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And so to England came with speed,
To repossess King Lear
By his Cordelia dear.
Was in the battle slain ;
Possest his crown again.
But when he heard Cordelia's death,
Who died indeed for love
She did this battle move,
From whence he never parted :
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL
As in the sunshine of the morn
His now forgotten friend, a snail,
Crawls o'er the grass, whom when he spies,
“What means yon peasant's daily toil,
“What arrogance !' the snail replied ;
THE DÆMON LOVER
"O where have you been, my long, long, love,
This long seven years and more?' O I'm come to seek my former vows
Ye granted me before.'
O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For they will breed sad strife ;
For I am become a wife.'
He turn'd him right and round about,
And the tear blinded his ee; 'I would never have trodden on Irish ground,
If it had not been for thee.
"I might have had a king's daughter,
Far, far beyond the sea;
Had it not been for love of thee.'
'If ye might have had a king's daughter,
Yourself you had to blame;
For ye knew that I was nane.'
O false are the vows of womankind,
But fair is their false bodie; I never would have trodden on Irish ground Had it not been for love of thee.'
'If I was to leave my husband dear,
And my two babes also,
If with you I should go ?'
'I have seven ships upon the sea,
The eighth brought me to land; With four and twenty bold mariners,
And music on every hand.'
She has taken up her two little babes,
Kiss'd them both cheek and chin ; O fare ye well, my own two babes, For I'll never see you again.'
She set her foot upon the ship,
No mariners could she behold; But the sails were of the taffetie,
And the masts of the beaten gold.
She had not saild a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
And drumlie grew his ee.
The masts that were like the beaten gold
Bent not on the heaving seas;
Filld not in the east land breeze.
They had not saild a league, a league,
A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven foot,
And she wept right bitterly.
"O hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he,
‘Of your weeping now let me be; I will show you how the lilies grow
On the banks of Italy.'
O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,
That the sun shines sweetly on ?' O yon are the hills of heaven,' he said, 'Where you will never won.'
O what a mountain is yon,' she said,
*All so dreary with frost and snow?' 'Oyon is the mountain of hell,' he cried,
“Where you and I will go.'
And aye when she turn’d her round about
Aye taller he seem'd for to be ;
No taller were than he.
The clouds grew dark and the wind grew loud,
And the levin filled her ee;
Upon the gurlie sea.
He struck the topmast with his hand,
The foremast with his knee;