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THE  FAMILY  LIBRARY 

OF 

Poetry  and  Song 

BEING 

€)^om  ^clcrtions  frnm  t^t  gcsl  gotts, 

ENGLISH,  SCOTTISH,  IRISH,  AND  AMERICAN  ; 
INCLUDING     TRANSLATIONS    FROM    ANCIENT    AND    MODERN    LANGUAGES. 

EDITED    BY  ^ 

WILLIAM     CULLEN     BRYANT. 

tCHitl)  an  iSntrotJuctorj  Crcatior  bj  tftt  ESitor 

"  POETS   AND   POETRY    OF   THE  ENGLISH   LANGUAGE." 

REVISED,  AND  ENLARGED. 

m 


JnlrejEcs,  Jfllustrotions,  anb  'ia.ntograpljic  i^ac-similcs. 


NOV  /^I886 
NEW  YORK:  /^  ' 

FORDS,   HOWARD,  AND  HULBERT. 


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Copyright, 

In  1870  AND  1877,  By  J.  B.  Ford  and  Company. 

In  1880  AND  i886,  By  Fords,  Howard,  and  Hulsert. 


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PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE. 


rriJIE  marked  success  of  "A  Library  of  Poetry  and  Song,"  as  first  issued  in 
-L  the  year  187U,  showed  that  the  work  supplied  a  real  need  of  the  public, 
whose  confidence  in  Mr.  Bryant,  as  its  editor,  has  been  borne  out  by  the  worlc 
itself. 

•Shortly  before  his  death,  observing  with  gratification  tlie  great  jjopularity 
attained  by  his  book  and  the  growing  demand  for  it,  Mr.  Bryant  desired  to 
thoroughly  revise  the  work  and  make  it  still  more  worthy  of  the  public  esteem 
and  his  own  fame.  And,  although  its  popular  acceptability  seemed  no  whit 
diuiiuished  in  its  original  form,  tlie  publishers  thought  it  wortliy  of  a  thorougli 
revision,  enlargement,  and  improvement.  Accordingly,  witli  Mr.  Bryant's  active 
co-(jperation,  the  work  was  subjected  to  an  entire  reconstruction,  both  as  to 
matter  and  form;  the  laljor  having  been  finished  just  before  Mr.  Bryant's 
death  in  1878,  and  being,  as  has  been  stated,  the  latest  of  his  completed 
literary  tasks.  About  one  fifth  of  the  material  of  the  former  volume  was 
eliminated,  and  twice  as  much  new  matter  added;  great  pains  having  been 
taken  to  insure  the  correctness  of  the  text,  witli  a  view  to  making  it  a  standard 
for  reference,  as  well  as  to  give  an  ample  provision  for  general  or  special 
reading. 

Tlie  name  "Library,"  which  has  been  given  it,  indicates  the  principle 
upKii  which  the  book  has  been  made,  namely:  that  it  might  serve  as  a  book 
of  reference ;  as  a  comprehensive  exhibit  of  the  history,  growth,  and  condition 
of  poetical  literature ;  and,  more  especially,  as  a  companion,  at  the  will  of  its 
possessor,  for  the  varying  moods  of  the  mind. 

Necessarily  limited  in  extent,  it  yet  contains  one  quarter  more  matter 
than  any  similar  publication,  presenting  nearly  two  thousand  selections,  from 
more  than  five  hundred  autliors ;  and  it  may  be  claimed  that  of  the  poetical 
writers  whose  works  have  caused  their  names  to  be  held  in  general  esteem  or 
affection,  none  are  unrepresented  ;  while  scores  of  the  productions  of  unknown 
authors,  verses  of  merit  though  not  of  fame,  found  in  old  books  or  caught  out 
of  the  passing  current  of  literature,  have  been  here  presented  side  by  side 
with  those  more  notable.  And  the  chief  object  of  the  collection  —  to  present 
m  f"'l  r-h 


iv  PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE. 

an  array  of  good  poetry  so  widely  representative  and  so  varied  in  its  tone  as 
to  offer  an  answering  chord  to  every  mood  and  phase  of  human  feeling  —  has 
been  carefully  kept  iu  view,  both  in  the  selection  and  the  arrangement  of  its 
contents.  So  that,  in  all  senses,  the  realization  of  its  significant  title  has  been 
an  objective  point. 

In  inirsuauce  of  this  plan,  the  highest  standard  of  literary  criticism  has 
not  been  made  the  only  test  of  worth  for  selection,  since  many  poems  have 
been  included,  which,  though  less  perfect  than  others  in  form,  have,  by  some 
power  of  touching  the  heart,  gained  and  maintained  a  sure  place  iu  the 
poi)ular  esteem. 

The  enlargement  and  reconstruction  of  this  work  entailed  upon  Mr.  Bryant 
much  labor,  in  conscientious  and  thorough  revision  of  all  the  material, — 
cancelling,  inserting,  suggesting,  even  copying  out  with  his  own  hand  many 
poems  not  readily  attainable  except  from  his  private  library,  —  in  short,  giving 
the  work  not  only  the  sanction  of  his  widely  honored  name,  but  also  the 
genuine  influence  of  his  fine  poetic  sense,  his  unquestioned  taste,  his  broad 
and  scholarly  acquaintance  with  literature.  To  assist  him,  especially  in  the 
principal  gathering  and  classification  of  the  material,  the  Publishers,  with  his 
concurrence,  obtained  the  services  of  Mr.  Edward  H.  Knight,  of  Washington, 
I).  C,  of  whose  good  taste,  wide  reading,  and  peculiar  talent  for  systematiza- 
tion  they  had  availed  themselves  in  the  first  preparation  of  the  original  work. 
This  edition  also  had  the  advantage  of  the  critical  discrimination  of  Professor 
Eobert  E.  Eaymoud,  of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  who  made  it  his  care  to  revise  all 
the  copy  before  sending  it  to  the  printers,  to  correct  erroneous  readings  per- 
petuated from  careless  editions  of  various  authors,  and  to  add  the  numberless 
touches  of  the  literary  artist. 

The  Publishers  desire  to  return  their  thanks  for  the  courtesy  freely 
extended  to  them,  by  which  many  copyrighted  Americau  poems  have  been 
allowed  to  ajipear  in  this  collection.  In  regard  to  a  large  number  of  them, 
permission  has  been  accorded  by  the  authors  themselves;  other  poems  having 
been  gathered  as  waifs  and  strays,  have  been  necessarily  used  without  special 
authority,  and  where  due  credit  is  not  given,  or  where  the  authorship  may  have 
been  erroueously  ascribed,  future  editions  will  afford  opportunity  for  the  correc- 
tion, which  will  be  gladly  made.  Particular  acknowledgments  are  offered  to 
Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  for  extracts  from  the  works  of  Fitz-Greene  Halleck, 
and  from  the  poems  of  William  Cullen  Bryant ;  to  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brotliers 
for  poems  of  Charles  G.  Halpine  and  Will  Carleton ;  to  Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippin- 
cott  &  Co.  for  quotations  from  the  writings  of  T.  Buchanan  Bead ;  to  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  extracts  from  Dr.  J.  G.  Holland's  poems;  and  more 
especially  to  the  house  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.,  —  whose  good  taste 
and  intelligent  enterprise  have  given  them  an  unequalled  list  of  American 


fl ^ a 

I  PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE.  V     | 

poeticiil  writers,  comprising  many  of  the  most  eminent  poets  of  the  land, — 
for  tlieir  courtesy  in  the  liberal  extracts  granted  from  the  writings  of  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldricli,  lialph  Waldo  Emerson,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Henry  Wad.s- 
worth  Longfellow,  James  liussell  Lowell,  Florence  Percy,  John  Godfrey  Saxe, 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedmau,  Bayard  Taylor,  Bret  Harte, 
John  Townsend  Trowbridge,  Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  and 
others. 

In  addition  to  the  above  acknowledgments,  readers  will  see  in  the  "  Index 
of  Authors"  references  enabling  tlieni  to  find  the  publi.shers  of  the  entire 
works  of  any  American  writer  to  whom  theii"  attention  has  Iteen  called  by 
any  fragment  or  poem  printed  in  this  volume.  This  "Library"  contains 
specimens  of  many  styles,  and  it  is  believed  that,  so  far  from  preventing  the 
purchase  of  special  authors,  it  serves  to  draw  attention  to  their  merits ;  and 
tlie  courtesy  of  their  publishers  in  granting  the  use  of  some  of  their  poems, 
here  will  tind  ample  and  practical  recognition. 


U^ ^ 


[fi- ^ 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


I'Atii: 

PUBLISHERS'   PHEFACE iii 

TABLE   OF   CONTENTS vii 

LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS ix 

INDEX    OF   AUTIIOL'S xi 

THE    EDITOR   TO   THE   READER 1 

THE    POET  (Fat-siniilu  of  Mr.   Bryant's  Manuscript) 3 

INTRODUCTION  :   Pdeth  and  Poetky  ok  the  Englihii  Language  ....  7 

POEMS   OF   INFANCY   AND   YOUTH 17 

POEMS   OF   FRIENDSHIP 53 

POEMS  OF   LOVE 63 

POEMS   OF   HOME 159 

POEMS   OF   PARTING    AND   ABSENCE 183 

POEMS  OF  DISAPPOINTMENT   AND   ESTRANGEMENT 205 

POEMS   OF  SORROW   AND   DEATH 235 

POEMS   OF   RELKilON 311 

POEMS   OF   NATURE 301 

POEMS  OF   PEACE  AND  WAR 453 

POEMS  OF   TEMPERANCE   AND    LABOR 4iil 

POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM :>":. 

I'DEMS   OF   THE   SEA 5r,;» 

[g . ^ 


f 


viii  TABLE   OF  coy  TENTS. 

I'OEMS  OF  ADVENTUKE  AND   RUIUL  SPOKTS 591 

DKSl'KirTIVE   I'OEMS 623 

rOEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND    UEFI.ECTION 665 

I'OEilS  OF   FANCY 74S 

POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY 71'1 

PERSONAL   POEMS 813 

HUMOROUS   POEMS 853 

IN'DEX   OF   FIRST    LINES 921 

INDEX  OF  TFl'LES 935 


-a 


-^ 


[0-^- 


n 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


STEEL  ENGRAVING. 
PoiiTBAiT  OF  William  Cullen  Buvant 


.    Frontispiece, 


EAC-SIMILES  OF  AUTOGRAPH  MANUSCRIPTS. 


William  Wordsworth 

William  Cullen  Bryant  (tlu-ee-pac:^  MS. 

Edmund  Clarknce  Steuman 

John  Kkat.s 

Edgar  Allan  Poe      .... 
John  Howard  Payne      .... 
"H.  H."  —  Helen  Hunt  Jackson     . 

Thomas  Hood 

A\'n,i,iAM  GiLMORE  Simms    . 
Lku^u  Hunt  .... 
JosiAH  Gilbert  Holland  . 
Alfred  Tennyson  . 
Walt  Whitman  . 
Gkorge  H.  Boker  . 
Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 
John  Greenleap  Wiiittier   . 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  . 
Fitz-Greene  Halleck     . 
Bayard  Taylor  . 
George  Perkins  Morris 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 
John  Quincy  Adams 
Jean  Ingelow    . 

George  Gordon  Noel,  Lord  Byron 
Hunry  Wadswortii  Longfellow 
Uam'h  Waldo  Emerson 


Tlio 


Poet") 


To 


front  par/e  xli 
3 

17 
17 
17 
.53 
.53 
235 
235 
311 
311 
311 
301 
453 
491 
491 
505 
505 
559 
559 
591 
591 
G23 
065 
748 
791 


^- 


^^ 


[0 -^ 

^     X  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Thomas  Gkay 813 

IIaRIUET  15EUCUEB  Stowe SI  I! 

Ltdia  Huntley  Sigouuney 8L'5 

JouN  G.  Saxe 858 

RiciiABD  Heney  Stoddakd 853 

James  Russell  Lowell 853 

WOOD  ENGRAVINGS. 

Bryant  in  uis  Library,  at  Cedarmkke xli 

Longfellow  in  jus  Study 21 

TiiK  Old  Arm-Cuair 10 

IlKIGIl-Ilo! 70 

Tell  me  how  to  Woo  Tiiek      .        .                8(i 

Summer  Days 107 

The  First  Kiss 13-I' 

BlRTII-PLACE    OF   JolIN    HOWARD    ?AYNE 175 

Wiiittiee's  Home  in  Amesbury 2G3 

After  a  Summer  Shower 392 

Longfellow's  Home,  in  Cambridge 495 

Bridge  and  Battle-Ground,  at  Concord 533 

Lowell's  Home,  in  Cambridge OS-t 

Emerson's  Home,  in  Concord 721 

The  Bower  of  Bliss 752 

Stratford-upon-Avon S13 


^2- [? 


r 


-a 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


NaTfies  of  A 


Publisfurs  of  the  poetical  works  of  A 
Authors'  tu 


lur iters  may  be  found  in  cottnection  with  t/te 


ADAMS,  JOHN  QUINCY.  Pa^f 

tjiiincy,  St.iss..  ij<j-!-t.-'..x>'.. 

The  Wants  of  M.m 668 

ADAMS,  SARAH   FLOWER. 

Ennliml,  1805-1848. 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee  "    .  .     337 

"  The  mourners  came  at  break  of  day  "       .         261 
ADDISON,  JOSEPH. 

Hn^-t.incl,  1672-1719. 

Cato's  Soliloquy 734 

Scmpronius's  Speech  for  War  .        .         511 

'*  The  spacious  firmament  on  high  "        .        .    33S 

AKENSIDE,  MARK. 
IiiiKl..iil,  i;-.-i77'). 

Delif^hts  of  Fancy 748 

Virtuoso,  The 859 

AKERMAN,  LUCY  E. 

"  NothinR  but  leaves" 333 

AKERS,  MRS.  ^lAZX-R-ETH  (Florence  Percy). 

b,-i-  ALLliN,  ELlZAIlUni   AKIiKS. 

ALDRICH,  JAMES. 


IliMlli-Ile.l,  A 


293 


y- 


AI.DRUH.    IHD.MAS  TiAILEY. 

"lS.!re''.,ii(l  aficr  llic'Rain  .         .         .         .638 

li,l.,Kli"  Head  of  Minerva,  On  an       .        .         708 
"  When  the  Sultan  goes  to  Ispahan  "      .        .     150 
Ii,l,;,.l,.  r  .;  Iloutlit^n,  Mftllin  &  Co.,  Uoilon. 
ALK.XANDER,  CECIL  FRANCES. 

'"Buriarof'Moses"' 344 

ALEXANDER,  H.  W. 

Poor  Fisher  Folk  (Frcmi  the  French :   yictor 

Hugo) 577 

ALGER,  WILLIAM  ROUNSEVILLE. 

Frcoli.wn.  M.iss..  1..  I«Ji. 

Parting  Lovers,  The  {.From  llu  Chinese)        .     i86 
"To  Heaven  approached  a  Sufi  Saint"  {From 
the  Persian  :  Dscliellaleddin  Rumt)  .        .     327 
rulilishcrs  :  Kolterts  Brothers,  Boston. 
ALISON.  RICHARD, 

lll.t'l'll'l.  1'-   161I1  I  NJllurV. 

"  There  is  a  Rarden  in  her  face"       ...      64 
ALLEN,  ELIZAHETH  AKERS. 

Left  Hehind 207 

My  Ship 23,S 

Rock  mc  to  Sleep 73 

The  Bobolink 440 

i'ul.li.hir, :  llr.ii^.|iion,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston. 

ALLINCHAM,  WILLIAM. 

H.illv  ,1'  iMi'.r),  Ircl.uid,  li.  i8:iJJ.    Lives  In  London,  Eng. 

Fairies,  The 763 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly         ....         155 
Touchstone,  The 742 

ALI.STON,  WASHINOTON. 

(..jori;ttf,wn,  S.  C.  1779-1843. 

America  to  Great  Britain 532 

Koyhood 37 

Rosalie 237 

ALTENBURG.  MICHAEL. 

Gcnii.iiiy,  1185-1640. 

Battle-Song  of  Guslavus  Adolphus,  The  (Tr.)    468 

r.xii 


ANACREON. 

(.I.:...-,  .t  4;6n.  C. 

( ira^shopper,  The  i.CoT.vley's  Translation) 
.Spring  {^tf(?r*'f   Translation)     . 
ANDERSEN,  HANS  CHRISTIAN. 

I>ciiiii.irk,  1«05-I87S. 

The  Little  Match-Girl  [From  tlit  Danish) 
ANDROS,  R.  S.  S. 

lltrkclcy.  Mass..  d.  i8». 

Perseverance . 

ANGELO,  MICHAEL. 

Ilaly,  1474-1S6J. 

•'If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing"  l.y.E 
Taylor^s  Trafulation)  ..... 
"The  might  of  one  fair  face  "  {Taylor's  Trans. 
ARNOLD,  EDWIN. 

lini;l.iTii].l.   i8,i 

Almond  Blossoms 

The  Secret  of  Death 

ARNOLD,  (iEORGE. 


I„.rospc.,:t,on 

Jolly  ()ld  Pedagogue     .         .         .         . 

Seijlernber 

I'ul.lisfiuis:  llouBlilori,  MilUn  &  Co.,  Boston. 
ARNOLD,  MATTHEW. 

Ecirf.ui(l,  I).  1823. 

Desire 

Dover  Beach 


69 
)  69 


For! 


I  Me 


,  The 


ofUhland). 


Gravi 
Philomela .... 
Terrace  at  Berne,  The 
ASKEWE,  ANNE. 

lin^;l.ind.  i^ao-1546. 

The  Fight  of  Faith  . 
AU.STIN,  SARAH. 

ILiifil.iiKl,  I7g3-i8'>7 

The  Passage  {Front  the  Germ 
AVERILL,  ANNA  liOYNTON. 

The  Birch  Stream 

AYTON,  SIR  ROBERT. 
Scllaiid.  i57.^i(,,'!. 

On  Love 

W(,man's  Inconstancy         .... 
AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  EDMONSTOUNE. 

™l!'u'i'ied  Flower,  The 

Execution  of  Montrose,  The 

Heart  of  the  Bruce,  The 

BAILEY,  WILLIAM  WHITMAN. 

Epigaja  Asleep 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 

.Stntlaiifi,  lyfc'-iSsr. 

McathCock,  The 

"U])!   Quit  thy  bower "       .... 
BARBAUI.D,  ANNA  L^ETITIA. 

i;r,i;l.""l.  .7.n-■R^S- 
"I.lfel      I  know  not  what  thou  art" 
S,ild)ath  of  the  Soul,  The    . 
Summer  Evening's  Meditation,  A   . 
BARHAM,    RICHARD    HARRIS  {.Thomas  In- 
gotdsby^  Esq.). 
Ent.'l.iTi<l.  I7WH-I845. 

City  Bells 


".^ 


a- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


--f± 


Deatli  of  a  P.iu^litcr,  On  the 


ckdaw  of  Kl 


The 


Misadventures  al  Margate  . 
UARNARD,  LADY  ANNE. 

Auid  Robin  Gray 
BARNFIKLD,  RICHAKD. 

lillKlaiul,  i^J4-iMI.. 

Address  lo  the  Nightingale 
DARTON,  BERNARD. 
HiiKl.md.  173.1-1H49 

Bruce  and  the  Spider 
Caractacus    .        .        .        . 
"  Not  ours  the  vows" 
Sc.i,  The      .        ,        .        . 
BATSON,  ROBERT. 
Hin;l»iul, 

Ouuicverc  to  Lancelot 
BAYLY,  THOMAS  llAVNES. 

UllljliilKl.  .,-.j;-iSf,, 

The  ftlistletoo  Bough 
BEATTIE,  JAMES. 
Hermit, Yhc 


Morning 3(><; 

BEAUMONT,  FRANCIS,  awl  FLETCHER,  JOHN. 

liii|jkiiiJ,  1580-1610  !uul  is;(^iOas. 

Disguised  Maiden,  The 6SS 

Folding  the  Flocks 431 

"  Hence,  all  yc  vain  delights"         ,        .         .  3.^5 

Invocation  to  Sleep 677 

BEDDOES,  THOMAS  LOVELL. 


-,8«. 

I  Wilt  ca 


case  thine  heart*' 


BEERS,  MRS.  ETHELIN  ELIOT ili/M Ly>. 

GosliL-ii,  N.V,.  i.ij  ,-ia;i 

The  Picket-Guard    ... 
rublishers;  I'ortur  A;  contcs,  Thiladclphia. 

BENNETT,  WILLIAM  COX. 

lirconwiili.  iMi);.,  li.  i&jo.    Lives  In  London. 

Babv  May 

Baby's  Shoes 

Invocation  to  Rain  in  Sununcr 

Worn  Wcdding-Ring,  The  .... 

BENTON,  MYRON  B. 
AiiLMii.,,  N.  v.,  I..  18J4. 

■Ihe  Mowers 


linKl.m,l,  16S4-.75,. 

Westward  Ho  1 
BETHUNE,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

N.-1V  Votk.  iajs-J.%a. 

Hvnin  to  Night        .... 


BLAKE,  WILLIAM. 

linfl.liul.  .7.,7-lfc7. 

Garden  of  Love,  The 
Sunflower.  The    . 
Tiger,  The 

BLANCHARD.  I.AMAN. 
Um-I,iii<l.  ia.!-,94<. 

The  Mother's  Hope 
BLAND,  ROBERT. 

Home  (/•>."«  llltGrtck) 

BLOOMKIELD,  ROBERT. 

Farmer's  Hoy,  The  . 
Lambs  al  Play      . 
Moonlit;ht  in  Sntnmcr 
Soldier's  Return,  The  . 


^. 


Black  Reoimcm,  The 


Dirge  for  a  Soldier   . 

Prince  .\dcb 

Fublishcrs  !  J.  li.  Lljiiiincotl  &  Co.,  PhlLrdclphll 


BOLTON,  SARAH  T, 

Su«i.ort,  Ky..l..  ii,.«. 

Lett  on  the  Battle-Field   .        .        .        . 
IIONAR.  HORATIUS. 

.■>c..lL,li,l,  li.  iSoS 

"  Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping '' 

How  Long  ? 

IIOURDILLON,  FRANCIS  W. 

U„Kl.o„l.     Now  living. 

Light 

BOURNE,  VINCENT. 

lillKl.in.l.  I6y5-i;47. 

'■  Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly"      . 
lUnVl.ls,  1   VKiHlNE  ANNE. 

'I .    ■ '1  I'll,.  Mks.  Cakcu-ink  Bowles. 
Hiiw  I  1     ,  w  1 1  I  lAM  LISLE. 

"  tniiic  111  thc-^c  scenes  of  peace  "    . 


BOWKING,  SIR  JOHN. 

l.iiKl.m.l.  .;9.-H!?.'.  ,       ,       ,  .... 

"  From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit 
God  (From  tht  Rmsiait  of  Drrzlinvm)    . 
Nightingale,  The  (From  the  rorliieiuse) 
Nightingale,  The  {From  tht  Dutch)  . 
Not  Ripe  for  Political  Power  .... 
BRAINARI),  JOHN  GARDINER  CALKINS. 

New   LoluK.il.  Colin.,  179(1-1838. 

Deep,  The 

"  I  saw  two  clouds  at  moming"  . 

Niagara,  The  Fall  of 

BRANCH,  MARY  L.  BOLLES. 


■Ihc  P. 


rifled  Fi 


BRENAN,  JOSEPH. 

Ireliiml.  li.  iB.-y  ;  il.  ill  New  Orlcllis,  1857. 

"  Come  to  me,  dearest" 204 

BRETON,  NICHOLAS. 

hllKl.iiiil.  155S-16114- 

Passage  in  the  Life  of  St.  Augustine,  A  .        .    j2s 

Piiillida  and  Corydon 44 

Phillis  the  Fair 09 

BRLSTOL,  LORD. 

Sec  John  Dir.tiv,  Earl  of  Bristol. 

BROOKS,  CHARLKS  T, 


I  tie  Gtr 


,0/K, 


Tjb 


Alpine  Heights  f/^f. 

m.uhrr) 

Fisher,  The  [From  tht  GermaH  0/ Got  I  he) 
Good  Night  [Frotii  the  German  0/ Kilmer)  .     ,   . 
Men  and  Boys(»(;w*  the  German  t^f  Kdmrr]    527 
Nobleman  and  the  Pensioner,  The  (From  the 

Geriiiati  0/  l^^e/Ytt)       .....     476 

XT ,..  ^»f_._l.  I  •!'„ /..*.■■ \ 


"/ 


WMchCrrans/ation) 
Sword    Song,    The  (From    the  Gtrmt 

K'drfitr) 

Winter  Song  (From  th*  Gemtan) 
I'liWislmn  i  lloiii;litoii.  Millliii  &  Co..  Boston. 

BROOKS,  MARIA  GOW EN  (Maria  del  Occidtnte). 


4C8 


Mo 


.  Mas 


■1845. 


citing  purple  dying"     . 

Dis.ippoiiitment 

BROt>KS.  CHARLES  SHIRLEY. 

iMlgl.OKl.   1815-1874- 

The  Philosopher  and  his  D,lughter 

BROUCH.   KOrF.RT  B. 

\r|.'l.l'iii     Xi-llv 

BKn«  N.  1  1;  \\i  I'S. 

"  11  Iho  pleasant  d.iys  of  old!  " 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM. 

i;ii,:l,iiiil.  i-.9ii-"i4< 

"  Shall  1  tell  vou  whom  I  love  "      . 
Siren's  Song,  The        ... 
"  Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing" 
BROWNELL,  HENRY  HOWARD. 

I'rovi.loiioo,  U,  I.,  I.s..4-i87a. 

Burial  of  the  D.ane  ... 
Lawyer's  Invocation  to  Spring,  The 
"  Let  us  alone "       .        .       .        . 

PiiWisliiTs  ;  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co..  Boston. 


-ff 


\n 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORH. 


Xllt 


BKfJWNING,  EMZABKTM  IIARKKT 

A •-   tr„„\ 


iirl  L.i.ly.  A 

M 
M 
I'. 

„„..,.  S.„„l,  S-„w,c 
.\y\  VcB,  TIlO 

rrl  Wallcr'i  Wifo 
(llirr  and  I'ocl 
■  •ticiil  IiiBlrnnicnti 
rliiiK  l.ovcri,. 

slo 
A 

SIrcp  .         . 

Sritinclii  from  tlio  Portugticso 
VInw  acrons  the  Koman  CamiKigna,  A 
Wordsworlli,  On  a  Portrait  of 
BROWNINf),  ROIiERT. 

Iliii;h.ii.I.  I..  iBi!., 

livelyn  Mope 

MowcrV  Name,  The     . 

Mcrvd  Kiel 

How  tliey  IjrouKlit  ttioOood  N 


.  Ai> 


In 

Itir.idcnt  of  the  French  Camp 

M<:<:tinj< 

I'ic'J  Piper  of  Mamelin,  The 
'I'lic  Kinif  h  cold 
"  'I'ho  \I.,lh's  kiBn,  flr«t !  "   . 
BRYANT,  JOHN  MOWAKI), 

Clliiiiiiliii;l'.ii,  M-i'/.;..  n.  1^^//. 
I.iltle  Cloud.  The  . 
Valley  Brook,  'Iho 

Winter 

BRVANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN. 

tuiii".ili>!t'.ll,  MliM..  .79»-lKj8. 


Panic- Kieltl,  The      . 

"  Bloftcd  arc  they  that  mourn*' 

Di-alh  of  the  Floworn,  'I'ho 

KvtninK  Wind,  The     . 

Palima  and  Kadiian  . 

Flood  of  Viars,  The      , 

T'orc^tt  Hymn,  A 


,'  Anli(|nity  of 
ian,  To  the 


FrinKcd  fl 
Future  Lii 

Love  of  flod.  The  (Fram  llu  Pmtnfal) 


mosMinlo,  lo  a 

My  Anlunio  Walk 

Oh,  Fairest  of  rhc  Rural  Maids 

PlaoiiuK  of  the  Apple-Trce,  The  . 


ow-Sl.owcr,The  . 
n|{  of  Marion's  Men 
ir  of  l!clhl..hcm,  'llic 


To  .T  Waterfowl 


1  &  Co..  New  Y',tk 


& 


Little  Milliner,  The  . 
Wakeof  Titn  O'flara  . 
BURLKIfJH,  Gi:ORGIi;  8. 

AlN.fl.  i.. 

A  Prayer  for  Life 
liUKLI'.lfill,  WILLIAM  H. 

''l')cl)orali'i','c'e  '"''.''''■  . 
BURNS,  ROIiKKT. 

Br.oll,nirl,  ,,-.,  ,,,/,. 

"  Ac  fond  kiRR  before  wc  part " 

Afion  Water 

Auld  Lang  Sync 

PankBo'Doon.Tho     . 

P.annockhurn     .... 

Ilard'n  Kpit.aph,  A 

Ponnio  Wee  Ihinff   . 

"  (-'a'  the  yowcts  to  the  knowca" 

Comin'  through  the  Rye  . 


ill 


(.'otler'n  Saturday  Nluht,  Tho 
DavlcSillar,  To  .     . 

"  Duncan  Gray  cam'  hero  lo  w( 
FJc((y  on  Captain  Hendcrnon   . 
"  For  a'  Ihat  and  a'  that  "     . 
)  rashes,  ^>  I  " 


•MirccnKrowlh. 
IliKhland  Mary 
'•/..ho  Ande 


.myjo"       . 

li-ycorn   .  .        . 

woman  o'or  complain  " 


Mary  Mori«on 
Mountain  Daisy,  To  a 


<  ye  h. 


Tar 


Th( 


Lesley?" 


n  O'Shanler         .... 
he  day  returns,  my  Ijostim  burns' 
"There's  nae  luck  ahout  the  house" 
Toolliachc.  Address  to  the 
To  the  Unco  Guid      . 
"  Whisllo  antl  I  '11  come  lo  you,  my  lad 
BUTLER,  SAMUF.L. 
i;.,Ki,....i,  ,&,,,v„, 

Hildlhras'  Sword  and  DatHfor  .         , 
1 1  udibras,  I'he  LokIc  of        .        .        . 
Hndiliras,  The  Philosophy  of  . 
Hiidibras,  The  Rclixion  of   . 
WILLI, 

ll..iMV,    N 

"  NotliiiiK  lo  wear  "  , 

iil.l|..lir,«  :  ir.iu/liloii,  Miraili  /V  Co.,  llo«n 


l;VPf)N    CFOPG 


i^ohMMim  hy  r 
Coliseum,  'fhi 
iJanlcl  lioruie    . 
iJealh  (•//// G(V<«»-)     . 
Dream,  Ihc       . 
KvcnitiK  iOon  yuan)    . 
F'ilial  \Atsz 
First  Love     . 
(Jrcco-  (  The  Giaour') 
fJrecco  Whildn  l/aroM) 
Greek  Poel,  Son^  of  tho 
'  akc  L< 


:  GORDON,  LORD. 
I  my  native  shore  "  . 
[.mnliKht'     .    ■     .    ■     . 


Latest  Vrrws     .... 
"  .Maid  of  Alliens,  ere  wc  pari  "  . 
Man -Woman 
Mazeppa's  Ride    .... 

Mural 

Napoleon  {Chl/(h  llarM). 
Napfileon,  Ode  to 

NiKhl 

Orient,  The       .... 
"  O,  snatched  away  in  beauty's  bloi 
Outward  Pound 
Princess  Charlotte,  Tho 
Rhine,  'Ih'.        .... 
Rwer,  Soiijtof  Ihc 

.Sea  Grot 

.Sea,  Realm  of  the  .... 

Sea,  The 

"  she  walks  in  beauty" 
Skull,  The  .... 

Klorm  at  NiKliI  on  Lake  Lcman  . 

Sunset 

S« 


I'he  k 


dear  maid ' 


CALDWICI.L,  WILLIAM  W. 

,NowlMiry|i<,rl.  .Mncs.,  Ii.  I'.d,^ 

In  Slimmer  Time 

R<«c  Hush,  'llie  U'rom  llu-  GrrmuH) 

CALIDASA. 

Imli.n.  itl  (.csl.iry  1!.  (;. 

Raby,  The  ( Tramlalion  i>/Slr  William  '/m 
Woman  {  TransttUiott  of  IVilsoii) 


^ 


10^ 


INDEX  OF  AUTUOliS. 


--a 


lAl.l.AN.VN.   lAMKS  JOSEPH. 

li.l.m.l.  v.^v  iS-<) 

llouii.imu-   ll.ui.i 

CALVERl.l  V,  I.  IIAKl.KS  U 

'' AMii/'riio ''' 

Cock  nml  llle  Uiill.  I'hs 

CAMOENS,  I.IUS  Uli. 

'"I'lilKhiV'n'.ovi  (/V.iiw.  o/Li>nl  Stnuts/i'nl) 
CAMl'lSKl.l.,    rilOMAS. 


CHAMBERLAYNE,  WILLIAM. 

liuuliiiul,  1619-16^ 

Chastity 

CHANNINC;,  WILLLVM  liLl.KKY. 


uIp  10  WaUlegrave,  The 


Kvoiuui;  M.ir,  riie 

Kxile  >.l'  Krm      . 

U.ino«<-,U;r..i"ul. 

HohcnliiuU-u      . 

Kiis,   I'hr  Kirsl      . 

Lpvhicl'a  Wuruinis    . 

M, lid's  Rcimm»lraii«,  The 

M.irli.\l  Elegy  ( From  tht  Grttk  of  Tyrlitm) .    454 

Nanuleuii  aiid  the  liritish  Sailor 

I'oUiml 

Kiver  of  Life,  The 
Soulier's  Ore.lni,  The 
"  Ye  Mariners  of  Enslaml  " 
CANNINC.,  C.EOKOE. 


!■  rieiid  of  Humanity  and  the  KnifcQrindcr     .    863 
CAREW  (or  CAREY).  LADY  ELIZABETH. 

l-.iH5l,m.i.    ful.liNhcl  1N3. 

Kevenge  of  InjuriM 740 

CAUEW,  THOMAS. 

^'  Oive  me  more  love  or  more  disdain  "    .       ,  ha 

"  He  (hat  loves  a  rosy  cheek  "...  75 

"  I  do  not  love  thee  for  th.it  t.lir  "    ...  75 

"  Sweetly  breathing,  veriiiU  air  "  .        .       .  s^i 

CAREY.  HENRY. 

li.itl.iml,  i«.,-i74,i. 

Sally  in  our  Alley 54 

CARLETON,  WILL  M. 

llluo,  l>-   l.St3. 

The  New  Church  Orean      ....        f'")^ 

riiWUhi.-.^  I  llaci.cr.\:  lli.-llu-r-..  New  York. 

CAKY,  ALICE 


.~1S71. 

Dying  Hymn,  A 
Enchantments 
b'ire  t>v  the  Sea,  The 
Make  Believe 
Ottler  lor  a  I'icture,  An 
Pictures  of  Memory 
Spinster's  Stint,  A    . 
Uncle  Jo 


CHARLES  OK  ORLEANS. 
Ir.iiuv.  I  WI-14P5. 

"The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes'    (Tntn 
/(itioH  (if /ferny  /*.  Cary)    . 

SpiiiiK 

CHAKl  IS    nil     IIRST. 


CHAl  I  I  K  U'N.    I  IK)M.-\; 

Minstrel's  Song    . 
CHAIH'ER.  GEOFFREY. 


I.mi   Pilgrin 


CHORLEV.  HENRY  FOTHERGILL. 

LllUluiul,   18.*-|N'J. 

The  Brave  6ld  Oak  .... 
CHURCHILI,  CHARLES, 

liiiKlanil.  i;,»-ijfH. 

Smollett 


SS6 
4.6 


H-l.lll.l,  lOTl-l?'^. 

The  Blind  tloy "SS 

CLARE,   lOHN. 

l.iiKl.ui.l.  i:.ji-iSr4. 

l,.il.,.i.-i,riie 


mWivhcn.  1  ll.MiKhlon.  MWIIn  .<t  Co.,  lUv.ton, 
CARY,  HENRY  FRANCIS. 

Uiwl.iml,  i;;.-iS44.  , 

''  The  LMrest  thing  in  mortal  eyes    (  /  r. 
CARY.  LUCIUS  (Loni  Fd/UiNti). 

lillKltlinl.  rM*.-i64S. 

Ben  Joiison's  Commonplace  Book  . 

CARY,  piuEBE. 

■  utul,  O 
i  and 
,  The 

Neater  Home 

Pe.ace 

I>iWiOu'is  1  IIoii|;lil,M\.  Mliniii  ,*  C,-..  Uwton, 

C.\SIMIR  THE  C.RE.Vr,  KINO  OF  POL.VND, 

"'"Vt  kindles  all  my  soul"  (From  Iht  t'olisV) 
CASWALL,  EDWARD. 

^'  Nly  C.od,  I  love  thee  "  (From  Ikt  Latin)     . 
CELANO,  THOMAS  DE, 

l)ies  \rx\rmnslitlioH  o/yoin  .-1.  Di.r) 
CHADWICK,  lOHN  WHITE. 

MatWdu-.l.l.  Mi^v,  t..  1S4.V 

The  IVo  Waitings 

CHALKHII.I,   lOHN  0'rob.iWy  /..i.<*  HW/.".). 
The  .Angler 


SiTininc-i  M.io.ls      . 
CLARKE,  JAMES  FREEMAN. 

ll.uu.v.i,  S.  11.,  I..   18|,>. 

Cana ,    _    . 

The  Caliph  and  Satan  . 
I'ul.lMicrs  1  lloii^liion.  Miltllii  S  to..  1 
CLAUDIUS, 

The  Hen('/'m«-.v'.>/i.'>i)    . 
CLEl  Wli.  wn  I  lAM. 


CLl  \  II   w  1 '.    liUIN. 

To  liie  .Miiiioiy  of  Ben  Jonson 

CLOUC.H,  ARTHl^R  HUGH. 

UlluLuul,  iSi..-iaoi, 

**  As  ships  becalmed"  . 

'•  With  whom  is  no  variableness  " 


5o,S 


S41 
748 
S15 


COFFIN,  ROBERT  BARRY  (il.irrr  Gnty). 

IIiuIm.h.  N.  Y.,  iSao-iSSO. 

Shiiw  at  Sea ''i 

COLERIDGE.  HARTLEY. 

liuiJlfliul.  i7,JO-l849- 

Sli.akespeare ^i.^ 

".She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view"  .       .        .     !*'* 

COLERIDGE.  SAMUEL  TAYLOR. 

liiw'l.m.l.  i'>-isj<- 

.'\nswer  to  a  Child  s  Question       ...  143 

Cologne ''N 

Epigrams R'*4 

Fancy  in  Nubibus 7.5o 

Genevieve '07 

Good  Great  Man,  The      .        .        .        .        ;  (>?" 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni  33S 

Knight's  Tomb,  rhe 4*^ 

Metric.rl  Feet     .......  9>9 

Quan-el  of  Friends,  The  (C*rislahl)  . 
Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  . 
I  COLES.  ABRAHAM. 


7*3 


Stab.\t  Mater  Dolorosil  (From  Ikt  Lalm) 


Vr- 


-^ 


a-^- 


jnjjkx  of  a  unions. 


■a 


COLLINS,  ANNE. 

"  The  winter  being  over" 
COLLINS,   MORTIMER. 
hn'^Uwl,  tsti-i-iiii. 

Comfort     .        .        .        . 
Darwin  .... 
COLLINS,    WILLIAM. 

I.n'l,  ijw^ty/i. 
linK,  Ode  to 
,w  [ileejj  tlic  IJrave  " 


'iiv 


»,  The 
COLMAN,  GEORGE  (The  Younger). 

I!ii;;lan.|.  176a  i8j6. 

GluggityGluK   .... 
.Sir  M.trniaduke     .... 
Toby  TohHpot    .... 
CONGREVE,   WILLIAM. 

Mui»ic        ..... 

Silly  Eair 

COOK,   CLARENCE. 


COZZENS,   FREDERICK  SWARTWOUT. 

.New  V«jrk.  f'it»-t>J^ 

An  Ex|)ericticc  and  a  Moral 

I'uMishcrs  !  J|.,i,ylit.,n,  MiJIlm  U  t;o.,  U'j^loa 

CRAIJRE,  GEORGE. 

liUiil.,n.I.  ,Tjri'.y. 

Approach  of  Age,  Tlic      ... 
Mourner,  The        ... 

Peasant,  The 

Quack  Medicines 

CRAIK,    DI.VAH    MARIA   MULOCK. 


Al 


Kii 


Uorcln- 


:...  b.  iHtH. 


Abram  and  Zimri 
COOK,    ELIZA. 

liiiXlari.l,  1,.  1817. 

"  Hang  up  his  harp ;  he  Ml  wake  no  more* 
Old  Arni-Cbair,  The     .... 

Sea  Murmurs 

COOKE,   PHILIP  PENDLETON. 

Ucrklc-y  C>j.,  V;i..  iHid-tHyi. 

Florence  Vane 

COOKE,    ROSE  TERRY. 
Hartror'l,  C'jnri..  b.  1827. 

RJive  du  Midi 

I>u>,libli..'r>  :  Houghton.  Mlinin  &  Co.,  Dotton. 
COOPER,   JAMES  FENIMORE. 

IJurliiitjloii.  .N,  J.,  1789-1^51. 

My  Hrigantine 

CORNWELL,    HENRY  SYLVESTER. 

The  Sunken  City 

COTTON,  CHARLES. 

Eii;;lan.l.  i6y>-i(«7. 

Contentation 

Retirement 

COTTON,   NATHANIEL. 

EnaLin.!,  ir.,i-/7a8. 

The  Fireside 

COURTHOPE,  WILLIAM  JOHN. 

i;ni;l..n.l. 

Chorus  of  English  Songsters    . 

Ribc  of  Specieij, 'i"hc      .... 


Cht 


licle.  The 


Grasshopper,  The  (From  tht  Greek)  . 
Hymn  to  Light,  From  the 

Invocation,  The 

Of  Myself 

COWPER,    WILLIAM. 

lioadicea  _. 

