SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd,
Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd,
One sheet of living snow; The smoke above his father's door
In grey soft cddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom'd by himself, so young ^
Yes, honour calls' with strength like steel
He put the vision by. Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns, Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of hei sons. So, Jet his name through Europe ring
A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
��725 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse
STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuvc des Petits Champs its name is The New Street of the Little Fields;
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