For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, home. (TENNYSON: _Maud_, I. i. 1855.) (See note on p. 41.) All under the deeps of the darkness are glimmering: all over impends An immeasurable infinite flower of the dark that dilates and descends, That exalts and expands in its breathless and blind efflorescence of heart As it broadens and bows to the wave-ward, and breathes not, and hearkens apart. (SWINBURNE: _The Garden of Cymodoce_, in _Songs of the Springtides_.) _Six-stress dactylic._ (For this, see chiefly Part Two.) (Catalectic:) Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaay? Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saay. Proputty, proputty, proputty--Sam, thou's an ass for thy paains: Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braains. (TENNYSON: _Northern Farmer--new style._ ab. 1860.) Thee I behold as a bird borne in with the wind from the west, Straight from the sunset, across white waves whence rose as a daughter Venus thy mother, in years when the world was a water at rest. (SWINBURNE: _Hesperia._) _Seven-stress iambic._ There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. (BYRON: _Stanzas for Music._ 1815.) Here we have anacrusis in lines 2 and 4. Beyond the path of the outmost sun, through utter darkness hurled-- Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled-- Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world. (KIPLING: _Wolcott Balestier._) (See also under Seven-stress Verse, in Part Two.) _Seven-stress trochaic._ (Catalectic:) Clear the way, my lords and lackeys, you have had your day. Here you have your answer, England's yea against your nay; Long enough your house has held you: up, and clear the way! (SWINBURNE: _Clear the Way._) _Seven-stress anapestic._ (With feminine ending:) Come on then, ye dwellers by nature in darkness, and like to the leaves' generations, That are little of might, that are moulded of mire, unenduring and shadowlike nations, Poor plumeless ephemerals, comfortless mortals, as visions of creatures fast fleeing, Lift up your mind unto us that are deathless, and dateless the date of our being. (SWINBURNE: _The Birds_, from Aristophanes.)