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Updated: June 18, 2025
Seek music in the wolf's fierce howl, Or pity In his Wood-shot eye, When hanger drives him out to prowl Beneath a rayless northern sky. But seek not that we shall forgive The hand that strikes as to the heart, And yet in mock'ry bids us live To count our stars as they depart. We've fed the tyrant with our blood, Won all her battles! built her throne!
Lontane thought it might be his will or a plot, and brought the shirt here, and I copied the accursed thing for my record, as I am compelled to by the rules of the august devils of Downing Street." Why wilt thou torture me with unripe call, Bringing these visions of the dear old land? Dost think 't is sweet to let thy mock'ry fall? For me to hear forgotten noises in the Strand?
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