Ojntradiction 

Cricket,  The 

Dueling 

I'reenian,  The 

Happy  Man,  The 


^- 


He 

Humanity 

My  Country 

My  Mother's  Picture 

Nightingale  and  Glow- Worm,  The  . 

Oaths 

Rose,  The 

Royal  George,  On  the  Loss  of  the 

Russian  Ice-Palace,  A 

Slavery  

"Sweet  stream,  that  winds"     .... 
The  Nose  and  the  Eves         .... 
Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander 

.Selkirk 

Winter 

Winter  Walk  at  Noon 


By  the  . 

*  liuried  tf>-day  " 

Dead  Czar  .Nicholas,  The 

Fletcher  Harper,  lo  the  Memory  of    . 

Her  Likeness 

Lancashire  Doxology,  A       .        ,        . 
Mercen.iry  Marriage,  A    .         .         . 
Now  aiifj  Afterwards      .... 
Only  a  Woman           .... 
Philin,  my  King 


in,  m 
Too  Late 
CRANCH.   CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE. 

Alcun.ltu.  li.  C,  I,.  ,i,,j. 

Correspondences 3^,1 

Thouglit «/j 

I'uUiihcfs;  Houghton,  Mifflin  ai  Co.,  and  Koberu  Bros. 
CRASHAW,   RICHARD. 

I:n>it,n.l.  ii„^A,j. 

Music's  Duel 7^, 

Supposed  .Mistress,  U'ishes  for  the  \\h 

"Two  men  went  up  to  tlie  Teropie  to  pray"  .     324 
CRAWFORD,  MR.S,  JULIA. 

Ircl;iri.i. 

"  We  parted  in  silence  " i:,i 

CROLY,  GEORGE. 

Irebn.),  iir,^,u„. 

Genius  of  Death,  The 720 

Leonirtis,  The  Death  of       ...        ,        5,/^ 

Pericles  and  Aspasia 5,/j 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN. 

.Sc.Ml.,,,.!,  if'.i-i'.ifi. 

"Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie"  .     159 
Poet's  Bridal-Day  Song,  T)ie  .        .        ,<y, 

Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea,  A 
CUNNINGHAM,  JOHN. 

Irelan'I.  nvf-t^T^ 

Moniing jr^jj 

CURRIER,    ELLEN  BARTLETT. 

Ail.iHcvl.  II. 

Silent  Baby  2, 

CUTTER,  GEORGE  W. 


5«4 


DANA,   RICHARD    HENRY. 

IZ.mA,Mi-..  M.is f.-i-iHT,. 

Beach  Bird,  The  Little     . 
Husband  and  Wife's  Grave,  The . 
Island,  The       .... 
Pleasure-Boat,  The        .... 

Soul,  The 

J'tjl.itblicri :  Ch;ulc5  Scrjbncr's  Sons,  New  York. 
DANIEL,  SAMUEL. 

lin,:Liin'J,  it/z^iliv,. 

Love  is  a  Sickness    .... 


388 


Gambols  of  Children,  TTie 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds  . 
DAVIDSO.N,   .MARGARET. 

The  Storm  ( Leonore)       .....     392 
DAVIS,   THO.MAS. 


an.l, 

Hanks  of  the  Lee,  The 
Flower  of  Finae,  'Hie    . 
Maire  Bhaii  Astor    , 
Sack  of  Baltimore,  The 
Welc/jme,  The  . 


DECKER,  THOMAS. 
The  Happy  H<.'art 


^ 


f 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


-Qj 


U 


UE   LlSl.K,  ROUGET. 
lt,«iuv.  i?9--. 

The  Maiseillea  Hynm 5-S 

DERZHAVIN    OAVKUL  RO.MANOVlTCll. 

CoA{,TraHs/aliOH^Sir  yi'Mn  BiHvriHg)  .  330 
DE  VEKK,  AUr.REY. 

Early  Friendship 61 

D11U1IN,  CHARLES. 

Kucli.ua,  l'4?-lSi4. 

Tom  Howling 5S7 

PUSniN,  THOMAS. 

tnal.i".!.  177>-1S41. 

.-Ul'sWell 5S5 

SnuK  Liiile  Island,  The       ....       516 

DICKENS,  CHARLES. 

Ivy  Green,  The 4-i* 

DICKINSON,  CHARLES  M. 

l...«viUc.  N.  v..  K  1&4.-. 

The  Children    .....  iSi 

DICKSON,  DAVID. 

i;i«l.m.l,  .*S!-it«-.-. 

The  New  .Icrusalem .V3 

DIGBY,  JOHN,  EARL  OF  BRISTOL. 

^' Sec,  O,  Seel" ibb 

DIMOND,  WILLIAM. 

The  Mariner's  Dream 5^7 

DIX,  JOHN   ADAMS. 

B,-sc.»«vll.  S.  11..  179S>-lS70. 

Dies  Ira;  (.^ri>/KM<ri,i.'/»)  .  .  .  .313 
DOBELl.,  SYDNEY. 

Ihnl.vml,  lfc4-lS;^. 

Absent  Soldier's  Son,  The       .        .        •       .  i()S 

Home,  Wounded 3i» 

H.nv'smy  Bov? 570 

M.irkel  wife's  Song 461) 

Milkmaid's  Song,  The 17 

"  She  UMiclies  a  sad  string  of  soft  recnll "     .  n)f" 

Tommy  's  dead 269 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN. 

liefore  Sedan 4S0 

Growing  Gray 7'5 

DODDRIDGE,   PHILIP. 

Enslnml.  I7s>--i7fl. 

^'.Amasing,  beanteous  change  I         .       .       .    SJ") 
Duni  Vivunus,  Vivamus        ....        335 
DORR,  JULIA  CAROLINE  RIPLEY. 

ChniK'Ston.  S.  C,  li.  1835. 

Outgrown 336 

Three  Ships,  The 759 

l'\iMisliei!. !  .1.  11.  Llpi>li\cc.|t  &  Co.,  Pliilii<lcli*la. 

DORSET,  CHARLES  SACKYILLE,  EARL  OF. 

UllKl.uul,  toS7-i7,-o. 

The  Fire  of  Love     ...  .        .      S5 

DOUGLAS,   MARIAN. 

See  Gri!HN.  .Annik  D. 

DOWLAND.    lOHN, 

Eiwl.uul.  ivboul  iw... 

Sleep 677 

DOYLE,  SIR   FRANCIS  HASTINGS. 

linjil.uul,  !>,  iSu\ 

The  Private  of  the  Buffs  .  ...    473 

DRAKE,   JOSEPH   RODMAN. 

New  V,.ii;  Oily.  i7ms-..<.-.v 

American  F'.iK.  *l'he        .....    536 
Culprit  Fay,  'rhe 769 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL. 

lini;l.uul.  i56!-,6,i,. 

Ballad  of  Agincourl,  The         ....    456 
"  Come,  let  ns  kisse  and  parte  "  .       .       .       191 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM. 

Scothiul,  itSi-iSjo. 

Ends  of  Life,  The J04 

Thrush,  The 43* 


l)l;\  I'l    N.     lOMN'. 

\l.-\,in.i.  1  ^  I'cMsl,  or  the  Power  of  Music  . 
I'.leonol.l 

t  Hiver  tJromwell    _. 

Portrait  of  Joltn  Milton,  Lines  written  underthe 

Og 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  .A       .       .        . 
Veui  Creator  Spiritus(.A>i»M  Mi-  liitiM) 

Zirari .        . 

DSCllKLLAl.EDDIN  RUMI. 

IVisIn, 

"  To  heaven  approached  a  Sufi  saint "  (  Trans- 
/.ition  ,/ U:  K.  .^/J:er)        .... 
nUKFEUlN,    I. ADV. 

ll.-liuul,  iS..7-i8t..-. 

L.miem  ol  the  Irish  Kmii;l.lnt  .... 
IHINI.IIP.    .lOllN. 


'Oil 


I  ask  I 


DUKYEA,  WILLIAM   RANKIN. 

A  Song  for  the  "  Hearth  and  Home" 
DWIGHT,  JOHN   SULLIVAN. 

l!u>t,.ii,  Mil>s..  1>.  1813. 

True  Rest 


107 


DWIGHT,  TIMOTHY. 

Nv'ilhiduj.ton.  M.,Si.,  i7S-.-iSr7. 

Columbm 533 

DYER.  JOHN. 


Aunli.i,   r.. 


DYER, 


SlU 


Hill 

1  lAVAUD. 


■*  My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is"    , 
EASl'MAN,   CHARLES  GAMAGE 

lU,tl.„Kl...i,  VI.,  isit^isoi, 

,'\  Suow-Storm 

EDWARDS,  AMELIA   BLANDFORD 


three  grains  of  corn, 
ELLIOT,   El!ENEZER(7'Af  0.r« 


ther"         .     : 
!«•  Rhymer). 


Burns S37 

Poet's  Epitaph,  A s.-; 

Spring j.'ij 

ELTON,  CHARLES  ABRAHAM. 

liiii;UiiKl.  1..  iil'oul  1770, 

I>ameut  for  Bion  (Fri/m  the  Gretk  q/Moschus)  jSj 
EMBURY.   EMMA  C. 

.NVvv  Y,.tk.  iSo.v.i;*.i, 

Duke  of  Reichstadt,  On  the  Death  of     .        .    S33 

riiWisliets  :  ll.iii».r  &  lirolheis.  New  York. 

EMERSON,  RALPH   WALDO. 

UoMoii,  .\l.i^.v.  i!»,;-iSSa. 

Borrowing 746 

Boston  Hvmn 5i<. 

Brahma    ' 73.- 

Conci^rd  Monument  Hymn  ....  53,? 

Each  and  All 305 

Friendship 59 

Good  By 71'^ 

Hen.  Cras,  Hodie 74*' 


He 

Humble-Bee,  To  the 44^ 

lustice 71* 

Northman.       .               74*' 

Poet 7-1*'' 

Problem,  The (-73 

Qualr<iins  and  Fragments     ....  741. 

Rhodoia,  The 4-M 

Sea,  The s^^ 

Snow-Storm,  The 403 

PuWIsliers  i  Hoiightoi..  Milllln  Jir  Co.,  Uoston. 

EYTINGE,  MARGARET. 

.\iiu-ric.l. 

Baby  Louise 31 

FABER,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM. 

The  Right  must  Win 356 


4? 


f 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOEH. 


-a 


FALCONER,  WILLIAM. 

The  Shipvyreclt 
FANSHAWE,  CATHERINE, 

Enigma  CITie  Letter  H)  . 
FAWKES,  FRANCIS. 

tnzlii/i'l,  ■711-1777- 
Hie  Brown  Jug 

FENNER,  CORNELIUS  GEORGE. 

Culf-Weed        .... 
FERGUSON,  SAMUEL. 

Forging  of  the  Anchor,  The    . 
Pretty  Girl  of  Loch  Dan,  The    . 
FIELDING,  HENRY. 


FIELDS,  JAMES  THOMA.S, 

i'ortim^utJi.  ,N'.  H..  (%i7-t«gi- 
Dirgc  for  a  Young  ttrl     . 
Nantucket  Skipper,  The     . 
Tempest,  The 

PuMisticr-. ;  Hought'/g,  .MilBm  &  Co,  BosttM. 

FINCH,  FRANCIS  MILES. 

lllia'..-,,  N.y„  b.  i«a7. 

T*he  Blue  and  the  Gray    . 
FINLEV,  JOHN, 

CiBcirmatJ,  O. 

Bachelor's  Hall        .... 


FLAGG,  WILSON. 

Tlie  O"  Lincoln  Family 400 

PobliJieis :  Hougtiton,  MiSm  it  Co.,  Boa'.>u. 

FLETCHER,  GILES, 

*' Drop,  drop,  slow  tears"  ....  322 
FORD.  JOHN. 

'iTie  MusicalDuel 7+, 

FORRESTER,  ALFRED  H.  (X^rf<jf  CrmiouUt). 

En^bu-J.  b.  1875, 

To  my  Nose 918 

FOSDICK,  WILLIAM  WHITEMAN. 

Cii.cimiati,  O;.  t32s-ia!o. 

The  Maize 420 


FOSTER,  .STEPHEN  COLLINS. 

ya:-jrii-i.   fa.,  t»/^i>At, 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home 
FOX,  W.  J, 

En^Und,  b-  1785, 

The  Martyr's  Hymn  (German  0/ Lulher) 
FRANKLIN,  BENJAMIN, 

Paper 


y-^ 


FREILIGRATH,  FERDINAND, 

Gcmiany,  b.  i^jo. 

Lion's  Ride,  The  (.From  the  German) 
Traveler's  Vision,  The 

GALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  D. 

PhiUddj/hia.  Pa-,  b.  i&jg- 

Autumn     .... 

GARRISON,  WILLIAM  LLOYD. 

NcwUjryi>-jn,  Mai^,  1804-1^79. 

Sonnet  written  in  Prison  . 
GAV,  JOHN. 

tu'/LinJ,  i6%!-i732. 

Black-eyed  Susan 

Hare  and  many  Friends,  The 
GAYLORD,  WILLIS. 

Lines  written  in  an  Album 
GERHARDT,  PAUL 

llie  Dying  Saviour  . 

GERMAN,  DELIA  R. 

Amenca- 

The  Wood  of  Chancellorsville 


GILBERT,  WILLIAM  SCHWENfK. 

liUifiiti-i.  b.  i8/.. 

I  o  the  Terrestrial  Globe  . 
Yarn  of  the  "  Nancy  Bell,"  The  . 
GILDER,  RICHARD  WATOON. 

lioi<i':nl<jym.  .N,  J.,  b,  1^44. 

Dawn        ,..,.., 
PuUiih.:TS  ;  Charles  Scribntr'i  Sk-ns,  .Vew  York. 

OILMAN,  CAROLINE  HOWARD. 

ii'mon,  Mjv^..  b,  i;q4. 

The  Child's  Wish  in  June 
GLAZIER,  WILLIAM  BELCHER. 

HjI1v»c!(.  M.t,  b.  r3«7. 

Cape-Cottage  at  Sunset    .... 
GLUCK. 
'jennajjy. 

To  Death  (Tranilation)  .... 
GOETHE,  JOHAN.V  WOLFGANG  VON. 

OcTIfisiiy.  i;j^i%j3, 

Fisher,  The  (Tranj,  C.  'A.  Brooki) 
King  of  Thule,  'VhKiTrani   B.  Taylor) 
Mignon's  Song  ( Tratu.  F  Hemani) 
GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER- 

IrcUnd,  1725-1774, 

Deserted  Village,  The      ,        ,         .        , 

Great  Britain 

Holland 


Ho 

Madame  Blaize,  Elegy  on 

Mad  Dog,  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a 


The  Frost . 
GRAHAM,  JAMES,  EARL  OF  MONTROSE. 

"  My  dear  and  only  love  "        .        ,        .        , 
GRAHAM  OF  GARTMORE. 

ScMt,n-l. 

"  If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please  " 

GRAHAME,  JAMES. 

S^Mliui.i,  i7'.<-i8n. 

The  Sabbath 

GRANT,  SIR  ROBERT, 

Scotland,  iTSis-igrf. 

Brooklet,  The 

Litany 


*  Die  down,  O  dismal  day "     ,        . 

Homesick 

"0  winter,  wilt  thou  never,  never  go  ? " 
GRAY,  THOMA.S. 

EnsLw-l,  I7i'^i;7i- 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Chtirchyard  . 
Eton  College,  On  a  Distant  View  of  . 

Spring 

GREEN,  ANNIE  D.  (Marian  DougUi). 


bri; 


.  H. 


Puritan  Lovers,  The 

Two  Pictures 

PublJshefi  :  H.yu;itit.,n,  Mifflin  &  Co,,  B«aon. 

GREENE,  ALBERT  G, 

Pr'/ii.l.r!>cc,  K.  1„  i3vj-t2<8. 

"Old  Grimes  is  dead" 

Publisher  :  S,  S,  Rider,  Providence,  R.  L 

GREENE,  ROBERT. 

England,  1 560-1592, 

"Ah!  what  is  love" 

Content 

Samela 

Shepherd's  Wife,  Song  of  the     ... 
GREE.NWOOD,  GRACE. 

See  LiPFi.s'cr>TT,  Sakah  J. 
GREGORY  THE  GREAT,  ST. 

Darkness  is  thinning  (TVdw/.  7.  jV:  AVa^)    , 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus  (Prom  tlu  Latin  by  jfohn 

Drydinj 

HABINGTON,  WILLIAM. 

En^jland,  1655.^645, 


4, 

-tr 


e-- 


-^ 


IXPEX  OF  AUTHOKS. 


HALLECK,  FITZ-GRKENE. 
Guilfor\l.  Conn..  i;oo-i86;. 

Alnwick  Castle 635 

Burns Sa? 

Fortune 696 

Jt^eph  Rodman  Drake       ....  854 

Rl.irco  l!oz<.iris 524 

On  A  Portr.^il  of  Red  J.ickcl  .  S43 

Wcchawkcn 633 

PtiWishors  :  P.  Appleton  S;  Co.,  New  York. 

HALPINE,  CHARLES  G.  (.AfiUs  0'Jitt/(y). 

Ufl.uui.  iS>)-iSt-j. 

Quakei-dom  —  The  Formal  Call       ...     106 

rubii^hcrs  :  ll.irpcr  vS:  Brothers.  New  York. 

HARRINGTON.  SIR  JOHN. 

Hllgl.lilJ.  ISM-16I3. 

Kortune ^55 

Of  a  cerlaine  Man SS.<; 

Of  Writers  that  cirp  at  other  Men's  Books     .  Sjs 

Treason ^.^5 

W.irres  in  Ireland,  Of  the        ....  405 
HARTF,  nRET. 

Allvinv.  N.V..  Iv  1S35. 

Dickens  in  Oimp S40 

Dow's  Flat Sq9 

Her  Letter SSg 

900 


Plain  L,ans^i.-ne  from  Truthful  James  (Heathen 

Chinee) .     ^ SSS 

Pliocene  Skull,  To  the         ....  Sgj 

Ramon SoS 

The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus        .        .         SSS 
!\iblislicri :  HoiigluoH,  ^timil\  &  Co.,  Boston. 

HARTE,  WALTER. 
>V.Ues.  I7^x>-x;;4. 

A  Soliloquy 44' 

HAY,  JOHN. 

S.ilcm.  In.l..  Iv  iSjs 

B.nnlvTim V" 

Woni.ui's  Low 334 

Pul»Ii.;hcrs :  Houffhton.  Miffiln  &  Co..  Boston. 

HAYNE.  PAUL  H.^MILTON. 

Ch.irU-htoll.  S.  C,  iSj.-lSSS. 

Love  scorns  Degrees 69 

Preexislence 734 

PiiWislicrs  :  11.  J.  Hale  &  Son.  NewYVrk. 

HEBER.  REGINALD. 

Enjjlaiul.  irS3-vS.«. 

"  If  thou  wert  by  my  Side,  my  love  .        .     171 

HEDGE,  FREDERICK  HEN'RY. 

C;uul>ridifc.  Mass..  b.  18^.  ,  „      „ 

"A  mightv  fortress  is  our  l.od"  {FntH  tht 
GfrmoH  of  Martin  Litlier^ .        .        .        .335 
HEMANS.  FELICIA  DOROTHEA. 

Enijlanil.  1TS4-ISW. 

Craves  of  a  Household,  The    .        .        .        •  305 

Homes  of  Etvsland,  The     ....  iSo 

Kindred  Hearts 5* 

landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  The         .  551 

Meetins  of  the  Shiiis.  The       .         .^ .        .  57 

Mignon's  Song  iFromthc  Gfrman  o/Gcel/u)  737 
Treasures  of  the  Dceft  The    .        .        .        .57^ 

Wordswirth,  To S3  5 

HERBERT,  GEORGE. 

Church  Porch,  The 33? 

Gifts  of  God,  The 696 

Life 717 

Praise 


Lent,  A  True    . 

Night  Piece.  The 

Primrose,  Tile  , 

Primroses,  To 

"  Sweet,  be  not  proud  "     . 

Thanksgiving  for  his  House 


& 


Revival 

"  Said  I  not  so  ?  " 
Virtue  Iinmort.il 
HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

Ennl.m.l.  i5.)i-it,-». 

"  .V  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Ben  lonson,  Ode  to      . 
Ber.  Jonson,  Prayer  to     . 
Blossoms,  To        .         ;        . 
Corinna's  ^ing  a  Maying 
Country  late.  The       . 

Daffodils 

'*  Go,  happy  rose  1 "     . 
Holy  Spirit,  The       . 
■:iss,The     .... 


Time 

Violets  ...  .        . 

Virgins.  To  the  .... 

HERVEY,  THOMAS  KIBBLE. 

Elislalul.  ir99-l8;». 

'*  Adieu,  adieu  1  our  dream  of  love" 

Love 

HEVWOOD,  THOMAS. 

l.n,;l:.n,l. 


HIGGINS,  JOHN. 

EnelanJ.    Tinic  of  gii. 
Books 


HILL,  THOMAS. 

Nov  Hrun>»i.-k.  N.  J.,  h.  iSlS. 

The  Bobolink    . 


HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO. 

New  York  tTity,  1S06-1S34. 


ity,  i8o6-l8S4. 
Monterey 


IHiblishi 

HOGG,  lAMES. 
Scoti.uia,  i7r--isi?. 

lock  Johnstone,  the  Tinkler    . 

kilmenv 

Skvlark,  The    .... 

When  tlie  Kyc  come  Hame 
HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT. 

Uclchcnovvn.  M.-issi..  iSi»-iSSi. 
Cradle  Song  ( Bitlrr-Stvtet) 

Publislicni :  Cli.irlcs  Scribncr's  Sons,  Nci 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 

Cnmliri.lse.  Mass.,  Iv  1S09. 

Bill  and  Joe      ...        . 
City  .ind  Country 
Coutentnient      .... 
Daniel  Webster    . 
Height  of  the  Ridiculous,  The 


Kalvdid 


Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting 
Old  Ironsides     . 
One-Hoss  Shay,  The  . 
Plowman,  The  . 
Rudolph  the  Headsman 
IMl.lisl.ci      ••      • "'"'"■  '■ 


(>6<) 
S44 
S7C, 


i:lnon,  Mifflin  &■  Co.,  Boston. 

HOLTY,  LUDWIG. 

"^  Winter  Song  (  TranshUiex  p/CharUsT. . 
HOME,  JOHN. 


HOOD,  THOMAS. 

Englaml.  i;5S-iS45. 


Autumn 395 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  The  .        . 
Diversities  of  Fortune 
Dream  of  Eugene  jVram,  The 
F.aithless  Sally  Brown 
"  Farewell,  life  !" 
Flow 


Forlorn  Shepherd's  Complaint,  The 

CKjld! 

Heir,  The  Lost    .        .        ■        ■ 

Infant  Son,  To  my   . 

"  I  remember,  I  remember  ' 

Moniing  Meditations 

No 


Nocturn.al  Sketch     .... 

Ruth 

Sailor's  Consolation,  The 

Song  of  the  Shirt.  The 

"  We  watched  her  breathing  " 

"  What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  " 


-^ 


a- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOnS. 


^ 


HOOPER,  LUCY 

Ncwl)ury|;ort,  Mass.,  1816-1841. 

Three  Loves 

I'ulilislKTN  :  J.  H.  Ulpiiincolt  &  Co.,  PhUaiklplila. 

HOPPIN,  WILLIAM  J. 

Charlie  Machree 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD. 

Sew  York  r:ity.  h.  if.it). 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic  . 

Royal  Guest,  The 

I'liblklicrs  :  Moii^'hton,  MiHIin  &  Co.,  Boston. 

HOWITT,  MARY. 

Enj,'l,iii(l,  b.    1799. 

liroom  Flower,  The 

Use  of  Flowers,  The 

HOWITT,  WILLIAM. 
Hiit(l.iiirl.  i;9>-i«7o. 

Departure  ol  the  Swallow,  The 

Summer  Noon,  A 

HOWLAND,  MRS.  MARY  WOOLSEV. 

EnAin.l,  1,.  iSp;  il.  New  York.  .864. 

First  SprinK  Flowers        .... 

**  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  "  . 

Rest 

PublUhtTs :  E.I".  Dullon  &  Co..  New  York. 

HOVT,  RALPH. 

.Mew  Y.jrk.  ig'jS-lSya. 

Old 

Snow.  —  A  Winter  Sketch        .        .        .        . 
HUGHES,  DR.  RICHARD. 

Enn!;m'l.     i8Ih  century. 

A  Doubt 

HUGO,  VICTOR. 

Ir.ince,  iSo2-i>a^. 

The  Poor  Fisher  Folk  {^Alexander's  Tratts.) 
HUME,  ALEXANDER 
Scoilind,  1711-1776. 

The  Story  of  a  Summer  Day 
HUNT,  LEIGH. 

Jin^land.  1784-1857. 
Abou  Ben  Adhcm 
Child  durinj;  Sickness,  To  a 
Cupid  Swallowed 
Fairies'  .SonK 
Glove  and  the  Lions,  The 
Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  The 

laffar 

f'  Jenny  kissed  me  "     . 
Love-Lelters  made  of  Flowers 

Miy 

Mahmoud  .... 


■Mji 


Trumpets  of  Doolkamcin,  The 
HUNTER,  ANNE  HOME. 

En^.la,..],  174-.-182.. 

Indian  Death-Song 
HURDIS,  JAMES. 


A  Bird's  Nest 


INGELOW,  JEAN. 

liii^iaiid,  b.  tHy}. 

Divided 

High-Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire 
Like  a  Laverock  in  the  Lift  . 
Maiden  with  a  Milking-Pai),  A 

Seven  Times  One 

Seven  Times  Two     .... 
Seven  Times  Three       .... 


iFo 


'  of  Sunderland 
INGOLDSEY,  THOS.    See  Barham.  R.  H, 
JACKSON.  HELEN  HUNTC'H.  H."). 

A.nh.;rst.  M.'.v...  ,8j:.,385. 

Coronation 

My  Legacy 

PublisJiLTs  :  Roberts  Eroihcrs,  Boston. 

JACKSON,  HENRY  R. 

Savaniwh,  Ga.,  b.  1810. 

My  Wife  and  Child 

JACOPONE,  FRA. 

Slabat  Malcr  Dolorosa  {Co/es's  Translalion)  . 


JAMES,  PAUL  MOON. 

Eni;l.,n.|,  <1.  1854. 

The  Beacon 574 

JENKS,  EDWARD  A. 

.New|,ort,  .S.  It.,  b.  18)5. 

Going  and  Coming 728 

JENNER,  DR.  EDWARD. 

Eii|;);in.l.  i;4;)-i3i-,. 

Signs  of^Rain 381) 

JOHNSON,  EDWARD,  M.D. 

EnL.|.,n.|.     I',ib.  1817. 

The  Walcr-Drinkcr  .        .  ...    494 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL. 

Elinlrin.l.  ir.,^i-?4. 

Charles  XII 816 


JONES,  SIR  WILLIAM. 

Eniil.ind.  174(^1704. 

liaby.  The  (From  tlu  Saiiskril) 
*' Vvhat  constitutes  a  State  ?" 
JONSON,  BEN. 

lii.i-l.in.l.  1574-1637. 

"  DrinK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes  "   . 
Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H      . 
Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 
Fantasy      ...... 

"  Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flics  you  "    . 
Freedom  in  Dress     .... 

Good  and  Fair 

Noble  Nature,  The   .... 
Robin  GofidfcUow         .... 

Those  Eyes 

.Shakespeare 

True  Growth,  The    .... 
Vision  of  Beauty,  A      .        .        ,        . 


Mv  Bird    . 
Watching 
KEATS,  JOHN 

Enirl.imfTi.-'/^i^si. 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The      .        .       .       . 

Fairy  Song 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  The  . 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  . 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale       .       .        .        . 
KEBLE,  JOHN. 

En;;l.iiidT  i7r^ifi66. 

Example 

KEMBLE-BUTLER,  FRANCES  ANNE. 


Absence 
Faith      . 


KENNEDY,  CRAMMOND. 

Scotlanfl,  b.  1S41. 

Greenwood  Cemetery 
KEPPEL,  LADY  CAROLINE. 

Scotland. 

Robin  Adair 

KETCHUM,  ANNIE  C. 

Benny        

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT. 

Prt.|..rick  Co..  M.I..  I77'^i843. 
The  Star-spangled  Banner    . 

KIMBALL,  HARRIET  McEWEN. 

New  H.impslMrc,  b.  1814. 
All's  Well         .        . 
KING,  HENRY. 


Death  < 


if  a  Beautiful  Wife 


En^Und,  1819-1875. 

A  Rough  Rhyme  on  a  Rough  Matter 
Merry  Lark,  The  .... 

Sands  o'  Dee 

Three  Fishers,  The      ... 


KINNEY,  COATES. 

I'cnn  Y..n,  N.  Y..  b.  i8s6. 
Rain  on  the  Roof 


e-.- 


724 


748 

84 


S13 
66s 
65 


-^ 


0-- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


-^ 


^- 


KNOWLES,  HERBERT. 

Richmond  Cluircliyard,  Lines  written  m  .    309 

KNOWI.ES,  JAMES  SHERIDAN. 

Iri:l,.ll,l,  .7.-.4-iSt..., 

Swilzcrl.iiul 529 

KNOX,  WILLIAM. 
Scotlaiul,  i7if./-isj5. 

"O,    why    siiould    the    spirit   uf   mortal    be 

proud  ?  " 301 

KORNER,  CHARLES  THEODORE. 

IkTiiiany.  lyji-iSi.i. 

Good  TSlighHTram/alwa  <>/ C.  T.  £>-aoAs)    .    504 
Men  and  Hoys         "  "  "     .        527 

Sword  Song,  Tlie    "  "  "         .    468 

KRUMMACHER,  FRIEDERICH  WILHELM. 

OcniKiiij',  i774-i«(vS. 

Alpine  Hc\^hli  (Traris/tttiott  t}/ C.  T.  Broohs)  407 
Moss  Rose,  The  (rra«j/«/io«)        .        .        .433 
LAMI),  CHARLES. 

EllKlnil,!.  I77;-.SM, 

Farewell  to  Tobacco,  A         .        ,        .        .  491 

Housekeeper,  The 451 

John  Lailiu,  Esq.,  To S32 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The 3O2 

LAMB,  MARY. 

UiiltliUid.  i;(.5-i847. 

Choosing  a  Name 18 

LANDON,  L^TITIA  ELIZABETH. 

liiK'land,  iSo:.-iSiS. 

Death  and  the  Youth J34 

Female  Convict,  The 294 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE. 

Ullj;l.ui(l.  I775-I.*4. 

Macaulay,  lo 836 

Maid's  Lament,  The 279 

One  Gray  Hair,  The 715 

LANIER,  SIDNEY. 

ClKirli;stoil.  S.  C.  iS4?-k';Si. 

Ccntenuial  Meditation  of  Columbia  .        .    545 

Tublisliors  :  J.  1!.  Uppiiicott  &  Co..  niilculel|)liin. 

LARCOM,  LUCY. 

Lowell.  Mnss..  l>.  1S36. 

By  the  Fireside 176 

I'liblisticrs,  Hoiijjliton,  Millliii  &  Co.,  Doston. 
LE  FANU,  J.  S. 

Lnjjlaiul.  il.  18:4. 

Shamus  O'Brien 519 

LEIGH,  HENRY  S. 

liiWlaiul. 

Only  Seven 909 

The  Twins S91 

LELAND,  CHARLES  G. 

l'lul.uloll>lli;l,  I'il.,  li.  1S24. 

H.ans  Breitmann's  Party       .        .        .       .       901 

Ritter  Hugo 902 

Publishers  :  T.  U.  Peterson  &  Bros.,  riiil.idcliiliia. 

LEONIDAS. 

Alfxaiulriii.  vr-ii^. 

Wame  {Traiislatiott  0/ Roitrl  BlatiiO     .        .    175 
The  Mother's  Stratagem  (Tr.  J'. /ir.>i"-<:«)  .  24 

LEVER,  CHARLES  JAMES. 

Irdiuul,  .S«-iS-j. 

Widow  Malone 905 

LEWIS,  MATTHEW  GREGORY. 

niiKlnn.l.  1--S-IS.8. 

The  Mani.ic 256 

LEYDEN,  lOHN. 

Scotl.iii.l.  1775-1811, 

Daisy,  The 426 

Noontide 370 

Sabbath  Morning,  The 370 

LIPPINCOTT,  SARAH  J.  {Grace  GreemvooS). 

I'oini.cv.  N.  Y..  I).  .8.-!. 

The  Poet  of  Today      ....        738 

I»iil»liblicrs:  Ticknor  \-  C'o..  Boston. 

LOCKER,  FREDERICK. 

tnjjhiiKl,  l>.  ii!-.-4, 

*  My  love  is    .ways  near"        .        .        .  .      6f> 

On  an  Old  Muff 876 

"  The  world 's  a  sorry  wench,  akin  "        .  .    877 

Widow's  Mite,  The 246 


LOCKHART,  JOHN  GIBSON. 

Scntlaiul,  1793-1854. 

Lord  of  Bntrago,  The 
Znra's  Ear-Rings 
LODGE,  THOMAS. 


\KN    WAD.SWORTH. 


LOGAN,  JOHN. 

SctHhiiuI,  1748-1789 

Cuckoo,  Ti.  t 

"Thv  trir,, 
LONGFF.I  I  .'W, 
I'orllan.l,  M       i 

Agassi.-,  I  iluctli  lUllhd.ly  of 

Birds,  I'lea  for  the     .... 

Carillon 

Children's  Hour,  The     . 

D.^iybreak 

Divina  Conimedia     .        . 

Evangeline  in  the  Prairie 

Footsteps  of  Angels  .... 

God's-Acre 

Hawthorne        .     _  . 

Household  Sovereign,  The  {Ilan^itt^  i 

Hyniii  to  tlie  Night  '..'.'. 
Launch.  Tlu 


Maidenlwcd 


Nun 


St  {Evnnsilim) 


Psalm  of  Life,  A 
R.nin  in  Summer    . 
Reaiier  and  the  Flowers,  The 
Resijtnalion  .... 
Retribution 

Sea-Weed      .... 
Snow- Flakes     . 
Village  Blacksmith,  The 
Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The 
IniiL'liton,  ^IIB 


I'ulilisliers  ;  llniigliton,  MllUiii  &  Co.,  Boston. 
LOVELACE,  RICHARD. 

liHt:lau.l.  i6iS-i(,sa. 

Alihca  from'  Prison,  To 

Lucasta,  To 

Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars,  To 
LOVER,  SAMUEL. 

trcland,  i797-i^''Xi. 

Angel's  Wliisjier,  The 
Father  Laud  and  Mother  Tongue 
Low-backed  Car,  The       . 
Rory  O'More        .... 
Widow  Machree        .... 
LOWE,  JOHN. 

Sti.ll.ill.l.  17'.'-17')'<. 

Mary's  Dream       .... 
LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 


1819. 


First  Snow-Fail,  The    . 
Freedom,  Ode  to 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfello 
Invitation,  An   . 


nets 


Summer  Storm      .... 

Villa  Franca 

Washington,  To    .... 
What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks 
William  Lloyd  Garrison 
Winter  Pictures         .... 
Winter's  Evening  Hymn  to  my  Fire 

Yussouf 

I'lihlishers  :  Hnii(rhtoii,  Mimiii&  Co..  Boston. 
LOWn  1  ,  "MARIA  WHITE. 


847 

'79 
6S4 


M, 


.  MiHliii  &  Co.,  Uostoii. 
LOWEl.l,,   HUBERT  T.  S. 
Cliulin.lijc.  Mass..  I).  lSl6. 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow    . 


:^ 


[&-- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


^ 


LUTHER,  MARTIN. 

Ocniiany,  1481-1546. 

"A  mighty  fonress  a  oar  GoA"  (Tra>nlatu>n 

o/F.H.  Hedge) 335 

Martyrs'  Hymn,  The  ( Translation  a/  W.  J. 

Fax) 328 

LUTTRELL,  HENRY. 

EnylaiKl.     A  contemporary  and  associate  of  Byron  and 


Mo 


832 


On  Miss  Maria  Tree 
LVLY,  JOHN 

Kniil.uid,  1534-ifco. 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 148 

LYNCH,  ANNIE  CHARLOTTE  (.Mrs.  Bella). 
Bcnniiiyton.  \'t,.  b.  about  18a).     Lives  in  .New  Votlc 

On  a  Picture aoi 

I'ublislicTs:  H.irixr  &  Brothers.  New  York. 
LYTLE,  WILLIAM  HAINES. 
Cincinnati,  o..  1826-1863. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra 293 

LYTTELTON,  LORD  GEORGE. 

"Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love"       .        .      70 

LYTTON,  EDWARD  BULWER,  LORD. 
linylind,  i&3,-i3;j. 

Claude  Mehiotte's  Apology  and  Defence  206 

Etrurian  Valley,  In  the        .  .        •         628 

LYTTON,  ROBERT  BULWER,  EARL(Oa/«<  Mere- 

dith). 
England,  b.  18  ;i. 

Aux  Italicns 228 

Changes 230 

Possession ■     'S'* 

The  Chess- Board 106 

M.'VCAULAV,  THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD. 

I£ni;l..Tid,  18/^1.57. 

Horatius  at  the  Bridge 507 

Monconlour 516 

Naseby 5'7 

Roman  Father's  Sacrifice,  The    ...  794 

MAC-CARTHY,  DENIS  FLORENCE. 

Ireland.  1820-18^. 

'Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil!" 5' 


Ali< 


Ireland 523 

Labor  Song 502 

Love  and  Time <^^ 

Summer  Longings Tfio 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE. 

1-nal.ind,  b.  1824. 

Babv,  The 18 

Earl  O'Quarterdeck 603 

MACKAY,  CHARLES. 

Scotlanil.  b.  1814- 

Cleon  and  I 66S 

Small  Beginnings 697 

"  Tell  me,  ye  wmged  winds  "  .        .        .        .332 

Tubal  Cain 488 

MAGINN,  WILLIAM. 

IrcLinil,  1753-1842. 

Waiting  for  the  Grapes 142 

MAHONY.  FRANCIS  (Fallier  Prmt). 
Ireland.  iSvs-ia/,. 

liellsof  Shandon,  The 65S 

Bonaparte,  Recollections  of  (/"rt^wj^^ra^/^fr)    fiz2 

Flight  into  Eg>'pt,  The 344 

Passage 637 

MANGAN,  JAMES  CLARENCE. 

Ireland.  i8o3-i8.',9. 

The  Sunken  City  {From  the  German)    .        .     752 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER. 

tni^'ian  !.  i304-iyy3. 

X'he  .shepherd  to  his  Love        .        .        .        .104 
MARSDEN,  WILLIAM. 


What  is  Ti 


T^'t 


MARSTON,  JOHN. 

England,  1575-1674. 

A  Scholar  and  his  Dog 855 


[&^- 


Death  of  the  White  Fawn 
Drop  of  Dew.  A   . 
Song  of  the  Emigrants  in  Bermuda 
MARY. 

tjueen  of  Ilunsary.  d.  1558. 

A  Prayer  

MASSEY,  GERALD. 

EnKl.in.l.  b.  18;* 

"  O,  lay  thv  hand  in  mine,  dear"    . 
Our  Wee  While  Rose  . 
Passionate  Pilgrim's  Song,  The 
McMASTER,  GUY  HUMPHREY. 

Clyl.f.  N.  v..  b.  Hi',. 

The  fJld  Conlinentals 
MEEK.  ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT. 

Colulllbi,!,  S.  C.  I814-1865. 

Balaklava 

MELEAGER. 
Grcvce,  9li[i.  C. 

The  Vow  (Translation  e/ MerivaU 
MERIVALE,  JOHN  HERMAN. 

LnKl;<nU.  Ir79-i844. 

The  Vow  (From  the  Greek  0/ MeUager) 
.MERRICK,  JAMES. 

En;.'Lind.  1720-176',. 

The  Chameleon 

MESSENGER,  ROBERT  HINCHLEV. 


Give  me  the  Old 711 

METASTASIO,  PIERRE  A.  D.  B. 


MICKLE,  WILLIAM  JULIUS. 

Scotl.in.l.  l;34-i7«8. 

The  Sailor's  Wife      . 


MILLER,  CINCINNATUS  HINER  (7oayuin). 


MILLER,  WILLIAM. 

Scotland. 

Willie  WInkic  . 


MILMAN,  HENRY  HART. 

Unaland.  I7vi-i8'<9. 

Hebrew  Wedding 164 

Jewish  Hymn  in  Babylon     ....         33O 

MILNES,  RICHARD  MONCKTON  (LordHouehtoti) 

Lnyland.  i8>v-I^;;- 

Brookside,  'I  he .        .  .        .        -      92 

Good  Night  and  Good  Morning  .        .        .  31 

London  Churches     .        .        ....     25a 

MILTON,  JOHN. 

Enj:lan-I.  160^1674. 

Abdiel 347 

Adam  and  Eve,  Nuptials  of         ...         160 
Adam's  Morning  Hymn  in  Paradise 


Ada 


I  Ev 


iiy, 


Battle  of  the  Angels 

Blindness,  fJn  his 330 

Blindness.  On  his  own  (7a  Cyriack  Skinner)  672 

Christmas  Hymn 724 

"  Comus,"  Scenes  from        ....  755 

Creation 363 

Cromwell,  To  the  Lord-General  .        .  817 

Evening  in  Paradise 374 

Haunt  of  the  Sorcerer  ....  756 

II  Pcnseroso 710 

Invocation  to  Light 3''.'7 

L' Allegro TO 

Lady  lost  in  the  Wood         ....  755 

Lvcidas 2H2 

May  Morning 384 

Nymph  of  the  Severn 75^ 

Satan's  Address  to  the  Sun  ....  805 

.Samson  .Agonistes 241 

Selections  from  "  Paradise  Lost  "        .        .  241 


>bei 


Tacking  Ship  oft  Shore 57' 


-& 


\n- 


IXDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


-^-a 


B- 


MITFORD,  MARY  RUSSELL. 

