_
CXX
WHAT THE BULLET SANG
O Joy of creation
To be!
O rapture to fly
And be free!
Be the battle lost or won
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love--the one
Born for me!
I shall know him where he stands,
All alone,
With the power in his hands
Not o'erthrown;
I shall know him by his face,
By his god-like front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space
All my own!
It is he--O my love!
So bold!
It is I--All thy love
Foretold!
It is I. O love! what bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! what is this
Lieth there so cold?
_Bret Harte._
CXXI
A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA
King Philip had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us--
And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames
He had thought like an egg shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus--
For where are the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St.
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