Saying, "Fight on, my merry men all,
And see that none of you be taine;
For rather than men shall say we were hangd,
Let them report how we were slaine."

Then, God wott, faire Edenburough rose,
And so besett poore Jonnë rounde,
That fower score and tenn of Jonnës best men
Lay gasping all upon the ground.

Then like a mad man Jonnë laid about,
And like a mad man then fought hee,
Until a falce Scot came Jonnë behinde,
And runn him through the faire boddee.
Saying, "Fight on my merry men all,

I am a little hurt, but I am not slain;
I will lay me down for to bleed a while,
Then I'le rise and fight with you again.”

PROSPICE

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Fear death?-to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attain'd,
And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gain'd,
The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

LAST LINES

BY EMILY BRONTË

No coward soul is mine,

No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:

I see Heaven's glories shine,

And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life-that in me hast rest,

As I undying Life-have power in thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as wither'd weeds,

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thine infinity;
So surely anchor'd on
The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,

And suns and universes ceas'd to be,

And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,

Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou Thou art Being and Breath,

And what Thou art may never be destrov'd.

EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO

BY ROBERT BROWNING

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
When you set your fancies free,

Will they pass to where-by death, fools think, imprison'd—

Low he lies who once so lov'd you, whom you lov'd so, -Pity me?

Oh to love so, be so lov'd, yet so mistaken!

What had I on earth to do

With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel

-Being-who?

One who never turn'd his back but march'd breast forward,

Never doubted clouds would break,

Never dream'd, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,

Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time
Greet the unseen with a cheer!

Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,-fight on, fare ever There as here!"

HOPE IN FAILURE

BY A. E.

Though now thou hast failed and art fallen, despair not because of defeat,

Though lost for a while be thy heaven and weary of earth be thy feet,

For all will be beauty about thee hereafter through sorrowful years,

And lovely the dews for thy chilling and ruby thy heart-drip of tears.

The eyes that had gazed from afar on a beauty that blinded the eyes

Shall call forth its image for ever, its shadow in alien

skies.

The heart that had striven to beat in the heart of the Mighty too soon

Shall still of that beating remember some errant and faltering tune.

For thou hast but fallen to gather the last of the secrets of power;

The beauty that breathes in thy spirit shall shape of thy sorrow a flower,

The pale bud of pity shall open the bloom of its

tenderest rays,

The heart of whose shining is bright with the light of the Ancient of Days.