Englaiul.  1780-1855. 

Rienzi  to  the  Romans 512 

MOIR,  DAVID  MACBETH. 

Scolland.  1798-1351- 

Casa  Wappy 268 

Jaraie  's  on  the  Stormy  Sea .                .        .  574 

Rustic  Lad's  Lament  in  the  Town,  The  .        .  19S 

Song  of  the  South 415 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES. 

Scotland,  1771-1H54. 

Birds 433 

Common  Lot,  The 3=9 

Coral  Insect,  The sSt 

Daisy,  The 42<i 

Forever  with  the  Lord 353 

■' Make  way  for  Liberty  !"  .        ...  528 

My  Country 5°5 

Night 376 

Ocean,  Tlie 560 

Pelican,  The 444 

Sea  Life 5S0 

MGNTREUIL,  MATHIEU  DE. 

To  Madame  de  St^vign^ 8^5 

MOORE,  CLEMENT  CLARKE. 

New  York  Cit}-.  1779-185=. 

St.  Nicholas,  A  Visit  from        ....  44 

MOORE,  THOMAS 
Ireland,  i7;<^iS52. 

Acbar  and  Nourmahal 112 

"  As  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day  "         .        .  544 

"  As  slow  our  ship  '* 189 

"  Eelieve   me,  if   all  those   endearing  young 

charms" "    .         -123 

Birth  of  Portraiture,  Tlie      ....  103 

Black  and  Blue  Eves 143 

Campbell,  To         '. S32 

Canadian  Boat-Song,  A 6iS 

*'  Come,  rest  in  this  bosom  "...  133 

Eclioes       ........  92 

"  Farewell,  but  whenever  "          ...  193 

"  Farewell  to  thee,  .Araby's  daughter,"    .         .  2S9 

"  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me  "          .        .  95 
Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  The     .         .         .782 

'•  Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old"         .  518 

Linda  to  Hafed 207 

Love's  Young  Dream 224 

"  Oft,  in  the  stilly  night "  .        .        .        .237 

"  (1,  breathe  not  his  name"         ...  S34 

Origin  of  the  Harp,  The 762 

"("),  the  sight  entrancing "           .        .        .  465 

Spnns  {Fro,,!  t/ie  Greek  or  A  iiacreon)   .         .  3  84 

Syria      ..,.'....  4-3 

Temple  to  Friendship,  A          ....  61 

"  The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls"  518 
The  Young  May  Moon     .    "    .        .         .         .151 

"  Those  evening  bells  "        ....  237 

Valeof  Avoca,  The 59 

Vale  of  Cashmere.  The         ....  414 

Verses  written  in  an  .Album      ....  87 

MORE,  REV.  HENRY. 

Elli;laiirl,  d.  i8o= 

Euthanasia 720 

MORLAIX,  BERNARD  DE. 

France.  I=l!i  Century. 

The  Celestial  Country  (Tra,is.  J.  M.  .Vea/e)  311 
MORRIS,  GEORGE  P. 

Pliiladelpliia,  Pa.,  iSco-1864. 

The  Retort S9. 

"  Woodman,  spare  that  tree  "  .  .        .41 

MORRIS,  CAPTAIN  THOMAS. 

IinL,'Iaiid.     ]'ub.  1786-1802. 

The  Catalogue 153 

MORRIS,  WILLIAM. 

England,  b.  181J. 

Atalanta  Conquered 1 1 1 

Atalanta  Victorious no 

Idle  Singer,  The 666 

March 379 

Pygmalion  and  the  Image         .        .        .        .113 


MOSCHUS. 

Greece,  3d  Century  B.  C. 

Lament  for  Bion  { Traiu.  o/C.  A.  Elton).      .     2S2 
MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM. 

Jeanie  Morrison ,5 

"  My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie  "       .        .  232 

"  They  come  !  the  merry  summer  months  "    .  3S5 
MOULTON,  ELLEN  LOUISE  CHANDLER. 
I'o.iifret.  Conn.,  b.  1S35. 

Late  Spring,  The 24; 

Troth-Plight ,7: 

MOULTRIE,  JOHN. 
Entriand.  pub.  1859. 

The  Three  Sons 30 

MUELLER,  WILLIAM. 
Germany.  1794-1827. 

The  Sunken  City  (7'ra«j.  y.  C.  ;i/,in^a«).     .     752 
MULOCK,  DINAH  MARIA. 

See  Craik,  Dinah  Mulock. 

MUNBY,  ARTHUR  JOSEPH. 
England,  b.  1828. 

A  Pastoral 82 

Apres 695 

MYERS,  FREDERICK  W.  H. 
England,  t>.  1843. 

From  "St.  Paul" 359 

NAIRNE,  CAROLINA  OLIPHANT,  BARONESS. 

Scotland.  1766-1845. 

Laird  o'  Cockpen,  The 156 

Land  0'  the  Leal,  The 292 

NASH,  THOMAS. 
England.  1558-1600. 

"  Spring,  the  Sweet  Spring  "    .        .        ,        .    3S4 

NEALE,  JOHN  MASON. 

England,  1818-1866. 

"  Art  thou  wearj.  ? "  [Lntm  of  St.  Stephen  tlu 

Sabaiie') .327 

Celestial  Country,  The  (From  tlie  Lathi  0/ 

Bertiard  tie  lilorlaix) 311 

"  Darkness  is  thinning"  {From  t/ie  Latin  of 

St.  Gregory  the  Great)         ....     322 
\ txi\\d.'B.^%\%(Froi,i  the  Latin)  .        .        .        319 
NEELE,  HENRY. 
England,  1798-1828. 

"  Moan,  moan,  ye  dying  gales  "...    235 
NEWELL,  ROBERT  HENRY  {Orfhem  C.  Kerr). 

New  Vcrk  City.  b.  1836. 

National  Anthems gii 

Publishers:     Lee  c'i:  Sliepard,  Boston. 

NEWMAN,  JOHN  HENRY. 
England,  b.  i8.ji. 

Flowers  without  Fruit 741 

The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud         ....         326 

NICHOLS,  MRS.  REBECCA  S. 
Greenwicli,  X.  I.     I'nh.  1844. 

The  Philosopher  Toad 7S9 

NOEL,  THOMAS. 

Enirland.     Pub.  1841. 

The  Pauper's  Drive 257 

NORRIS,  JOHN. 

England.  1O57-1711. 

My  Little  Saint 142 

NORTH,  CHRISTOPHER. 

See  Wilson,  John. 
NORTON,  ANDREWS. 

Hinghani.  Mass.,  i78'i-lS53. 

After  a  Summer  Shower 392 

NORTON,  CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  S.,  HON. 

England.  i8.:«-i876. 

Arab  to  his  favorite  Steed,  The       .        .        .612 

Biugen  on  the  Rhine 47'J 

King  of  Denmark's  Ride,  The         .        .        .     2SS 

Love  Not 24" 

Mother's  Heart,  The 32 

'*  We  have  been  friends  togetlier  ".,5s 

O'HARA,  THEODORE. 

Kentucky,  ab.nut  i82o-i8t)~. 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead         .        .        .        .54° 

O'KEEFE,  JOHN. 
Ireland.  1747-1853. 

"  I  am  a  fnar  of  orders  gray  "  .        .        ,  ^''~ 


-3 


[& 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


--^ 


OLIPHANT,  THOMAS. 

War's    Loud   Alarms   (J^i 

Ttilftaiarn)    .... 
"  Where  are  the  raen  ? "  l,From 
OPIE,   AMELIA. 

England,  i76»-i853. 

The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale   . 
O'REILLY,    MILES. 

See  Charles  G.  Halpine. 
OSGOOD,    FRANCES   SARGENT. 

Boston.  M.iss.  1812-1850. 

To  Labor  is  to  Pray . 
OSGOOD,   KATE  PUTNAM. 

FryeburiJ.  Me,,  h.  1841.     _ 
Driving  H  "      " 


the    IP'eli/t    of 
1  the  same). 


Publishers  :  Hougtuon,  .Mirtliii  &  Co.,  Boston. 
OUTRAM,   GEORGE. 

Scotlanii,  i3o5-iy<A. 

The  Annuity 

PAINE,   THOMAS. 


PALMER,   JOHN   WILLIAMSON. 


"  For  Charlie's  sake  " 
Thread  and  Song  . 
Publisliers'^  Charles  Scribner's 


1  The. 


Tlie  Soul's  Cry     ...        . 
Publislier  ;  A.  D.  F.  Randolph.  Xcw  York. 
PALMER,   WILLIAM    PITT. 
Stockbrklge.  Mass.,  1805-1884.. 
The  Smack  in  School 


Mr.  Simms 

PARKER,  THEODORE. 
Lexington,  Mass..  i8io-i86j 

"  The  Wav,  the  Trtith,  and  the  Life  " 
Publishers  ;  D.'Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York. 
PARNELL,   THOMAS. 

Hnt-lin.!.  i67.,-iri7. 

''  When  your  beauty  appears  " 
PARSONS,   THOMAS   WILLIAM. 


On  ; 


PATMORE,   COVENTRY. 
England,  b  18=3- 
Mistress,  The    , 
Rose  o£  the  World,  The 
Sly  Thoughts    . 
Sweet  Meeting  of  Desires 
Wisdom     . 


PAYNE,   JOHN   HOWARD. 

New  Yoik  City.  i;s2-i352. 

Home,  Sweet  Home         .... 
Brutus's  Oration  over  the  Body  of  Lucreti; 
Publisher  :  J.  Munsell,  Albany.  .N'.  Y, 
PEALE,   REMBRANDT. 

Near  I'liil.ldelphia.  Pa.,  1778-1860. 

Faith  and  Hope 

PEARCE, 

The  Heaving  of  the  Lead 
PERCIVAL,   JAMES  GATES. 
Berlin.  Conn..  1795-1856, 

May 

Coral  Grove,  The 

Seneca  Lake      

Publishers  :  H.nitjln.in,  Mi91in  &  Co.,  Boston. 
PERCY,    FLORENCE. 

See  Allen,  Elizabeth  A. 
PERCY,   THOMAS. 

England,  17:8-1811. 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The 
"  O  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me  ?"    . 
PERRY,   NORA. 

After  the  Ball 

Jane 

Love  Knot,  The 


fr- 


pettee,  g.  w. 

Sleigh  Song 

PFEFFEL. 

i^erni.iiiy,  i73&-i.go9. 

The   Nobleman  and   the  Pensioner  {Trans- 
lation 0/  CharUs  T,  Brooks) 

PHILIPS,   AMBROSE. 

England.  i(>75-i749. 

"  Blest  as  the  immortal   gods "   {From  tlie 
Greek) 

PHILIPS,   JOHN. 
England,  1676-17.18. 

The  Splendid  Shilling 


PHILOSTRATUS. 

"  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes"  {Traits- 
lation  0/  Ben  Jonson) 

PIERPONT,  JOHN. 

Litchlield,  tonn,.  1785-1866. 

My  Child 

Not  on  the  Battle- Field       .... 

Passing  Away 

Passing  Bell,  The 

Warren's  Address 

Whittling 

PINKNEY.    EDWARD  CO.\TE. 

Annapolis,  Md„  i8os-l8=8. 

A  Health 


.  C.  Armstrong  &  Son,  New  York. 


POLLOK,   ROBERT. 

Scotland,  179>-I837. 

Byron 
Ocean    . 


,  The 


POPE,  ALEXANDER. 

England.  16S8-1744, 
Addison     . 
Author's  Mi 
Belinda     . 
Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  The 

Fame 

Future,  The 

Greatness 

Happiness     ..... 
and  Couplets  . 


Nature's  Chain 
Profusion  . 
Quiet  Life,  The 


Ruling  Passion,  The    . 
Scandal      .        .        .        . 
Sporus,  —(Lord  Hervey) 


Universal  Prayer,  The 
POWERS,    HORATIO   NELSON. 

New  York,  b.  1826. 

Bums 


PRAED,    WINTHROP   MACKWORTH. 

Eii^lanil.  1802-1^39. 

Belle  of  the  Ball,  The      . 

Campbell 


PRENTICE,   GEORGE  DENISON. 

'°Th"e  closing  Ye'ar  ' 

PRIEST,    NANCY  AMELIA  WOODBURY. 


.  1837-1870. 
r  the  Rii 


PRINGLE,   THOMAS. 
Scotland,  1789-1834. 

"  Afar  in  the  desert  " 

PRIOR,   M.^TTHEW. 

En.dnnd,  I>^4-1721 

The  Lady's  Looking-Glass 


238 


-^ 


& 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


-^ 


PROCTER,  ADELAIDE   ANNE. 
biKlnml.  iteo-isoj. 

Doubting  Heart,  A 

Lost  Cliorrf,  A 

'*  Dtily  waitiii,^  " 

l*cr  Pacem  nd  Lucem  .... 

Wmn.iu's  Question,  A      .        .        .        . 
PROCIEK,    BRYAN   \\  .[Barry  Cornwall). 
Hiv,:l;in(l.  1787-1874. 

Address  to  tlie  Ocean       .... 

Blood  Horse,  Tlie 

"  Kor  love's  sweet  sake  "  . 

C.olden  tiirl,  A       .  .         .  . 

Hnnter's  Sons,  The. 

Life 

IKvl,  The 

"  I'eacc !     What  can  tears  avail  ? ' 

Petition  to  Time,  A  . 

Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife,  The 

Sea,  The 

*'  Sit  down,  sad  soul  "  . 

•'  Softly  woo  away  her  breath  " 

Song  of  Wood  Nymphs 

Stormy  Petrel,  Tnc  . 

White  Squall,  The 
PUNCH. 

Homba,  King  of  Naples,  Death-Bed  c[  . 

Chemist  to  his  Love,  The     . 

Collegian  to  his  Bride,  The 

1  ones  at  the  Barber's  Shop  .■ 

Roasted  Sucking  Pig 

QUARLES,   FRANCIS. 

Enetinnl.  1592-1&44 

Delight  in  God 

Vanity  ofthe  World,  The    .... 
RALEIGH,   SIR  WALTER. 
UiiM.^ind,  155^1618. 

Lines  written  the  Night  before  his  E.Kecution  . 

Nymph's  Reply,  The 

Pilgrimage,  The        ,..,.• 
RAMS.W,  ALLAN. 

Scoll.ind,  1685-17SS- 

Lochabcr  no  more 

RANDOLPH,  ANSON   D.   F. 

Wooilbrid^e.  X.  I.,  b.  iSi-o. 

Hopefully  Waiting 

RANDOLPH,   THOMAS. 
Enj^bnd,  1(105-1634. 

Fairies'  Song  ( Translation  0/  Lci^h   Hunt 
from  the  Latin)    .        .         ■         .'       . 
RANKIN,   J.    E.,   D.  D. 

■'   ""  .  iS-8.    Pull.  Boston.  1867. 


)!u 


SlS 


RASCAS,   BERNARD. 

The^Love  of  God  ( Trans,  of  W.  C.  Bryant')       351 
RAYMOND,   ROSSITER  W. 

Ci.uimnti.  llhio.  1>.  1840, 

Cavalry  Song 4C>^> 

Complinionts  of  the  Season  ....  26 

Grecian  Temples  at  Pajstum,  The   .         .         .  619 

Imiironiptu 8<)2 

Knth 2J 

"  Shall  1  love  you  like  the  wind,  love"       .  79 

.Song  of  the  Sea 7'io 

Troopers'  Death,  The  {From  the  German)  467 
RE'^D,  THOMAS   BUCHANAN. 

Cllcslcr.  P.I..  i8i.--l8;5. 

Angler,  The 621 

Brave  at  Home,  The 505 

Closing  Scene,  The 651 

Drifting 751 

Reapei^s  Dream,  The 347 

Sheridan's  Ride 539 

I'uhlKlicrs  1  J.  11.  Uppincott  &  Co..  Hiil.iclclpliia. 

REDDEN,   LAURA  C.  (Hmuard  Glyndon). 
SoiinTsct  County,  Md.,  b.  about  1^40. 


Ma 


Baby  Zulma's  Christmas  Carol 
RICHARDS,  WILLIAM   CAREY. 
London,  l£ntj.,  li.  1817. 

Under  the  Cross  .    . 


84S 


RITTEU,   MARY   LOUISE. 

City,  li,  1837. 


Bayard .,, 

Difference,  The i  ,s  s 

Once .  131 

Perished 2  jo 

Sub  Silentio ^,s 

Why? !<S 

ROBERT  THE  SECOND. 

Veni  Sancte  ^\i\\\\\\^  {.Translation  of  Catha- 
rine iVink-Morth) 317 

ROBERTS,   SARAH. 

foilMiinutli,  N.  II. 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass 437 

ROGERS,   SAMUEL. 

Enijinml,  170.1-1855. 

Descent,  The 40S 

Ginevra 005 

Great  St.  Bernard,  The 40S 

It.ily I2S 

Marriage 65 

Mother's  Stratagem,  The  {Front  the  Greek)  .  34 

Music 6)1 

N.aples (12 

Rome 629 

Sleeping  Beauty,  A .^S 

Tear,  A 712 

Venice fcS 

Wish,  A 17s 

RONSARD,    I'IKRRE. 

Return  of  Spring  (7>(:«j/iz^/tJH)        .         .         .  3S2 

ROSCOE,    Wll.l.lAM, 

The '^iother  Nighting.ale(^»-D«//«5'/(i«ii/i)  444 

ROSSETTI,   CHRISTINA  GEORGINA. 

''"ii'i'l'kiiiV'Maid,  The f'7 

Up-Hill 326 

ROSSETTI,   DANTE  GABRIEL. 

Uligl.ilul,  i8-.8-if8=. 

Blessed  Damozel,  Tile 75? 

Lost  Days 7'7 

Nevermore,  The 7-" 

Sleepless  Dreams 70S 

ROYDEN,    MATTHEW. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney S16 

SANBORN,    F.    B. 

River  Song 755 

SANGSTER,   MRS.  MARGARET  E.   M. 

Nc».  Kocliclle.  N.  Y..  1..  1818 

"  Are  the  children  at  home  "    .        .        .        .270 
SAPPHO. 


of  Liiihos  I 


Blest  as  the  immortal  gods 
of  A  mlrrose  Philips)     . 
SAXE.  JOHN  GODFREY. 

Higllgatc.  \"t..  1816- 

American  Aristocracy 
Death  and  Cupid 
Echo 


s  me  softlv 


how  I  lore  you  "  .        . 
Railroad  Rhyme  .... 
Stammering  Wife,  The    . 
Wom.in'sWill      .... 
Publishers  :  Hoiij,'hlon.  MitHiu  &  Co..  Boston. 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER. 

Scotland.  1771-1S32, 
Bear  an  Dhuiiie 
"  Breathes  there  the  man  "  . 
Christmas  in  Olden  Time 
Clan-Alpine,  Song  of   . 
Coronach  (Lady  ofthe  Lake) 
Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the  Black 
Helvellvn  .       '.         .         . 
High  Seas,  The    . 
Mncgregor's  Gathering     . 
Melrose  Abbey 
Norham  Castle 
Rose,  The     .... 
Scotland    .... 
"  Soldier,  rest!   thy  warfare  o 


-^ 


f 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


-^ 


blag  Hunt,  llie 

*'  The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed  ' 

True  and  the  False,  The  . 

'*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  "  . 

Waterloo,  The  Charge  at . 


SEDLEY,  SIR  CHARLES. 

lingUiiKf,  i6ii-i;o.. 

Child  and  Maiden 

"  Phillis  is  my  only  joy  " 

SEWALL,  HARRIET  WINSLOW. 

America.  <1.  .833- 

Why  thus  Longing  ? 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM. 
liiii;!-""!.  11O4-1616. 

-Airy  Nothings  (  Tempest)     .... 
"  Dlow,  thou  winter  wind  "  (/li  Vau  Lille  It) 
Cleopatra  (//  ntony  and  Cleopatra)  . 
Course    of    true    Love,    The    (.Midsutnmer 

Night's  Dream)         ..... 
Dagt'er  ofthe  Mind,  A  (A/ocA'/A)    . 
Dover  Cliff  (A'/«i- Arar)      .... 
Dream  of  Clarence  [Richard  III.)  . 
Fairies'  Lullaby  ( Midsummer  Night's  Dream) 
Fancy  {Mercitant  0/  Venice) 
*'  Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  " 
"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  "  {Cymlrelirte) 

Friendshij)  (Hamlet) 

Grief  (//«>«&/) 

"  Hark,  hark!  the  lark  "  (.Cymieliiu)     . 
Hotspur's  description  of  a  Fop  {Henry  IV.) 
Imagination  (Midsummer  Night's  Dream)    . 

Lear's  Prayer 

Love  (Merchant  of  Venice)      .... 
Love  Dissembled  ^As  Von  Like  //)    .         . 
Love,  Unrequited  (  Tivel/lh  Night)  . 
Love's  Memory  (All's  iVell  timl  Ends  Well) 
Martial  Friendship  (CVrrWrtWKf) 
Mercy  (Merchant  0/  Venice)       .         • 

Murder,  The  (Macbeth) 

Music  (Merchant  0/  Venice) 

l.\a%\z  (Twelfth  Night) 

Old  Age  of  'rcmperance       .... 

OWv'm  (Twelfth  Night) 

"  O  mistress  mine !  "  ( Twelfth  Night) 
Ofiportunity  (Julius  Carsar)     .... 

Othello's  Defence 

Peace,  no  Peace 

Peddler's  Pack,  The  (tVintcr's  Tale) 

Perfection  (A-Zk^- 70/17/) 

Portia's  Picture  (Mercltant  0/  Venice) 
Queen  Elizabeth,  Compliment  to  (Midsummer 

Night's  Dream) 

Queen  Mab  (Romeo  and  fuliel) 

Reputation  (0M.7&) 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  The  Parting  of 

Seven  Ages  of  Man  (As  You  Lite  It) 

Shepherd's  Life,  A  (Henry  VI.) 

Sleep  ( Henry  IV.     Part  i)     . 

Sleep  (Henry  I V.     Parti) 

Sltep  iCymleline)     .... 

Sleep  (.Wacleth)   .... 

Sleep  ( Tempest)        .... 

Soliloquy  on  Death  (//«»//(•/) 

"  Take,  O,  take  thoselips  away  "  i^Md 


■efo, 


Measure^ 
'*  The  forward  violet "  . 
**  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

Labor 's  Lost)        .... 
"  When  I  do  count  the  clock  "     . 
"When  in  the  chronicle"        .  .        . 

"  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought " 
Wols^y'sVxlKHenry  VIII.). 
Wolsey's  Speech  to  Cromwell  (Henry  VIII.) 
SHANLY,   CHARLES  DAWSON. 

Amcric.!.    Puh.  iS'A 

Brierwood  Pipe 


Civil  War 


SHARPS,  R.    S. 

Engl:tnd,  175^1835. 

The  Minute-Gu 


SHEALE,   RICHARD. 
Chevy-Chase 

SHELLEY,   PERCY    BYSSHE, 
iiagtand.  1792-1823. 

Autumn     .... 

Beatrice  Cenci 

Change     .... 

Cloud,  The  .... 

lanthe.  Sleeping 

' '  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee  ' 

Lament,  A         .         .         . 

Love's  Philosophy 


Mu 

Night    .... 
Night,  To         .        .        . 
Ozymandias  of  Egypt   . 
Skylark,  To  the 

"The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky 


View  from  the  Euganean  Hill 

War 

"  When  the  lamp  is  shattered 
SHEN.STONE,   WILLIA.M. 

Unf-Lind.  I7U-17<'3. 

Hope        .... 
Schoohnistrcss,  The     . 

SHEPHERD,  N.  G. 

Auitrica. 

"  Only  the  clothes  she  wore  " 
SHIRLEY,  JAMES. 

EnjjIaiKl,  i594-i<.66. 

Death,  ihe  Levclcr    . 
SIBLEY,  CHARLES. 

ScoiL'itnJ, 

The  Plaidie       . 


lis 


656 
296 


SIDNEY,   SIR   PHILIP. 

EngtinrJ.  15^-1  ^^<;. 

Love's  Silence  .  .  ,  . 
"  My  true-love  hath  my  heart ' 
Sleep         .... 


SIGOURNEY,   LYDIA   HUNTLEY 

-Vorwich.  O.nn.,  t-qi-t'^/>^. 

Coral  Insect,  The      .... 

"  Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child  " 

Indian  Names 

Lost  Sister,  The 

Man — Woman         .... 
Publishers  :  H.imcrslcy  &  Co..  Hartford,  Conn. 

SIMMONS,  BARTHOLOMEW. 

Ireland,  pul>.  1843  ;  A.  18:0, 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Hood    . 
SIMMS,   WILLIAM   GILMORE. 

Cliarlciton.  -S.  C.  ;?f/.-i87o. 

Gra|>e-Vine  Swing,  The    . 

Mother  and  Child         .... 

Shaded  Water 

I'ul.lKlicrs  :  A.  C.  Amistrong  i  Son,  New  York. 

SMITH,   ALEXANDER. 

Scotland.  i?.yf-i^^. 

The  Night  before  the  Wedding 
SMITH,  CHARLOTTE. 

Eii;:land.  1747-18-^5. 

The  Swallow 


^- 


SMITH,  EMMELINE   SHERMAN. 
New  Baltimore.  N.  V.,  b.  jgsj. 

Bird  Language 

SMITH,   HORACE. 

Address  to  the  Alabaster  S.^rcophagus    . 
Address  to  the  Mummy  at  Belzoni's  Exhibition 

Flowers.  Hymn  to  the 

Moral  Cosmetics 

Tale  of  Drury  Lane,  A 

The  Gouty  ^terchant  and  the  Stranger 

SMITH,  SEBA. 

Turner,  .M'-.,  179^-1828, 

The  Mother's  Sacrifice 

SMITH,  SYDNEY. 

England.  I-7I-l>i4S. 

A  Receipt  for  Salad 


-^ 


\Q~^' 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


-a 


sornii'v,  MKs.  Caroline  bowlk 

'  '\->ickwt-Uvti,  Tho  .... 
Taupcr's  Ucrtth'liriU  The   . 
t'lnMTivwiuHl  Sluift.  Tho    . 
Yovins  ^''.\y  Hcinl,  Tlve 
SOl'lHKY,   ROISI'.KT, 

Alleuhcim.  Tli,-  li.vtllc  of  . 
Oui«iACIi-f  l.oiK.K-,  rlio      . 
Kmmcil's  KpiiAi'li    ,        ,        .        . 
Gixl's  JlulKliwivloH  Uatlo  . 
GireuwoiHl  Shrift,  The    . 
HoU>- Iref.  I'lm  .... 
liUol  Hoy,  The         .        .        .       , 
iHchcnno  kiH'k,  The    , 
Well  of  Si.  Kcyiie,  The   . 
SPENCKR.  C.VROUNE  S. 

C.^t^kill.  N.  V„  I8,w. 

l.iviixg  \V.Atew 


I«biul.  ir>-lS.i4. 

liclh  Oelert 

" 'r,K>  lute  I  sli\>>«<l "    .        .        .        . 
Wile,  t'ltildi'en,  and  Friends    . 
SPENSK.R.   V.nMUND. 

Roxnsr  of  Bliss.  Tho 

Cave  of  .<lcei>.  The       .        .        .        . 

K.l_Mth;di\mion.  The  .... 

Mniistrv  of  Anijels,  The      .        .        . 

I'na  .Old  the  l.ion     .... 
SPOKFORn,   HARRlF.r  rRKSCOlT. 
O.il.ik,  Mc.  K  iSk. 

Night  ,<ea.  The        .... 

Yanitv 

l^l|.li^l«■r^" .  II.Micliwu.  Mill\iii ,'«  Co..  n.v.nu>. 

SPRACl'E,  CHARLES. 


IV 


,  M.v 


KftiHilv  Mcetiivji,  Tito 
Indians         .    _    . 
Winced  Wonilupiwrs.  The 
^^lWiJ^^■K  !  IL>«|!hlou.  MlMln  &  Co..  liostvw. 
STARK. 

'  "TheM.^dern  lielle    .... 
STEOMAN.   EDMUND  CLARENCE. 

Betrothed  .\new       .... 
Cavalry  Sonc        .... 
Doorstep,  The  .... 
lohn  Brown  of  Osawatoiuio 
Old  Admiral.  The     .... 
What  the  Winds  hriltE 
l\il.lKhMs:  ll,.ii,;l,t..i>.  Mifflm*Co.,  tloston. 

STERHNO,    TOHN. 

Sooll.,...!,  ,!\«^,S44 

-Alfred  the  Ilari^jr     .... 
Brantifnl  Day,  On  a     .        .        . 
Spice-Tree.  The        .... 
STEVENS,  OEORC.K  ALKXANDKR. 


n.l. 


>.-S4. 


T'he  Sto 
STILL,  JOHN. 

'""  Oood '.-lie  """'   .... 
STlt.I.M AN,  HARRIET  W, 
SnriliitK  in  his  Sleep . 

STODDARD,  I.AVINIA, 

I'.uiW.ixl.  (■.,1111..  i:S-^is.\\ 

The  Soul's  Detrance         .        . 
STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY. 

Hills).,,..,,  \t.,«,.  1,,  i!i!5, 

Bn^hma's  ..\nsvver 

'*  It  never  eiMnes  ag-ain  ** 

T«M  Anclwui,  The    . 

^^,t■li^ll,■I^!  ll,.,icl,t„ii.  MiUlta  ,t:  C,>..  H,v,l 

STin^DART,  THOMAS  TVD. 

S,VllA\Hl,  Iv   iSl.V 

The  Anslets'  Tn-stins-Tree     . 


srt>RY,  ROBKUr, 

"^'rhc'wluMlo* 

STORY,  WILLIAM  WKI'MORE. 

i>.lloni.  MrtSN..  I'.  itUv, 

Cleojwttra 

Bati  «t  Low 

Yiolet,  The 

INilOlslieiM  l.llll...  Itrown  v'6  Co.,  lliwlon. 

Sl'inVE,  HARRIET  BKF.CHER. 

l.ittliHolil.  Cmi.,  !■.  iSi... 

A  Day  in  the  Panifili  Dorin     . 

Lines  to  the  Mentory  of  Annio     . 

'•  Only  a  Year '•        .... 

Other' World.  The       .        .        .        , 
rul.llslvcrs,!  H,.utlvi,ui.  Mlltlln  .1:  C.v,  lloshm, 

STRANGFORD,  LORD. 

lillvUlut,  i7.'',>-it4^.;. 

lllishted  Love  (»v».  Mv  P.vtm'Ms,) 
STREET.  ALFRED  B. 

IViicliViTi.M,-.  N.  \..  iSii-iSSi. 

Nishtfall   ... 

Settler.  'The 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN. 
I'.itel.nul,  i<»v>-ic,4i. 

Bride,  The 

*'  I  prithee  send  me  back  mv  heart  "  . 
M,<ods       .  .        .  '     . 

"  Why  so  iwle  and  wan  ?  "  . 

SURREY.  H^RD. 

l^inl.iii,!.  ni<-is<;. 

Giw  I'lnce,  ye  Lowrs      . 
Means  to  attain  Happy  Life,  Tho 
SWAIN,  CHARLKS. 

linsl""!.  i*.->S;4 


SWIFT,  lON.-VTHAN. 

llvl„i.,l,"l«.7-l?4S. 

"  'I  onis  ad  resto  m.trc  *    .        .        .        . 
SWINBl'RNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES. 

I.HkI.ouI.  Iv.  iS.ir. 

Disappointed  Lover,  Tho 

Love 

Match,  A 

"  When  the  hounds  of  spriirs  "    . 
SYI.YESTER,  JOSHUA. 

l.nijl.m.i.  u^3  IMS. 

"Contentment 

Soul's  Errand,  'The      .... 
"  Were  1  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain  "  . 

TALFOURD,  SIR  THOMAS  NOeW. 

Symimthy  (.From  "  Ion ")        .        .        . 

TALHAIARN  OF  WAIFS, 

War's  Loud  Alarms  ((Vi>>*.i»/'s  T^nMS/afifm) 
"  Where  are  the  men  ? "  [OlifA.^Hi's  Tntus.) 

TANNAHILL,  ROBERT. 

S,,,|laii,l.  ir;4-iSi.'. 

Flower  o"  DumWane,  I  he 

"  The  inids*s  dance  aboon  the  burn  " . 

TAYLOR,  B.'WARD. 

KcllUftl  SiHMff,  P-.i..   »S.'S-lSrs. 

Arab  to  the  Palm,  I  he     . 
Bedouin  Love-SoHR     .        .        . 

Centennial  (^de 

Kins  ol'Thule  {From  Iht  GfrmiiH  i>/Gitt*t) 

Lute-Player,  The 

Passession 
Ri>se,  The 
Song  of  the  Camf 


PiiWisliersi  Ilouslnon.  Mifllin  .V  C.v.  IVvsInn. 

T.-UI.OR,  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

l.„»villo,  N.  v..  1>.  rS..... 
Beautiful  River,  The 
Northern  Lights,  The  . 
Old  Village  Choir,  Tho    . 


Athnlfand  Ethilda 


U- 


--& 


IMDEX  Oh'  AUTUOlOi. 


—a 


f& 


TAVLOK,  JAM'- 

l:„y,U,rl,  ■-,*)-.«-<- 

IMiilowjjJicr'ii  Scal':»,  '1  h*;         ....  785 

Toad's  Journal,  I  he 7«8 

TAYI-UK,  JKFKEKY.S. 

''''■'[■'I'lc'tiiifmafd 7«<' 

TAVLOK,  JKUKMY. 

Heaven JS'J 

TAVLOK,  TOM. 

Iin;{l.iii<l,  l«17-l«»>. 

Abraham  Lincoln 846 

TENNANT,  WILLIAM. 

»t/,ll.iri.l,  ii!!(-iil4», 

Ode  II,  I'eatc 4'>4 

TENNVSON,  ALFKKL). 

liil;j:..i.l,  I,.  I»<y 

"  A»k  me  ii«  more"  (/VZ/KWO        •        •        .  'lo 

"  iireak,  hrwik,  break "        ,        .        .        .  *35 

liugle.  The  (/V/W^i.) 4" 

(,'harxe  of  Ibc  Liiiht  lirijjade        .        .        .  4'M 

"  Come  into  the  (garden,  Maud"                       •  '/' 

"  Come  not  when  I  am  deiuK"  (Pritueil)  .  150 

iJead  Kriciid,  'Ihe 5''' 

iJcalh  of  Arthur it? 

iJealh  of  the  Old  Vcar,  'J'hc     .         .         .         ■727 

KjKle,  Ilic 447 

Enocli  Arden  at  the  Window  .        .        .        -223 

Foohiih  Virifins,  Tlie 7'7 

Korlunc.  —  Knid's  Song '>/> 

Oodiva «44 

Ifero  to  l^andcr rV' 

"  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  "  (I'rln- 

crtM) JV) 

In  Memoriam,  Selection>  from    .        .        .  2^4 

Land  of  Land.,  The 5>S 

l.ocktley  Hall ai4 

Mariana 233 

Miller'n  IJaughtcr,  The       ....  131 

New  Year's  live 725 

.N'orthern  Farmer,  The         .        .                .  -/>j 

"  O  swallow,  swallow,  flying  south  "  i,Pritue$i)  120 

Ketr«rspection  {Prhtceif)      ....  235 

Sleeping  Iteauty,  The 124 

Song  of  the  Brook 40^ 

Spnng 379 

Vicu.r  Hugo,  I  o 840 

TENNYSON,  CHARLES. 

liiii;'ari'I(IV..llu;ror  A.r.).  igAt^J^. 

Ihe  Ocean 639 

TENNV.SON,  FREDERICK, 

hiii;li/il(lir..lli>.r>/f  A.  T.),  b,  VI//1. 

Blackbird 640 

TERRET'r,  WILLIAM  15. 

I'latonic 61 

THACKKKAV,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE. 

Age  of  Wisdom,  TTie »53 

Church  frflte,  At  the 67 

End  of  the  Play,  The      .....  25!! 

Little  Billee -874 

Mahogany  Tree,  The 714 

Mr.  Molony's  Account  r,f  the  Ball       .        .  904 

Peg  of  Liniavaddy 647 

Sorrows  of  Werlher »75 

White  Squall,  The 588 

THAXTBR,  MRS.  CELIA. 

l»le>'/»*lj./al>„  I..  lHjy 

The  Sandpiper 446 

I'uUiili.:r«,  lI'Mjiil'ion,  MllHin  «j  Co.,  lUnVio. 

THO.M,  WILLIAM. 

Sc/ilim.l,  tr^r''M„ 

The  Mitherless  Bairn 39 

THOMSON,  JAMES. 

Angling 621 

Connubial  Life '« 

Domestic  Birds 432 

Hymn  on  the  Season! J77 

Nightingale  Bereaved 441 

Plea  for  the  Animali 704 


Rule  Britannia 
Songsters,  The     . 
8ug  Hunt,  'I'hc 
Summer  Morning 
War  for  the  Sake  of  Peace 


Wii 


r  Seen 


THOKF.AU,  HENRY  DAVID. 


l'ul,llslicr»  ;  H.AJZlilo".  Mldllii  Ik  to.,  I>'«.t./ri. 

THOKNBUKY,  GEORGE  WALTtIC 

l'.iigl.init,  lii-Jh-tHp. 

Ihe  Jester •  Sermon 
THRALE,  HESTER  LYNCH  (Afri.  I'u 

The  Three  Warnings 
•I'H URLOW,  XX»RD  {.Edward Hcmtl). 
)-.iizi,.ii.i.  i7ai-i»»>. 

Beauty 

Bird,  To  a 

TICK  ELL,  THOMAS, 

I'o  a  Lady  befrjre  Marriage     • 
TIMROD,  HENRY, 

Cli^irlot'rti,  S.  C.  ly/jtf-tV/J. 

Katie 

I-ubli>lKr.:  v..  ].  Male  4  fi'm.  New  York. 

TRENCH,  RICHARD  CHENEVIX. 

lillgUn'l,  b.  !»>?. 

Ifarmosan 


TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  TOWNSEND. 

Oifl.-.i.  ,•.'.  ■{  ,  I,,  lie.;. 

At  Sea        .  

Dorothy  in  the  Garret  . 
fjld  Burying  Ground,  The 
VagaUjnds,  Ihe 

|-ul,li-j"...  :  lla.|«r  ^  l!r.,li,..,..  :.>»  y.,rk. 

TUCKEKMAN.  HENRY  THEOIX»RE. 

b'/»t'.n.  M.iv..,  i.'.iTi.'^i. 
NcwjK^  Beach 


I'ul/liOieri  :  H'n-ihvm,  Mifflin  U  Co.,  lloMOO. 

TUPPER,  MARTIN  FARf^UHAR. 

iMigUiul.  \,    Oil',. 

Cruelty  to  Animals,  Of 

TURNER,  ELIZA  SPROAT. 

feni../lv;mii.. 

An  Angel's  Vi«it 

TVCHBORN,  CHIDIOCK. 

linzUii.l. 

Linen  written  by  otie  in  the  Tower  . 

TYRT/F.US. 

(ifr.'.r.    7ih  century  B.  C. 

Martial  Ehigy  '  Trans.  Tfujmai  Campbelt) 

UHLAND,  LliDWIG, 

(,.:riri;iiiy.  t^''i^-CM. 

Landlady's   Daughter  The  ITraniUlion  0/ 

7.  .V.  nwiKhf) 

Passage,  The  (Trant.  It.  W.  Lmg/rllmui 

UPTON,  JAMES 


Friends  Deparud 
VENABLE,  WILLIAM  HENRY, 

olii...  1.    I>i)',. 

Welcome  to  "  Boz,"  A      . 
VENANTIUS,   FOKTL'NATUS. 

Vcxilla  Regis  (  Tramlnlion  o/John  M.  NeaU) 
VERB,  EDWARD,  EARL  OF  OXFORD. 

I-.iiiffai.'l.  ,^5~t'x,4.  ,  .    M 

"If  women  could  be  fair 
VERY,  JONES. 

Salem,  M.iv%,,  iV.iy^-l- 
Latter  Rain,  The 
Nature  .... 
Spirit  Land,  'Hie 

VICENTE.  GIL. 

fijrtuv^l,  148-rf-iJ^7. 

Tlie  Nightingale  {Tram.  Sir  7.  nmurmg) 


:^ 


f 


XXVUl 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOHS. 


n 


h 


VIl.l.KOAS.  KSTKVAN  MANUKL  UK, 

VISSOHKK,  MARIA   I  KSSKl.SCHADK, 

riie  Nislouviwle  ( t\\\m.  Sir  J,  ^toeriof) 
WAKK.  WILLIAM  ISASIL. 

S«,vi«S  m>t  McAtiiixs 
WAl.LKR.  KOMUNIX 

».»\lle,  Oil  a     . 

lU-,  l.wrty  Kivtel 

"  The  sowl's  vlark  i.vttAite  " 
WALLKK,  lOllN  KKANCIS, 

lnl.lHvl,  Iv  iSuv 

'lUc  StMlllllllJi^WhMi  Soll^ 

WALSU.  WILLIAM. 

Riviury  lu  l.o\<       .... 
WALTON,  IZAAK,    i,S«  John  Chaukhi 

TUf  AnsW>"»  Wish 
WARK.  JR..  HKNRY. 

HilV<lVAUl.  M.lvv,  1V*-1."^*,4> 

"  I  will  thAt  men  i>r«,v  f v«rywhc«  " 
WARINO.,  ANNA  UtmTI.V. 

W.vUv     I  iwt  l>uK  l«sj\ 

■  My  limfs  .<re  in  tt\)'  ham) "  , 
WARNKR.  U.  K. 

The  l.llcr 

WAR'IX>N.  THOMAS. 

UiwUvl.  ■•-•O-IMV 

KctiTvmi^ut 

WA,>iSON,  11AVU1  ATWOOl^ 
NUm.\  K  life.-!. 

