Our Captain wrote anew; "A lass is but a paltry thing, And yet my heart's in two! "Ha' ye searched through every convent- close, And sought in every den? Mistress o' man, or bride of Christ, I'll have her back again!" O Mantua's a bonny town, And she's long been our ally; But help came none from Mantua-town, And sick at heart am I. For thirty days and thirty nights No news came to the camp; And the life waned old in Captain Gold, As the oil wanes in a lamp. The third moon swelled towards the full When the third letter he wrote: "What will ye take for Janet? Red gold to fill your moat? "Red wine to fill your fountains full? Red blood to wash your streets? Ah, send me Janet home, my Lord, Or ye'll no die in your sheets!" O Love, that makes strong towers to sway, And captains' hearts to fall! I feared they might have heard his sobs Right out to Mantua-wall. For thirteen days and thirteen nights No messenger came back; And when the morning rose again, Our tents were hung with black. The dead bell rang through all the camp; But we rung it low and dim, Lest the Lombard hounds in Mantua Should know the end of him. ----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter). SIR ELDRIC |Sir Eldric rode by field and fen To reach the haunts of heathen men. About the dusk he came unto A wood of birchen gray, And on the other side he knew The heathen country lay. "'Tis but a night," he sang, "to ride, And Christ shall reach the other side." The moon came peering through the trees, And found him undismayed; For still he sang his litanies, And as he rode he prayed. He looked as young and pure and glad As ever looked Sir Galahad. About the middle of the night He came upon the brink Of running waters clear and white, And lighted there to drink. And as he knelt a hidden foe Crept from behind and smote him so. He turned; he felt his heart's blood run; He sought his enemy: "And shall I leave my deeds undone, And die for such as thee?" [Illustration: 0137] And since a knight was either man, They wrestled till the dawn began. Then in the dim and rustling place, Amid the thyme and dew, Sir Eldric dealt the stroke of grace, And sank a-dying too, And thought upon that other's plight Who was not sure of Heaven to-night. He dipped his fingers in his breast; He sought in vain to rise; He leaned across his foe at rest, And murmured, "I baptise!" When lo! the sun broke overhead: There, at his side, Himself lay dead! ----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter). [Illustration: 0138 THE MOWERS |They were three bonny mowers, Were mowing half the day; They were three bonny lasses A-making of the hay. "Who'll go and fetch the basket?" "Not I." "Nor I." "Nor I."