He said: "May this false land know no truth! May the good hearts die and the bad ones flourish, And a greed of glory but live to nourish Envy and hate in its restless youth. "In the barren soil may the ploughshare rust, While the sword grows bright with its fatal labour, And blackens between each man and neighbour The perilous cloud of a vague distrust! "Be the noble idle, the peasant in thrall, And each to the other as unknown things, That with links of hatred and pride the kings May forge firm fetters through each for all! "May a king wrong them as they wronged their king May he wring their hearts as they wrung mine, Till they pour their blood for his revels like wine, And to women and monks their birthright fling!" The mad king died; but the rushing river Still brawls by the spot where his donjon stands, And its swift waves sigh to the conscious sands That the curse of King Saloman works for ever. For flowing by Pressbourg they heard the cheers Ring out from the leal and cheated hearts That were caught and chained by Theresa's arts,-- A man's cool head and a girl's hot tears! And a star, scarce risen, they saw decline, Where Orsova's hills looked coldly down, As Kossuth buried the Iron Crown And fled in the dark to the Turkish line. And latest they saw in the summer glare The Magyar nobles in pomp arrayed, To shout as they saw, with his unfleshed blade, A Hapsburg beating the harmless air. But ever the same sad play they saw, The same weak worship of sword and crown, The noble crushing the humble down, And moulding Wrong to a monstrous Law. The donjon stands by the turbid river, But Time is crumbling its battered towers; And the slow light withers a despot's powers, And a mad king's curse is not for ever! THE MONKS OF BASLE. I tore this weed from the rank, dark soil Where it grew in the monkish time, I trimmed it close and set it again In a border of modern rhyme. I. Long years ago, when the Devil was loose And faith was sorely tried, Three monks of Basle went out to walk In the quiet eventide. A breeze as pure as the breath of Heaven Blew fresh through the cloister-shades, A sky as glad as the smile of Heaven Blushed rose o'er the minster-glades. But scorning the lures of summer and sense, The monks passed on in their walk; Their eyes were abased, their senses slept, Their souls were in their talk. In the tough grim talk of the monkish days They hammered and slashed about,-- Dry husks of logic,--old scraps of creed,-- And the cold gray dreams of doubt,-- And whether Just or Justified Was the Church's mystic Head,-- And whether the Bread was changed to God, Or God became the Bread.