Lovr  .\j;.uii»t  Lo\"«    ,        .        ,        . 
WA.^TKl  I,  SIMON. 

liwAn.l.  .1.  i^.-!, 

^Liii's  Movulily       .... 
WATSON.  JAMKS  W. 

l\p.X(ititiil  S«o\v 

Wo«nv(«U»  l">e»th       .... 
W.vnS,  ISAAC, 

i>lwUl\,l.  lv\'4~lf*J, 

(.YwUp  Sons.  .\        .        . 

lusijsinticiuit  K,\i*leiic« 

Summcv  KvcnuxS'  A        ... 

WAioiL  vnnviN, 

tiwJ.111.1,  iS\'.    ii.\\H.r.l  *  The  L»«C4*iJihv  iVrt.' 
^'  Lhc  tliilc  Si  i'  lhi»  bo«i»(  o'  miiw  " 
WKUSLKR,  nXNMFL. 

.■vvU,l<ii\ ,  \    U  ,  l^*.-lS5.•■ 

Tlip  Maivoiy  of  the  Hi<art 
WKnsrKR,  JOHN 

Liimeul  of  Vii^iniu*. 
WK)K.  HARRISON. 

Vhc  Knsslis'lv  RoWn . 

WKHSY.  AMKI.IA  IV 

,Vm,-ii.,i,  i&i~»S;..\ 

OoUlcn  RiivsliM.  Tha 
OU  M,.U.  the     , 
'IN\  ilijiht  .\l  S«M 
WVSI.KY.  OHARLKS, 

l^l\J;Uu^^.  i,\<>-»sSS. 

Wfrsltiixj;  jAC«b 
WKSI.KY.  TOHN. 

ll«!.TO.I,  OVJ-i^i, 

The  Lo\Ht  v\i  Gixl  SuiMitme 
WKSrwOOW  THOMAS. 

liilKl.m.l,  K  .,<n, 
in  Hmx-*!! 

i.itUe  iwn    .  _    , 

"'  ViuWr  Hiy  window  "     . 
WllVWKLL,  \YU.L1.\M, 
Vhy«c«     .... 


WHITK,  JOSKl'll  in.ANCO, 

Nijjiu       .... 

WHITK,  HKNRY  klRKK, 

tiarly  lVinii\i*e,  To  ihc    . 
HArwst  MtHui.  To  ihi? 

WHITMAN,  SARAH  HKLKN. 

ri,>vi.U'".,\  K,  I ,  toVt-iSfS. 
.\  Slill  Oiiv  in  .Vuuuwn    . 


WHITMAN.  WAIT'. 

Wo.t  UilK.  N.V,  K  iSm. 

The  MiKkiixii^Rinl  .        .       ,       . 

WHl  ITTKR,  lOHN  C-RKKNl.KAF. 

Ililv.iWll,  M.m.  K  \S>V 

AKm'ih  .^liloi.  I'o  Iwr 

Ai.lV-l!,    I'l.lVfV  o(  .  ,  . 

An^fl  ,.1  l\iti<-iKf ,  The    . 
l!,iiK>u>  Kiicidiie 

lUivUv  ,M  I'ry 

R-iirlo,'l  Uoy.  The       ,        .       • 
Reneilicite  (0»"**4*«*  Jii^timfi       . 


Ihitns 
lVnlenni.U  Hvmn    . 
K«  iM  Kleeiion,  The 
b^srfWf II.  The   .        . 
Kivmoni.  lohn  0. 
H.illcxI.,  V^it-0.re«ne 
H,AnuUon  l»eAeh   . 
lihaKnl    , 
Kvteph  Saii-jie,  To 


Maiul  Mnller 

MieliiiS,  riie   .... 
My  l'l.ivin,Ale 

Nesw  RMtmeu,  Soixgofthc  . 
New  Knslanil  in  Winter     . 
INilm-'lXve.  The 
l\>el'»  RewAul,  The    . 
INimpkin,  The         .        • 
Kelortnev,  The     . 
Kobin,  The       .... 
i\lUustiei> !  ll,*ilRhK>n.  MilHin  .^  0<v.  11. 

WILCOX.  CAR1.(^. 

Ne«l*.Mi.  N.  U..  Tr,n-4Sffr. 
li..  ■  ■         ■     -- 


WUJ^K.  RICHARO  HKNRY. 

livl.v.1,1.  K  1,^  i  .1.  New  iMe^nvs.  La.,  184J. 

Ufc 


iwislul.  K  liUtf. 

The  l^ianuwd  . 
Wlt.l-\Rn.  KMMA. 


WlLtlS.  N.VrUANlKl.  TARKKR. 

l\,«ll«i\,l.  M.-„  \S>'.-i,s\" 

lieltVy  Viiieon,  The  ... 

Letvr,  The 

l\i«'h.^sins 


Wn.l.SON,  ARAHKU-A  M. 

0.>lv>ii,t.AV,;"a.  N.  V. 

To  the  Sextant  of  the  Meelins  House. 
\VII.l.SON,  RYRON  n^RCEVTHE. 

The  tMd  Setseant     .... 
Wn.SON,  JOHN  {KitStHiy 

Kv«nin^  Cloud,  The 


Louis  XY. 
Miral>eau  . 
,■  CoH»s«  . 


Rose  and  the  Oavmtlet.  The 
WfNKWORTH,  CATHARINV 

Yeni  Sanct*  Spiritus  (,F»vm  ti^  I.  ,tfi\) 


Ltr 


INUKX  0/''  AimiOHH. 


i."^ 


Wirill'.K,  OKOKOK. 


,  „^1,., 


I  lovcil  a  l.'is»i  a  fair  nnc  "     . 
"  l,<ir<l  I  wlicii  tli'*<!  glorious  liffhls  I  * 
;.lir|,lii:ril'i>  K<:M<lulioii,  'Mie 
'  on,  OK.  JOHN  (I'lltr  I'ltidar). 

■I,.,  I,  i;<wa;v. 

(.1,1.,.;, 'Jo 

My,  To  a 

I'ilKririiii  anil  the  I'ciW,  'I  Im     . 
I'.iz'fl'Scllcr,  'Iho         .... 


»H 


WO  I,  I  I,  '  IIAKI.KH. 

'    l;  .,,.,!  of Vifjolin  IMoorc         ....    '.>,» 
WOOIAVOIITII,  SAMUKL. 

.■;.  Iri,,,n-.  .Mi,«a,j  ijHfiH-J 

The  Old  Oaken  Ducket 1" 

WfJOI.SKV,  SAKAH  CHANNINO  (,',uia»  (  «,jIi,Iki:). 


.S.;w  I  l.i»,:rp,  0,1,11. 

In  the  Ml«t 

Lirilc  Van 

I'ijl,ll5l,,;rai  (/.obcrlfl  UfrtliTr*.  IJ'At'/ii. 

WOHI.ISWOK'1'II,  WILLIAM 

i),-.(^,i;i» 

K'liKj.iiior,  of  Nature,  The    . 

lli:lvdlyM 

(Ii>/lilaii<l  Girl  of  Invertnaid,  To  the  . 


j(„ 


I  nri.:r  Vision,  Tin;  .         .         . 

Iniiniaiiont  of  lnim',riality 
Kiilcn  and  KallinK  Leaven,  The  . 

I.on.lori 

\/M  Uivi:,  The     .... 
1,1 


Marth  . 
Mihori,  To 


Mu.i 


The 


Kainlx,  .... 

"  She  wa»a  |,hanl/jin  ol  deliKhl"        .        .  ''•/ 

Skylark,  To  the *f- 

.Sltc[)lc»»nc»» ''^''' 

Tinlcrn  Ahhey V" 

ToiiMaint  r'iuvcrlure "35 

Wc  are  Seven H 

WeMiniiistcr  liridge "^'^ 

Worlrllmess j'" 

WOTTON,  SIK   IIKNKV. 

"■'liappV  Ufcl'A  .    ^   •     „ ''71 

Vcr«,.«  in  I'raiM:  of  Angling  .        .  '.i> 

"  You  meaner  Iwaulici* " ^'5 

WVA'rr,  SIk  THO.MAS. 

I.„«l.i„.|.  i'/')-.H>.  , 
Karnest  Sint,  An 
The  iJeccivi.d  l^vcr  nueth 


XAVIEK,  ST.  I'KANCIS. 


"My' 


I  lo 


urUCamell)      , 

voi;l,  kuwaiuj. 

I':r,»l.,ri.|. 

Song  of  Spring  . 

voaNf;,  UK.  kijwaku. 

Ii;,zr.„|.l.  I'^fiy'-i- 

kan, 

NarciKffa        .        .        . 
FrocntHitnation         .        . 
Time     .... 
ANONYMOUS. 

An  Invective  against  Love 
Anne  Hathaway 
April  Violet,  An    . 
A  Voice  and  Nothing  Elue 
liookA   .... 
Christian  Calling,  The 
CVioking  and  Courting  . 
Cra/lle  Song 

Diego  OnLis  in  Kldorado 
Dreamer,  'I'll,!  . 
Drurnmcr-lioy'n  Burial,  The 
Only 


nly  for  Liberty 
'anilatioH  o/  ICtt- 


^y-- 


,.,.  .,,,,1  I'aulinus 

I  the  ll,yrw:B,  The  . 

..„  ...n's  Valentine,  The 
il.,.„.l'»  Wish,  Ihc 
,;r,;r  ihanlhee" 

ll.-l,-n  of  Kirkc/jnncll    . 


n  the  Well 
entlernan,  'Hie  . 


0.i,iilv/o,i,an,  loa  ('>.  K.). 
i,.r..l,M,i,,noflheOldS<.hool,  A 
iit'ii/.:  Wiifthington,  To 
'■  I ,■..  |.,|  what  I  have  fell"    . 

o'ri.n.lMhc  Oead'   .'.'.' 

Oiiylawke'. 

"  Marry  Ashland,  one  of  my  lovers 

Ifiimilily 

Ind,,>n  Slimmer 

I,,,1m„  Summer     .... 

Ii,l.u,i  ■,  Oeath,  Onan       . 

I  Church 

an.'l  Willie  f;re'y  .    '    . 
"  K.  >M,  "ly  memory  (rreen  " 
K niv  John  and  llie  Ahhol  of  (Janterhury 
K,>,>.„,z'snoSin        .         .         . 
KiMyoK.olpraine 
Lady  Ann  Dolhwell's  Lament  . 
I,am,:iil  of  the  liorder  Widow 
Life  and  Kurrnily      . 
Lillh-  Ke,:t     .... 
Litile  fioldenhair 

l.illle  I'us 

l.ove  li^hlcns  Labor 

e,  The 


^:±. 


:  lillK  lov 


:  for  r./,mely  grace" 
LykeWake  Oirge,  The    . 
M.ikiMi?  I'ort         .... 
Melr<Ke  Abbey.  Iiisfiriplion  on 
Miibiis',  "lluzoen'/ls" 
Mod.-ri.  Iloux:  that  J.iik  built,  The 
Miimm'/  at  llelzrjni'ft  Kxhibition,  Am 
Mv  l.-,ve   .... 
'*  My  Ixjve  in  her  attire"      . 
My  sv/,.et  Sweeting  . 
.Nobly  Dwn.  Thc(K.  S.  H.) 
N„rvr/  Song    . 
Ol.l  ';a,:lir.  Lullaby 
fyl.l  :,..b«,lho,is...,  The       . 
<ihi  S..bool  I'ni.ishment 
r*|.|  S,;.i|,orl,  An 
'>ri;'iii  oflbeOpal 
Ori.liaii.,,  The    . 
I'olal/,,  Ihe  .... 
I'raxil,;le>  . 
Ouiet  from  fjod     . 


,Mlen-a-OaIe 
II,  Tlie  .    '    . 


Siecc  of  li,dgrade      . 
Slt'l,,  A  . 

Sk;ii,:r  lielle,  Our      . 
Sk>l,:lon,  To  a      . 
SkulU,  On  some 
Snails,  l<cmonstranr.e 
.Sornebfidy 
Sfflnning-Whcel,  The 


Ih  the 
cs  to  the     . 


ng  wncei, 

/Kircl,  I, 
Summer  Oays 
Swell's  Solilwiuy 
"  There  w.as  sll,.n«:  in  he.l 
"  They  *re  dear  fish  u,  rne 
Threninly  .         ,         .         . 


^ 


[& 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


-^ 


Topside  Galah giS 

v;""|>. , 9.7 

Unsatisfactory 157 

Umil  Death 159 

Useful  Plow,  The 496 

Vicar  of  Kray,  The S57 

When  Eve  Ijrought  woe       ....  S7S 


"  When  I  am  dead  " 

"  When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 

"  When  shall  we  all  meet  again  ?'' 

White  Rose,  The .... 

"  Why,  lovely  charmer "  . 

Wife  to  her  Husband,  The  . 

*'  Will  you  love  me  when  1  'in  old  " 


PSEUDONYMS. 


Alfrfd  Cro^vgitiU 
B,i>0'  Cormvall    . 
Bttrry  Gmy 
Ethit  Lynn    . 
Fitther  Proul     . 
FIcrtnct  Percy 
Cttr»-L(KV  Rhymer 
Grace  Greenwood , 
H.H. 

/fo-Mini  GlymioH  . 
yohn  Chalkhill  . 
Kit  North     . 
Maria  del  Occidente 
lilarian  Douglas   . 
Miles  O' Reilly    . 
OrfheHS  C.  Kerr  . 
Lhi'eii  Meredith  . 
Peter  Pindar 
Susan  Ci'olidge  . 
Thomas  Ingoidsbyt  Esg. 


ALFRED  H.  FORRESTER. 

HRVAN  W.   I'ROfTER. 
Rdl'.l  u  I'  i;ai;i;\   COFKIN. 
ETllI   I   1\    1   1  1.  1  I'  HKKKS. 
FRAN'    i  --    M  \llo\V. 
El.l,-  Nil    Ml     \kl.KS  ALLF.N. 

Er.K\  1 .1  K  111  I  or. 

SAK  Ml  I  \M    I  irmNCO'iT. 

HKI  r\    III  \  1    lACKSON. 
LAl'K  \   I      KIUDEN. 
IZAAK   WAl.TdN. 
JOHN    Wll.SON 
MARl  \   COWKN   FROOKS. 
ANNIl^'   11,   (IK  I   IN 
CllAKI   Is  C.     II  \1  PINK 
Ri>l;i  K  r  II I  \  i;\    \  1  w  M.L, 
R(iiii:i;  I   1:1  I  w  I  R  1  \  rroN. 

DR.  liMl.X  W  OLCUTl. 
SARAH  C.  WOOl.SliV. 
RICHARD  HARRIS  BARHAM. 


L 


& 


£] -a 


THE  EDITOrt  TO  THE  KEADER. 


[extract   from    MI{.   lillVANT'S  PREFACE   TO    "A    NEW  LIBRARY    OF   POETRY  AND  S0NO."j 

''f^ H  I-;  present  enlarged  edition  of  t lie  "  Library  of  Poetry  and  Song"  hag 
liceii  projected  with  a  view  of  making  the  collection  more  perfect, 
both  ill  the  choice  of  iioems  and  the  variety  of  sources  from  which  they  are 
derived.  Within  a  very  few  years  past  several  names  of  eminence  have  been 
added  to  the  list  of  poets  in  our  language,  and  every  reader  would  expect  to 
find  samples  of  their  verse  in  an  anthology  like  this,  to  say  nothing  of  the  air 
of  fresiuiesK  which  these  would  give. 

That  tlu^  demand  for  compilations  of  this  character  is  genuine  and  very 
general  is  sufficiently  demonstrated  by  the  appearance,  since  the  first  edition 
of  this  was  published,  of  Emerson's  "  Parnassus"  and  Whittier's  "  Songs  of 
Three  Centuries."  These,  however,  do  not  seem  to  have  suiipjanted  liana's 
"■  Household  Book  of  Poetry,"  which  still  retains  its  popularity.  It  often  hap- 
pens that  the  same    household   contains   several  of   these   publications. 

The  first  edition  has  proved,  commercially  speaking,  one  of  the  most  success- 
ful |)ubiications  of  the  day  ;  and  if  the  c-ompilation  in  its  present  shape  should 
meet  with  the  same  favor,  the  Publisliers,  it  seems  to  me,  can  ask  no  more. 

When  1  saw  tliat  Mr.  Emerson  had  omitted  to  include  any  of  his  own 
poems  in  the  collection  entitled  '•  Parnassus,"  I  doubted,  for  a  while,  whether 
I  ought  not  to  have  jiracticeil  the  same  reserve.      Vet  when  I  considered  that 

h ^ ' — d^ 


:i  THE  EDITOR  TO  THE  READER. 


the  omisiiioii  on  his  part  was  so  fur  a  defect,  and  that  there  is  not  a  reader  of 

his  vohuiie  who  would  not   have  been   better   jik^ased  to  jiossess  several  of   lii> 

poems  ahmg  with  the  otliei's,  I  1)eeaine  better  satisfied  witli   what  I  had   done, 

and  allowed  such  of   my  poems  as  I  had  inehided  to  remain.     In  one  respeet, 

at  least,  the  present  compilation  will  have  the  advantage  over  Mr.  Emerson's, 

namely,  that  it  contains  several  of  the  poems  with  which  he  has  ciiricheil   lur 

literature. 

AVILLIAM  CULLEN  BUY  ANT. 
New  York,  July,  1876. 


^ S 


^ J] 


&- ~ ^ 


e .^ 


tja 


y^- 


-^' 


s a 

INTRODUCTION: 

POETS  AND  I'OETUY  OF  THE  EMiEISIl  LANGUAGE. 


U- 


I.SUri'OSE  it  is  not  necessary  to  givi;  a  reason  for  adding  anotlier  to  tlie  collections 
of  this  nature,  already  in  print.  They  abound  in  every  language,  fur  the  sinijile 
reason  that  there  is  a  demand  fur  them.  German  literature,  prolilic  as  it  is  in  vers(;, 
has  many  of  them,  and  some  of  them  compiled  by  distinguished  authors.  'J'he  parlor 
tiiblo  and  the  winter  fireside  reipiire  a  book  which,  when  one  is  in  the  humor  for 
reading  poetry  and  knows  not  what  author  to  take  up,  will  sujiply  exactly  what  he 
wants. 

I  Iiave  known  persons  ulm  frankly  said  that  they  took  no  pleasure  in  reading 
piiili  T,  and  perhaps  the  inindier  nl'  those  who  make  this  adruission  would  be  greater 
were  it  ncit  for  the  fear  of  ai)pearing  singular.  But  to  the  great  mass  of  mankind 
liijctry  is  really  a  delight  and  a  refreshment.  To  many,  perhaps  to  most,  it  is  unt 
ifipiisite  tliat  it  should  bo  of  the  highest  degree  of  merit.  Xur,  although  it  bo  true 
that  the  poems  which  are  most  famous  and  most  highly  prized  are  works  of  con- 
siilcrablc  length,  can  it  be  saiil  that  thi'  pleasure  they  give  is  in  any  degree  proptu-- 
liiiHute  Id  the  extent  of  their  plan.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  only  poerus  of  a 
ninilcrate  length,  or  else  portions  of  the  greater  works  to  wdiich  I  refer,  that  pro- 
duce tlie  effect  upon  the  mind  and  heart  which  make  the  charm  of  this  kind  of 
writing,  'i'he  proper  office  of  poetry,  in  filling  the  mind  with  delightful  images  and 
awakiuiing  the  gentler  emotions,  is  not  accomi)lished  on  a  first  and  rapid  jierusal, 
but  re(i\iires  that  tlii!  words  should  lie  dwelt  upon  until  they  become  in  a  certain 
sense  our  own,  and  arc^  adopfi'd  as  the  utterance  of  our  own  minds.  A  collection 
such  as  this  is  intended  to  1)0  furni.shes  for  this  purpose  portions  of  the  Ijcst  Eng- 
lish verso  suited  to  any  oi'  thi'  varying  moods  of  its  readers. 

Such  a  work  also,  if  suliiciently  extensive,  gives  the  reader  an  opportunity  of  com- 
]iaring  the  poetic  literature  of  one  period  with  that  of  another;  of  noting  the  fluctu- 
ations of  taste,  and  how  the  poetic  forms  which  are  in  fashion  iluring  one  age  are 
laid  aside  in  the  next;  of  observing  the  changes  which  take  place  in  our  language, 
and  the  sentiments  which  at  different  periods  challengo  the  public  apjinibation. 
Specimens  of  the  poetry  of  different  centuries  presented  in  this  wa}'  show  how  the 
great  stream  of  humc'in  thought  in  its  poetic  form  eddies  now  to  the  right  and  now 
to  the  left,  wearing  away  its  banks  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other.  .Some 
author  of  more  than  common  faculties  and  more  than  common  boldness  catches  the 
pulilic  attention,  and  immediately  ho  has  a  crowd  of  followers  who  form  their  taste 
on  his  and  seek  to  divide  willi  him  the  jiraisi;.  Thus  Cowley,  with  his  nndeniable 
[7] 


0- 


IXrUdDUCTIUX. 


L;ciiius,  was  tho  lic;ul  of  a  miiiionni.s  class  wlio  made  poetry  consist  iu  lar-l'etchcj  con- 
t'fils,  ideas  oddly  brought  tugutlici',  and  (niaiiit  turns  of  thought.  Pope,  following  close 
upon  l)ryd(^n,  and  learning  nnicli  from  him,  was  the  founder  of  a  school  of  longer 
duration,  which  found  its  models  in  ISoilcau  and  other  poets  of  the  reign  of  Louis 
the  Fourteimth,  —  a  school  in  which  the  wit  predominated  over  the  poctrj^,  —  a  school 
marked  hy  striking  oppositions  of  thought,  frequent  happinesses  of  expression,  and  a 
caielully  liahuieed  modulation,  —  numbers  pleasing  at  first,  but  in  tho  end  fiitiguing. 
As  this  school  degenerated  the  wit  ahnost  disappeared,  but  there  was  no  new  infu- 
siiui  of  poetry  iu  its  place.  When  Scott  gave  the  public  the  Lai/  of  the  Last  Jfiii- 
.s7rc/,  and  other  poems,  which  certainly,  considered  as  mere  narratives,  are  the  best  ve 
have,  carrying  tho  reader  forward  without  weariness  and  with  an  interest  which  tlie 
author  never  allows  to  suliside,  a  crowd  of  imitators  pressed  after  him,  the  greater 
|iait  of  whom  are  no  longer  read.  "Wordsworth  hail,  and  still  has,  his  school;  the 
stamp  of  his  example  is  visible  on  the  writings  of  all  the  poets  of  the  present  dav. 
Even  Byron  showed  himself,  in  the  third  canto  of  (Jhilde  Harold,  to  be  one  of 
his  disciples,  though  he  tiercely  resented  being  called  so.  The  same  poet  did  not 
disdain  to  learn  of  Scott  in  composing  his  narrative  poems,  such  as  the  Bride  of  Ahij- 
dos  and  the  Giaour,  though  he  could  never  tell  a  story  iu  verse  without  occasional 
tediousness.  In  our  day  the  style  of  writing  adopted  by  eminent  living  poets  is  often 
seen  reflected  in  the  verses  of  their  younger  contemporaries,  —  sometimes  with  an 
eflect  like  that  of  a  face  belield  in  a  tarnished  mirror.  Thus  it  is  that  poets  are 
formed  by  their  inlluence  on  one  another;  the  greatest  of  them  are  more  or  less 
indebted  fiu'  what  they  are  to  their  predecessors  and  their  contemporaries. 

While  speaking  of  these  changes  in  the  public  taste,  1  am  tempted  to  caution  tho 
reader  again.st  the  mistake  often  made  of  estimating  the  merit  of  one  poet  by  the  tno 
easy  ]irocess  of  comparing  hiin  with  another.  The  varieties  of  poetic  excellence  are 
as  great  as  the  varieties  of  beauty  in  flowers  or  iu  the  female  face.  There  is  no  poet, 
indeed  no  author  in  any  departnuMit  of  literature,  who  can  be  taken  as  a  standard  in 
judging  of  others;  the  true  standard  is  an  ideal  one,  and  even  this  is  not  the  same 
in  all  men's  minds.  One  delights  in  grace,  another  in  strength  ;  one  in  a  fiery  vehe- 
mence ami  enthusiasm  on  tho  surface,  another  in  majestic  repose  and  the  expre,ssion 
of  fooling  too  deep  to  be  noisy  ;  one  loves  simple  and  obvious  images  strikingly  em- 
]iloyod,  or  familiar  thoughts  placed  in  a  new  light,  another  is  satisfied  only  with  nov- 
elties of  thought  and  expression,  with  >incommon  illustrations  and  images  far  sought. 
It  is  certain  that  eaidi  of  these  modes  of  treating  a  subject  may  have  its  peculiar 
merit,  and  that  it  is  absurd  to  recjuire  of  those  whose  genius  inclines  them  to  one 
that  they  should  adopt  its  opposite,  or  to  sot  one  down  as  inferior  to  another  be- 
cause he  is  not  of  tho  isame  class.  As  well,  in  looking  through  an  astronomer's 
telescope  at  tliat  beautiful  phonomonon,  a  doid)Ie  star,  in  which  the  twin  flames  are 
one  of  a  roseate  and  the  other  of  a  golden  tint,  might  we  quarrel  with  either  of 
them  because  it  is  not  colored  like  its  fellow.  Some  of  tho  comparisons  made  by 
critics  between  one  poet  and  another  are  scarcely  less  jirepostorous  than  would  be 
a  comparison  between  a  river  and  a  mountain. 

The  compiler  of  this  collection  has  gone  as  far  back  as  to  the  author  who  may 

le ^ ^ 


[9-^ 


-FV, 


IXTUUijVCTlUX. 


proporJy  be  called  the  father  of  En,i,'lish  jioetiT,  anil  who  wroto  while  our  luiif^niaj^e 
was  like  the  lion  in  Milton's  account  of  the  (■n'ation,  when  rising'  from  tlie  earth  at 
tlio  Divine  connnanil  and 

"  .   .   .   .   pawin;;  to  get  IVfo 
His  liiiiilcr  parts," — 

lor  it  was  still  clogged  by  the  iinassinjilated  ])ortinn-;  nf  (he  French  tongue,  to  wii!:^h 
ill  i)art  is  owed  its  origin.  These  were  to  be  thrown  aside  in  after  years.  'J'lic  vers' 
liralinn  had  also  one  characteristic  of  French  vei'so  which  was  soon  after  Chaucer's 
tiiue  laid  aside,  —  the  mute  or  final  e  had  in  his  lines  the  value  of  a  syllalile  by 
itself,  especially  when  the  next  word  began  with  a  consonant.  liut  though  these 
lieculiarities  somewhat  embarrass  the  reader,  he  still  finds  in  the  writings  of  the  old 
]ioet  a  fund  of  the  good  old  English  of  the  Saxon  fireside,  which  makes  them  worthy 
to  be  studied  were  it  only  to  strengthen  our  hold  on  our  language,  lie  delighted  in 
describing  natural  objects  which  still  retained  their  Sa.xou  names,  and  this  he  did  with 
great  beauty  and  sweetness.  In  the  sentiments  also  the  critics  ascribe  to  him  a  de- 
gree of  delicacy  which  one  could  .scarcely  have  looked  for  in  the  age  in  which  he  wrote, 
tiiough  at  other  times  he  avails  himself  of  the  license  then  allowed.  There  is  no 
majesty,  no  stately  march  of  numbei-s,  in  Ids  poetry,  still  less  is  there  of  lire,  rapidity, 
or  conciseness  ;  the  French  and  Italian  narrative  poets  from  whom  he  learned  his 
art  wriite  as  if  the  people  of  their  time  had  nothing  to  d(j  but  to  attend  to  long  sto- 
ries, and  Chaucer,  who  translated  from  the  French  the  lioinaiiut  of  the  Jiose,  though 
a  .i;reater  poet  than  any  of  those  whom  he  took  for  his  models,  made  small  improve- 
niinit  upon  them  in  this  respect.  His  Troylus  and  Cr//si'i/ilc,  witii  but  little  action 
and  incident,  is  as  long  as  either  of  the  epics  of  Homer.  The  Canterbury  y'ale.t, 
Chaucer's  best  things,  have  less  of  this  defect;  but  even  there  the  narrative  is  over- 
iniiiiite,  and  the  personages,  as  Taine,  the  F'rench  critic,  remarks,  although  they  t:ilk 
Well,  talk  too  much.  The  taste  for  this  prolixity  in  narratives  and  convei-sations  Ijad 
a  long  duration  in  Fugiish  poetry,  since  we  find  the  same  tcdiousuess,  to  call  it  by 
its  true  name,  in  Shakespeare's  Venus  and  Adonis  and  his  Liia-eee,  written  more 
than  two  hiiiidre(l  years  jati'r.  Yet  in  the  mean  time  the  old  popular  ballads  of  ICng 
lanil  and  Scotland  had  been  composed,  in  which  the  imidents  follow  each  other  in 
ipiiek  succession,  and  the  briefest  possible  speeches  are  uttered  by  the  personages. 
The  scholars  and  court  poets  doubtless  disdained  to  learn  anytldng  of  these  poets  of 
the  people,  and  the  Davideis  of  Cowley,  wdio  lived  three  hundreil  years  after  Chaiici'r, 
is  as  remarkable  for  the  sluggish  progress  of  the  story  and  the  teiliousness  of  tlie 
harangues  as  for  any  other  characteristics. 

JJetween  the  time  of  Chaucer  and  that  of  Sidney  and  Spenser  we  liiid  liltl"  in  the 
poetic  literature  of  our  language  to  detain  our  attention,  i'hat  age  produced  many 
obscure  versifiers,  and  metrical  romances  continued  to  be  written  after  the  fashion  of 
the  French  and  Italian  poets,  wdiom  Chaucer  acknowledgeil  as  his  masters.  During 
this  period  appeared  Skeltcni,  the  poet  and  jester,  whose  sjiecial  talent  was  facility  in 
ihyniing,  who  rhymed  as  if  he  could  not  help  it,  — as  if  he  had  only  to  put  pen  to 
papin-,  iuiil  the  words  leaped  of  their  own  accord  into  regular  measure  with  an  inev- 
itable jingle   at  the   en<lings.      Meantime   our   language    was    undergoing   a   pr(jce.s.s 


Q- 


■^ 


[fi a 

^-^    lU  ISTliUDUCTlON.  ^ 

which  gradually  separated  the  nobler  parts  from  the  dross,  rejecting  the  French  ad- 
ditions for  which  there  was  no  occasion,  or  which  could  not  easily  be  made  to  take 
upon  themsch'es  the  familiar  forn)s  of  our  tonyue.  The  prosody  of  English  became 
also  fixed  iu  that  period  ;  the  linal  <>  whicli  so  perplexes  the  modern  reader  in  Chau- 
cer's vei'se  was  no  longer  permitted  to  ligure  as  a  distinct  syllable.  The  poets,  how- 
ever, still  allowed  themselves  the  liberty  of  sometimes  making,  after  the  French  man- 
ner, two  syllables  of  the  terminations  tioii  and  ion,  so  that  nation  became  a  word  of 
three  syllables  ami  opinion  a  wonl  of  four.  Tlie  Sonnets  of  Sidney,  written  on  the 
Italian  model,  have  all  the  grace  and  ingenuity  of  those  of  Petrarch.  In  the  Faerie 
Qiieene  of  Spenser  it  seems  to  me  that  we  find  the  English  language,  so  far  as  the 
purposes  of  poetry  require,  iu  a  degree  of  }ierfection  beyond  which  it  has  not  been 
siuee  carrietl,  anil,  1  suppose,  never  will  be.  A  vast  assemblage  of  poetic  endowments 
contributed  to  the  composition  of  this  poem,  yet  I  think  it  would  not  be  easy  to  name 
one  of  the  same  length,  and  the  work  of  a  geuius  equally  great,  in  any  language, 
which  more  fatigues  the  reader  in  a  steady  perut.al  fronw  beginning  to  end.  In  it  we 
ha\-o  an  invention  ever  awake,  active,  ami  apparently  inexhaustible ;  an  affluence  of 
imagery  grand,  beautiful,  or  magnilicent,  as  the  subject  may  require;  wise  observa- 
tions on  human  life  steeped  in  a  poetic  coloring,  and  not  without  touches  of  pathos  ; 
a  wonderful  luastery  of  versification,  and  the  aptest  forms  of  expression.  We  read 
at  first  with  admiration,  yet  to  this  erelong  succeeds  a  sense  of  satiety,  and  we  lay 
down  the  book,  not  unwilling,  however,  after  an  interval,  to  take  it  up  witli  renewed 
admiration.  I  once  heard  an  eminent  poet  say  that  he  thought  the  second  part  of 
tlu'  Faerie  Queene  inferior  to  the  first ;  yet  1  am  inclined  to  ascribe  the  remark  rather 
to  a  falling  oif  iu  the  attention  of  the  reader  than  iu  the  merit  of  the  work.  A  jioet, 
luiwever,  would  be  more  likely  to  persevere  to  the  end  than  any  other  reader,  since 
in  e\ery  staii/a  he  would  meet  with  some  lesson  in  his  art. 

In  that  fortunate  age  of  English  literature  arose  a  greater  than  Spi>uscr.  Let  me 
only  say  of  Shakespeare,  that  in  his  dramas,  amid  certain  faults  imputable  to  the 
taste  of  the  English  public,  there  is  to  be  found  every  conceivable  kind  of  poetic 
excellenee.  At  tlie  same  time  and  immediately  after  him  flourished  a  group  of  dra- 
matic iiocis  who  drew  their  inspiration  from  nature  and  wrote  with  manly  vigor, 
t  lue  would  naturally  suppose  that  their  example,  along  with  the  more  illustrious 
ones  of  Spenser  and  Shakespeare,  would  influence  and  form  the  taste  of  the  succeed- 
ing ago  ;  but  almost  before  tliey  had  ceased  to  claim  the  attention  of  the  public,  and 
while  the  eminent  divines,  Barrow,  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  others,  wrote  nobly  in  jirose 
with  a  geiuiine  eloi]uenee  and  a  fervor  scarcely  less  than  poetic,  appeared  the  school 
of  writers  iu  verse  whom  Jolinson,  by  a  phrase  the  propriety  of  which  has  been  dis- 
puted, calls  the  metaphysical  poets,  —  a  class  of  wits  whose  whole  aim  was  to  extort 
admiration  by  ingenious  conceits,  thouglits  of  such  unexpectedness  and  singularity 
that  one  womlered  how  they  could  ever  conio  into  the  mind  of  the  author.  For  what 
they  regarded  as  poetic  clfect  they  depended,  not  upon  the  sense  of  beauty  or  grand- 
eur, not  upon  depth  or  earnestness  of  feeling,  but  simply  upon  surprise  at  (juaiut 
and  strange  resemblances,  contrasts,  ai^l  combinations  of  ideas.  These  were  dcli\- 
ered  for  the  most  part  in  rugged  diction,  and  in  numbers  so  harsh  as  to  be  almost 

1 gi 


h 


[f] — a 

INTRODUCTION.  Hi 


unmanageable  by  the  reader.  Cowley,  a  man  of  real  genius,  and  of  a  more  musical 
versification  than  liis  fellows,  was  the  most  distinguished  example  of  this  school. 
Milton,  born  a  little  before  Cowley,  and  like  him  an  eminent  poet  in  his  teens,  is 
almost  the  only  instance  of  escape  from  the  infection  of  thi.s  vicious  style ;  his  genius 
w;is  of  too  robust  a  mold  for  such  petty  employments,  anil  he  would  have  made,  if 
lie  had  condescended  to  them,  as  ill  a  figure  as  his  own  Samson  on  the  stage  of  a 
mountebank.  Dryden  himself,  in  some  of  his  earlier  poems,  appears  as  a  pupil  of 
this  school ;  but  ho  soon  outgrew  —  in  great  part,  at  least  —  the  false  taste  of  the 
time,  and  set  an  example  of  a  nobler  treatment  of  poetic  subjects. 

Yet  though  the  genius  of  Dryden  reacted  against  this  perversion  of  tiie  art  of  verse,. 
it  had  not  the  power  to  raise  the  poetry  of  our  language  to  the  height  which  it  occu- 
pird  in  the  Elizabethan  age.  Within  a  limited  range  lie  was  a  true  poet;  his  imagi- 
nation was  far  from  fertile,  nor  had  he  much  skill  in  awakening  emotion,  but  he 
(•nil Id  treat  certain  subjects  magnificently  in  verse,  and  often  where  his  imagination 
fails  him  he  is  sustained  by  tbe  vigor  of  his  understanding  and  the  largeness  of  his 
kiiiiwledge.  He  gave  an  example  of  versification  in  the  heroic  couplet,  which  haa 
cniiimanded  the  admiration  of  succeeding  poets  down  to  our  time,  —  a  versification 
manly,  majestic,  and  of  varied  modulation,  of  which  Pope  took  only  a  certain  part  as 
the  model  of  his  own,  and,  contracting  its  range  and  reducing  it  to  more  regular 
]jause.s,  mailo  it  at  first  appear  more  musical  to  the  reader,  but  in  the  end  fatigued 
him  by  its  monotony.  Dryden  drew  scarcely  a  single  image  from  his  own  observa- 
tion of  external  nature  ;  and  Pope,  though  less  insensible  than  he  to  natural  b(;auty, 
was  still  merely  the  poet  of  the  drawing-room.  Yet  he  is  the  author  of  more  haj)py 
lines,  which  have  passed  into  the  connnon  speech  and  are  quoted  as  proverbial  say- 
ings, tlian  any  author  we  have  save  Shakespeare ;  and,  whatever  may  be  said  in  his 
dispraise,  he  is  likely  to  be  quoted  as  long  as  the  English  is  a  living  language.  The 
footjirints  of  Pojie  are  not  those  of  a  giant,  but  ho  has  left  them  scattered  all  over 
the  field  of  our  literature,  although  the  fashion  of  writing  like  him  lias  wholly  passed 
away. 

Certain  farulties  of  the  poetic  mind  seem  to  have  slumbered  from  the  time  of 
]\Iilton  to  that  of  TJiomson,  who  showed  the  literarj'  world  of  Great  Britain,  to  its 
astonishment,  what  a  profusion  of  materials  for  poetry  Nature  offers  to  him  who 
directly  consults  her  instead  of  taking  his  images  at  second-hand.  Thomson's  blank 
verse,  however,  is  often  swollen  and  bladdery  to  a  jiainful  degree.  He  seems  to  have 
imagined,  like  many  other  writers  of  his  time,  that  blank  verse  oould  not  su[i])ort 
itself  without  the  aid  of  a  stilted  phraseology  ;  for  that  fine  poem  of  his,  in  the 
Spenserian  stanza,  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  shows  that  when  he  wrote  in  rhyme  he- 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  depart  from  a  natural  style. 

^VordswoI•th  is  generally  spoken  of  as  one  who  gave  to  our  litr^rature  that  imiiulse 
which  brought  the  poets  back  from  the  capricious  forms  of  expression  in  vogue  before 
his  time  to  a  certain  fearless  simplicity ;  for  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  until  he 
arose  there  was  scarce  any  English  poet  who  did  not  seem  in  some  degree  to  labor  under 
the  apprehension  of  becoming  too  simple  and  natural, — to  imagine  that  a  certain  pomp 
of  words  is  necessary  to  elevate  the  stj'le  and  make  tliat  grand  and  noble  which   in 


^ 


[0 a 

12  IXTKODUCTTON. 

its  iliroct  expression  woiiM  be  homely  and  trivial.  Yet  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth 
was  but  the  eonsunmintioii  of  a  temloncy  ivlreiuly  existing  and  active.  Cowpor  had 
ah-eaily  felt  it  in  writiiii>-  his  Tad;  and  in  his  longer  rhymed  poems  had  not  only  at- 
tempted n  freer  veKilication  than  that  of  I'ope,  Init  had  clothed  his  thoughts  in  the 
manly  English  of  the  better  age  of  onr  poeti-y.  Percy's  IMitjiies  had  accustouu'il 
Knglish  roadei's  to  pneeive  tlie  extreme  beauty  of  tlie  old  ballads  in  their  absolute 
simiilicity,  and  shown  liow  much  superior  these  were  to  such  productions  as  Percy's 
own  llerntit  of  Warkimrth  anil  troldsmith's  Bdwiii  and  Aiiijelina,  in  their  feeble  ele 
gauce.  Burns's  inimitable  Scottish  poems  —  his  English  versos  are  tumid  and  woivlv 
—  had  taught  the  same  lesson.  We  may  infer  that  the  genius  of  Woixlswortli  was 
in  a  groat  degree  intluenced  by  these,  just  as  he  in  his  turn  contributed  to  form  tiie 
t^isto  of  those  who  wrote  after  him.  It  was  long,  however,  before  ho  reached  the 
eminence  which  he  now  holds  in  the  estinuxtion  of  tho  litemvy  world.  His  Lyrlml 
Ba/lmls,  published  about  the  close  of  the  last  century,  were  at  first  little  read,  and 
of  those  who  liked  them  theiv  wero  few  who  wero  not  afraid  to  express  their  admi- 
ration. Yet  his  fame  has  slowly  climbed  from  st«g6  to  stage  until  now  his  influence 
is  perceived  in  all  the  English  poetry  of  the  day.  If  this  were  tho  place  to  critici.se 
his  poetry,  1  should  say,  of  his  more  stately  poems  in  blank  verse,  that  they  often 
lack  compression,  —  that  tho  thought  sutfei's  by  too  great  expansion.  Wordsworth 
was  unnecessarily  afwid  of  being  epigrammatic.  He  abhorred  what  is  called  a  point 
as  much  as  Dennis  is  said  to  have  abhorred  a  pun.  Yet  I  must  own  that  even  his 
most  ditl'use  amplifications  have  in  them  a  certain  grandeur  that  fills  the  mind. 

