There is the mighty Mother, ever young And garlanded, and welcoming her sons. There are her thousand charms to soothe thy pain, And merge thy little, individual woe In the broad health and happy fruitfulness Of all that smiles around thee. For thy sake The woven arches of her forests breathe Perpetual anthems, and the blue skies smile Between, to heal thee with their infinite hope. There are her crystal waters: lave thy brows, Hot with long turmoil, in their purity; Wash off the battle-dust from those poor limbs Blood-stained and weary. Holy sleep shall come Upon thee; waking, thou shalt find in bloom The lilies, fresh as in the olden days; And once again, when Night unveils her stars, Thou shalt have sight of their high radiance, And feel the old, mysterious awe subdue The phantoms of thy pain. And from that height A voice shall whisper of the faith, through which A man may act his part until the end. Anon thy ancient yearning for the fight May come once more, tempered by poise of chance, And guided well with all experience. Invisible hands may gird thy armor on, And Nature put new weapons in thy hands, Sending thee out to try the world again,— Perchance to conquer, being cased in mail Of double memories; knowing smaller griefs Can add no sorrow to the woful past; And that, howbeit thou mayest stand or fall, Earth proffers men her refuge everywhere, And Heaven’s promise is for aye the same. MONTAGU. Queen Katherine of Arragon In gray Kimbolton dwelt, A joyous bride, ere bluff King Hal To Anne’s beauty knelt. Still in her haughty Spanish eyes Their childhood’s lustre shone, That lit with love two royal hearts, And won the English throne. From gray Kimbolton’s castle-gate She rode, each summer’s day, And blithely led the greenwood chase With hawk and hound away. And ever handsome Montagu, Her Master of the Horse, To guard his mistress kept her pace O’er heather, turf, and gorse. O, who so brave as Montagu To leap the hedges clear! And who so fleet as he to find The coverts of the deer! And who so wild as Montagu, To seek his sovereign’s love! More hopeless than a child, who craves The brightest star above. Day after day her presence fed The fever at his heart; Yet loyally the young knight scorned To play a traitor’s part. Only, when at her palfrey’s side He bowed him by command, Lightening her footfall to the earth, He pressed her dainty hand; A tender touch, as light as love, Soft as his heart’s desire; But aye, in Katherine’s artless blood, It woke no answering fire. King Hal to gray Kimbolton came Erelong, and true love’s sign, Unused in colder Arragon, She prayed him to divine: