first tidings came,
That not the gods from death or shame
Could save us, fighting clothed in flame.
The mid-sea's marshalled waves are few
Beside the warriors, girt with blue,
The gorged hill-passes then let through.

Their spears shook like ripe, standing corn,
Gold lakes that on the plains are born,
And nod to greet the golden morn;
After these years the earth yet reels,
And after snows and showers feels
The deluge of their chariot wheels.

Against our walls their flood was dammed,
Within which, till each porch was jammed,
Farm-folk and fisher-folk were crammed;
Heaped stones inside the gates were piled,
While all above us, calm and mild,
In bitter scorn the heavens smiled.

Our men dwelt on the walls and towers,
From over which, for endless hours,
The hissing arrows flew in showers;
The sling-stones, too, came crashing down,
As though the gods of far renown
Hurled thunderbolts into the town.

Where the hung temples showed their lights,

Some women prayed upon the heights;
Some stole about throughout the nights,
Who bore the warriors food by day,
Gleaning the arrows as they lay
That they might hurtle back to slay.

And where the rooms were heaped with stores,

Because the stringless bows were scores,
We were shut in with guarded doors;
All day at hurried toil we kept,

And when the darkness on us crept We lay, each in her place, and slept.

Quick as we worked, we could not make
Strings fast as bowmen came to take
Fresh bows; and oh, the grinding ache
Of hearts and fingers: maid and slave
And princess, we toiled on to save
Home that already was our grave.

Six days we wound the cords with speed;
Naught else from us had any heed,
For bitter was our rage and need.
At last, upon the seventh day,
Into the fury of the fray
They called our very guard away.

Faint with thirst,

No food was brought us.
What wonder was it if, at first,

Some wailed that the town gates were burst?

If, later, to the last embraces

Of child or mother, from their places
Some slunk away with ashen faces?

I cursed them through the door unbarred;
I vowed I would not move a yard,
Lest some one man of ours, pressed hard,
Might be left weaponless alone.
Until I died or turned to stone,

I would wind, were the hair mine own.

A sudden shiver shook my frame,
I looked up with my face aflame;
But oh, no tongue has any name
For the despair I saw enthroned
In my love's eyes, all purple-zoned!
I smiled to greet him, and I groaned.

He buckled on a fresh cuirass, -
His own was but a tattered mass
Of gory thongs. I saw him pass
Out of the portal; with good-byes
And blessings filled, and yearning sighs,
For the last time I saw his eyes.

Each moment, all my blood areel,
I felt the thrust of deadly steel
I knew his body soon must feel.
My heart was choked with prayerful speech;
The high, deaf gods were out of reach,
My eyes dry as a noonday beach.

More cowards left. Few now remained.
Still at our task we strove and strained

He sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold,

And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns.

The straggling fences all are interlaced With pink and purple morning-glory blooms;

The starry asters glorify the waste,

While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes.

Yet still amid the splendor of decay

The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead,

The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away,

The lovely summer songsters that have fled.

And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, Pale Summer for her perished kingdom pines,

And all the glories of her golden sheaves.

In vain October wooes her to remain

Within the palace of his scarlet bowers,— Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain,

And weep no more above her faded flowers.

At last November, like a conqueror, comes To storm the golden city of his foe;

We hear his rude winds like the roll of drums,

Bringing their desolation and their woe.

The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, The forest flames with blazes red as blood,

A conflagration sweeping to the sky.

Then all the treasures of that brilliant state

Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; October, like a King resigned to fate, Dies in his forests with their sunset fire.

HE WHO HATH LOVED

HE who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain,

And worn the royal purple of a king; Hath shrunk beneath the icy Winter's sting,

Then revelled in the golden Summer's reign; He hath within the dust and ashes lain, Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's wing;

A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, And hath been lord of castle-towers in Spain.

He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's cell,

Then in Aladdin's jewelled chariot driven; He hath with passion roamed a demon fell,

And had an angel's raiment to him given; His restless soul hath burned with flames of hell,

And winged through ever-blooming fields of heaven.

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Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys- the lads who serve the guns.

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,

Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don,"

Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,

And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;

Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps - the men behind the guns!

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