At  a  somewhat  later  period  arose  tho  poet  Keats,  who  wrote  in  a  manner  which 
carried  the  ivader  back  to  the  time  when  those  charming  passages  of  lyrical  enthu- 
siasm were  produced  which  we  occasionally  find  in  the  (ilays  of  Shakespeare,  in  those 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  in  Milton's  Comiis.  Tho  verses  of  Keats  are  occa- 
sionally disfigured,  especially  in  his  jEiKlijmion,  by  a  flatness  almost  childish,  but  in 
the  finer  passages  they  clothe  tho  thonght  in  the  richest  inuvgory  and  in  words  each 
of  which  is  a  poem.  Lowell  has  justly  called  Keats  "  ovei'-languaged,"  but  there  is 
scarce  a  word  that  wo  should  bo  willing  to  part  with  in  his  Ode  to  the  yi<>/itiii;/ale, 
ami  that  on  a  (?recia>i  r'>-»,  and  the  same  thing  may  lie  said  of  the  greater  part  of 
his  J/v/'erioii.  His  poems  were  ridiculed  in  tho  Edinburgh  Keviow,  but  they  sur- 
vived the  ridicule,  and  now,  fifty  years  after  their  first  publication,  the  poetrj-  of  the 
present  day,  by  certain  resemblances  of  manner,  testifies  to  the  admiration  with  which 
ho  is  still  read. 

The  genius  of  Byron  was  of  a  more  vigoi\nis  mold  than  that  of  Keats  ;  but  not- 
withstiinding  his  great  popularity  and  the  number  of  his  imitators  at  one  time,  he 
made  a  less  permanent  impression  on  the  character  of  English  poetry.  His  misan- 
thropy and  gloom,  his  scoffing  vein,  ami  the  fieiveness  of  his  animosities,  after  tho 
fii-st  glow  of  admiration  was  over,  had  a  repellent  otTeet  upon  readei's,  and  made  them 
turn  to  more  cheerful  strains.  Moore  had  in  his  time  nuvny  iniitatoi's,  but  all  his 
g'ayety,  his  brilliant  fancy,  his  soniewhat  feminine  graces,  ami  the  elaborate  music 
of  his  numbei-s,  have  not  savetl  him  from  tho  fate  of  being  imitated  no  more.  Cole- 
ridge and  Southey  were  of  the  siuue  school  with  Woixlsworth,  and  only  added  to  the 

^ ^ e^ 


f 


hSTUouucriuN. 


1.-^ 


k^ 


cflect  of  \im  t'xaniiile  upon  our  literatim;.  Colcridgo  Lb  the  autlior  of  tlic  two  iiioxt 
pr;rf(;(;t  jjonticiil  traimlutiojiB  whicli  our  larigiiagi;  in  liis  day  couW  boawt,  tliow;  of 
.Scliilicr'H  I'icml'indni  ami  JJealli,  nf  IValleniitein,  in  wliicli  thf;  Eii^li«h  v.nt;  fali«  in  no 
rf'Sjioot  wliort  of  iIkj  original  Ocnnan.  Houtliey  diviiloH  with  fSwjtt  the  h'Jiior  of 
writinjj  the  fir»t  lonj;  narrative  ]>oi;inH  in  our  lanj/ua;.;';  whicli  can  he  read  without 
occasional  weari  ihmh. 

Of  the  later  poet;<,  educated  in  \tiat  hy  the  yeueration  of  author/)  which  produced 
W'ordrtworth  and  JJyroii  aiicl  in  j)ai-t  by  each  other,  yet  pOHSCHwing  their  individual 
pecidiarilien,  I  HJiould  perhaps  Hpeak  with  more  reserve.  The  number  of  thow;  who 
are  attempting;  to  win  a  name  in  thiw  walk  of  liti.-rature  is  gn^t,  and  Heveml  of  them 
have  already  gained,  and  through  many  years  held,  the  public  favor.  To  some  of 
tliiiij  will  be  assigned  an  enduring  station  among  the  eminent  of  their  chiHH. 

There  are  two  tendencies  by  which  the  s<;eker«  after  jtoetic  fame  in  our  day  an- 
a|>t  to  be  misled,  through  both  the  exanjple  of  others  and  the  applause  of  critics. 
One  of  these  in  the  desire  to  cxtoit  admiration  by  striking  novelties  of  expression  ; 
and  tlie  other,  the  ambition  to  distinguish  thenisi.dves  by  subtilties  of  thought, 
renioU;  from  the  common  apprehension. 

With  regard  to  thi;  first  of  these  I  have  only  to  say  what  has  been  often  said  bi;- 
I'on-,  that,  however  favorable  may  Ije  the  idea  which  this  luxuriance  of  poetic  imagery 
and  of  epithet  at  first  gives  us  of  the  author's  talent,  our  admiration  s/jon  exhausts 
itself.  We  feel  that  the  thouglit  mov<;s  heavily  under  its  load  of  garments,  some 
of  whicli  perhaps  strike  us  as  tawdry  and  olhera  a.-s  ill-fitting,  and  we  lay  down  the 
book  to  take  it  up  no  more. 

The  other  mistake,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  deserves  more  attention,  since  we  find  abh: 
critics  speaking  with  high  praise  of  passages  in  the  poetry  of  the  day  to  which  the 
general  reader  is  jiu/zled  to  attach  a  meaning.  This  is  often  the  cas^j  wlien  tiie  words 
themselves  seem  sim|ile  enough,  and  keep  within  the  range  of  the  Saxon  or  house- 
jiold  element  of  our  language.  The  obscurity  lies  sometimes  in  the  jihrase  itself,  and 
sometimes  in  the  recondite  or  remote;  allusion.  I  will  not  say  that  certain  minds  are 
not  afl'ected  by  this,  as  others  are  by  verses  in  ])iuiner  Knglish.  To  the  few  it  may 
lie  genuine  poetry,  although  it  may  be  a  riddle  to  the  mass  of  ri^a'lers.  I  remember 
reading  somewhere  of  a  mathematician  who  was  affected  with  a  sense  of  sublimity  by 
the  ha|)py  solution  of  an  algebraical  or  geometrical  jiroblem,  and  I  have  been  assured 
by  one  who  devoted  liinjself  to  the  science  of  mathematics  that  the  phenomenon  is  no 
unconimon  one.  Let  us  beware,  therefore,  of  assigning  too  narrow  limits  U}  the  causes 
whiidi  produce  the  politic  exaltation  of  mind.  The  genius  of  those  who  write  in  this 
manner  may  be  freely  acknowledged,  I)ut  they  do  not  write  for  mankind  at  large. 

'I'o  me  it  .seerus  that  one  of  the  most  important  requisites  for  a  great  jxjet  is  a  lu- 
luiiions  style.  The  elements  of  poetry  lie  in  natural  objects,  in  the  vicissitudes  of 
hiinian  life,  in  the  emotions  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  relations  of  man  to  man.  lie 
who  can  present  them  in  combinations  and  lights  which  at  once  affect  the  mind  with 
a  deep  sense  of  their  truth  and  beauty  is  the  poet  for  liis  own  age  ami  the  ages  that 
succeed  it.  It  is  no  disitaragement  either  to  his  skill  or  his  power  that  he  finds  them 
n«ir  at  hand  ;  the  nearer  they  lie  to  the  common  track  of  the  human   intelligence, 


-^ 


^ a 

14  INTRODUCTION. 

the  more  certain  is  lie  of  tlie  sympathy  of  his  own  generation,  and  of  those  which 
sliall  come  after  him.  The  metaphysician,  the  subtile  thinker,  the  dealer  in  abstruse 
sjieculations,  whatever  his  skill  in  versification,  misapplies  it  when  he  abandons  the 
more  convenient  form  of  prose  and  perplexes  himself  with  the  attempt  to  exjiress 
his  iileas  in  poetic  numbers. 

]>et  me  say  for  the  poets  of  the  present  day,  tliat  in  one  important  respect  they 
have  profited  by  the  example  of  their  immediate  predecessors;  they  have  learned  to 
go  directly  to  nature  for  their  imagery,  instead  of  taking  it  from  what  had  once  lieen 
regarded  as  the  common  stock  of  the  guild  of  poets.  I  have  often  had  occasion  to 
verify  this  remark  with  no  less  delight  than  surprise  on  meeting  in  recent  verse  new 
images  in  their  untarnished  luster,  like  coins  fresh  from  the  mint,  unworn  and  unsoilod 
by  jiassing  from  pocket  to  pocket.  It  is  curious,  also,  to  observe  how  a  certain  s(!t 
of  hackneyed  phrases,  which  Leigh  Hunt,  I  believe,  was  the  first  to  ridicule,  and 
which  were  once  used  for  the  convenience  of  rounding  out  a  line  or  supplying  a 
rhyme,  have  disapjieared  from  our  poetry,  and  how  our  blank  verse  in  the  hands  of 
the  most  popular  writers  has  dropped  its  stiff  Latinisms  and  all  the  awkward  distor- 
tions resorted  to  by  those  who  thought  that  by  putting  a  sentence  out  of  its  proper 
shape  they  were  writing  like  Milton. 

I  have  now  brought  this  brief  survey  of  the  jirogress  of  our  poetry  ilown  to  the 
present  time,  and  refer  the  reader,  for  samples  of  it  in  tlic  dillerr iit  stages  of  its  exist- 
ence, to  those  which  are  set  before  him  in  this  vohime. 

Such  is  the  wide  range  of  English  verse,  and  such  the  abundance  of  tlie 
materials,  tljat  a  compilation  of  this  kind  must  be  like  a  buucjuet  gathered  from 
the  fields  in  June,  when  hundreils  of  flowers  will  be  left  in  unvisited  spots,  as 
beautiful  as  those  which  have  been  taken.  It  may  happen,  therefore,  that  many 
who  have  learned  to  delight  in  some  particular  poem  will  turn  these  pages,  as  they 
might  those  of  other  collections,  without  finding  their  favorite.  Nor  should  it  be 
matter  of  surprise,  considering  the  multitude  of  authors  from  whom  the  compilation 
is  made,  if  it  be  found  that  some  are  overlooked,  especially  the  more  recent,  of  equal 
merit  with  many  whose  poems  appear  in  these  pages.  It  may  happen,  also,  that 
the  compiler,  in  consequence  of  some  particular  association,  has  been  sensible  of  a 
beauty  and  a  power  of  awakening  emotions  and  recalling  images  in  certain  poems 
which  other  readers  will  fail  to  perceive.  It  should  be  considered,  moreover,  that  in 
poetry,  as  in  painting,  different  artists  have  different  modes  of  presenting  their  con- 
ceptions, each  of  which  may  possess  its  peculiar  merit,  yet  those  whose  taste  is  forincMJ 
by  contemplating  the  productions  of  one  class  take  little  pleasure  in  any  otlui'. 
Crabb  Robinson  relates  that  Wordsworth  once  admitted  to  him  that  he  did  m  t 
much  admire  contemporary  poetry,  not  because  of  its  want  of  poetic  merit,  but 
liecause  he  had  been  accustomed  to  poetry  of  a  different  sort,  and  added  that  but 
for  this  ho  might  have  read  it  with  pleasure.  I  quote  from  memory.  It  is  to  1  ic 
hoped  that  every  reader  of  this  collection,  however  he  may  have  been  trained,  will 
find  in  the  great  variety  of  its  contents  something  conformable  to  his  taste. 

■WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYAXT. 


I&^- 


--Qi 


'^^ 


-^ 


/ 


fr^lA.  <VivM^    /'oo,  ;  ^    j^      ■TM.wYVi^     WtaJUL 


0iKaMM< -•iM/icLvAtcL  - — CrU't"  oft,    'lOMh  VL^^UAM-kiJi 


0 


^ ^^ -51 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  INFANCY  AND  YOUTH. 


INFANCY. 


PHILIP,   MY  KING. 


Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Pliilip,  my  king  ! 
For  round  thee  the  purple  shadow  lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities. 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  liand 

With  Love's  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 
I  am  thine  Esther,  to  command 

Till  thou  shalt  find  thy  queen-handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  king ! 

0,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  king ! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And,  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing. 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 

Sittest  love-gloriiied  !  —  Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly  over  thy  kingdom  fair  ; 

For  we  that  love,  ah  !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  king ! 

I  gaze  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  Ijrow, 

Philip,  my  king ! 
The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  Heaven-chosen  amongst  his  peers. 

My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  higher  and  fairer, 
Let  me  beliold  thee  in  future  years  ! 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  king  ;  — 

A  wTeath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One  day, 

Pliilip,  my  king ! 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  cmel,  and  cold,  and  gi-ay  ; 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without 

Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.     But  march  on, 
glorious, 
Martyr,  yet  monarch  !  till  angels  shout. 

As  thou  sitt'st  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 
"  Philip,  the  king!" 


^- 


CRADLE    SONG. 

Wh.1T  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt  ; 
Unwritten  histoi-y  ! 
Unfathomed  mystery  ! 
Yet  he  chuckles,  and  crows,  and  nodii,  andwiuks, 
As  if  his  liead  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphin.x  ! 
Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears. 
Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  fears. 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years ; 
And  he  '11  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go ; 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he  '11  find  it  so. 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Wlio  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 

By  which  the  manikin  feels  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ? 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea, 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony  ; 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  roUs, 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls,  — 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side. 
And  slipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide  ! 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair? 

What  of  the  cradle-roof,  that  flies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air  ? 

AVhat  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast. 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white. 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight. 

Cup  of  his  life,  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 
Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell, 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell. 

Though  she  mui-mur  the  words 

Of  all  the  birds,  — 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well  ? 

Now  he  thinks  he  '11  go  to  sleep ! 

I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 


-^ 


e- 


18 


POEMS  OF  INFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


-a 


Over  his  eyes  in  soft  eclipse, 
Over  liis  brow  and  over  his  lips, 
Out  tohislittlo  tiu^'ci-tips! 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes! 
Down  ho  goes !  ilown  ho  goes ! 
See  !  ho  's  hushed  in  sweet  repose. 

JOSIAU  GlLliERT  HOLLAND. 


THE   HABY. 

Naked  on  parents'  knees,  a  new-born  child, 
Weeping  thou  sat'st  when  all  around  thee  smiled  : 
So  live,  that,  sinking  to  thy  last  long  sleep, 
Tluni  then  niayst  smile  wliile  all    annuul  the* 
weep. 


byS 


.1  Jones. 


y- 


BABY  MAY. 

Cmekks  as  soft  as  .Inly  peaches  ; 
l.ips  whose  ilewy  scarlet  teaches 
Topjiies  paleness  ;  round  lai-ge  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise  ; 
Minutes  tilled  with  shadeless  gladness  ; 
Minutes  just  as  brimmed  with  sadness  ; 
Happy  smili'S  and  wailing  cries  ; 
Crows,  and  laughs,  and  tearful  eyes  ; 
Lights  and  shadows,  swifter  born 
Thau  on  wind-swept  autun\n  corn  ; 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion. 
Making  every  limb  all  motion  ; 
Catehings  \ip  of  legs  and  arms  ; 
Tluowings  Imck  and  small  alarms  ; 
Clutehing  lingei-s  ;  .straightening  jerks  ; 
Twining  feet  whoso  each  toe  works  ; 
Kickings  up  and  stmining  risings  ; 
Jlother's  ever  new  surprisings  ; 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under  ; 
Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  moi-e  of  love  than  lorings  ; 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Airhness  that  we  ]>rize  such  sinning  ; 
Breakings  diiv  of  plates  and  glasses  ; 
Craspings  small  at  all  that  pas-ses  ; 
PulUngs  ofl"  of  all  that  "s  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  t«ble  ; 
Silences,  —  small  meditations 
Peep  as  thoughts  of  caivs  for  nations  ; 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tong\ie  that  nothing  teaches  ; 
All  the  thoughts  of  who.se  pos.sessing 
Must  lie  wooed  to  light  by  guessing  : 
Slumliers,  —  such  .sweet  angel-.seeniings 
That  we  'd  ever  have  such  dreamings  : 


Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
Anil  we  'd  always  have  thee  waking  ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure  ; 
ricasnre  high  above  all  pleasure  ; 
(Uadness  brimming  over  gladness  ; 
•loy  in  care  ;  delight  in  sadness  ; 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness  ; 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness  ; 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  bo  ;  — 
That 's  May  Bennett ;  that's  my  baby. 

William  C.  Bennett. 


CHOOSING   A  NAME. 

1  M.WK  got  a  ncw-born  si.ster  ; 

1  was  nigh  the  lirst  that  kissed  her. 

When  the  nursing-woman  brought  lier 

To  papa,  his  infant  daiiglitcr. 

How  papa's  dear  eyes  did  gfisten  !  — 

She  will  shortly  be  to  christen ; 

Ami  pajia  has  made  the  otVer, 

1  shall  have  the  naming  of  her. 

Now  I  wonder  what  would  please  her,  — 

Charlotte,  Julia,  or  Louisa? 

Ann  and  Mary,  they're  too  common; 

.loan  's  too  formal  for  a  woman  ; 

.lane  's  a  prettier  name  beside  ; 

But  we  had  a  .Tane  that  died. 

They  would  say,  if  't  was  Rebecca, 

That  she  was  a  little  Quaker. 

Edith  's  pretty,  but  that  looks 

Better  in  old  English  books ; 

ICllen  "s  left  otf  long  ago  ; 

Blanche  is  out  of  fashion  now. 

Kone  that  1  have  named  as  yet 

Arc  so  good  as  ilargai-et. 

Emily  is  neat  and  line  ; 

What  do  you  think  of  Caroline  ? 

How  I  'm  puzzled  and  perple.xed 

Wliat  to  choose  or  think  of  next ! 

1  am  in  a  little  fever 

Lest  the  i.auie  that  I  should  give  her 

Should  disgnice  her  or  defame  her  ;  — 

1  will  leave  i>aivv  to  name  her. 


THK  BABY. 

WnEUE  did  you  come  from,  baby  deai- 1 
Out  of  the  evertncliere  into  he^re. 

Whei-e  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  si-;/  as  I  came  through. 

Wheiv  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  u-ken  I  got  hen: 


-^ 


INFANCY. 


19 


a 


What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  anJ  high  i 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  hij. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  wann  white  rose  i 
/  saiu  something  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear  ? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Wliero  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ! 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  banils. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things  i 
Fmin  the  sit/itc  bnj:  us  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  come  to  be  you  ? 
>!od  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

I'ut  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 
dud  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  liere. 

gi--ok(;e  macdonald. 


LITTLE   FEET. 

Two  little  feet,  so  small  that  both  may  nestle 

In  one  caressing  hand,  — 
Two  tender  feet  upon  the  untried  boriler 

Of  life's  mysterious  land. 

Dhnpled,  and  soft,  and  pink  as  peach-tree  blos- 
soms, 

In  April's  fragrant  days. 
How  can  they  walk  among  the  briery  tangles, 

Edging  the  world's  rough  ways  ? 

These  rose-white  feet,  along  the  doubtful  future. 

Must  bear  a  mother's  load  ; 
Alas  !  since  Woman  has  the  heaviest  burden. 

And  walks  the  harder  road. 

Love,  for  a  while,  will  make  the  path  before  them 
All  dainty,  smooth,  and  fair,  — 

Will  cull  away  the  brambles,  letting  only 
The  roses  blossom  there. 

I'ut  when  the  mother's  watchful  eyes  are  .shrouded 

Away  from  sight  of  men. 
And  these  dear  feet  are  left  without  her  guiding, 

Who  shall  direct  them  then  ? 

How  will  they  be  allured,  betrayed,  deluded, 

Poor  little  untaught  feet ! 
Into  what  dreary  mazes  will  they  wander, 

What  dangers  will  they  meet  ? 


Will  they  go  stumbling  blindly  in  the  darkness 
Of  Sorrow's  tearful  shades  ? 

Or  find  the  upland  slopes  of  Peace  and  Beauty, 
Whose  sunlight  never  fades  ? 

WiU  they  go  toiling  up  Ambition's  summit, 

The  common  world  above  ? 
Or  in  some  nameless  vale,  securely  sheltered, 

Walk  side  by  side  with  Love  ? 

Some    feet   there    be   which    walk    LU'e's   tiack 
unwouuded, 

Whiidi  find  but  pleasant  ways  : 
Some  hearts  there  be  to  which  this  life  is  only 

A  round  of  hapjiy  days. 

But  these   are  few.     Far   more   there  are  who 
wander 

Without  a  hope  or  friend,  — 
Who  find  their  journey  full  of  pains  and  losses, 

And  long  to  reach  the  end. 

How  shall  it  be  with  her,  the  tender  stranger, 

Fair-faced  and  gentle-eyed, 
Before  whose  unstained  feet  the  world's  rude 
highway 

Sti-etches  so  fair  and  wide  ? 

Ah  !  who  may  read  the  future  ?  For  our  darling 
We  crave  all  blessings  .sweet. 

And  pray  that  He  who  feeds  the  crj'ing  ravens 
Will  guide  the  baby's  feet. 

A.>fQNYMOL"S. 


CRADLE    SONG. 

Si.KEr,  little  baby  of  mine, 
Night  and  th«  darkness  are  near. 
But  .Icsus  looks  down 
Through  the  shadows  that  fromi, 
And  baby  has  nothing  to  fear. 

Shut,  little  sleepy  blue  eyes  ; 

Dear  little  head,  be  at  rest ; 

Jesus,  like  you. 

Was  a  baby  once,  too, 

And  slept  on  his  own  mother's  breast. 

Sleep,  little  baby  of  mine. 

Soft  on  your  pillow  so  white  ; 

Jesus  is  here 

To  watch  over  you,  dear. 

And  nothing  can  harm  you  to-night. 

0,  little  darling  of  mine, 

MTiat  can  you  know  of  the  bliss, 

The  comfort  I  keeji, 

Awake  and  asleep. 

Because  I  am  c?ertain  of  this  ? 


^ 


£r. 


20 


POEMS  OF  INFAXOY  ANO   YOUTH. 


--a 


fe- 


Kkk  lust  ywu's  union  liinl  loft  tho  sky 
A  liiixllinjj  soiif;lit  nij  Imliiui  lU'st, 

Ami  I'nUlod,  oh  !  so  loviujjly, 
llor  tiuY  \viuj;s  vipoii  my  bivast. 

Wmii  nioni  till  o\oiiiiij;'s  nui\>lo  tingp, 
111  wiiisoino  Uoli'UviSuoss  slip  lips  ; 

Two  ivso-ioiivos,  with  ii  silkpu  I'liiij^p, 
Shut  solUy  o'or  hor  stiuiy  ovt's. 

Thoiv  's  Mot  in  liui  a  lovplioi-  hiixl  ; 

Utviul  oiu'th  owns  not  iv  hainiipv  uost  ; 
O  lloii  !  thou  hiisl  11  I'ountiiiii  stiiml, 

Wlioso  wati'i-s  lU'Vi'iiiioiv  sliiiU  ivst. 

Tliis  Kautilul.  mystt'iious  thiuj;, 
This  sn'uiius;  visitant  t'lvm  luvivpn, 

This  liii\l  with  llu'  iiiiiiiovtal  winj;. 
To  u>i\  to  mo  riiy  hiiml  has  j;ivoii. 

Tho  (lulso  tii-st  oaujcht  its  tiny  stivko, 
Tho  blooil  its  ovimsou  hno,  I'lvni  uiiu« : 

This  lit'o  whioh  I  hino  daiva  invoko. 
llonoolovtli  is  imnillol  with  Thino  ! 

A  silout  awo  is  in  my  i\Him, 
1  tivmlilo  with  ilolioious  t'oar  ; 

Tho  futvnv  with  its  light  ami  gloom, 
Timo  ami  otovuity  aiv  hoiv. 

fonhts,  hojH's,  in  oagi'r  tnnmlt  riso  ; 

llrtu-,  t^  my  t^ml!  ouo  wivuost  piiiyov; 
Uvwm  fov  my  Innl  in  ranuliso, 

Aivil  givo  hov  angv>l-\<lumago  thoro ' 

I'XUIY  C    H'IVSON. 


NTTR&K'S  WAIVH. 

v\  tlir  "  Bov's  Uoni  i>f  W\««K-iv"  <i  l^rm«i\  Bo<Jt  of  Ni 
Khvm<-v) 

TiiK  moon  it  shinos. 

My  ilarliug  whinos ; 
Tho  ohvk  stiikos  twolvo  :  -  1»h1  oho<»r 
Tho  sick,  Ivth  tar  au>l  uoar. 

Ovxl  knowoth  all ; 

Mousy  nihhhvs  in  tho  wall : 
Tho  i-Ux-k  stiikos  ouo:  —  liko  day, 
Dreams  o'ov  thy  pillow  jJay, 

Tho  matin-K'U 

AVakt^s  tho  nun  in  ivnvont  wU  ; 
Tho  oliH-k  strikos  two ;  —  thoy  go 
To  choir  in  a  row. 


Tlio  wiiul  il  Mows, 

Tho  oofk  ho  oi'ows  ; 
Tho  olook  stiikos  tliioo  ;   -  tho  wagoner 
In  liis  stiiiw  boil  bogius  to  stir. 

■I'll,'  stood  ho  vaws  tho  lloor, 

t'lvaks  tho  slalilo  iloor ; 
Tho  oloik  strikos  lour  ;    -  'I  is  plain, 
Tho  ooHohniaii  sifts  his  grain. 

Tho  swallow's  laugh  llio  still  air  shakos, 

Tho  sun  awakos  -, 
'I'lio  olook  stiik<>s  livo:  — tho  travollor  must  bi 

gono, 
llo  i>uts  his  stookiiigs  on. 

Tho  lion  is  ctaokiiig, 

Tho  iluoks  aiv  >|uaoking ; 
'l"ho  olook  strikos  six  ;  —  awako,  arise, 
'I'hou  buy  ling ;  oomo,  opo  thy  oyos. 

tjuiok  to  tho  Imkor's  run  ; 

Tho  rolls  are  ilouo ; 
Tho  oliH-k  stiikos  sovou  ;  — 
'T  is  timo  tho  milk  woiv  in  tho  ovoii. 

l\it  in  somo  buttor,  do. 

And  somo  tiuo  sugar  too; 
Tho  olook  strikos  eight ;  — 
Now  bring  my  liaby's  jHirridgo  straight. 

TK.WSIAVION  OV  OH.\RLKS  T,  BKOOK& 


OLD  OAEUC  LULUABY. 

Hrsll  !  tho  waves  ai\>  ivUiiig  in, 
^Yllito  with  loam,  whito  with  foam  ; 

Vathor  toils  amid  tho  din, 
Hut  V«by  sliH'i>s  at  homo. 

Hush!  tho  winds  i\»u-  hoai-se  luid  doop. 

Itn  thoy  oonu',  on  tlioy  oomo ! 
Bivthor  seeks  tho  waudoring  slieojs 

I5ut  l«hy  sleeps  at  home. 

Hnsh  !  tho  rain  swet>i>s  o'ov  tho  kuowos 
Vhew  thoy  nvam.  whoiv  they  rwun ; 

Sister  goes  to  s>vk  tho  cows, 
Vhit  l>aby  sloejis  at  homo. 


THK  HOFSEH(.^U>  SOVEREIGN. 

FROM  TUB  ■•  IWNCINC  OF  Tin:  CK,*XK." 

TllR  picture  fades  :  as  at  a  villag»>  fair 
A  sliowman's  views  dissolve  into  tho  air. 
To  reivpi«-ar  trsusligunHl  on  tlu'  scrwn. 
So  in  mv  tanov  this  ;  and  Jiow  once  more 


-^ 


■si.' 


-   a  ^ 
I 


S  5^ 
2  a -S 


[&-- 


INFANCY. 


21 


.^ 


U-- 


In  part  transfigured  througli  the  open  door 
Appears  the  selfsame  scene. 

Seated  I  see  the  two  again, 

But  not  alone  ;  they  entertain 

A  little  angel  unaware, 

With  face  as  round  as  is  the  moon  ; 

A  royal  guest  with  flaxen  hair, 

W'lio,  throned  upon  his  lofty  chair. 

Drums  on  the  table  with  his  spoon, 

'I'hcu  drops  it  careless  on  the  floor, 

'r(j  grasp  at  things  unseen  before. 

Are  these  celestial  manners?  these 

The  ways  that  win,  the  arts  that  please  ? 

All,  yes;  consider  well  the  guest. 

And  whatsoe'er  he  does  seems  best ; 

He  ruleth  by  the  right  divine 

I X  helplessness,  so  lately  born 

In  purple  chambers  of  the  mom. 

As  sovereign  over  thee  and  thine. 

He  speaketh  not,  and  yet  there  lies 

A  conversation  in  his  eyes  ; 

The  golden  silence  of  the  Greek, 

'I'lie  gravest  wisdom  of  the  wise, 

Xot  spoken  in  language,  but  in  looks 

More  legible  than  printed  books. 

As  if  he  could  but  would  not  speak. 

And  now,  0  monarch  absolute, 
'I'hy  power  is  put  to  proof  ;  for  lo ! 
Resistless,  fathomless,  and  slow. 
The  nurse  comes  rustling  like  the  sea, 
And  pushes  back  thy  chair  and  thee. 
And  so  good  night  to  King  ('anutc. 


As  one  who  walking  in  the  forest  sees 

A  lovely  landscape  through  the  parted  trees. 

Then  sees  it  not  for  boughs  that  inten'ene, 
Or  as  we  see  the  moon  sometimes  revealed 
Through  drifting  clouds,  and  then  again  con- 
cealed. 

So  I  beheld  the  scene. 

There  are  two  guests  at  table  now  ; 
The  king,  dejKjsed,  and  older  grown. 
No  longer  occupies  the  throne,  — 
The  crown  is  on  hLs  sister's  brow  ; 
A  princess  from  the  Fairy  Tales  ; 
The  very  pattern  girl  of  girls, 
All  covered  and  embowered  in  curls, 
Kose  tinted  from  the  Isle  of  Flowers, 
And  sailing  with  .soft  silken  sails 
From  far-off  Dreamland  into  ours. 
Above  their  bowls  with  rims  of  blue 
Four  azure  eyes  of  deeper  hue 
Are  looking,  dreamy  with  delight ; 
Limpid  as  planets  that  emerge 
Above  the  ocean's  rounded  verge. 


Soft  sliining  through  the  summer  night. 
Steadfast  they  gaze,  yet  nothing  see 
Beyond  the  horizon  of  their  bowls  ; 
Nor  care  they  for  the  world  that  rolls 
With  all  its  freight  of  troubled  souls 
Into  the  days  that  are  to  \ie. 

Hi-NKY  wausworth  Longfellow. 


BABY  LOUISE. 

I  'm  in  love  with  you.  Baby  Louise ! 
With  your  silken  hair,  and  your  soft  blue  eyes. 
And  the  dreamy  wisdom  that  in  them  lies. 
And  the  faint,  sweet  smile  you  brought  from  the 
skies,  — 

God's  sunshine.  Baby  Louise. 

WTien  you  fold  your  hands.  Baby  Louise, 
Your  liand.s,  like  a  fairy's,  so  tiny  and  fair, 
With  a  pretty,  innocent,  saint-like  air, 
Are  you  trying  to  think  of  some  angel-taught 
jirayer 

You  learned  above.  Baby  Louise  ? 

I  'm  in  love  with  you.  Baby  Louise ! 
Why  !  you  never  raise  your  beautiful  head  ! 
.Some  d;iy,  little  one,  your  cheek  will  grow  red 
With  a  flush  of  delight,  to  hear  the  words  said, 

"I  love  you,"  Baby  Louise. 

Do  you  hear  mc.  Baby  Louise  ? 
I  have  sung  your  praises  for  nearly  an  hour. 
And  your  lashes  keep  drooping  lower  and  lower, 
And  —  you  've  gone  to  sleep,  like  a  weary  flower. 

Ungrateful  Baby  Louise  1 

Margarbt  EVnSGE. 


THE  ANGEL'S  WHISPER. 


A  BABY  was  sleeping  ; 

Its  mother  was  weeping, 
For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging  sea  ; 

And  the  t«mpest  was  swelling 

Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling; 
And  she  cried,  "  Dermot,  darling,  0  come  back 
to  me ! " 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered. 

The  baby  still  slumbered. 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee  : 

"0,  blest  l)e  that  warning. 

My  child,  thy  .sleej)  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with 


thee. 


-^ 


e- 


POEMS   OF  INFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


-^ 


"  And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 

0,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me ! 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They  'd  watch  o'er  thy  father  ! 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to 
thee." 


An^ 


The  dawn  of  the  morning 
Saw  Dermot  returning, 
the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to 


And  closely  caressing 
Her  child  with  a  blessing. 
Said,  "  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispeiing 
with  thee." 

Samuel  lover. 


t&^ 


SMILING  m  HIS  SLEEP. 

The  baby  sleeps  and  smiles. 
What  faiiy  thought  beguiles 

His  little  brain  ? 
He  sleeps  and  snules  again, 
Flings  his  white  arms  about, 
Half  opes  his  sweet  blue  eye 
As  if  he  thought  to  spy, 
By  coyly  peeping  out. 
The  funny  elf  that  brought 
That  tiny  faiiy  thought 
Unto  his  infant  mind. 
Would  I  some  way  could  find 
To  know  just  how  they  seem, 
Those  dreams  that  infants  dream. 
I  wonder  what  they  are,  — 
Those  thoughts  that  seem  to  wear 

So  sweet  a  guise  ? 
What  picture,  tiny,  fair, 
What  vision,  lovely,  rare. 

Delights  his  eyes  ? 
See !  now  he  smiles  once  more ; 
Perhaps  there  is  before 
His  mental  sight  portrayed 

Some  vision  blest 
Of  that  dear  land  of  rest, 

That  far-off  heaven, 
From  whence  his  new-created  sou! 

Has  lately  strayed  ; 
Or  to  his  ear,  perchance,  are  given 
Those  echoes  sweet  that  roll 
From  angel  harps  we  may  not  hear, 
We,  who  have  added  year  to  year. 

And  sin  to  sin. 
As  yet  his  soul  is  spotless.     Wliy 
Should  not  angelic  harmony 
Reach  his  unsullied  ear  ? 

Whv  not  within 


His  infant  fancy  transient  gleams 
Of  heaven  find  their  way  in  dreams  ? 

And  still  the  baby  sleeps, 
And  as  he  sleeps  he  smiles.     Ah,  now 
He  starts,  he  wakes,  he  weejis  ; 
Earth-shadows  cloud  his  baby-brow. 
His  smiles  how  fleeting  ;  how 

Profuse  his  tears ! 
Dreams  he  of  coming  years. 
Checkered  by  shadow  and  by  light, 
Unlike  that  vision  holy,  bright,  — 

That  fairy  gleam, 

That  infant  dream 
That  made  him  sweetly  smile  ? 
Do  coming  sin  and  son'ow. 
Phantoms  of  dark  to-morrow. 
Their  shadows  cast  before. 

Clouding  all  o'er 
His  baby-dreams,  erewhOe 

So  beautiful  ? 

Harriet  w.  stillhan. 


SILENT  BABY. 

The  baby  sits  in  her  cradle. 

Watching  the  world  go  round, 
EnwTapt  in  a  mystical  silence 

Amid  all  the  tumult  of  sound. 
She  must  be  akin  to  the  flowers, 
For  no  one  has  heard 
A  whispered  word 
From  this  silent  baby  of  ours. 

Wondering,  she  looks  at  the  children, 

As  they  merrUy  laughing  pass, 
And  smiles  o'er  her  face  go  rippling. 

Like  sunshine  over  the  grass 
And  into  the  heart  of  the  flowers ; 
But  never  a  word 
Has  yet  been  heard 
From  this  silent  darling  of  ours. 

Has  she  a  wonderful  wisdom. 

Of  unspoken  knowledge  a  store, 
Hid  away  from  all  curious  eyes. 

Like  the  mysterious  lore 

Of  the  bees  and  the  birds  and  the  flowers ! 

Is  this  why  no  word 

Has  ever  been  heard 

From  this  silent  baby  of  ours  ? 

Ah,  baby,  from  out  your  blue  eyes 

The  angel  of  silence  is  smiling,  — 
Though  silvern  hereafter  your  speech. 
Your  sOence  is  golden,  —  beguiling 
All  hearts  to  this  darling  of  ours, 
Who  speaks  not  a  word 
Of  all  she  has  heard, 
Like  the  birds,  the  bees,  and  the  flowers. 


Ellen  Bartlett  cur 


-^ 


IN'FA^X•Y. 


23 


^ 


What  sliall  be  the  baby's  name  ! 
Shall  we  catch  from  sounding  fame 
Some  far-echoed  word  of  praise 
Out  of  other  climes  or  days  ? 
Put  upon  her  brow  new-born 
Crowns  that  other  brows  have  worn  ? 

Shall  we  take  some  dearer  word, 
Once  within  our  circle  lieard, 
Cherished  yet,  though  spoken  less, — 
Shall  we  lay  its  tenderness 
On  the  baby's  little  head. 
So  to  call  again  our  dead  ? 

Shall  we  choose  a  name  of  grace 
That  befits  the  baby's  face, — 
Something  full  of  childish  glee. 
To  be  sjioken  joyously  ? 
Something  sweeter,  softer  yet. 
That  shall  say,  "  Behold  our  jiet !  " 

Nay  ;  the  history  of  the  great 
Must  not  weigh  our  baby's  fate  ; 
Nay  ;  tlie  dear  ones  disenthralled 
Must  not  be  by  us  recalled ; 
We  shall  meet  them  soon  again, — 
Let  us  keep  their  names  till  then  ! 

Nay ;  we  do  not  seek  a  word 
For  a  kitten  or  a  bird  ; 
Not  to  suit  the  baby  ways. 
But  to  wear  in  after  days, — 
Fit  for  uses  grave  and  good. 
Wrapped  in  future  womanhood, — 

For  the  mother's  loving  tongue 
While  our  daughter  still  is  young; 
For  the  manly  lips  that  may 
Call  tlie  maiden  heart  away ; 
For  the  time,  yet  tenderer. 
When  her  children  think  of  her. 

Let  us  choose  a  Bible  name. 
One  that  always  bides  the  same. 
Sacred,  sweet,  in  every  land 
All  men's  reverence  to  command  ; 
For  our  earthly  uses  given. 
And  yet  musical  in  heaven. 

One  I  know,  these  names  amid, — 
"  Beauty  "  is  its  meaning  hid  ; 
She  who  wore  it  made  it  good 
With  her  gracious  womanhood: 
Name  for  virtue,  love,  and  truth. 
Let  us  call  the  baby  liuth. 

K05SITER  w.  Raymond. 


NO  BABY  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

No  baby  in  the  house,  I  know, 

'T  is  far  too  nice  and  clean. 
No  toys,  by  careless  fingers  strewn. 

Upon  the  floors  are  seen. 
No  finger-marks  are  on  the  panes, 

No  scratches  on  the  chaii-s  ; 
No  wooden  men  set  up  in  rows. 

Or  marshaled  off  in  pairs  ; 
No  little  stockings  to  be  darned, 

.All  ragged  at  the  toes  ; 
No  pile  of  mending  to  be  done. 

Made  up  of  baby-clothes  ; 
No  little  troubles  to  be  soothed  ; 

No  little  hands  to  fold  ; 
No  grimy  fingers  to  be  washed  ; 

No  stories  to  be  told  ; 
No  tender  kisses  to  be  given  ; 

No  nicknames,  "Dove"  and  "Mi 
No  merry  frolics  after  tea,  — 

No  baby  in  the  lious 


.  G,  DOLLIVER 


BABY'S  SHOES. 

0,  THOSE  little,  those  little  blue  shoes  ! 

Those  shoes  that  no  little  feet  use  I 
0,  the  price  were  high 
That  those  shoes  would  buy, 

Tliose  little  blue  unused  shoes  : 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother's  eyes  meet. 

That,  by  God's  good-will, 

Yeare  since,  grew  still. 
And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  sweet. 

And  0,  since  that  baby  .slept. 

So  hushed,  how  the  mother  has  kept. 

With  a  tearful  pleasure. 

That  little  dear  treasure. 
And  over  them  thought  and  wept ! 

For  they  mind  her  forevermore 
Of  a  patter  along  the  floor  ; 

.\nd  blue  eyes  she  sees 

Look  up  from  her  knees 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 

As  they  lie  before  her  there, 
There  babbles  from  chair  to  chair 

A  little  sweet  face 

That 's  a  gleam  in  the  place. 
With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 


-^ 


e-^: 


POEMS  OF  INFANCY  AND   YOUTH. 


■a 


'riion  0,  wonder  luit  that  lii>i'  licart 
Frcun  nil  clso  wouUl  nitlu'r  part 

'riiiiii  lliiisi'  tiny  liliio  shoes 

TliMl  no  litdc  IVol  use, 
Anil  wlinso  sifjlit  niukos  siu'h  fond  tonrs  start  I 

WILLIAM  C.  IJIiNNIiTT. 


A  CUADI.K  SONG. 

Ill  Nil,  niy  lU'iir  !  Ho  still  niul  sliiiiibi'r  I 

Holy  iiiiKi'ls  KUiinl  tliy  Iwl  ; 
ll.';i\i'iily  lili'ssiii^s  witlioul  mimlior 

(J.nitly  riilliii^'oii  tliy  lii'iid. 

Slrrp,  n\y  Imlio  !  thy  I'oiid  iiiul  niunoiit, 
House  mill  honu',  thy  friends  (irovide; 

All  willunit  lliy  care  or  paynieiU, 
Ml  Ihy  wiiuts  .lie  \\A\  supiilied. 

llnw  iiiueh  hotter  thou'rt  attended 

I'liau  the  Son  of  God  eould  be, 
Wlioii  from  hoavon  ho  doseended. 

And  hooanioa  ehihl  like  thoo. 

Soil  and  easy  is  thy  eradle  : 

Coaiso  and  hard  thy  Savionv  ky  : 

Wluii  his  l.iilhi.laoo'wasa  stnhlo", 
And  his  sofl.st  hod  was  hay. 

Si'o  the  kindly  sho|iherds  round  him, 

'rollinij  wonders  from  the  sky  ! 
Where  they  soiij;lit  him,  there  they  fonnd  him, 

With  hii  ViiKin-Motherhy. 

Sie  the  lovely  haho  a-drossiiif;  ; 

Lovely  infant,  how  lie  smiled  ! 
When  ho  wept,  the  mother's  hlossing 

Soothed  and  luislied  the  lioly  eliihi. 

