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 96 We can only give our sympathy and our testimony. We can show the Czar that we are watching his intercourses with France, and anxious for a good deliverance for him and his people from their revolution. When asked, we can give our opinion that nothing is so safe in politics as frank speech about an avowed object. If Russia is to remain an autocracy, let the Czar say so, and learn whether it is possible. If the people are to become a nation, with a middle class and representative institutions, let the proposal be openly made. When frank discussion shames conspiracy, it may turn out that the fires are the work of mere thieves, and the horrors those of frightened people running after each other in the dark. Matters can hardly be worse; and there is no saying how much better they may be, when men appear who are worthy of their day. Meantime, there may be more immediate bloodshed elsewhere, but there can scarcely be a more fearful spectacle than the Tribulation of Russia. 2em



rode in fretful spleen

Thro’ yellow meadows of wheat and bean,

And thro’ green wood and glade;

The balmy peace he found not then

Among the busy haunts of men,

He sought in summer shade,

And all day long as thus he rode

Unrest within his heart abode.

In sober samite he was drest,

No shining mail was on his breast,

Nor sword nor spear had he;

His heart within was heavy as lead,

And as he rode his helmless head

He hung dejectedly,

And as he rode from place to place

The sun burnt blushes on his face.

Sir Gawain said, “I leave behind

The fever of the warlike mind,

And seek a calm repose;

Unhelm’d upon my path I set,

Quitting those arts wherewith I met

Mine honorable foes;

And far away across the plain

I go to woo Maid Avoraine.

Within the palace of the king

The sweet-eyed syrens smile and sing,

Brittle and bright as glass;

Like clouds that part with softest airs,

A languid loveliness is theirs:

So from the court I pass,

And, poor and pale, I go to gain

The country-bred Maid Avoraine.

She knows no lust of pomp or pelf,

And she will love me for myself,

And share my lowly lot;

For she is innocent and fair,

And wears within her yellow hair

The blue forget-me-not

Myself did place there, in my pride,

When last we wandered side by side.

Her heart is like a bird with wings,

That soars above the world and sings

For joy the spring is here;

And she will love me though I cast

Mine ancient honour to the blast,

And break both sword and spear.

Her heart is humble. For the rest,

My strength shall put her to the test.

What time I rode in mail like fire,

Close followed by my meek esquire,

Home from the tilt and fight,

And rode beside a running stream,

With golden helm that made a gleam

Of noonday in the night,

I halted late upon the plain,

And saw the sweet Maid Avoraine.

Rude russet woof her peasant’s dress,

But all the rest was loveliness

As sweet and white as milk;

She gave me food, she brought me wine,

She sang me songs, and placed in mine

A hand more soft than silk.

I spoke no word. At break of day,

Gloomy with doubt, I rode away.

But morn and night, in peace or fight,

While I have dwelt, a warlike knight,

Where merry men carouse,

The memory of the country maid

Has darkened on me, like the shade

Of trembling forest boughs

On waters where the sun doth fall

And twinkle in a golden ball.

So half ashamed, forlorn, and weak,

Doubting the joy I go to seek,

Moody I ride and slow;

The honours fallen from my head

Cling roundabout my feet like lead,

And gall me as I go,

With fretful heart and questioning brain,

To country-bred Maid Avoraine.”

Sir Gawain rode thro’ sun and shade,

O’er yellow hill, thro’ gay green glade,

And by the river’s side;

He left King Arthur’s bright abode

Hemmed round with harvest. As he rode,

Dark-browed and pensive-eyed,

Shades of the court behind his back

Grew darker in Sir Gawain’s track.

And once or twice he pulled the reignrein [sic]

As if to journey back again;

And, though his heart was firm,

Shame tingled on him as a whip,

And a thin scorn upon his lip

Was writhing like a worm;

For he was thinking, more or less,

Of the sweet maiden’s lowliness.

Then on the forehead of a hill

He halted, gazing on the still