And the dashing swift that would ricochet From the tufts of grasses before them, yet-- Like bold Antaeus--would each time bring New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing; And the swallow and martlet that always knew The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew His breath--tapped his forehead--an idea had got through! So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filled With the swallows and martlets--the sweet birds who build In the houses of man--all that innocent guild Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch-- And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go To be free! As a child-like diversion? Ah, no! To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe. For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest Of their homes and their fledgelings--that they loved the best; And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead, Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed, Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came, To the Briton's red ruin--the Saxon's red shame! Yet they're all gone together! To-day you'll dig up From "mound" or from "barrow" some arrow or cup. Their fame is forgotten--their story is ended-- 'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended. But the birds are unchanged--the ouzel-cock sings, Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings; And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky, Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye; While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester. LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON When I bought you for a song, Years ago--Lord knows how long!-- I was struck--I may be wrong-- By your features, And--a something in your air That I couldn't quite compare To my other plain or fair Fellow creatures. In your simple, oval frame You were not well known to fame, But to me--'twas all the same-- Whoe'er drew you; For your face I can't forget, Though I oftentimes regret That, somehow, I never yet Saw quite through you. Yet each morning, when I rise, I go first to greet your eyes; And, in turn, YOU scrutinize My presentment. And when shades of evening fall, As you hang upon my wall, You're the last thing I recall With contentment. It is weakness, yet I know That I never turned to go Anywhere, for weal or woe, But I lingered For one parting, thrilling flash From your eyes, to give that dash To the curl of my mustache, That I fingered.