1.0,  he  sliimhei-s  in  his  maiijjer. 
Where  the  horm^d  oxen  fed  ; 
I'eaee,  my  darliuj;  '■  hero's  no  danger  I 
Here's  no  ox  aiiear  thy  hed  ! 

May'st  lliou  live  to  know  and  fear  him, 
'I'rnst  and  love  him  all  Ihy  days  : 
Tlu'ii  j:^i  dwell  foi-ever  near  him ; 
Si'e  his  faee,  aiivl  sing  his  praise. 


I  eonld  give  thee  thousand  kisses, 
1 1  oping  what  1  most  desii-e  : 

Not  a  mother's  fondest  wishes 
(an  to  givater  joys  aspir*. 


THK  MOTHER'S  STRATAGEM. 

AN  I.M'ANT   PLAYING  NliAR  A  PKGCIPICU. 

Wlili.Kon  the  elilVwith  calm  delight  she  kneels, 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  reeall, 

See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals  ! 
0,  fly  —  yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall.  — 

Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  hare, 

And  the  fond  boy  springs  bnek  to  nestle  there. 


WII.I.IF,  VVINKIE. 

AVl-.l',  Willie  M'iiikie  riiis  through  the  town, 
I'p  stairs  and  doon  stairs,  in  his  niehf-gown, 
'rirlin'  at  the  window,  eryin'  at  the  look, 
"Are  the  weans  in  their  bed  ? —  for  it 's  now  tvii 
o'clock." 

Tiey,  Willie  Winkio  !  are  ye  eomin'  ben  ? 

The  eat  'a  singin'  gay  thrums  to  the  slcepin'  hen, 

The  doug  's  spidcUn-ed  on  the  lloor,  and  disna  gie 

a  cheep  ; 
But  here 's  a  waukrife  hiddie,    that  wiiina   fa' 

asleep. 

Oiiy  thing  but  sleep,  ye  rogue  : —  glow'rin'  like 

the  moon, 
Ihittlin'  in  an  airn  jug  wi'  an  aim  spoon, 
Kumblin',  tumbliu'  roun'  about,  crawiii'  like  a 

cock, 
>^kirlin'  like  a  keuna-what  —  waukniu'  sleepin' 

folk  ! 

lli-y,  Willie  Wiukie  1  the  wean  's  in  a  ereei  ! 
Waumblin'  alf  a  bodie's  knee  like  a  vera  eel, 
Uuggin'  at  the   cat's   lug,  ajul  ravellin'   a'   her 

thrums  : 
Hey,  Willie  Wiukie  !  —  See,  there  he  eonn-s  I 

Wearie  is  the  mitlier  that  has  a  storie  wean, 
A  wee  stumpie  .stoussie,  that  eanna  riii  his  lane, 
That  lias  a  battle  aye  wi'  sleep,  hefon'  he  '11  close 

an  eo  ; 
But  a  kiss  frae  alf  his  rosy  lips  gies  strength  aiien 

to  nii>. 


LITTLE  PUSS. 

Si.KEK  coat,  eyes  of  fiif , 
Four  paws  that  never  tii'e, 
That 's  puss. 

Ways  pliiyful,  tail  on  high. 
Twisting  often  towanl  the  sky 
That 's  ]mss. 


--& 


f 


INFANCY. 


25 


-a 


In  the  larder,  stealing  meat, 
Patter,  patter,  little  feet, 
That 's  puss. 

After  ball,  reel,  or  string. 
Wild  as  any  living  thing, 
That 's  puss. 

Round  and  round,  after  tail. 
Fast  as  any  [lostal  mail, 
That 's  puss. 

Culled  up,  like  a  ball. 
On  the  door-mat  in  the  hall. 
That 's  puss. 

Purring  loud  on  missis'  lap, 
Having  toa.st,  then  a  nap, 
That 's  jjuss. 

Blai-k  as  night,  with  talons  long, 

Scratehing,  whieli  is  very  wrong, 

That 's  j)us3. 

From  a  saucer  lapping  milk. 
Soft,  as  soft  as  washing  silk, 
That 's  puss. 

KoUing  on  the  dewy  grass, 
Getting  wet,  all  in  a  mass. 
That 's  puss. 

('limbing  tree,  and  catching  bird. 

Little  twitter  iievennore  heard, 

Tliat  's  puss. 

Killing  Hy,  rat,  or  mouse, 
As  it  runs  about  the  house, 
That 's  puss. 

Pet  of  missis,  "  Itte  mite," 
Never  must  be  out  of  sight, 
That 's  puss. 


fr*- 


THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES. 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo  ! 
What  a  pretty  baby-show  ! 
See  the  Kitten  on  the  wall. 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall. 
Withered  leaves — one  —  two  —  and  three  - 
From  the  lofty  elder-tree  ! 
Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
<^tf  this  morning  hright  ami  fair. 


Eddying  round  and  round  they  sink 

Softly,  slowly  :  one  might  think, 

From  the  motions  that  are  made, 

Everj-  little  leaf  conveyed 

Sylph  or  faery  hither  tending,  — 

To  this  lower  world  descending. 

Each  invisible  and  mute. 

In  his  wavering  parachute. 

—  But  the  Kitten,  how  .she  starts. 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts  ! 

First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 

Just  as  light  and  jusl  as  yellow  ; 

There  are  many  now  — now  one  — 

Now  they  stop,  and  there  are  none  : 

What  intenseness  of  ilcsire 

In  her  upward  eye  of  fire  ! 

With  a  tiger-leap  half-way 

Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 

Has  it  in  her  power  again  : 

Now  she  work.s  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  conjurer  ; 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art. 

Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 

Were  her  antics  played  in  th'  eye 

Of  a  thousand  stamlers-by, 

flapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 

What  would  little  Tabby  care 

For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 

Over  happy  to  be  proud. 

Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 

Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure  ! 

"Tis  a  pretty  baby-treat ; 
Nor,  I  deem,  for  me  unmeet  ; 
Here,  for  neither  Babe  nor  me. 
Other  playmate  can  I  see. 
Of  the  countless  living  things. 
That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings 
(In  the  sun  or  under  .shade. 
Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade) 
Ami  with  busy  revelings, 
•  hirp  and  song,  and  niurmuiings. 
Made  this  orchard's  narrow  space 
And  this  vale  so  blithe  a  place,  — 
Multitudes  are  swept  away 
Nevermore  to  breathe  the  day : 
Some  are  sleeping  ;  some  in  hands 
Traveled  into  distant  lands  ; 
Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood. 
Far  from  human  neighborhood  ; 
And,  among  the  kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship. 
With  us  openly  abide. 
All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 

Where  is  he,  that  giddy  sprite. 
Blue-cap,  with  his  colors  bright. 
Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  Ije, 
Feeding  in  the  apple-tree  ; 


-S 


[& 


26 


I'UKMS   OF  INFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


-a 


Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  rout, 

Turning  blossoms  inside  out  ; 

Hung —  head  ]iointing  towards  the  ground - 

Fluttered,  perched,  into  a  round 

Bound  himself,  and  then  unliound  ; 

Lithest,  gaudiest  Harleipiin  ; 

Prettiest  Tumbler  ever  seen  ; 

Light  of  heart  and  light  of  limb  ; 

What  is  now  become  of  him  ? 

Lambs,  that  through  the  mountains  went 

Frisking,  bleating  merriment, 

When  the  year  was  in  its  prime. 

They  are  sobered  by  this  time. 

If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill. 

If  you  listen,  all  is  still. 

Save  a  little  neighboring  rill. 

That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 

Strikes  a  solitary  sound. 

Vainly  glitter  hill  and  plain. 

And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain  ; 

Vainly  Morning  spreads  the  lure 

Of  a  sky  serene  and  pure  ; 

Creature  none  can  she  decoy 

Into  open  sign  of  joy  : 

Is  it  that  they  have  a  fear 

Of  the  dreary  season  near  ? 

Or  that  other  pleasures  be 

Sweeter  e'en  than  gayety  ? 

Yet,  whate'er  enjoyments  dwell 
In  the  impenetrable  cell 
Of  the  silent  heart  which  Nature 
Furnishes  to  every  creature  ; 
Whatsoe'er  we  feel  and  know 
Too  sedate  for  outward  show,  — 
Such  a  light  of  gladness  breaks, 
Pretty  Kitten  !  from  thy  freaks,  — 
Spreads  with  such  a  living  grace 
O'er  my  little  Dora's  face  ; 
Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms. 
That  almost  I  could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine, 
That  I  do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  pair  ! 
And  I  will  have  my  careless  season. 
Spite  of  melancholy  reason  ; 
Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a  way 
That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 
Now  and  then  I  may  possess 
Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 
—  Pleased  by  any  random  toy  ; 
By  a  kitten's  busy  joy. 
Or  an  infant's  laughing  eye 
Sharing  in  the  ecstasy  ; 
I  would  fare  like  that  or  this. 
Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss  ; 
Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake  ; 
And  liavp  fnrulties  to  take. 


Even  from  things  by  sorrow  WTOUght, 
Matter  for  a  jocund  thought ; 
Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief. 
To  gambol  with  Life's  falling  Leaf. 


"COMPLIMENTS  OF  THE  SEASON." 

Little  Four  Years,  little  Two  Years, 

Merry  Christmas  !  Happy  New- Year's  ! 

That  is  what  I  wish  for  you  ; 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  to  do 

That  will  make  my  wish  come  true  ? 

Cheerful  looks  and  words  are  very 
Sure  to  make  the  Christmas  merry  : 
Tongues  that  speak  the  truth  sincere, 
Hearts  that  hold  each  other  dear. 
These  will  make  a  liappy  year. 

Four  Years  is  of  Two  the  doulile,  — 
Should  be  twice  as  brave  iu  trouble, 
Twice  as  gentle,  twice  as  kind, 
Always  twice  as  much  inclined 
Mother's  words  to  keep  in  mind  ; 

So  that  Two  Years,  when  she  's  older. 
May  remember  what  is  told  her, 
Jnst  as  Four  Years  did  before,  — 
Only  think  !  in  two  years  more 
Little  Two  Years  will  be  Four  ! 

ROSSITER  W.    RAVMON 


y— 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO   SLEEP. 

Golden  head  so  lowly  bending. 

Little  feet  so  white  and  bare. 
Dewy  eyes,  half  shut,  half  opened. 

Lisping  out  her  evening  praj'er. 

"Now  I  lay,"  —  repeat  it,  darling  — 

"  \my  me,"  lisped  the  tiny  lips 
Of  my  daughter,  kneeling,  bending 

O'er  the  folded  finger-tips. 

"Down  to  sleep,"—  "  To  sleep."  she  murmured, 

And  the  curly  head  bent  low  ; 
"  1  pray  the  Lord,"  I  gently  added, 

"  You  can  say  it  all,  I  know." 

"  Pray  the  Lord," —  the  sound  came  faintly, 
Fainter  still,  —  "my  soul  to  keep"  ; 

Then  the  tired  head  fairly  nodded. 
And  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 

But  the  dewy  eyes  half  opened 
When  1  clasped  her  to  my  breast. 


-^ 


a- 


INFANCY. 


^ 


And  tlie  dear  voice  softly  whispered, 
"Mamma,  God  knows  all  the  rest." 

0,  the  trusting,  sweet  confiding 
Of  the  child-heart  !     Would  that  I 

Thus  might  trust  my  Heavenly  Father, 
He  who  hears  my  feeblest  cry. 

0,  the  rapture,  sweet,  unbroken. 
Of  the  soul  who  WTote  that  prayer  ! 

Children's  mjTiaJ  voices,  floating 
Up  to  Heaven,  record  it  there. 

If,  of  all  that  has  been  written, 

I  could  choose  what  might  be  mine, 

It  should  be  that  child's  petition, 
Kising  to  the  throne  di\'ine. 

MRS.  R.  S.  HO\\1.AND. 


ty- 


LITTLE  PUSS. 

A  LITTLE  golden  head  close  to  my  knee, 
Sweet  eyes  of  tender,  gentianella  blue 
Fixed  upon  mine,  a  little  coa.xing  voice,  — 
Only  we  two. 

"Tell  it  .igain  !"    Insatiate  demand  ! 
And  like  a  toiling  spider  where  I  sat, 
I  wove  and  spun  the  many-colored  webs 
Of  this  and  that. 

Of  Dotty  Pringle  sweeping  out  her  haU  ; 
Of  Greedy  Bear  ;  of  Santa  Claus  the  good  ; 
And  how  the  little  children  met  the  Months 
Within  the  wood. 

"  Tell  it  again  !  "  and  though  the  sand-man  came. 
Dropping  his  drowsy  grains  in  each  blue  eye, 
"Tell  it  again  !  0,  just  once  more  !  "  was  still 
The  sleepy  cry. 

My  spring-time  violet !  early  snatched  away 
To  fairer  gardens  all  unknown  to  me,  — 
Gardens  of  whose  invisible,  guarded  gates 
I  have  no  key,  — • 

I  weave  my  fancies  now  for  other  ears,  — 
Thy  sister-blossom's,  who  beside  me  sits, 
Rosy,  imperative,  and  quick  to  mark 
My  lagging  wits. 

But  still  the  stories  bear  thy  name,  are  thine. 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  thy  brief,  sweet  day. 
Though  in  her  little  warm  and  living  hands 
This  book  I  lay. 

SUSAN  COOLrDGE. 


LITTLE    GOLDENHAIR. 

GoLDENHAlK  climbed  up  on  grandpapa's  knee  ; 
Dear  little  Goldenhair,  tii'ed  Wiis  she. 
All  the  day  busy  as  busy  could  be. 

Up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  't  was  light, 
Out  with  the  birds  and  butterflies  bright, 
Skipping  about  till  the  coming  of  night. 

Grandpapa  toyed  with  the  curls  on  her  head. 
"  What  has  my  darling  been  doing,"  he  .said, 
"Since  she  rose  with  the  sun  from  her  bed  ;" 

"  Pitty  much,"  answered  the  sweet  little  one. 
"  1  cannot  tell  so  much  things  1  have  done, 
Played  with  my  dolly  and  feeded  my  bun. 

"  .\nd  then  1  jumped  witli  my  little  junip-roi)e. 
And  1  made  out  of  some  water  and  sou)) 
Biiotiful  worlds,  mamma's  castles  of  hope. 

"Tluin  I  have  readed  in  my  picture-book. 
And  BeUa  and  I,  we  went  to  look 
For  the  smooth  little  stones  by  the  side  of  the 
brook. 

"  And  then  I  comed  home  and  eated  my  tea. 
And  I  climbed  up  on  grandpapa's  knee. 
And  I  jes  as  tired  as  tired  can  be." 

Lower  and  lower  the  little  head  pressed, 
Until  it  had  dropped  upon  grandpajia's  breast  ; 
Dear  little  Goldenhair,  sweet  be  thy  rest  I 

We  are  but  children  ;  things  that  we  do 
Are  as  sports  of  a  babe  to  the  Infinite  view 
That  marks  all  our  weakness,  and  pities  it  too. 

God  grant  that  when  night  ovei-shadows  our  way, 
And  we  shall  be  called  to  account  for  our  day, 
He  shall  find  us  as  guileless  as  Goldenhair's  lay ! 

And  0,  when  aweary,  may  we  be  so  blest. 
And  sink  like  the  innocent  child  to  our  rest. 
And  feel  oui'selves  clasped  to  the  Infinite  bre<a3t ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


BENNY. 

I  HAD  told  him,  Christmas  morning, 

As  he  sat  upon  my  knee, 
Holding  fast  his  little  stockings. 

Stuffed  as  full  as  full  could  he. 
And  attentive,  listening  to  me. 

With  a  face  dennire  and  mild. 
That  old  Santa  Claus,  who  filled  them, 

Did  not  love  a  naughty  child. 


-^ 


e-. 


28 


POEMS  OF  INFANCY  AND    YUUTH. 


■a 


k^- 


"  But  we  '11  be  good,  won't  we,  moder  ?" 

And  from  oft'  my  lap  lie  slid, 
Digging  deep  among  the  goodies 

In  his  crimson  stockings  hid, 
While  I  turned  me  to  my  table, 

Where  a  tempting  goblet  stood, 
With  a  dainty  drink  biimmed  over. 

Sent  me  by  a  neighbor  good. 

But  the  kitten,  there  before  me, 

With  his  white  paw,  nothing  loth. 
Sat,  by  way  of  entertainment, 

Slapping  oft'  the  shining  froth  ; 
And  in  not  the  gentlest  humor 

At  the  loss  of  such  a  treat, 
I  confess,  I  rather  rudely. 

Thrust  him  out  into  the  street. 

Then  how  Benny's  blue  eyes  kindled  ! 

Gathering  up  the  precious  store 
He  had  busily  been  pouring 

In  his  tiny  pinafore, 
W^ith  a  generous  look  that  shamed  me, 

Sprang  he  from  the  carpet  liright. 
Showing,  by  his  mien  indignant. 

All  a  baby's  sense  of  right. 

"Come  back,  Haniey,"  called  he  loudly. 

As  he  held  his  apron  white, 
"You  shall  hare  my  candy  wabbit  "  ; 

But  the  door  was  fastened  tight. 
So  he  stood,  abashed  and  silent. 

In  the  center  of  the  floor. 
With  defeated  look  alternate 

Bent  on  me  and  on  the  door. 

Then,  as  by  some  sudden  impulse. 

Quickly  ran  he  to  the  fire, 
Anil  while  eagerly  his  bright  eyes 

AVatched  the  flames  go  high  and  higher. 
In  a  brave,  clear  key,  h.e  shouted, 

Like  some  lordly  little  elf, 
' '  Santa  Cans,  come  doWTi  de  ehiimey, 

Make  my  moder  'have  herself." 

"  I  will  be  a  good  girl,  Benny," 

Said  I,  feeling  the  reproof  ; 
And  straightway  recalled  poor  Harney, 

Mewing  on  the  gaUeiy  roof. 
Soon  the  anger  was  forgotten, 

Laughter  chased  away  the  frown. 
And  they  gamboled  'neath  the  live-oaks 

Till  the  dusky  night  came  down. 

In  my  dim,  fire-lighted  chamber 
Harney  purred  beneath  my  chair. 

And  my  play-worn  boy  beside  me 
Knelt  to  say  his  evening  prayer  : 


' '  God  bess  fader,  God  bess  moder, 
God  bess  sister,"  —  then  a  pause, 

And  the  sweet  young  lips  devoutly 
Murmured,  "  God  bess  Santa  Kaus.' 

He  is  sleeping  ;  brown  and  silken 

Lie  the  lashes,  long  and  meek. 
Like  caressing,  clinging  shadows 

On  his  plump  and  peachy  cheek  ; 
And  I  bend  above  him,  weeping 

Thankful  tears,  0  Undefiled  ! 
For  a  woman's  crown  of  gloiy, 

For  the  blessing  of  a  child. 

ANNIE    C.   KETCf 


TO  MY  rNTANT  SON. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf  ! 
(But  stop,  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear,) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 
(My  love,  he  's  poking  peas  into  his  ear !) 
Thou  meriy,  laughing  sprite, 
AVith  spirits   feather  light. 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin  ; 
(My  dear,  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin  ! ) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, — 

(The  door  !   the  door  !    he  '11  tumble  down   the 

stair ! ) 
Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he  '11  set  his  pinafore  afire  ! ) 

Thou  imi>  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  blight  a  link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents ;  —  (Drat  the  boy  ! 
There  goes  my  ink. ) 

Thou  cherub,  but  of  earth  ; 
Fit  playl'ellow  for  fays,  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  hai-mless  sport  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him,  if  he  pulls  his  tail ! ) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows. 

Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny,  — 
(Another  tumble  !    That 's  his  precious  nose  !) 
Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He  '11    break  the   mirror  with  that  skipping- 
rope  !) 
With  pure  lieart  newly  st.imped  from  nature's 

mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 

(He  '11  have  that  ring  oS'  with  another  shove,) 

Dear  nureling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  these  torn  clothes  his  liest  ?) 


^ 


ttr 


INFANCY. 


Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He  '11  climb  upon  the  table,  that 's  his  plan !) 

Touched  vdih  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning 

life, 
(He  's  got  a  knife  !) 
Thou  enviable  being  ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing. 

Play  on,  play  on. 

My  elfin  John  ! 
Toss  the  light  ball,  bestride  the  stick,  — 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 

With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 
With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk  ! 

(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown  ! ) 
Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 
(Go   to    your    mother,    child,    and    wipe    your 

nose ! ) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove  ; 
(I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unk-ss  he  's  sent  aliove.  ■! 

Thomas  Hood. 


h 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 


One  day,  as  I  wa.s  going  by 

That  part  of  Holl>orn  christened  High, 

I  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  cry 

That  chilled  my  very  blood  ; 
And  lo  !  fiom  out  a  dirty  alley, 
Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally, 
I  saw  a  crazy  woman  sally, 

Bedaubed  with  gi-ease  and  muil. 
She  turned  her  East,  she  turned  her  West, 
Staring  like  Pythoness  possest. 
With  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast. 

As  one  stark  mad  with  grief. 

"0  Lord  !  Odear,  my  heart  will  break,  I  shall 

go  stick  stark  staring  wild  ! 
Has  ever  a  one  seen  anything  about  the  streets 

like  a  crying  lost-looking  child  ? 
Lawk  help  me,  I  don't  know  where  to  look,  or  to 

run,  if  I  only  knew  which  way  — 
A  Child  as  is  lost  about  London  streets,  and  es- 
pecially Seven  Dials,  is  a  needle  in  a  bottle 

of  hay. 
1  am  all  in  a  quiver  —  get  out  of  my  sight,  do, 

you  WTetch,  you  little  Kitty  M'Nab  ! 
You  promised  to  have  lialf  an  eye  to  him,  you 

know   vou  did,   vou  dirtv  deceitful   youn" 

drab ! 
The  last  time  as  ever  I  see  him,  poor  thing,  was 

with  my  own  blessed  Motherly  eyes, 


Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a  playing 

at  making  little  dirt-pies. 
I  wonder  he  left  the  court,  where  he  was  better 

off  than  all  the  other  young  boys. 
With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster-shells, 

and  a  dead  kitten,  by  way  of  toys. 
When  his  Father  comes  home,  and  he  always 

comes  home  as  sure  as  ever  the  clock  strikes 

one, 
He'll  be  rampant,  he  will,  at  his  child  being 

lost  ;  and  tlie  beef  and  the  inguns  not  done  ! 
La  bless  you,  good  folks,  mind  your  own  con- 

sarns,  and  don't  be  making  a  mob  in  the 

street ; 
0  Sergeant  M'Farlane !  you  have  not  come  acro.ss 

my  poor  little  boy,  have  you,  in  your  beat  ? 
Do,  good  people,  move  on  !  don't  stand  st<aring 

at  me  like  a  parcel  of  stupid  stuck  pigs  ; 
Saints  forbid  !  but  he  's  Jj'r'aps  been  inviggled 

away  up  a  court  for  the  sake  of  his  clothes 

by  the  prigs  ; 
He  'd  a  very  good  jacket,  for  certain,  for  I  bought 

it  myself  for  a  shilling  one  day  in  Rag  Fair  ; 
And  his  trousers   considering  not  very  much 

patched,  and  red  plush,  they  was  once  his 

Father's  best  pair. 
His  shirt,  it 's  very  lucky  I  'd  got  washing  in  the 

tub,  or  that  might  have  gone  \rith  the  rest  ; 
But  he  'd  got  on  a  very  good  pinafore  with  only 

two  slits  and  a  burn  on  the  breast. 
He  'd  a  goodish  sort  of  hat,  if  the  crown  was 

sewed  in,  and  not  quite  so  much  jagged  at 

the  brim  ; 
With  one  shoe  on,  and  the  other  shoe  is  a  boot, 

and  not  a  fit,  and  you  '11  know  by  that  if 

it 's  him. 
And  then  he  has  got  such  dear  winning  ways  — 

but  0,  I  never,  never  shall  see  him  no  more  I 

0  dear  !  to  think  of  losing  him  just  after  nussing 

him  back  from  death's  door  ! 
Only  the  very  last  month  when  the  windfalls, 

hang  'em,  was  at  twenty  a  penny  : 
And  the  threepence  he  'd  got  by  grottoing  wms 

.spent   in    plums,  and   sixty  for  a  chihl   is 

too  many. 
And  the  Cholera  man  came  and  whitewashed  us 

all,  and,  drat  him  !  made  a  seize  of  our  hog.  — 
It 's  no  use  to  send  the  Crier  to  cry  him  about, 

he 's  such  a  blunderin'  drunken  old  dog  ; 
The  last  time  he  was  fetched  to  find  a  lost  child 

he  was  guzzling  with  his  bell  at  the  Crown, 
And  went  and  cried  a  boy  instead  of  a  girl,  for  a 

distracted  Mother  and  Father  about  Town. 
Billy  —  where  are  you,  Billy,  I  say?  come,  Billy, 

come  home,  to  your  best  of  Mothers  ! 

1  'm  scared  when  I  think  of  them  Cabroleys,  they 

drive  so,  they  'd  run  over  tlieir  own  Sister.; 
and  Brothers. 


--ff 


e- 


30 


ruEMii   UF  LXFAM-y  ASV    YUUTH. 


fi 


Or  maylio  \w  's  stole  hy  some  chiinbly-sweeiiiiig 

wretcli,   to  stick  fast   iu  naii'ow  Hues   and 

what  not, 
Anil  be  pokeil  \\\i  behind  with  a  picked  pointed 

jiolc,  when  the  soot  has  ketched,  and  the 

chinibly  's  red-hot. 
(1,  1  M  give  the  wliolo  wide  world,  if  the  world 

was  mine,  to  clap  my  two  longin'  eyes  on 

his  I'aeo  ; 
For  he  's  my  darlin'  of  darlin's,  and  if  ho  don't 

soon  conio  back,  you  'U  see  me  drop  stone 

dead  on  the  place. 
1  only  wish  I  'd  got  him  safe  in  these  two  Moth- 
erly arms,   and  would  n't   I   hug   him   and 

kiss  him  ! 
Law  k  !   I  never  knew  what  a  precious  he  w'as  — 

liut  a  child  don't  not  feel  like  a  child  till 

you  miss  him. 
Why,  there  ho  is  !  Punch  and  Judy  hunting,  the 

young  wretch,  it 's  that   Billy  as  sartin  as 

sin  ! 
But  lei  nu-  get  him  home,  with  a  good  grip  of  his 

hair,  and  I  'm  blest  if  he  shall  have  a  whole 

bone  in  his  skin  ! 

THOMAS  Hood. 


THE  THREE  SONS. 

I  iiAvr.  a  son,  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five  yeai-s 

old. 
With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness,  and  mind  of 

giMitlc  mould. 
They  tell  ine  that  unusual  grace  in  all  his  ways 

appears. 
That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart  beyond 

his  childish  years. 
1  cannot  say  how  this  may  be  ;  I  know  his  face 

is  fair,'— 
And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweot  and 

serious  air  ; 
1  know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond  ;  I  know  he 

loveth  nu^  ; 
Hut  lovrlli   yet  his  mother  more  with  grateful 

l'cr\eucy. 
r.nl  that  w-hieh  others  most  admire,  is  the  thought 

which  tills  his  mind. 
The  food  for  grave  inquiring  speech  he  every- 

wlieiv  doth  find. 
Strange  (lue.stions  doth  he  ask  of  me,  when  we 


His  little  heart  is  busy  still,  and  oftentimes  per- 

plext 
With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and 

thoughts  about  the  next. 
He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother's  knee  ;  she  teachctli 

him  to  pray  ; 
M\A  strange,  and  sweet,  and  solemn  then  are  t  he 

words  which  he  will  sny. 
0,  should  my  gentle  child   be  spared  to  man- 
hood's years  like  me, 
A  holier  and  a  wiser  man  I  trust  that  he  w  ill 

be; 
And  when  I  look  into  his  eyes,  and  stroke  his 

thoughtful  brow, 
I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  feel,  were  1  to 

lose  him   now. 

1  have  a  son,  a  second  son,  a  .sinijile  child  of 

three ; 
I  '11  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little 

features  be, 
How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he 

prattles  on  my  knee  ; 
I   do  not   think  his  light-blue  eye   is,  like  his 

brother's,  keen. 
Nor  his  brow  so  full  of  chililish  thought  as  his 

hath  ever  been  ; 
But  his  little  heart 's  a  fountain  pure  of  kiiul  and 

tender  feeling  ; 
And    his   every  look 's   a  gleam   of  light,  rich 

depths  of  love  revealing. 
When  he  walks  with  me,  the  country  folk,  who 

pass  us  in  the  street. 
Will  shout  for  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  he  looks 

so  mild  and  sweet. 
A  playfellow  is  he  to  all  ;  and  yet,  with  cheerful 

tone. 
Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to 

sport  alone. 
His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden 

home  and  hearth. 
To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  sweeten  all 

our  mirth. 
Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant  his 

heart  may  prove 
As  sweet  a  home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now  for 

earthly  love  ; 
And  if,  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our  aching 

eyes  must  dim, 
God  comfort  ns  for  all  the  love  which  we  shall 

lose  in  him. 


together  walk  ; 
Ho  scarcelv  thinks  as  children  think,  or  talks  as    I  have  a  son,  a  third  sweet  son  ;  his  age  I  cannot 


children  talk. 
Nor  cares  he  much  for  childish  sixirts,  dotes  not 

on  bat  or  ball. 
But  looks  on   manhood's  ways  and  works,  and 

aptlv  mimics  all. 

tQ-^ — ^ 


tell. 
For  they  reckon  not  by  years  and  months  where 

he  has  gone  to  ilwell. 
To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infiiit 

smiles  were  given  ; 


-^ 


fh- 


INFANCY. 


-^ 


And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  earth,  and  went  to 

live  in  heaven. 
I  i:annot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks  he 

weareth  now, 
Xor  guess  how  briglit  a  glory  crowns  his  shining 

seraph  brow. 
'Die  thoughts  that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the  bliss 

whir;h  he  doth  fc^el. 
Are  imrnljered  with  the  secret  tilings  which  God 

wil!  not  reveal. 
Ijiit  I  know  (for  (jod  hath  told  me  this)  that  he 

is  now  at  rest. 
Where  other  blessed  infants  be,  on  their  Saviour's 

loving  breast. 
I  know  Ills  sjiiiit  feels  no  more  tliis  weary  load 

ol'  flesh. 
But  his  sleep  is  blessed  with  endless  dreams  of 

joy  forever  fresh. 
I  know  the  angels  fold  him  close  Ix'neath  their 

glittering  wings. 
And  soothe  him  with  a  .song   that  breathes  of 

Heaven's  divinest  things. 
I  know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe  (his  mother 

dear  and  I) 
Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 

from  every  eye. 
Whate'er  befalls  his  brethren  twain,  his  bliss  can 

never  cease  ; 
Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his  is 

certain  peace. 
It  may  be  that  the  tempter's  wiles  their  souls 

from  bliss  may  sever  ; 
But,  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must  be 

ours  forever. 
When  we  thiiiK  of  what  our  darling  is,  and  what 

we  still  must  be,  — 
Wlien  we  muse  on  that  world's  perfect  bliss,  and 

tliis  world's  miseiy,  — 
When  we   groan  beneath  this  loail  of  sin,  and 

feel  this  grief  and  pain,  — 
Oh  !  we  'd  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than  have 

liini  lierc  again. 

John  Moultrie. 


'-ti^- 


GOOD  NIGHT  AND  GOOD  MORNING. 

A  KAiu  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree 
Sewing  as  long  as  her  eyes  could  see  ; 
'Hien  smoothed  her  work  and  folded  it  right, 
iViid  said,  "  Dear  work,  good  night,  good  night  ! 

Such  a  number  of  rooks  came  over  her  head. 
Crying  "  Caw,  caw  !  "  on  their  way  to  bed. 
She  said,  as  she  watched  their  curious  flight, 
'  Little  black  things,  good  night,  good  night ! 


The  horses  neighed,  and  the  oxen  lowed, 

The  sheep's   "Bleat!   bleat!"   came  over  the 

road  ; 
All  seeming  to  say,  with  a  quiet  delight, 
"Good  little  girl,  good  night,  good  night  !  " 

She  did  not  say  to  the  sun,  "Good  night !" 
Though  she  saw  him  there  like  a  ball  of  light ; 
For  she  knew  he  had  God's  time  to  keep 
All  over  the  world  and  never  could  sleep. 

The  tall  pink  foxglove  bowed  his  head  ; 
The  violets  eoiirt,esied,  and  went  to  bed  ; 
And  good  little  Lucy  tied  up  her  hair. 
And  said,  on  her  knees,  her  favorite  prayer. 

And,  while  on  her  pillow  she  softly  lay. 

She  knew  nothing  more  till  agjiin  it  wa.s  day  ; 

And  all  things  said  to  the  Ijcautiful  sun, 

"  Good   morning,  good   morning  I  our  work  is 

begun."  KlLMAItlJ    MOXCKTON    MlLNIS 


THE  GAMBOL.S  OF  CHILDREN. 

Down  the  dimpled  greensward  dancing 
Bursts  a  flaxen-headed  be\'y,  — 

Bud-lipt  lx)ys  and  girls  atlvancing, 
Love's  iiTcgular  little  levy. 

Rows  of  liquid  eyes  in  laughter, 

How  they  glimmer,  how  tliey  quiver  ! 

Sparkling  one  another  after. 
Like  bright  ripples  on  a  river. 

Tipsy  band  of  rubious  faces, 

Fluslied  with  .Joy's  ethereal  .spirit, 

Make  your  mocks  and  sly  grimaces 
At  J.K)ve's  .self,  and  dn  not  fear  it. 

f'.EORGP.  DARLEV. 


UNDER  MY  WINDOW. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

All  in  the  Midsummer  weather. 
Three  little  girls  witli  fluttering  curls 

Flit  to  and  fro  together  :  — 
There  's  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen. 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 

And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window. 

Leaning  stealthily  over, 
Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  1  hear, 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 
Ah  !  sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses  ; 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and  posies, 

As  meiTy  as  bees  in  clover. 


-^-0 


e-*- 


POEMS    OF  INFANCY  AND   YoUTH. 


•*i3^ 


Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
In  the  blue  midsummer  weather. 

Stealing  slow,  on  a  huslied  tiptoe, 
I  eateh  tbeni  all  together  :  — 

liell  with  her  bonnet  of  siitin  slieen, 

And  Maud  witli  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kale:  with  tlie  searlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window. 
And  off  through  the  orehard  closes  ; 

■Whiic  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts, 
They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies  ; 

Hut  ilear  little  Kate  takes  naught  amiss. 

And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving  kiss. 
And  1  give  her  all  my  roses. 


THE  MOTHER'S   HEART. 

■\\'ilEN'  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  .shy,  ami  fond, 
Jly  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest  treasure. 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure ; 

Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 

So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 

Kaithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years, 
And  natural  piety  that  leaned  to  heaven  ; 

Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  teal's, 
Yet  patient  to  rebuke  when  justly  given  ; 

(Ibedient,  easy  to  be  reconciled. 

And  meekly  cheerful  ;  such  wert  thou,  my  child  ! 

Not  willing  to  be  left  —  still  by  my  side. 

Haunting  mv  walks,  while  summer-day  was 
dying  ;  ■ 
Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn,  but  jileased  to  glide 
Throuijh    the   dark    room   where  I  was  sadly 
lying  ; 
Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek, 
Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  fevered  cheek. 

0  boy  !  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth's  fragile  idols  ;  like  a  tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness,  prone  to  fade. 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder-shower  ; 

Still,  round  the  loved,  thv  heart  found  force  to 
hind. 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind  ! 

Then  THOU,  my  nuTry  love,  — bold  in  thy  glee, 
Uiuler  the  bough,  or  hy  the  firelight  dancing. 

With  tliy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free,  — 
nidst  come,  as  restless  as  a  bird's  wing  glan- 
cing. 

Full  of  a  wild  and  iiTppressible  mirth, 

Like  a  voung  sunbeam  to  the  gladdened  earth  ! 


Thine  was  the  shout,  the  song,  the  liurst  of  joy, 
Which    sweet   from   childhood's   rosy   lip  re- 
soundeth  ; 
Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy. 
And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief  re- 
boundeth  ; 
And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 
L\irked  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye. 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless. 
The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  warm- 
ing ; 
The  coaxing  smile,  the  freiiuent  soft  caress. 
The  earnest,  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarm- 
ing ! 
Again  my  heart  a  new  aftection  found. 
But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had  reached  its 
bound. 

At  length   thou  earnest, — thou,   the  last  and 
iea.st. 
Nicknamed  "the  Emperor"  by  thy  laughing 
brothers. 
Because  a  haughty  spirit  swelled  thy  breast. 
And   thou   didst  seek   to  rule  and  sway  the 
others. 
Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 

And  O,  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou  ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming ! 
Fair  shoulders,  curling  lips,  and  dauntless  brow. 

Fit  for  the  world's  strife,  not  for  poet's  dream- 
ing ; 
.\nd  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 
.Vnd  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

IHtt'erent  from  both  !  yet  each  succeeding  claim 
1,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing. 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same  ; 
Nor  injured  either  by  this  love's  comparing. 

Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call,  — 

But  in  the  mother's  heart  found  room  for  all  ! 
Caroline  E.  Norton. 


THE   MOTHER'S   HOPE 

Is  there,  when  the  winds  are  singing 
In  the  happy  summer  time,  — 

When  the  raptured  air  is  ringing 

With  Earth's  music  heavenward  springing. 
Forest  chirp,  and  village  chime,  — 

Is  there,  of  the  sounds  that  tloat 

Sighingly,  a  single  note 

Half  so  sweet,  and  clear,  and  wild. 

As  the  laughter  of  a  child  '. 


^ 


r 


INFANCY. 


33^ 


Listen  !  and  be  now  deligliteil : 

Morn  hath  touched  her  golden  strings  ; 

Earth  and  Sky  their  vows  liave  plighted  ; 

Life  and  Light  are  reunited 
Amid  countless  carolings  ; 

Yet,  delicious  as  they  are. 

There  's  a  sound  that 's  sweeter  far,  — 

One  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice 

Jlore  than  all,  —  the  human  voice  ! 

Organ  finer,  deeper,  clearer, 

Though  it  be  a  stranger's  tone,  — 

Than  the  winds  or  waters  dearer, 

More  enchanting  to  the  hearer, 
For  it  answereth  to  his  own. 

But,  of  all  its  witching  words. 

All  its  m}Tiad  magic  chords. 

Those  are  sweetest,  hubhling  wild 

Through  the  laughter  of  a  child. 

Harmonies  from  time-touched  towers, 

Haunted  strains  from  rivulets. 
Hum  of  bees  among  the  flowers. 
Rustling  leaves,  and  silver  showers,  — 

These,  ere  long,  the  ear  forgets  ; 
But  in  mine  there  is  a  sound 
Ringing  on  the  whole  year  round,  — 
Heart-deep  laughter  that  I  heard 
Ere  my  child  could  speak  a  word. 

Ah  !  't  was  heard  by  ear  far  purer, 

Fondlier  formed  to  catch  the  strain,  — 

Ear  of  one  whose  love  is  surer,  — 

Hei's,  the  mother,  the  endurer 
Of  the  deepest  share  of  pain  ; 

Hers  the  deepest  bliss  to  treasure 

Memories  of  that  cry  of  pleasure ; 

Hers  to  hoard,  a  lifetime  after. 

Echoes  of  that  infant  laughter. 

'T  is  a  mother's  large  affection 
Hears  with  a  mysterious  sense,  — 

Breathings  that  evade  detection. 

Whisper  faint,  and  fine  inflection. 
Thrill  in  her  with  power  intense. 

Childliood's  honeyed  words  untaught 

Hiveth  she  in  loving  thought. 

Tones  that  never  thence  depart  ; 

For  she  listens  —  with  her  heart. 

LAMAN  blanchar 


t 


SEVEN  TIMES  ONE. 

There  's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover. 

There  's  no  rain  left  in  heaven. 
I  've  said  my  "seven  times "  over  and  over,  — 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 


I  am  old,  —  so  old  I  can  write  a  letter  ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done. 
The  lambs  play  always,  —  they  know  no  better  ; 

They  are  oidy  one  times  one. 

0  Moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low. 
You  were  bright — ah,  bright  —  but  your  light 
is  failing  ; 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  Moon  !  have  you  done  something  wrong  in 
lieaven. 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope,  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  bo  forgiven. 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

0  velvet  Bee  !  you  're  a  dusty  fellow,  — 
You  've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold. 

0  brave  marsh  Mary-buds,  rich  and  yellow, 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold  ! 

0  Columbine  !  open  your  folded  wra|)]ier. 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell  ! 

0  Cuckoopint !  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 

That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell  ! 

And  show  me  your  nest,  with  the  young  ones  in 
it  — 
I  will  not  steal  them  away  : 

1  am  old  !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet  ! 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

Jean  ingelow. 


SEVEN  TIMES  FOTTR. 

Heirh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups. 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  t;ill  ! 
A\nien   the   wind   wakes  how  they  rock  in  tlu> 
grasses. 
And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender  and 
small  ! 
Here  's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here  's  mother's  own 
lasses. 
Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups  ! 

Jlother  shall  thread  them  a  dai.sy  chain  : 
Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge-sparrow. 
That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved  them 
full  fain  ; 
Suig,  "Heart,  thou  art  wide  though  the  house 
be  but  narrow,"  — 
Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 


-^ 


a-, 


34 


POEMS   OF  INFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


n 


t 


Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and  they 
bow  ; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  oeean  waters, 

And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her  prow. 
0  bonny  brown  sons,  and  0  sweet  little  daugh- 
ters. 
Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now  ! 

Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall  — 
A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and  leisure. 
And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow  and 
thrall  ! 
Send  down  on  their  pleas-ure  smiles  passing  its 
measure, 
God  that  is  over  us  all  ! 

