For by children facts go streaming in a throng that never pauses, Noted not, till, of a sudden, thought, a sunbeam, gilds the motes. All at once the known words quicken, and the child would deal with causes. Since to kill the French was righteous, why bade Nelson lower the boats? Quick the man put by the question. “But the _Orient_, none could save her; We could see the ships, the ensigns, clear as day-light by the flare; And a many leaped and left her; but, God rest ’em! some were braver; Some held by her, firing steady till she blew to God knows where.” At the shock, he said, the _Vanguard_ shook through all her timbers oaken; It was like the shock of Doomsday,--not a tar but shuddered hard. All was hushed for one strange moment; then that awful calm was broken By the heavy plash that answered the descent of mast and yard. So, her cannon still defying, and her colours flaming, flying, In her pit her wounded helpless, on her deck her Admiral dead, Soared the _Orient_ into darkness with her living and her dying: “Yet our lads made shift to rescue three-score souls,” the seaman said. Long the boy with knit brows wondered o’er that friending of the foeman; Long the man with shut lips pondered; powerless he to tell the cause Why the brother in his bosom that desired the death of no man, In the crash of battle wakened, snapped the bonds of hate like straws. While he mused, his toddling maiden drew the daisies to a posy; Mild the bells of Sunday morning rang across the churchyard sod; And helped on by tender hands, with sturdy feet all bare and rosy, Climbed his babe to mother’s breast, as climbs the slow world up to God. POVERTY ROW Brave old neighbours in Poverty Row, Why should we grudge to dwell with you? Pinch of poverty well ye know-- Doubtful dinner and clouted shoe. Grinned the wolf at your doors, and yet You sang your songs and you said your say. Lashed to labour by devil Debt, All were manful, and some were gay. What, old Chaucer! a royal jest Once you made in your laughing verse: “No more goldfinch-song in the nest-- Autumn nest of the empty purse!” Master Spenser, your looks are spare; Princes’ favours, how fleet they be! Thinking that yours was the selfsame fare, Crust or crumb shall be sweet to me. Worshipful Shakespeare of Stratford town, Prosperous-portly in doublet red, What of the days when you first came down To London city to earn your bread? What of the lodging where Juliet’s face Startled your dream with its southern glow, Flooding with splendour the sordid place? That was a garret in Poverty Row!