Xix

"How does she make my thoughts be sure of what they mean?" Judge and be just! Suppose, an age and time long past nenew for our behoof one pageant more, the last O' the kind, sick Louis liked to see defile between Him and the yawning grave, its passage served to screen. With eye as gray as lead, with cheek as brown as bronze, Here where we stand, shall sit and suffer Louis Onze: The while from yonder tent parade forth, not--oh, no-- Bateleurs, baladines! but range themselves a-row Those well-sung women-worthies whereof loud fame still finds Some echo linger faint, less in our hearts than minds.