Jean  ingelow. 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

A  .SIMPLE  child. 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
AMiat  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl  : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodlaml  air. 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair  ;  — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ?  " 
"  How  many  ?     Seven  in  all,"  she  said. 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

•'  And  where  are  they  ?    I  pray  you  tell.' 
She  answered,  ' '  Seven  are  we  ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea  ; 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie. 

My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell. 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !     I  pray  you  tell. 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 


Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

' '  You  run  about,  my  little  maid  ; 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid. 

Then  )'e  are  only  five." 

"Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen. " 

The  little  maid  replied  : 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door. 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit  ; 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  gi'ound  I  sit, 

And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

AVhen  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer. 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  Sister  Jane  ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid  ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  w^as  white  with  snow 

And  I  could  run  and  slide. 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 

"If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ? " 
Quick  w-as  the  little  maid's  reply ; 

"  0  Master  !  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !  "  — 
'T  was  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  wiU, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  !  " 


TO  A  CHILD,   DimiNG  SICKNESS. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  thee 

Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy. 


f 


IXFAXCY. 


TTn 


I  sit  me  down,  and  think 
Of  all  thy  winning  ways  ; 
Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink,   ' 
That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekness  ; 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aiil  ; 
Thy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness, 
Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 

The  little  trembling  hand 
That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears,  — 
These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 
Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I  've  had,  severe  ones, 

I  will  not  think  of  now  ; 
And  calmly,  midst  my  dear  ones, 
Have  wasted  with  dry  brow ; 
But  when  thy  fingers  press 
And  pat  my  stooping  head, 
I  cannot  bear  the  gentleness,  — 
The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah,  first-born  of  thy  mother. 

When  life  and  hope  were  new  ; 
Kind  plajTnate  of  thy  brother, 
Thy  sister,  father  too  ; 

My  light,  where'er  I  go  ; 
My  bird,  when  prison-bound  ; 
My  hand-in-hand  companion  —  No, 
My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say,  "He  has  departed  "  — 

"  His  voice " — "  his  face " —  "is  gone 
To  feel  impatient-hearted. 
Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on,  — 

Ah,  I  could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  woe. 
Unless  1  felt  this  sleep  insure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he 's  fi.xed,  and  sleeping  ! 

This  silence  too  the  while,  — 
Its  very  hush  and  creeping 
Seem  whispering  us  a  smile  ; 
Something  divine  and  dim 
Seems  going  by  one's  ear. 
Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim, 

AVho  say,  "  We  've  finished  here." 


THE  PET  NAME. 
Which  from  fkeir  hps  Reemed  a  c 


S  Dramatic  Scftii 


^- 


I  H.iVE  a  name,  a  little  name, 

Uncadenced  for  the  ear, 
Unhonored  by  ancestral  claim, 
Unsanctified  by  prayer  and  psalm 
The  solemn  font  anear. 


It  never  did,  to  pages  wove 

For  gay  romance,  belong. 
It  never  dedicate  did  move 
As  "  Sacharissa, "  unto  love,  — 

"Orinda,"  unto  song. 

Though  I  write  books,  it  will  be  read 

Upon  the  leaves  of  none. 
And  afterward,  when  I  am  dead. 
Will  ne'er  be  gi'aved  for  sight  or  tread, 

Across  my  funeral-stone. 

This  name,  whoever  chance  to  call. 

Perhaps  your  smile  may  win. 
Nay,  do  not  smile  !  mine  eyelids  fall 
Over  mine  eyes,  and  feel  withal 
The  sudden  tears  within. 

Is  there  a  leaf  that  gi'eenly  gi'ows 

Where  summer  meadows  bloom. 
But  gathereth  the  winter  snows, 
And  changeth  to  the  hue  of  those, 
If  lasting  till  they  come  ? 

Is  there  a  word,  or  jest,  or  game, 

But  time  encrusteth  round 
With  sad  associate  thoughts  the  same  ? 
And  so  to  me  my  very  name 

Assumes  a  mournful  sounii. 

My  brother  gave  that  name  to  me 
WTien  we  were  children  twain,  — 

MTien  names  accjuired  baptismally 

Were  hard  to  utter,  as  to  see 
That  life  had  any  pain. 

No  shade  was  on  us  then,  save  one 

Of  chestnuts  from  the  hill,  — 
And  through  the  word  our  laugh  did  run 
As  part  thereof.     The  mirth  being  done. 
He  calls  me  by  it  still. 

Nay,  do  not  smUe  !  1  hear  in  it 

^Vhat  none  of  you  can  hear,  — 
The  talk  upon  the  willow  seat, 
The  bird  and  wind  that  did  repeat 
Around,  our  human  cheer. 

I  hear  the  birthday's  noisy  bliss, 

My  sisters'  woodland  glee,  — 
My  father's  praise  I  did  not  miss, 
When,  stooping  down,  he  cared  to  kiss 
The  poet  at  his  knee,  — 

And  voices  which,  to  name  me,  aye 

Their  tenderest  tones  were  keeping,  — 
To  some  I  nevermore  can  say 
An  answer,  till  God  wipes  away 
In  heaven  these  drojis  of  weeping. 


& 


a- 


36 


I'dems  of  ixfaxcy  and  yuuth. 


-a 


My  uame  to  me  a  sailuess  wears ; 

No  murmurs  cross  my  mind. 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  these  thick  tears, 
Which  show,  of  those  dejiarted  year's. 

Sweet  memories  left  behind. 

Now  God  be  thanked  for  years  enwrought 

With  love  which  softens  yet. 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  every  thought 
^\^uch  is  so  tender  it  has  caught 

Earth's  guerdon  of  regret. 

Earth  saddens,  never  shall  remove. 

Affections  j'urely  given  ; 
And  e'en  that  mortal  grief  shall  prove 
The  immortality  of  love. 

And  heighten  it  with  Heaven. 

BARRETT   BROWNI.NC 


^- 


OLD-SCHOOL  PUNISHMENT. 

Old  Master  Brown  brought  his  ferule  down, 

And  his  face  looked  angry  and  red. 
' '  Go,  seat  you  there,  now,  Anthony  Blair, 

Along  with  the  girls, "  he  said. 
Then  Anthony  Blair,  with  a  mortified  air, 

AVith  his  head  down  on  his  breast, 
Took  his  penitent  seat  by  the  maiden  sweet 

That  he  loved,  of  all,  the  best. 
And  Anthony  Blair  seemed  whimpering  there. 

But  the  rogue  only  made  believe  ; 
For  he  peeped  at  the  girls  with  the  beautiful  curls. 

And  oggled  tlu'ui  over  his  sleeve. 

Anonymous. 


THE  SMACK  IN  SCHOOL. 

A  niSTRlcT  school,  not  far  away. 

Mid  Berkshire  hills,  one  mnter's  day. 

Was  humming  mtli  its  wonted  noise 

Of  threescore  mingled  girls  and  boys ; 

Some  few  upon  their  tasks  intent, 

But  more  on  furtive  mischief  bent. 

The  while  the  master's  downward  look 

Was  fastened  on  a  copy-book  ; 

A\nien  suddenly,  behind  his  back, 

Dose  sharp  and  clear  a  rousing  smack  ! 

As  't  were  a  battery  of  bliss 

Let  off  in  one  tremendous  kiss  ! 

"AVhat  's  that  ?"  the  startled  master  cries  ; 

"  That,  thir,"  a  little  imp  replies, 

"  Wath  William  Willith,  if  you  pleathe,  — 

I  thaw  him  kith  Thuthanna  Peathe  ! " 

With  frown  to  make  a  statue  thrill. 

The  master  thundered,  "Hither,  Will!" 

Mke  \vi-etch  o'ertaken  in  his  track, 


With  stolen  chattels  on  his  back, 

Will  hung  his  head  in  fear  and  shame, 

And  to  the  awful  presence  came,  — 

A  great,  green,  bashful  simpleton, 

The  butt  of  all  good-natured  fun. 

With  smile  suppressed,  and  birch  upraised. 

The  threatener  faltered,  —  "I  'ni  amazed 

That  you,  my  biggest  pupil,  should 

Be  guilty  of  an  act  so  rude  ! 

Before  the  whole  set  school  to  boot,  — 

What  e\-il  genius  put  you  to  't  ? " 

"  'T  was  she  herself,  sir,"  sobbed  the  lad, 

' '  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  bad  ; 

But  when  Susaimah  shook  her  curls, 

And  whispered,  I  was  'fraid  of  girls, 

And  dursn't  kiss  a  baby's  doll, 

I  could  n't  stand  it,  sir,  at  all. 

But  up  and  kissed  her  on  the  spot ! 

I  know — boo-hoo  —  I  ought  to  not. 

But,  somehow,  from  her  looks  —  boo-hoo  — 

I  thought  she  kind  o'  wished  me  to  !  " 

WlLLlA.M    I'n  I    PAL.MER. 


THE   BAREFOOT  BOY. 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man. 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawbenies  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sun.shine  on  thy  face. 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace  ; 
From  ray  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  ; 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  boyhood's  painless  play. 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day. 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools. 
Of  the  «-ild  bee's  morning  chase. 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell. 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell. 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 


-^ 


e- 


"d 


Where  the  whitest  lilius  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way. 
Mason  of  his  w'alls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks. 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  fur  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
t'rowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw. 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Hii'mming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 
For  my  sport  the  sc[uirrel  played. 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Puii>led  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night. 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talkiil  with  me  from  fall  to  fall  ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond. 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond. 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew. 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy. 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spreail. 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood. 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold. 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerly,  then,  my  little  man. 
Live  .and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 


Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat ; 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
JIade  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil. 
Up  and  dow-n  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  an<l  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy. 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

John  Gkelnleaf  wnrrriER. 


BOYHOOD. 

Ah,  then  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded  days  ! 
The  minutes  parting  one  by  one  like  rays 

That  fade  upon  a  summer's  eve. 
But  0,  what  charm  or  magic  numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slumbers 

Those  weary,  happy  days  did  leave  ? 
When  by  my  bed  I  .saw  my  mother  kneel, 

And  with  her  blessing  took  her  nightly  kiss  ; 

Whatever  Time  destroys,  he  cannot  this  ;  — 
E'en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I  feel. 

WASHtNGTON  ALLSTON. 


OUR  WEE  WHITE  ROSE. 

All  in  our  marriage  garden 

Grew,  smiling  up  to  God, 
A  bonnier  flower  than  ever 

Suckt  the  green  wanntli  of  the  sod  ; 
0  beautiful  unfathomably 

Its  little  life  unfurled  ; 
And  crown  of  all  things  was  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  aU  the  world. 

From  out  a  balmy  bosom 

Our  bud  of  beauty  grew  ; 
It  fed  on  smiles  for  simshine. 

On  tears  for  daintier  dew  : 
Aye  nestling  warm  and  tenderly, 

Our  leaves  of  love  were  curled 
So  close  and  close  alxjut  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  aU  the  world. 

W^ith  mystical  faint  fragi-ance 
Our  house  of  life  she  filled  ; 

Picvealed  each  hour  some  fairy  tower 
Where  winged  Iiopes  might  build  ! 


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h 


38 


rOKMS  UF  INFANCY  AND   YOUTH. 


^ 


tl- 


Wo  saw  —  thoujjli  lumo  liki'  iis  might  so«  — 

Stiili  iii-i'i'io\i3  in'oiniso  in'ui'leil 
V  poll  till'  (lotiils  of  our  \vi<o 

WliitK  Host'  ol'nll  llu>  worlil. 

Hill  ,.v,.niu.iv  llu'  lulo 

Or:iiij;.'l-li,','lil  innviisoil, 
l.iUi'  llu'  iiivsti'iy  ol' niooiiUgUt 

Tliiil  I'oUls  soiiio  t'liiry  lonst. 
Suow-wliito,  siunv-sol'l,  siiow-silontly 

Owr  iliuliiij;  Inul  up-i'iii'lod. 
Ami  .Iroiil  i'  tin'  ,i;nivi'  —  (ioil's  lap  —  our  woo 

Wliil,'  \i..s,'  ofall  Ihr  worUl. 

Our  IJoso  was  but  in  lilossoiu. 

Our  life  was  Imt  in  spriuj;, 
AVliou  down  llio  soloiuu  luiiluischt 

Wo  lio.ml  tlio  si.iiils  sing, 
••Auollior  lui.l  of  infauoy  " 

With  holy  dows  iiiipoarloil  !  " 
Ami  ill  Ihoir  hands  thoy  boro  our  woo 

Whito  lioso  ofall  tlio  world. 

You  soaivo  oouUl  think  so  small  a  thing 

Could  loavo  a  loss  so  lai'gi' : 
llor  lilllo  light  suoh  shadow  lliiig 

From  dawn  to  sunsot's  uiargi'. 
In  otlior  springs  our  lifo  may  bo 

111  Iwnnoivd  bloom  uufnrlod, 
l^iit  iiovor,  iiovor  matoh  our  woo 

Whilo  lioso  ofall  tlio  world. 


ru'TinsKs  OF  mkmoky. 

Amoni!  tho  Ivantifiil  inoturos 

That  hang  on  Moniory's  wall 
Is  ono  of  a  dim  old  foivst. 

That  soomoth  best  of  all  ; 
Kot  for  its  gnarlod  oaks  oldon, 

Park  with  tho  mistlotoo  ; 
Not  for  tho  violots  gi^ldon 

That  sprinklo  tho  valo  Mow  ; 
Not  for  tho  milk-whito  lilios 

That  loan  fivm  tho  fiiiguiut  lodg>\ 
Ooiimtting  all  day  with  tho  sunlnwrns. 

And  stoaling  thoir  goldoii  odgi'  ; 
Not  for  tho  vinos  on  tho  ujiland, 

Whoft*  the  bright  it'd  horrios  ivst. 
Nor  tho  pinks,  nor  tho  ^wlo  swoot  oowslip. 

It  soomoth  to  ino  tho  In'st, 

I  oiioo  had  a  littlo  bivthor. 

With  oyos  that  woiv  dark  and  doop  : 
In  tho  lap  of  that  old  dim  foi-ost 

Tlo  lioth  in  poaoo  asloop  : 
Light  as  tho  down  of  tho  thistlo, 

FVoo  as  the  winds  that  Wow, 


Wo  itivod  thoro  the  bonutiful  suminei-s, 

Tho  sunimors  of  long  ago  : 
Ihit  his  fool  oil  tlio  hills  grow  woary, 

Ami,  ono  of  tlio  autumn  eves, 
1  inado  for  my  littlo  brother 

A  bod  of  tlio  yellow  leaves. 
Sw.-etly  his  pule  arms  folded 

My  iiei'k  in  a  nioek  embraoo. 
As  tiio  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  eovoroil  his  faee  ; 
And  when  tho  arrows  of  sunset 

lAiilged  in  tho  tree-tops  bright, 
Ho  foil,  in  his  saint-liko  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  ph'turos 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  ono  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seenioth  the  best  of  all. 


HARRY  ASHL.VND,   ONE  OF  MY   LOVERS. 

I   Il.-VVK  a  lover,  a  little  lover,  he   rolls   on   the 

grass  and  plays  in  tlio  elover  ; 
Ilo  builds  bloek-honsos  and  digs  olay  wells,  aiul 

makes  siind-pios  in  his  hut. 
t1u  Sundays  ho  swings  in  the  littlo  poivh,  or  has 

a  oloan  oollar  and  goes  to  olnm'h. 
And  a.sks  ine  to  marry  him,  when  ho  gi-ows  up. 

and  live  in  a  house  "  like  that." 
Ho  wears  a  givat  apron  like  a  .saek,  -  it  's  hard 

thoy  don't  put  him  in  trousei-s  and  jackets  ; 
Ihit  his  soul  is  far  above  buttons,  ami  his  hopes 

for  the  futui-o  o'orshoot  them. 
For  Harry,  like  lai'gor  lovei-s,  will  oonrt.  without 

any  visihlo  means  of  support. 
And  ask  you  to  give  him  your  heart  ami  hand, 

when  ho  does  n't  know  wheiv  to  put  thom. 

All  day  ho  's  tumbling,  and  leaping,  and  .inniji- 

iiig,  — running  and  oalling,  hammering  and 

thumping, 
Playing  "bo-peep"  with  tho  hluo-eyod  babe,  oi 

ohasing  tho  eows  in  the  lane  : 
But  at  twilight  around   my  ohair  ho  lingi-i-s, 

clasping  my  hand  in  his  dimpled  fingi'i^. 
And  1  wonder  if  love  so  puiv  and  fiv.sh  1  shall 

ever  inspiif  agsiin  ! 
Tho  men  that  kneel  and  declaim  thoir  [vission,  — 

tho  won  that  "  annex  "  you  in  stately  fash- 
ion, — 
Thoro  is  not  so  much  of  trnth  and  warmth  in  all 

tho  heartsi  of  a  scoiv,  — 
And  1  look  in  tho  honest  eyes  of  this  Ivihy,  and 

wonder  what  would  have  hap|H'ned,  mayln-, 
If  Heaven  had  not  made  me  K'  twenty  now, 

while  Harrv  is  only  fonr. 


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[f^- 


INFANCY. 


ir^ 


h 


1  liiivc!  a  littln  rival  nainucl  Aila,  »lie  clingH  to  a 

IiroiiiiHo  tliat  Harry  made  lior, 
"  To  l)iiild  lii:r  a  Ijou.sc  all  lull  ol'  (luoro,"  and  live 

with  Jicr  there  Home  day  ; 
liut  Ada  Ih  growing  lank  and  thin, — they  Hay 

she  will  have  a  peaked  chin, 
And    I    think    had    nearly  outgrown  her  "lirst 

love  "  hcfore  I  came  in  the  way. 
She   wears   short  Bkirts,   and  a   iiink-trimmed 

Shaker,  the  niccHt  aprons  liei'  mother  can 

make  her. 
And  a  Snnday  hat  with  feathers  ;  but  it  docs  n't 

matter  liow  she  is  drcHsed, 
For   Harry  —  sweetest   of  earthly  lispers — has 

said  in  my  ear,  in  loudest  whisjiers, 
Witli  his  dear  short  arms  around  my  neck,  that 

he  "likes  the  yroum-up  bonnets  best." 

He  Hays  he  shall  leani  to  be  a  lawyer,  but  his 
private  preference  is  a  sawyer. 

And  counselors,  not  less  than  cariientci-s,  live 
Vjy  "sawdust"  and  by  b/jrca. 

It's  easier  to  saw  a  plank  in  two  than  to  bore  a 
judicial  blockhead  through. 

And  if  panels  of  jurors  fail  to  yield,  he  can 
always  panel  doors. 

It 's  a  question  of  enterprise  verxus  wood,  and  if 
his  hammer  and  will  be  good. 

If  his  energetic  little  brown  hand  be  as  stcaily 
and  busy  then. 

Though  chisel  or  [jcn  be  the  weapon  he  'fl  need- 
ing, whether  his  business  is  planing  or  plead- 
ing, 

Harry  will  cut  his  way  through  the  ranks,  and 
stand  at  the  head  of  you  men  ! 

I  say  to  him  sometimes,  "My  dearest  Harry,  we 

have  n't  money  enough  to  mairy  "  ; 
He  has  si-Kty  cents  in  his  little  tin  "  bank,"  and 

a  keepsake  in  his  diaw(;r  ; 
But  he  always  promises,  "  1  '11  get  plenty —  I  '11 

lind  where  they  make  it,  when  I  'm  twenty  ; 
I  '11  go  down  town  where  the  other  men  do,  and 

bring  it  out  of  the  store." 
And  then  he  describes  such  wonderful  dresses, 

and  gives  me  such  gallant  hugs  and  caresses, 
With  items  of  courtshiji  from  .M  other  Goose,  silk 

cushions  ami  rings  of  gold. 
And  I  think  what  a  fond  tnie  breast  to  dream  on, 

what  a  dear,   brave   heart  for  a  woman  to 

lean  on, 
Wli.at  a  king  and   kingdom  are  .saving  up  for 

some  baby  a  twelvemonth  old ! 

Twenty  years  hence,  when  1  am  forty,  and  Harry 
a  young  man,  gay  and  nauglity. 

Flirting  and  dancing,  and  shooting  guns,  driv- 
ing fast  horses  and  cracking  whips. 


The  hand.Homest  fellow !  —  Heaven  bless  him  !  — 

setting  the  girls  all  wild  to  possess  him,  — 
With   his  dark   mustaf;he  and   hazel  eyes,  and 

cigJirs  in  those  pretty  lips ! 
O,  do  you  think  he  will  i/uite  forget  me,  — ilo  y(ju 

believe  he  will  ever  regret  mef 
Will  he  wish  the  twenty  years  back  again,  or 

deem  this  an  idle  myth, 
While  I   shall  sometimes  push  up  my  glasses, 

and  sigh  iis  rny  baby-lover  passes. 
And  wonder  if  Heaven  sets  this  world  right,  as 

I  look  at  .\Ir.  Snjith  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  MITHERLE8S  BAIRN. 

CThom  (fivtn  lli<:  following  narr.illvd  ai  lo  tli.:  orli{ln  o(  "  Tlic 
MilhcrlcM  Bairn  "  :  "  When  I  was  Jivin'  in  Aberdeen.  I  was  linipinif 
roun'  the  hoUM:  to  my  garret,  when  I  hcArd  the  ((rectin' '/  a  wean. 
A  tlMie  was  thumpin'  a  bairn,  when  out  cam  a  bljf  (lame,  bcllowin  , 
■  Yc  huHie,  will  ye  lick  a  mllherlcftv  balm : '  1  hobbled  up  the  fttair 
and  wrote  the  *an(f  afore  siccpin'."] 

When  a'  ither  baimics  are  liushe<l  tfi  their  liamo 
15y  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  frecky  gran<l-daine, 
Wha  stands  hist  and  lanely,  an'  nfudmdy  caiin'? 
'T  is   the   puir   doited    loonie,  —  the  milherless 
bairn  ! 

The  mitherless  bairn  gangs  to  his  lane  bed  ; 
Nano  covers  his  cauld   W;k,  or  haps  his  Iiarc 

head; 
His  wee  hackit  heelies  arc  hard  as  the  aim, 
An'  lithclcss  the  lair  o'  the  mitherless  bairn, 

Ancath   his  cauld   brow  siecan   dreams    hover 

tliere, 
0'  hands  that  wont  kindly  tf) kame  his  dark  hair ; 
But  inoiTiin'  brings  dut'dies,  a'  reckless  an'  stem. 
That  lo'e  nae  the  locks  o'  the  mitherless  tjaim  ! 

Yon  sister  that  sang  o'er  his  saftly  rocked  bed 
Now  rests  in  the  mools  where  her  mammie  is 

laid ; 
The  father  toils  sair  their  wee  bannock  to  earn. 
An'  kens  na  the  wrangs  o'  his  mitherless  bairn. 

Her  spirit,  that  passed  in  yon  hour  o'  his  birth. 
Still  watches  his  wearisome  wanrlerings  on  ctrth ; 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they  earn 
Wha  couthilie  deal  wi'  the  mitherless  baini  ! 

0,   speak   hiif)    na   harshly, —he    trembles   the 

while. 
He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your  smile ; 
In  their  dark  hour  o'  anguish  the  heartless  shall 

learn 
That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless  bairn ! 


William  thom. 


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[& 


■il) 


POEMS   OF  INFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


n 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

I  LOVE  it,  1  love  it !  and  wiio  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  tliat  old  arm-ehair  ? 

1  've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 

I  've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  I  've  embalmed  it 

with  sighs. 
'T  is  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start ; 
Would  you  know  the  spell  ( — a  mother  sat  there ! 
Ami  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

1  n  eliildhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  liallowed  seat  with  listening  ear; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give 

To  tit  me  to  die,  and  teach  nie  to  live. 

.She  told  me  that  shame  would  never  betide, 

With  IVuth  for  my  creed,  and  God  for  my  guide ; 

Slie  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer. 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat,  and  watched  her  numy  a  day, 
When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  lier  locks  were  gray ; 
And  I  almost  worshiped  her  when  she  smiled, 
Aud  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped,  — 
My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled  ! 
Aud  I  learned  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
^VlleIl  1  saw  her  die  in  her  old  arm-chair. 

'T  is  past,  't  is  past !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now, 
With  ([uivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  : 
'T  was  there  she  nursed  me,  't  was  there  she  died. 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
iSay  it  is  folly,  and  deem  nie  weak, 
Whilst  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek ; 
Hut  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
Jly  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 

How  dear   to   this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  mv 
childhood, 
AVhen  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  new  ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild- 
wood, 
Andevery loved  spotwhichmyinfancyknew  ; — 
The  \vide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which 
stood  by  it. 
The  bridge,  and  therockwhere  the  cataractfell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dair)--house  nigh  it. 
And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the 
well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket  wliich  hung  in  the  well. 


That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure ; 
For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned   from  the 
field, 
1  found  it  the  source  of  an  exc|uisite  jjleasure. 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were 
glowing ! 
And  nuick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 
Aud  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the 
well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  re- 
ceive it. 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips  ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  nic  tn 
leave  it. 
Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation. 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell. 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  iji  the 
well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

SAMUEL   WqoDWORTH. 


I  REMEMBER.   I  REMEMBER. 

I  r.EiiEMnKU,  1  remember 

The  house  where.  1  was  born. 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn. 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day  ; 
But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away ! 

I  remembei-,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white. 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups,  — 

Those  flowei-s  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built. 

Anil  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  1  was  used  to  swing. 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  ; 
My  spii-it  flew  in  feathers  then. 

That  is  so  heavy  now. 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  mv  brow  ! 


-^ 


T  n  !•: 


>LIl  ARM-CHAIR. 


•  Ik  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 
The  hallo'.i.'ed  seat  ivith  list'ning  ear: 
I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day^ 
When  her  eye  grem  dim,  and  her  locks  -aiere  gray: 
And  I  almost  worshipped  iter  when  site  smiled. 
And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child." 


e-^- 


INFANCY. 


41 


■a 


I  reifieinbcr,  I  iciiiciiiticr 

Ttic  fir-trtcB  dark  and  liigli ; 
I  ufw.-d  to  think  tlicir  Blender  Ujps 

Were  clow:  again»t  the  oky. 
It  waH  a  ehildiHli  ignorance, 

Hut  now  't  in  little  joy 
'I'o  know  I  'in  farther  oil'  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  Ujy. 

TllOMAH  llOOLf. 


WOODMAN,   HPAKE  TKAT  TEEE. 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  uinglc  Ixiugli ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  ine, 

Ami  1  '11  prot'.'ct  it  now. 
'T  waj)  my  forefatlier'H  hand 

Tliat  phw-ed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  wooilman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  ax  ithall  lutrm  it  not ! 


'lliat  old  familiar  tree, 
WhoKc  irlory  and  renown 


Are  H[)rca<l  o'er  land  ami  B<;a, 
And  wouldnt  thou  hew  it  down? 

Woodman,  fort^ear  thy  Htroke ! 
Cut  not  its  eaith-Ujund  ties; 

0,  Hj/are  that  agwl  oak, 
>iow  t/jwering  ti>  the  skiei*! 

When  hut  an  idle  hoy 

I  sought  its  gTaU;ful  nhaile; 
In  all  their  gu«hing  joy 

Here  t<jo  my  hi<*t<;r«  played. 
My  mother  kiswid  me  here ; 

.\ly  father  presw^l  my  hand  — 
Forgive  thin  foolish  Viar, 

|{ut  let  tliat  old  oak  stand ! 

My  heart-strings  round  thc;  cling, 

Close  as  thy  Ijark,  old  fiiend  ! 
Here  sliall  the  wild-bird  sing. 

And  still  thy  branches  tiend. 
Old  tree !  the  stomi  still  braveS 

An<l,  woodman,  li«ive  the  spot; 
While  I   ve  a  Itand  to  Siive, 

Thy  ax  shiiU  hann  it  not. 

Cti/jROR  p.  Mofckia 


& 


-^ 


& 


42 


PUEMS   OF  IXFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


-R; 


YOUTH, 


Ct^ 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SWAN'S  NEST. 

Little  EUie  sits  alone 
Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow, 

By  a  stream-side,  on  tlie  gi-ass, 

And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
DoaMes  of  their  leaves  in  shadow 

On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 

Slie  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by. 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  tlie  shallow  water's  flow. 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands  all  sleek  and  dripping, 

While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone. 
And  the  smile  she  softly  uses 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech, 

Wliile  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done,  — 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses 

For  her  future  within  reach. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooses  .  ..."  I  will  have  a  lover, 

Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds ! 

He  shall  love  me  without  guile. 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 

"And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan. 
And  the  lover  shall  be  noble. 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath. 

And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble. 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

"And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  iu  silver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind ; 

And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

"  But  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in. 

When  he  gazes  in  my  face. 

He  will  say,  '0  Love,  thine  eyes 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  iu. 

And  1  kneel  here  for  thy  grace.' 

"  Tlien,  ay,  then  —  he  shall  kneel  low, 
AVith  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him. 


Which  shall  seem  to  understand  — 
Till  I  answer,  '  Rise  and  go ! 
For  the  worlil  must  love  and  fear  him 
Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand.' 

"  Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 
I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 

AVith  a  yes  1  must  not  say ; 

Nathless  maiden-brave,  'Farewell,' 
I  will  utter,  and  dissemble  ;  — 

'  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day. ' 

"  Then  he  '11  ride  among  the  hills 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 

Tliere  to  put  away  all  wrong ; 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 
And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 

Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 

' '  Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain 

And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet; — 

'  Lo,  my  master  sends  this  gage. 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting ! 

AVhat  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it?' 

"And  the  first  time,  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon,  — 

And  the  second  time,  a  glove  ; 

But  the  third  time,  I  may  bend 
From  my  pride,  and  answer,  '  Pardon, 

I  f  he  comes  to  take  my  love. ' 

"Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run,  — 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster. 

Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee  : 

'  I  am  a  Duke's  eldest  son  ! 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master,  — 

But,  0  Love,  I  love  but  thee!  ' 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deeds ; 

And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth. 
Unto  Jiim  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds." 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly. 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe. 

And  went  homeward,  round  a  mUe, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily. 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 


--G^ 


[&^- 


YOUTH. 


43 


n 


Pushing  through  the  ehn-tree  copse, 
Wmiling  up  the  stream,  light-hearted, 

Where  the  osier  pathway  leads,  — 

Past  the  boughs  she  stoops  —  and  stops. 
Lo,  the  wild  swan  had  deserted, 

And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds. 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever. 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds. 

Sooth  1  know  not !  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him  —  never. 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds ! 

BARRETT  BROW.NI,\G. 


LITTLE   BELL. 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  becchwood  spray, 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way. 

What  's  your  name ! "  (juoth  he,  — 
"What's  yourname  ?  0,  stop  and  straightunfold, 
Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls  of  gold."  — 

"Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks. 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks,  — 

"  Bonny  bird,"  (-|UOth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go." 
"  Here  's  the  very  finest  song  I  know. 

Little  Bell,"  said  he. 

And  the  blackbird  piped  ;  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird,  — 

Full  of  ({uips  and  wiles. 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  the  bonny  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  freely  o'er  and  o'er 

'Neath  the  moniing  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped  and  through  the  glade, 
Peeped  the  scpiirrel  from  the  hazel  shade. 

And  from  out  the  tree 
Swung,  and  leaped,  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear ; 
Whilebold  blackbird  piped  that  all  might  hear, — 

"  Little  Bell,"  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern,  — 
"  S'luirrel,  squirrel,  to  your  task  return  ; 
Bring  me  nuts,"  quoth  she. 


Up  away  the  frisky  squiiTel  hies,  — 
Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes,  — 

And  adown  the  tree 
Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun. 
In  the  little  lap  dropped  one  by  one. 
Hark,  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun ! 

"  Happy  Bell,"  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade,  — 
"Sciuinel,  siiuii-rel,  if  you 're  not  afraid, 

Come  and  share  with  me  !" 
Down  came  squirrel  eager  for  his  fare, 
Down  came  bonny  blackliird,  1  declare ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share,  — 

Ah  the  merry  three ! 
And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bovigh  again, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies. 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seems  to  grow  and  grow. 
And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow 

From  her  blue,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot  at  close  of  day. 
Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms,  to  pray ; 

Very  calm  and  clear 
Rose  the  praj-ing  voice  to  where,  unseen. 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear. 
"  What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"That  with  happy  heart  beside  her  bed 

Prays  so  lovingly?" 
Low  and  soft,  0,  very  low  and  soft. 
Crooned  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell !"  crooned  he. 

"Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "God  doth  bless  with  angels'  care ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 
Folded  safe  from  harm.     Love,  dee]i  and  kind. 
Shall  watch  around  and  leave  good  gifts  behind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee!" 


A  VISIT  FROM  ST.   NICHOLAS. 

'T  w.\s  the  night   before   Chiistmas,   when  all 

through  the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse  ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with 

care. 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there  : 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds. 
While  visions  of  sugar-])lums   danced  in  their 

heads ; 
And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap. 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's 

nap,  — 


4rf- 


^ 


f 


44: 


POEMS  OF  INFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


-^ 


\V  hen  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  .sprang  from  my  bcil  to  see  what  was  the  mutter. 
Away  to  the  window  1  Hew  like  a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  uew-lallon  snow 
<.lave  a  lustre  of  midday  to  objects  below  ; 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 
lUit  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  reindeer. 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick 
1  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapiil  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  eamo, 
And  ho  whistled  and  sliouted,  and  called  tliem 

by  name : 
"Now,  Dasher!  now,  Dancer!  now,  I'rancorund 

Vixen! 
On,  Comet !  on,  Cupid  !  on,  Donder  and  Blitzen ! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now  dasli  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !" 
As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  fturricane  lly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the 

sky. 
So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  hew. 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  —  and  St.  Nicholas 

too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 
As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nieholascame  with  abound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his  foot. 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  a.shesand 

soot; 
A  bundle  of  toys  ho  had  lluug  on  his  bactk, 
And  ho  looked  like  a  pedler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes  how  they  twinkled !  his  dimples  how 

merry ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  clierry ; 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  board  on  bis  chin  was  as  white  as  tho 

snow. 
Tho  stump  of  a  pi|)c  lie  Iiohi  tight  in  his  teeth. 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face  an<l  a  little  round  belly 
Thatsliook,  when  ho  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of 

jelly- 
He  was  chubby  and  plump,  — a  right  jollyoldelf; 
And  I  laughed,  when  1  saw  him,  inspitoof  my.self. 
A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head 
Soon  gave  mo  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 
He  spoke  notaword,  butwent  straight  to  his  work. 
And  fdled  all  tho  stockings ;  then  turned  with  a 

jerk, 
Anil  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose. 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  tho  chimney  ho  rose. 
He  spi-ang  to  his  .sleigh,  to  his  team  gaveawhistle. 
And  away  they  all  How  like  the  down  of  a  thistle  : 
But  1  heard  him  exclaim,  ore  ho  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Ha])py  C^hrist  mas  toall,  and  toall  agood-night ! " 


& 


THE  FROST. 

The  Frost  looked  forth,  one  still,  clear  night. 
And  ho  said,  "  Now  1  shall  be  out  of  sight ; 
So  through  the  valley  and  over  the  height 

In  silence  I  '11  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  like  that  blustering  train, 
The  wind  and  tho  snow,  the  hail  and  the  rain. 
Who  make  so  much  bustle  and  noise  in  vain, 

But  1  '11  be  as  busy  as  tlicy  !  " 

Then  he  went  to  tho  mountain,  and  powdered  its 

crest. 
Ho  climbed  up  tho  trees,  and  their  boughs  he 

dressed 
With  diamonds  and  pearls,  and  over  the  lireast 

Of  the  (juivering  lake  ho  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
Tho  downward  point  of  many  a  spear 
That  ho  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near, 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 

He  went  to  tho  windows  of  those  who  sh'pt. 
And  over  each  pane  like  a  fairy  crept  : 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he  stopped, 

By  tho  light  of  the  moon  was  soon 
Most  beautiful  things.     There  were  flowers  ajid 

trees, 
Tliere  were  bevies  of  birds  and  swarms  of  Ikhjs, 
There  wore  cities,  thrones,  temples,  and  towers, 
and  these 

All  pictured  in  silver  sheen  ! 

But  ho  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair,  — 
He  poepoil  in  the  cupboard,  and,  finding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  liim  to  prepare,  — 

"  Now,  just  to  set  them  a  thinking, 
I  '11  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  ho  ; 
"  This  costly  pitcher  I  '11  burst  in  three, 
And  the  glass  of  water  they  've  left  for  mo 

Shall  'tckkk!'  to  tell  them  1  'm  drinking." 


A  PORTRAIT. 

■'  due  n.ninc  is  Elizabeth."— BEN  JONSON. 

1  ■wir,!,  paint  her  as  I  see  her. 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 

And  her  face  is  lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped,  and  droiijied  in  duty 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolorod  faintly, 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  olT  to  air  ; 


rt-+- 


YUUTH. 


:r^ 


And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly, 
Wliicli  two  blue  eyes  undershine, 
Iiik(^  meek  prayers  before  a  shrine. 

Fare  and  ligure  of  a  child,   - 
Though  too  ealin,  you  think,  and  tender, 
l''<pr  the  childhood  you  would  lend  lier. 

Yet  c'hild-simple,  undefiled, 

Frank,  obedient,  — waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moviiif^  light,  as  all  yo\ir  things, 
,\s  young  l)irds,  or  early  wheat, 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Oidy,  free  f]-om  (lutterings 

Of  loud  nnrth  that  scorneth  measure,  — 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasure. 

Choosing  ])leasui'es,  Ibr  the  rest, 
Wliirh  runiu  softly,  — just  as  she, 
Wlii^n  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  talk  she  liketh  best. 
In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks,  — 
Watering  flowers,  or  leailijig  books. 

And  lier  voice,  it  nninnurs  lowly. 
As  a  silver  stream  may  run, 
Wliich  yet  feels,  you  feel,  the  sun. 

And  her  smile  it  .seems  half  holy, 
As  if  drawn  from  thouglits  more  far 
Than  our  common  jestings  are. 

And  if  any  poet  knew  her, 

]ie  would  sing  of  her  with  falls 
Used  in  lovely  mailrigal.s. 

And  if  any  painter  drew  her, 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  the  hair. 

And  if  reader  read  the  poem. 

He  would  whisper,  "  You  have  done  a 
Consecrated  little  Una." 

And  a  dreamer  (did  you  show  him 
That  same  picture)  would  exclaim, 
"  'T  is  my  angel,  with  a  name  I  " 

And  a  stranger,  when  he  sees  her 
In  the  street  even,  smileth  stilly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily. 

And  all  voices  that  address  her 
Soften,  sleeken  evoiy  word. 
As  if  speaking  to  a  biid. 


And  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 
The  hard  earth  whereon  she  passes, 
With  the  thymy-scentcd  grasses. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "(!od  love  her  I 
Ay,  and  certes,  in  good  sooth, 
We  may  all  be  sure  he  doth. 

nLlZAIJHTH    BAKRE^^    BKuWM 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 

Bei'wekn  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  night  is  beginning  to  low(.'r. 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chandler  aliove  me 

The  patter  of  little  feel, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  .study  1  see  in  the  laniidight. 
Descending  the  broad  hall  .stair. 

Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper  and  then  a  silence  ; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stainvay, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall,  — 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded. 
They  enter  my  eastle  wall. 

Tliey  clind)  up  into  my  turret. 

O'er  the  anns  and  back  of  my  cliair  ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  : 
They  seem  to  be  everywhc^rc. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  anns  at)out  me  entwine. 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti, 
.     Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall. 
Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress. 

And  will  not  let  you  ilepart. 
But  put  you  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 


^ 


& 


4G 


POEMS  OF  INFANCY  AND    YOUTH. 


^ 


U 


Ami  tlioro  will  I  ki'ep  you  forever, 

Yos,  t'orovor  uiul  a  day, 
Till  llio  walls  shall  .rmubli'  to  niiii, 

Ami  iiumkU'r  in  dust  away. 

11,  W.    I.ONUl'I.LLOW. 


TUKKAU    AND   SONQ. 

SwKK'l'lii;  and  sweuter. 

Soil  and  low, 
Neat  little  iiyuiiili, 

Tliy  imuilu'is  How, 
Urging  tliy  tliiniMc, 
Thril't's  tidy  symbol, 
Iiusy  and  uimlile, 

'l"o  and  fro  ; 
Trettily  plying 

Tlireail  and  song, 
Keeping  tlieni  Hying 

l,ate  and  long. 
Though  the  stiteh  linger, 
Kissing  thy  linger 

Quiek,  —  as  it  skips  along. 

Many  an  eelio. 

Soft  and  low. 
Follows  thy  Hying 

Faiiey  so,  — • 
Melodies  thrilling. 
Tenderly  tilling 
Thee  with  their  trilling, 

t'ome  and  go  ; 
Memory's  tingi'r, 

Quiek  as  tliino, 
l.oviug  to  linger 

On  the  line, 
Writes  of  another. 
Dearer  than  hivther  : 

Would  that  the  name  \ve«'  mine  ! 
John  Williamson  rAi.MFK, 


SEVEN   TIIVIES  TWO. 

VoiT  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your 
ehanges. 

How  many  soever  they  be. 
And  let  the  bix^wu  meadow-lark's  note  as  he  ranges 

Come  over,  eonie  over  to  me. 

Yet  binls'  elenrost  eaitil  by  fall  or  by  swelling 

No  magieal  sense  eonveys. 
And  Iwlls  have  forgotten  their  old  ait  of  telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days, 

"  Turn  again,  turn  agj»in,"onee  they  rang  eheorily 
While  a  bov  listened  alone  ; 


Made  his  heart  Yearn  again,  musing  so  wearily 
All  by  hiiiiselVi.n  a  sloue. 

Poor  bells  !   1   forgive  you  ;  your  good  days  are 
over. 
And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be  ; 
No  listening,    no  longing,   sliall    aught,   anght 
diseover  : 
You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

The   I'o.xglove  shoots  out   of   tlie  given   malted 
heather, 

Tlvpariiig  lier  hoods  of  snow  ; 
She  was  idle,  and  slept  till  the  sunshiny  weatlier  ; 

O,  ehildren  take  long  to  gniw. 

