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My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means-- In troth, I was a happy chiel! I passed the gates of Valenciennes, I never thought to come by Lille. Why came I not by Lille? I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal. I got the cash from grandmamma Her gentle heart my woes could feel, But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille. I have no cash, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

I turn as white as cold boil'd veal; I turn and look another way, I dare not ask the bill at Lille. Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochineal; And think did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille. The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I perspirate from head to heel; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise, How can I, without cash at Lille? What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille?

More by Algernon Charles Swinburne

O gracious gods! O cursed prison strong and barred, It does my very blood congeal! I tremble as I pass the guard, And quit that ugly part of Lille. The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal Ah, church-door beggar! You're not the poorest man in Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er any woes reveal? Say, shall I to you Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel?

Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,-- I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille! Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! What see I on my table stand,-- A letter with a well-known seal?

I know her hand,-- "To Mr. Titmarsh, Lille. It is--it is--a ten-pound note, And I'm no more in pawn at Lille! Know ye the willow-tree Whose gray leaves quiver, Whispering gloomily To yon pale river; Lady, at even-tide Wander not near it, They say its branches hide A sad, lost spirit? Once to the willow-tree A maid came fearful, Pale seemed her cheek to be, Her blue eye tearful; Soon as she saw the tree, Her step moved fleeter, No one was there--ah me!

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No one to meet her! Quick beat her heart to hear The far bell's chime Toll from the chapel-tower The trysting time: But the red sun went down In golden flame, And though she looked round, Yet no one came!

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Presently came the night, Sadly to greet her,-- Moon in her silver light, Stars in their glitter; Then sank the moon away Under the billow, Still wept the maid alone-- There by the willow! Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Hour after hour went on Tolling and tolling. Long was the darkness, Lonely and stilly; Shrill came the night-wind, Piercing and chilly. Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold, Bleak peers the gray dawn Over the wold.

Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany,-- Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary; Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany, Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere! Long by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the gray water: "Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter? Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook! Vainly the constable Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder, Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping! And a pale countenance Looked through the casement. Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony-- "Lor! And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep. Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know, Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night, Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.

Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key. Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow, Descind from your station and make observation Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico. This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres, The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know; And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure, Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.

O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is Walking magnanimous all of a row, Forgetful what state is among the pataties And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.

There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus, Of "God save the Queen" as they hop to and fro; And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico. There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses That round in the gardens resplindently grow, Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins, Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico. You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther, Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow, A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.

And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid You see on its summit a wondtherful show-- A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico. Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers, On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow, With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.

There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow; I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead Should find an admission to famed Pimlico. O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O; And while round the chamber astonished I go, I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.

The Ballad Of The Costa Concordia

Eastlake has the chimney, a good one to limn he, And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below; While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico. There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings; There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show; And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is, That painted the panels of famed Pimlico. In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got, Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio; And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in, And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico.

There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo; Wid de piece by young Townsend, for janins abounds in't; And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico. That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, But some I won't mintion is rather so so; For sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee, O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico? O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero; So heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty, And silence, my lyre! Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial, What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial.

And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums.

Lecture 21: The Ballad of the White Horse

My Muse's words Is like the bird's That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wing she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there. I seen thank Grace! Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there. There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urrns: There's organs three, To play, d'ye see?

There's staym Ingynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

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There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows. And ploughs like toys For little boys, And ilegant wheelbarrows. All day the windless heaven pavilions the sea-blue, Then twilight comes and drenches the sultry dells. Bernard Gilmore is the lead author of the Lost Heaven book series. This ballad needs no historical notes, for the simple reason that it does There came green devils out of the sea He saw heaven fall and the world end,.

Like the child's book to read,.. But our king Alfred, lost from fame. We search and discover the lost ancient Chinese folklore recipe, totem, handicraft We create, renovate, revive the precious heritage. The Ballad of the White Horse, by G.

Ballads of Lost Heaven

But it is also the story of Christianity battling against the destructive forces of nihilism and heathenism, which is the battle we are still fighting. At the beginning of the poem, the Blessed Virgin appears to King Alfred, and he asks her if he is going to win the upcoming battle.