1  wish,   ami   1  wi^h   that   tlie   spring  would  go 
faster. 

Nor  long  summer  bide  so  late  ; 
And  1  eonld  grow  on  like  the  foxglove  and  aster, 

For  some  things  are  ill  to  wait, 

1  w  ait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts  shall  diseover. 
While  dear  hands  are  laiil  on  my  head  ; 

'■  Tlie  ehild  is  u  woman,  the  book  may  elose  over, 
For  all  the  lessons  are  said." 

I  wait  for  my  story  —  the  binis  cannot  sing  it. 

Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree  ; 
The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years,  0  bring 
it  ! 

Such  ns  1  wish  it  to  be. 


RAIN   ON  THE   ROOF, 

AViii:n  the  showery  vapors  gather  over  all  the 
sttirry  spheres. 

And  the  melancholy  darkness  gently  weeps  in 
rainy  tears, 

'T  is  a  joy  to  press  the  pillow  of  a  cottage  cham- 
ber bed. 

And  listen  to  the  patter  of  the  soft  iiiin  overhead. 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles  has  an  echo  in  the 

heart. 
And  a  thousand  divary  fancies  into  busy  being 

start ; 
And  a  thousivnd  recolleetions  weave  their  bright 

hues  into  woof. 
As  1   listen  to  the  patter  of  the  soft  rain  on  the 

roof. 

There  in  fancy  comes  my  mother,  as  she  used  to 

years  agoue, 
To  survey  the  infant  sleejiei's  ere  she  left  them 

till  the  dawn. 


f 


YOUTH. 


47 


r^ 


1  cau  sc-e  her  btiuliiig  o'er  iiie,  us  I  listen  to  tlie 

strain 
Wliieli  is  played  upon  the  sliingles  hy  the  patter 

of  the  rain. 

Then  my  little  serajjh  sister,  with  her  wings  and 

waving  hair, 
And  her  bright-eyed  cherub  brother,  —  a  serene, 

angelic  pair,  — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow  with  their  praise 

or  mild  reproof. 
As  I  listen  to  the  murnuir  of  the  soft  rain  on  the 

roof. 

.\iid  another  comes  to  thrill  lae  witli  lier  eyes' 

delicious  blue. 
I  forget,  as  gazing  on  her,  that  her  heart  was  all 

untrue  ; 
I  remember  that  I  loved  her  as  I  ne'er  may  hjvc 

again, 
And  my  heart's  quick  jiulses  vibi-ate  to  the  patter 

of  the  rain. 

There  is  naught  in  art's  liravnras  that  cau  work 
with  such  a  spell, 

In  the  spirit's  pure,  deep  fountains,  whence  the 
holy  passions  swell. 

As  that  melody  of  nature,  —  that  sulxlued,  sub- 
duing strain. 

Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles  liy  the  jiatter 
of  the  rain. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  NATUUE. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower ; 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  : 
This  child  1  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  imjmlse  ;  and  with  mc 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower. 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
Tliat  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm. 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm. 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 


■h^. 


"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 
Xor  shall  she  fail  to  see 


E'en  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maidec's  foir.. 
By  silent  .sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  nddnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round. 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  fonn  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell  ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  1  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake.     The  work  was  done,  — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  nevermore  will  be. 

WILLIAM  Wordsworth. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

il.viiiKN  !  with  the  meek  brown  eyes. 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun,  — 
•  Jolden  tresses  wreathed  in  one. 
As  the  braided  .streamlets  ran  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
'V\^here  the  brook  and  river  meet. 
Womanhood  and  childliood  fleet  ! 

Hazing,  with  a  timid  glance. 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance. 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  .stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
Wlien  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  '! 

Seest  thou  .shadows  sailing  by. 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye. 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  .shore. 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more. 
Deafened  by  the  cataraat's  roar  ? 


-3 


p^4S 


I'UEMS   OF  INFAXCY  AXD    YUUTH. 


-H3^ 


h 


0  thou  child  of  uuiiiy  prayers  ! 

Life  bath  quicksands,  Life  hath  snares  ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows. 
When  the  young  heart  overflows. 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  soitow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

0,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal. 
Even  as  sleep  oui'  eyes  doth  seal ; 

Aud  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart. 
For  a  smile  of  God  tliou  art. 

ri.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


Like  the  violet,  whii-h  alone 
Prospers  in  some  happy  shade, 

My  Castara  lives  unknown. 
To  no  ruder  eye  betrayed  ; 

For  she  's  to  herself  untrue 

Who  delights  i'  the  public  view. 

Such  is  her  beauty  as  no  arts 

Have  enriched  with  borrowed  gi'ace. 

Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts. 
For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 

Folly  boasts  a  gloilous  blood,  — 

She  is  noblest  being  good. 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 

What  a  wanton  courtship  meant  ; 

Nor  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit, 
In  her  silence  eloquent. 

Of  herself  survey  she  takes. 

But  't^veen  men  no  difference  makes. 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 

Her  gi-ave  parents'  wise  commands  ; 


Ami  so  innocent,  that  ill 

She  nor  acts  nor  understands. 
Women's  feet  run  stUl  astray 
If  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sails  by  that  rock,  the  court, 
Where  oft  virtue  splits  her  mast ; 

And  retiredness  thinks  the  port. 
Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast. 

Virtue  safely  cannot  sit 

Where  vice  is  enthroned  for  wit. 

She  holds  that  day's  pleasure  best 
Where  sin  waits  not  on  delight ; 

Witliout  mask,  or  ball,  or  feast. 
Sweetly  spends  a  winter's  night. 

O'er  that  darkness  whence  is  thiiist 

Prayer  aud  sleep,  oft  govenis  lust. 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb, 
While  wild  passions  captive  lie  ; 

And  each  article  of  time. 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  heaven  fly  ; 

All  her  vows  religious  be. 

And  she  vows  her  love  to  me. 

WILLIAM    HABI.N'CTON. 


THE  PRETTY  GIRL  OF  LOCH  DAN. 

The  shades  of  eve  had  crossed  the  glen 
That  frowns  o'er  infant  Avonmore, 

When,  nigh  Loch  Dan,  two  weary  men, 
AVe  stopped  before  a  cottage  door. 

"  God  save  all  here,"  my  comrade  cries, 
And  rattles  on  the  raised  latch-pin  ; 

"God  save  you  kindly,"  quick  replies 
A  clear  sweet  voice,  and  asks  us  in. 

We  enter  ;  from  the  wheel  she  starts, 

A  rosy  girl  W'ith  soft  black  eyes  ; 
Her  fluttering  court'sy  takes  our  hearts. 

Her  blushing  grace  and  pleased  suiimse. 

Poor  Mary,  she  was  quite  alone. 

For,  all  the  way  to  Glenmalure, 
Her  mother  Iiad  that  morning  gone. 

And  left  the  house  in  charge  with  her. 

But  neither  household  cares,  nor  yet 
The  shame  that  staitled  virgins  feel, 

Could  make  the  generous  gu-1  foi-get 
Her  wonted  hospitable  zeal. 

She  brought  us  in  a  beechen  bowl 

Sweet  mDk  that  smacked  of  mountain  thyme. 
Oat  cake,  and  such  a  yellow  roll 

Of  butter,  —  it  gilds  all  my  rhyme  ! 


J 


YOUTH. 


49 


ra 


^- 


And,  while  we  ate  the  grateful  food 
(With  weary  limbs  on  bench  reclined), 

Considerateand  discreet,  she  stood 
Apart,  and  listened  to  the  wind. 

Kind  wishes  both  our  souls  engajjed, 
From  breast  to  breast  sjjontancMUs  ran 

The  mutual  thought,  — we  stood  aiul  iih.-dged 
TlIR  MOriEST  ROSE  AUOVK  LOCII   1)AX. 

"  The  milk  we  drink  is  not  more  pure, 
Sweet  Mary, —  bless  those  budding  chaiTOS  !  - 

Than  your  own  generous  heart,  1  'm  sure. 
Nor  whiter  than  the  bi'east  it  warms  !  " 

She  turned  and  gazed,  unused  to  hear 
Such  language  in  that  homely  glen  ; 

But,  Mary,  you  have  naught  to  fear. 
Though  smilerl  on  liy  two  stranger-men. 

Not  for  a  crown  would  I  alarm 
Your  virgin  pride  by  word  or  sign, 

Nor  need  a  painful  bhish  <Usann 

My  friend  of  thoughts  as  pure  as  mine. 

Her  simi)lp  heart  could  not  but  feel 

The  words  we  spoke  weie  free  from  guile  ; 

She  stooped,  she  blushed,  she  fi.ved  her  wheel,- 
'T  is  all  in  vain,  —  she  can't  but  smile  ! 

.lust  like  sweet  Ajiril's  dawn  appears 
Her  modest  face,  ■  •  I  see  it  yet,  — 

And  though  T  lived  a  hundred  years 
Methinks  I  never  could  forget 

The  pleasure  that,  despite  her  heart, 
I'"ills  all  lier  downcast  eyc^s  with  light. 

The  lips  reluctantly  ajiart, 

Tlie  wliite  teeth  struggling  into  sight, 

The  dimples  eddying  o'er  her  cheek,  — 
The  rosy  cheek  th.at  won't  be  still  ;  — 

0,  who  could  lilanie  what  flatterers  s])cak. 
Did  smiles  like  this  reward  their  skill  < 

For  such  another  smile,  I  vow. 

Though  loudly  beats  the  midnight  rain, 

I  'd  take  the  mountain-side  e'en  now. 
And  walk  to  Luggolaw  again  ! 

samuft.  Fe 


She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  com, 
f'lasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun. 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 


On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripimed  ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born. 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  com. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
Hut  long  laslies  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tres.sy  forehead  dim  ;  — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said.  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  should.st  but  glean  ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come. 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


LUCY. 

Shk  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove  ; 
A  maid  whom  there  wen;  none  to  praise. 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mos.sy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  cca.sed  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  gi'ave,  and  0, 

The  dilfercnce  to  me  ! 

William  Wordsworth 


TO   THE   HIGHLAND    GIRL   OF  INVERSNAID. 

SwEEr  Highland  Girl,  a  very  sliower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 

Twice  .seven  consenting  years  have  sheil 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  these  gray  rocks,  this  household  law^l, 

These  trees,  — a  veil  just  half  withdrawn,  — 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake. 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode  ; 

In  truth  together  ye  do  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream  ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 


^^ 


[^ 


50 


POKMS  OF  lAFANVY  AND   YOUTH. 


■a 


h 


IVit  0  fair  ('iTiiture  !  in  the  light 
Of  common  dny  so  hriivi'iily  hi'ight, 
1  blfss  thfi',  Vision  us  thon  «i't, 
I  bU'ss  thoo  with  a  luimnn  lii'iirt  : 
Coil  sliifkl  tliee  to  tJiy  hiti-st  y.'iu-s  ! 
1  noitln'i'  know  theo  nor  tliy  |iiicrs ; 
And  yet  my  eyes  aiv  tilled  witli  teal's. 

With  oarnest  feeling  1  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  1  am  lai'  away  ; 
For  never  saw  1  mien  or  face 
In  which  moiv  [ilainly  1  eould  trace 
Benignity  and  home-lm'd  sense 
Kipening  in  perleet  innoeenee. 
Here  scattered  like  a  random  seed, 
lu'Uioti'  I'nnn  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shaniefaeedness  : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  frt«edom  of  a  mountaineer  ; 
A  faee  witll  gladness  overspread. 
Soft  smiles,  by  liunian  kindness  bred  ; 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint,  lint  such  as  springs 
Fivni  (piick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  woixls  of  Knglish  speech,  — 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gi'stun's  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind. 
Seen  binls  of  tempest-loving  kind. 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  w  ind. 

What  hand  Imt  would  a  giirland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ■ 

0  happy  ploasuiv  !  heiv  to  dwell 
Beside  theo  in  some  heathy  dell  ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  drt-ss, 
A  shepheixl,  thou  a  shepheixless  ! 
But  1  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 

Tliou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea  ;  and  1  would  have 
Some  claim  u)ion  thee,  if  1  could. 
Though  but  of  con\mon  neighborhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  ami  to  see  ! 
Thy  elder  brother  I  would  Ik-. 
Thy  father,  -   anything  to  thee. 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  I  that  of  its  grac' 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place  ; 
Joy  have  1  had  ;  and  going  hence 

1  bear  away  my  rt>eompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Onr  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  : 
Then  why  should  I  be  loath  to  stir » 
1  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her  ; 


To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 

(."ontinued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  1  loath,  though  pleased  al  heart. 

Sweet  Highland  Girl  !  from  tlice  to  piirt 

For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  liay,  the  waterfall  ; 

And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all  ! 


JENNY   KISSED  ME. 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
.lumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in. 

Time,  you  thief  I  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  juit  that  in. 

Say  1  'm  weary,  say  1  'm  sad  ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me 

Say  1  'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 

Jennv  kissed  me  ! 


"Yot'NO,  gay,  and  fortunate!"    Each  yields  a 

theme. 
And,  first,  thy  youth  ;  what  says  it  to  gray  hairs  > 
Nareissa.  I  in  hecome  thy  pupil  now  ; 
F.arly,  bright,  transient,  chaste  as  morning  dew. 
She  sparkled,  was  exhaled,  and  went  to  heaven. 


SWEET  STREAM,  THAT  WINDS. 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade. 

Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid,  — 

Silent  and  chaste,  she  steals  along. 

Far  from  the  world's  gay,  busy  throng  ; 

With  gentle  yet  i>revailing  force. 

Intent  upon  her  destined  course  ; 

Graceful  and  useful  all  slie  does. 

Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes  ; 

Pure-bosomed  as  that  watery  glass. 

And  Heaven  ivllected  in  her  face. 

WILLIAM    COWPEK. 


AFTER  THE  BALL. 

Thky  sat  and  oomlied  their  beautiful  hair. 
Their  long,  bright  tresses,  one  by  one. 

As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  chamWr  there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 


Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille, 
1      Idlv  thev  laughed,  like  other  girls. 


^ 


[&- 


51 


^ 


Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 
Comb  out  their  braids  aiiJ  curls. 

Kobe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace. 
Knots  of  Howers  and  ribbons,  too, 

Scattered  about  ill  every  place. 
For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Mad;;e  in  robes  of  white, 
The  [irettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun, 

Stockinglcss,  slipperle-ss,  .sit  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done,  — 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and  gold. 

Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill, 
All  out  of  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather. 

While  the  lire  is  out  and  the  house  is  still, 
Maud  and  Madge  together,  — 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun. 

Curtained  away  from  the  chilly  night. 
After  the  revel  is  done,  — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream, 
To  a  golden  gittern's  tinkling  tune, 

While  a  thousand  lusters  shimmering  stream 
In  a  palace's  grand  .saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces, 
Tropii:al  odors  sweeter  than  musk, 

Men  and  women  with  l>cautiful  faces, 
And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk,  — 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star. 
One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each, 

And  one  voice,  sweeter  than  others  are. 
Breaking  into  silvery  speech,  — 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom. 

An  old,  old  story  over  again, 
As  down  the  royal  bannered  room. 

To  the  golden  gittern's  strain. 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk. 
While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside, 

And  all  unheard  in  the  lovers'  talk. 
He  claimeth  one  for  a  bride. 

0  Maud  and  Madge,  drsam  on  together, 
Witli  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear  ! 

For,  en-  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year. 

Robed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for  the  tomb, 
Braided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress, 


There  '11  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the  bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press,  — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls. 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace,  — 

Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 
At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

0  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white. 
For  you  the  revel  has  ju.st  begun  ; 

But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms  to-niglit 
The  revel  of  Life  is  done  ! 

But,  robed  and  crowned  with  your  saintly  bliss. 
Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  sun, 

0  beautiful  Maud,  you  'II  never  miss 
The  kisses  another  hath  won  ! 

Nora  I'ekkv 


NEIGHBOR  NELLY. 

I  'm  in  love  with  neighbor  Nelly, 

Though  I  know  slie  's  only  ten, 
While,  alas  !  I  'm  eight-and-forty 

And  the  inarriedest  of  men  ! 
1  've  a  wife  who  weighs  me  double, 

I  've  three  daughters  all  with  beavx : 
1  've  a  son  with  noble  whiskers. 

Who  at  me  turns  up  his  nose. 

Though  a  sfpiare-toes,  and  a  fogey, 

Still  I  've  sunshine  in  my  heart ; 
Still  I  'm  fond  of  cakes  and  marbles, 

Can  ap|)rociate  a  tart. 
I  can  love  my  neighbor  Nelly 

Just  as  though  I  were  a  boy  : 
I  could  han<l  her  nuts  and  apples 

From  my  depths  of  corduroy. 

She  is  tall,  and  growing  taller. 

She  is  vigorous  of  limb  ; 
(You  should  see  her  play  at  cricket, 

With  her  little  brother  .lim.) 
She  has  eyes  as  blue  as  damsons, 

She  has  pounds  of  auburn  curls. 
She  regrets  the  game  of  leap-frog 

Is  prohibited  to  girls. 

I  adore  my  neighbor  Nelly, 

I  invite  her  in  to  tea  ; 
And  I  let  her  nurse  the  baby,  — 

All  her  pretty  ways  to  see. 
Such  a  darling  bud  of  woman, 

Yet  remote  from  any  teens,  — 
I  have  leajnt  from  neighbor  Nelly 

What  the  girl's  doll-instinct  means. 


-^ 


■ini 


POEMS  Olf'  im'ANGY  AND  YOUTH. 


^ 


0,  to  see  li(>r  willi  tlio  Imhy  ! 

Ill-  iuloii's  lioi'  inoiv  tliim  I,  — 
How  sill'  clnMHso.s  his  I'lwviuj;,  — 

llmv  shi'  liiislu'.i  ovovv  orv  ! 
llviw  slu'  lov.<s  to  i>it  liis  .liiuplos 

Willi  lii-r  lixhl  IVm'liiijsiM- ilwp ! 
Iltiw  !ihi>  liiHiKt.')  to  lilt'  in  ti'iiiiii|>h 

\Vl\t>ii  slu>  "s  jjot  liiiii  I'lV  to  slvop  I 

\Vi<  iimat  ixii'l,  my  ni'if{lil>iii'  Ni'tly, 
Kor  till'  smiinu'ix  i|»ii'kly  lloo  ; 

Ami  yoni'  miilitlo-«j;t>>l  mliuiiw 
Must  sui>pliiiit<-il  nuii'kly  lio. 

Yot  lis  joaloiis  IIS  II  iiiotlii'i'. 

A  ilislomiwii'il.  I'liiiki'ixil  oliurl, 

1  liHik  viiiiily  for  tlio  sottiiijf 

To  111'   WOl'lllY   Slll'll  II   IH'llI'l. 


SAl't'KD.W     ArVKKNUON. 

1  l.nVK  lo  look  on  11  si'oin'  like  lliis. 

0(  will!  mill  ,'nivli'ss  (iluy. 
Ami  pi'i-siiiuU'  iiiysolf  llitit  1  «m  not  old 

Ami  iiiY  looks  mv  not  y<>t  jii'ay ! 
Kor  it  stirs  tlio  Mooil  in  iiii  oUl  mini's  Iwirt. 

Ami  it  iiiiikos  liis  piilsos  lly. 
To  I'lilili  tlio  tlirill  ot  II  liii|'l>,v  voioo. 

Ami  till'  lljtlit  of  II  (lUviisniil  cyo. 

I  liiivo  walkoil  tlio  world  lor  foui'soorp  Vfars  ; 

Ami  tlu-y  siiy  tlmt  I  iiiii  old. 
And  my  litiirt  is  riiH>  lor  tlio  ivnuov  lloatli. 

And  my  ywirs  mv  woUiii>;li  told  : 
It  is  very  trilo  ;  it  is  vory  tnio  ; 

1  mil  old,  iiml  I  liidi'  mv  time; 
lUit  my  lioirt  will  l«i|i  at  a  .-ooiio  liko  this. 

And  I  half  n'liow  my  iiriiiio. 


Miiy  on,  piny  mi  ;  1  am  with  you  tlipro, 

111  tlio  miilst  of  your  niorry  ring  ; 
1  01111  fool  llio  tliriU  of  ttio  during  jiinii', 

And  llio  rush  of  Uio  l.roalliloss  swiiii;. 
I  Irnlo  Willi  von  in  llio  friigraiit  liny, 

And  1  wlii'op  Uiosniotliorod  oiill; 
And  my  foot  slip  U|i  on  tlio  soody  Moor, 

Ami  I  OHIO  not  for  tlio  lull, 

1  mil  wiUinj;  to  dio  wlion  my  tiino  slmll  ooiin', 

And  1  shall  ho  glad  to  gvi  ; 
Kor  tho  world  at  host  is  ii  woiiry  plaoo 

And  my  |mlso  is  gi'lting  low  ; 
Hut  tho  gravo  is  dark,  and  tlio  hoarl  will  fail 

III  tivading  its  gloomy  way  : 
Ihit  it  wilos  my  lioart  I'^nn  its  dn'ariiioss, 

To  soo  tlio  young  so  guy. 

NAniASIIII,   I'AKKIIK   Willis. 


IT   NKVKK    rOMKS    .\(1.\1N. 

TiiKui'.  aiv  gains  for  all  our  lossos, 

Tlioiv  aiv  K'llins  for  all  our  piiiii  ; 
Hut  wlion  youlh,  tho  vlivain,  doimvts, 
U  tnko.s  soiiiothiiig  I'lvm  onr  hoarts, 
And  it  iio\i>r  ooinos  tigiiiu. 

Wo  aix'  st  i\iiigt>i',  and  aiv  K'ttov, 

I'ndor  niaiiliood's  stornor  ivign  ; 
Still  wo  fool  that  somothiiig  swoot 
FoUowod  youth,  with  Hying  foot, 
And  will  novor  oomo  agiiiii. 

Soniot.hing  lHviutil\il  is  \tiiiisluHl, 

,\nd  wo  sigh  for  it  in  vaiii  : 
Wo  iM'hold  it  owrywhoiv. 
On  tho  oiirtli,  and  in  tho  air, 

liut  il  novor  oomos  agnin. 

KlCIIAKL>  IlKNKV  SU>IH\ARU 


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--a 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


en 


BENEDICITE. 

God's  love  and  fiea'-t  Iji-  witli  tliee,  where 
Soe'cr  this  soft  autunmul  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  liair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face. 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace. 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 

The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 

The  maple  shadows  overhead,  — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine,  — 
All  keep  thy  niemor}'  fresli  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray. 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way. 
And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day  : 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene. 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  Ijetween 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendshijj's  spellword,  nor 
The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  inaiiy  a  charm  thou  lia.st 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  tlici- 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  me. 

What  should ,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be  ? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed,  — 
Wliat  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  ? 


God's  love,  —  unchanging,  pure,  and  true. 
The  Paraclete  while-shining  through 
His  peace,  —  the  fall  of  Hermons  dew  I 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 

JOH.M  GREENLEAF    WHITTII 


AN  INVITATION. 

Nine  years  have  slipt  like  hour-glass  sand 

From  life's  still-emptying  globe  aw^ay 
Since  last,  dear  friend,  I  clasped  your  hand, 
And  stood  upon  the  impoverished  land, 
Watching  the  steamer  down  the  bay. 

I  held  the  token  which  you  gave. 

While  slowly  the  smoke-pennon  curled 
O'er  tlie  vague  rim  'tween  sky  and  wave, 
And  shut  the  distance  like  a  grave, 
Leaving  me  in  the  colder  world. 

The  old  worn  world  of  hurry  and  heat. 

The  young,  fresh  world  of  thought  and  scope, 
While  you,  where  beckoning  billows  tieet 
f.'limb  far  .sky-beaches  still  and  sweet, 

Sank  wavering  down  the  ocean  .slope. 

You  sought  the  new  world  in  the  old, 

I  found  the  old  world  in  the  new. 
All  that  our  human  hearts  can  hold. 
The  inward  world  of  deatliless  mold. 
The  same  that  Father  Adam  knew. 

He  needs  no  ship  to  cross  the  tide. 
Who,  in  the  lives  about  him,  sees 

Fair  wimlow-prospects  opening  wide 

O'er  history's  fields  on  every  side. 

To  Ind  and  Egj'pt,  Rome  and  Greece. 

Whatever  molds  of  various  brain 

E'er  shaped  the  world  to  weal  or  woe. 
Whatever  empires  wax  and  wane, 


-^ 


^57 


POEMS    OV  J<'HlJiNDSHlf\ 


— a 


l\i  him  tlmt  Imtli  not  eyes  in  vain, 
Our  villajis-uiiorocosui  eun  show. 

Coiuo  Iwok  oHi'  anoiont  walks  to  ti-ead, 

Pear  liaimts  ol'  lust  or  seattored  friends, 
Old  Uarvaril's  seholai'-liiotories  i-ed, 
Wlieiti  song  and  smoke  and  laughter  si>ed 
'I'he  nights  to  pivetor-haunted  ends. 

Constant  are  all  our  former  loves. 

Unehangvd  the  ieehouse-gii\Ued  pond, 
Its  heniloik  glooms,  its  shadowy  eoves, 
Wliei-e  floats  the  root  suid  \iever  moves, 

Its  slope  of  loug-tauuxl  given  U'vond. 

Our  old  familiai's  are  not  Uiid, 

Though  snapt  our  waiuls  and  sunk  our  books ; 
They  Kxkon,  not  to  l>e  gainsiiid, 
Wheif,  ivund  broad  meads  that  mowers  wsule, 

Tlu!  Charles  his  ste»l-Wue  sickle  eivoks. 

Wheiv,  as  the  cloudKngs  eastwaixl  blow, 
Fivm  glow  to  gUnnn  the  hillsides  shift 
Their  I'lumtw  of  oivhaiil  ti-ees  arow, 
Their  lakes  of  rye  that  wave  and  (low. 
Their  snowy  whiteweed's  stunmer  drift. 

Thei-e  have  we  watehed  the  West  unfurl 

A  eloiul  Byzantium  newly  born. 
With  lliekering  spires  and  domes  of  l>earl, 
.\nd  vapoi-y  surfs  that  crowd  and  curl 

Into  the  sunset's  C.olden  Horn. 

There,  as  the  flaming  Occident 

Burned  .slowly  down  to  aslies  gray. 

Night  pitched  o'erhead  her  .silent  tent. 

And  glimmering  gold  fivm  Hesi*r  sprent 
Upon  the  darkened  river  lay. 

Where  a  twin  sky  but  jnst  before 

tVe(iene<l,  and  ilouble  swallows  skimmed, 

.\nd,  fivm  a  visionary  shore. 

H\iug  visioiied  t«H>s,  that,  more  and  more. 
Grew  dusk  as  tluvse  alx>ve  were  dimmed. 

Then  casitwanl  saw  we  slowly  grew 

Cl««r-etlge<l  the  lines  of  roof  and  spire. 
While  great  elm-masses  blacken  slow. 
And  linden-ricks  their  round  hetids  show 
Against  a  flush  of  widening  tire. 

IXnibtfnl  at  first  and  far  .way. 

The  moou-flo<Kl  cree^ts  moiv  wide  and  wide  ; 
I'p  a  i-iilged  beach  of  clondy  gray. 
Cnrve^l  round  the  east  as  round  a  Wy, 

It  slijw  and  spreads  its  gradual  tide. 

Then  suddenly,  in  lurid  mood. 
The  uioou  looms  large  o'er  town  and  fieW, 


1  .\s  upon  .\dam,  red  like  blood, 
'Tween  hin>  and  Kden's  happy  wood, 
Glareil  the  commissioned  angel's  shield. 

Or  let  us  seek  the  seaside,  there 

To  wander  idly  as  we  list. 
Whether,  on  rocky  headlands  hare. 
Sharp  ceilai'-horns,  like  breakei-s,  tear 

The  trailing  fringes  of  gray  mist. 

Or  whether,  under  skies  full  flown. 
The  brightening  surfs,  with  foamy  din. 

Their  breeze-caught  forelocks  Iwckwanl  blown. 

Against  the  beach's  yellow  zone, 
Curl  slow,  and  plunge  forever  in. 

And  as  we  watch  those  canvas  tower's 
I      That  lean  along  the  horizon's  rim, 
"Sail  on,"  I  '11  siiy  ;  "  may  sunniest  hours 
Coiwoy  you  from  this  land  of  out's. 

Since  from  my  side  you  bear  not  him  ! " 

For  yeai-s  thrice  three,  wise  Horace  said, 

A  jioem  rare  let  silence  bind  ; 
And  love  may  ripen  in  the  sliade, 
Like  ours,  for  nine  long  seasons  laid 

hi  deepest  arehes  of  the  mind. 

'  Come  back  !     Not  ours  the  Old  World's  good, 
i      The  Old  AVorld's  ill,  thank  God,  uot  ouis  ; 

But  here,  far  l>etter  undei'stood. 

The  davs  enforee  our  native  mooil, 
.\nd  challenge  all  our  maidier  jxiwei-s. 

Kindlier  to  me  the  place  of  birth 
That  fu-st  my  tottering  footstei>s  ti'od  ; 

There<  may  be  fairer  sjvts  of  earth, 

'  But  all  their  glories  are  not  worth 

The  virtue  of  the  native  sod. 

'  Thence  climbs  an  influence  more  benign 

Through  pulse  iuul  nerve,  through  heart  and 

1  brain : 

:  Sacreil  to  me  those  fibers  fine 

]  That  first  clasjied  earth.     O.  ne'er  Ih>  mine 
The  alien  sun  and  alien  rain  ! 

These  nourish  not  like  homelier  glows 

Or  waterings  of  familiar  skies. 
And  nature  fairer  blooms  bestows 
On  the  heajied  hush  of  wintry  snows. 

In  iwstures  dear  to  ohildhooiVs  eyes, 

'  Than  where  Italian  earth  receives 
The  partial  sunshine's  ampler  boons. 

Where  vines  can-e  friezes  'neath  the  eaves, 

.\nd,  in  dark  firmaments  of  leaves. 
The  orange  lifts  its  golden  moons. 


-^ 


fl-- 


PUEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIV. 


TT-a 


3-- 


DREAMS  AND   REALITIES. 

O  lio.sAMiiNU,  thou  lair  ami  jjoml 
And  perfect  flower  of  womanhood  ! 

Tliou  royal  rose  of  June  ! 
Why  ilidst  thou  droop  before  thy  time  ? 
W'liy  wither  in  the  first  sweet  prime  ? 

Why  didst  thou  die  so  soon  ? 

For,  lookinj;  luickward  tliruuf^li  my  tears 
(}\\  thee,  and  on  niy  wasted  years, 

I  cannot  choose  but  say. 
If  thou  hadst  lived  to  be  my  guide. 
Or  thou  hadst  lived  and  I  Iiad  died, 

'T  were  better  far  to-day. 

0  child  of  light,  0  golden  head  !  — 
Bright  sunbeam  for  one  moment  shed 

Upon  life's  lonely  way,  — 
Wliy  didst  thou  vanish  from  our  sight  ? 
Could  they  not  spare  my  little  light 

From  heaven's  unclouded  day  ? 

0  friend  so  true,  0  friend  so  good  !  — 
Thou  one  dream  of  my  maidenhood, 

That  gave  youth  all  its  charms,  — 
What  had  I  done,  or  what  hadst  thou. 
That,  through  this  lonesome  world  till  now. 

We  walk  with  empty  arms  ' 

And  yet  this  poor  soul  Iiad  l)cen  fed 
With  all  it  loved  .-ind  coveted  ; 

Had  life  Ijcen  always  fair. 
Would  tlicse  dear  dreams  that  ne'er  depart. 
That  thrill  with  bliss  my  inmost  heart, 

Forever  tremble  there  ? 

If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place, 
The  friends  1  held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas  ! 
f'ould  1  have  learned  that  clear,  calm  faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bonds  of  death. 

And  almost  longs  to  pass  ? 

Sometimes,  I  think,  the  things  we  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  he  : 

That  what  we  plan  we  build  ; 
Tliat  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed, 
And  every  dream  we  thought  was  lost, 

In  heaven  shall  be  fullilled  ; 

That  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
Have  not  Ijeen  born  and  died  in  vain, 

Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb  ; 
But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore 
They  live,  embodied  evi'iiimre. 

And  wait  for  us  to  cnnn-. 


And  when  on  that  last  day  we  rise. 
Caught  up  between  the  earth  and  skies, 

Then  shall  we  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  Thou  hast  done  with  doubt  and  death, 
Henceforth,  according  to  thy  faith, 

Shall  be  thy  faith's  reward. 


THE  OLD  SOHOOL-HOUSE. 

I  SAT  an  hour  to-day,  John, 

Beside  the  old  brook-stream,  — 
Where  we  were  school-boys  in  old  time, 

When  manhood  was  a  dream  ; 
The  brook  is  choked  with  fallen  leaves. 

The  pond  is  dried  away, 
I  scarce  believe  that  you  would  know 

The  dear  old  place  to-day. 

The  school-house  is  no  more,  John,  — 

Beneath  our  locust-trees, 
Tlie  wild  rose  by  the  window's  side 

No  more  waves  in  the  breeze ; 
The  scattered  stones  look  desolat  •  ; 

The  sod  they  rested  on 
Has  been  plowed  up  by  stranger  hands. 

Since  you  and  I  were  gone. 

The  chestnut-tree  is  dead,  John,  — 

And  what  is  sadder  now. 
The  grapevine  of  that  same  old  swing 

Hangs  on  the  withered  bough. 
I  read  our  names  upon  the  bark, 

And  found  the  pebbles  rare 
Laid  up  beneath  the  hollow  side, 

As  we  had  piled  thi;ni  there. 

Beneath  the  grass-grown  bank,  John,  — 

I  looked  for  our  old  sjiring. 
That  bubliled  down  the  aldcr-jiath 

Three  paces  from  tlie  swing  ; 
The  rushes  grow  upon  the  brink, 

The  pool  is  black  and  bare. 
And  not  a  foot  for  many  a  day. 

It  seems,  has  trodden  there. 

I  took  the  old  blind  road,  John, 

That,  wandered  up  the  hill,  — 
'T  is  darker  than  it  used  to  be, 

And  seems  so  lone  and  still  ; 
The  birds  yet  sing  upon  the  boughs 

Where  once  the  sweet  grapes  hung. 
But  not  a  voice  of  human  kind 

Where  all  our  voices  rung. 

I  sat  me  on  the  fenee,  .bilin, 
That  lies  as  in  ohl  time, 


^ 


[Q-- 


UO 


PUEMS   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


-R, 


Tho  same  lialf-paiiel  in  tho  path 

Wo  used  so  ol't  to  cliinl),  — 
Ami  tlioiiglit  how,  o'lT  the  luirs  of  life, 

t)Hr  phiyinatt's  had  passed  on, 
And  left  nie  counting  on  the  spot 

The  faces  that  wore  gone. 

ANONYMOUS 


BILL  AND  JOE. 

(^iME,  dear  old  conmide,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  fioni  days  gone  by,  — 
'I'lic  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  blight  as  nioining  dew,  — 
'I'll!'  lusty  days  of  long  ago. 
When  yon  were  IJill  and  1  \v;is  .loo. 

N'our  name  may  Haunt  a  titled  trail, 
I'roud  !is  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail  ; 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tani  O'Shanter's  hickless  mare  ; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  yon  are  Bill. 

You  ■\'i'  won  the  great  woihl's  envied  prize, 
,\ud  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
Aiih  II  (1  N.  and  L  L.  I). 
1 11  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
^■our  list,  old  fellow  !  o(V  they  go  ! 
How  are  yon.  Hill  !     How  are  yon,  Joe  ? 


V.ni 


Yon 


ve  worn  the  judge's  crmiued  robe  : 
ve  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe 
ve  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain  ; 


N'oii  've  made  the  dead  )>ast  live  again  : 


Tlie 
lint 


world  iiiav  call  von  what  it  will, 
iiul  f  are  .loe  and  Hill. 


l: 


Tlie  chairing  young  folks  stare  and  say, 
".'^ei'  those  old  Imtfers,  bent  and  gi'ay  ; 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens  ! 
Maii.  iioor  old  boys  !   That  's  what  it  means 
.\iid  shake  their  "heads  ;  they  little  know 
Tlic  throbbing  hearts  of  Hill  and  .Toe  ! 

Ibnv  Hill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride. 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  -side  ;  _ 
How  Joe.  ill  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Fiiuls  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  till 
.\s  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

.\h.  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  ? 
.\  titfnl  tongue  of  leaping  flame  ; 
.\  giddy  whirlwind's  tickle  gust. 
That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust  : 


A  few  swift  years,  and  who  cjin  show 
Which  dust  was  Bill,  and  which  was  Joe ! 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand. 

Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 

While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 

How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! 

Till  all  at  onee  his  pulses  thrill, 

'T  is  poor  old  Joe's  "  God  bless  you.  Bill  ! ' 

And  sliall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears,  — 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song, 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long,  — 
Ju.st  whispering  of  the  world  below. 
Where  this  was  Bill,  and  that  was  Joe  ? 

No  matter  ;  while  our  homo  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear  ; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
AVlio  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say  ? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Micjaat  }oe.     Hie  jaect  Bill. 


THE  DEAD  FRIEND. 


Till',  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go. 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well. 
Through  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell. 

From  tlower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow. 

But  where  the  path  we  walked  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope. 
As  we  descended  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  feared  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  eonipauioiiship. 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold. 
And  wrapped  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dulled  the  murmur  on  thy  liji. 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each. 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Siiecch  : 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good. 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring. 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

lloved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 

I  know  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared  : 
.\nd  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  dailv  hui-den  for  the  back. 


-^ 


e- 


POEMS  OF  FRlENDSHir. 


57 


r^ 


liut  tliis  it  was  that  mailo  irii;  move 

As  lij;lit  as  carricr-binls  in  air  ; 

I  loved  the  weight  I  liail  to  bear 
Because  it  rieedcil  helj)  of  Love  : 

Nor  <:oul(l  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 

When  mij;hly  Love  "'ould  cleave  in  twain 
Tlie  ladin;^  of  a  single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giviii;,'  liall'  to  him. 

Hilt  I  reniaiiied,  who.se  hopes  were  dim, 
Whoso  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little  worth. 
To  wander  on  a  daikencd  earth. 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 

0  fiiendshii?,  eipial-poised  control, 
O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  saereil  essenee,  other  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  O  crown!;d  soul  ! 

V'et  none  could  Ijctter  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  ilemands 

Uy  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  though  left  alone. 
His  being  working  in  mine  own. 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I  met  : 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  ho[ie3  that  make  us  men. 

1  woo  your  love  :  1  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  ov(!nniich  ; 

1,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  mastered  Time  ; 

Which  masters  Time,  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this. 

0  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  ])ro])er  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

I''or  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  : 

Tljat  out  of  distance  might  en.sue 

Desire  of  neaniess  doubly  sweet  ; 

And  unto  meeting  wdien  we  meet. 
Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue. 

The  hills  arc  shadows,  ami  they  (low 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands  ; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  aiul  go. 


But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  trae  ; 

For  though  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 


THE  MEETINO  OF  TItE  SHIPS. 

"  Wc  take  c-icli  otiicr  Uy  the  hand,  and  wc  exchange  a  few  wor<U 
and  looki,  of  kindness,  and  wc  rejoice  together  for  a  few  shun  iiirc 
inentti  ;  and  tlion  day4,  months,  years  Intervene,  and  ..  i:  nee  and 
know  nothing  of  each  other."  —  Wasimnoton  Ikvino, 

Two  barks  met  on  the  ileep  mid-sea, 
When  calms  had  stilled  the  tide  ; 

A  few  bright  ilays  of  sumnti^r  glee 
There  found  them  side  by  side. 

And  voices  of  the  fair  and  brave 
Hose  mingling  thence  in  mirth  ; 

And  sweetly  floated  o'er  the  wave 
The  melodies  of  earth. 

Moonlight  on  that  lone  Imlian  main 

Cloudless  and  lovely  slept  ; 
While  dancing  step  and  festive  stiain 

Each  deck  in  triumph  swept. 

And  hands  were  linked,  and  answering  eye.* 
With  kindly  meaning  shone  ; 

0,  brief  anil  passing  symi>athies. 
Like  leaves  together  blown  ! 

A  little  while  such  joy  was  cast 

Over  the  deep's  reimse. 
Till  the  loud  singing  winds  at  last 

Like  trumpet  mu.sic  rose. 

And  proudly,  freely  on  their  way 

The  jiiirtiug  vessels  bore  ; 
In  calm  or  st/ii-m,  by  rock  or  bay, 

To  meet       ()  nevi-rmore  ! 

Never  to  blenil  in  vii^toiy's  cheer. 

To  aid  in  hours  of  woe  ; 
And  thus  bright  spirits  ininirle  here, 

Such  tics  are  Ibrmeil  below. 

I-Rl.ICIA  Mkmans. 


.lAFi'An,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  vizier. 
The  poor  man's  hope, the  friend  without  a  peer, — 
■laffar  was  dead,  slain  by  a  dor.m  un.jost  ; 
And  guilty  Haroun,  sullen  with  mistni.rt 
Of  wdiat  the  good,  and  e'en  the  bad,  might  say, 
Ordaimtl  that  no  man  living,  from  that;  day, 
.Should  dare  to  sjicak  his  name  on  pain  of  death. 
All  Arahy  and  I'ersia  held  their  breath 


■^ff 


f^. 


rOEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


-fD 


h 


All  but  the  bravo  Mondeer  ;  he,  jiroiul  to  show 
How  fur  for  love  a  grateful  soul  could  go, 
And  facing  death  for  very  scorn  and  grief 
(For  his  great  heart  wanted  a  great  reliefs, 
Stooil  forth  in  Bagdad,  daily,  in  the  square 
Where  once  had  stood  a  happy  house,  and  there 
Harangued  the  tremblers  at  the  scimitar 
On  all  they  owed  to  the  divine  Jalfar. 

"  Bring  mc  tliis  man,"  the  caliph  cried  ;  the  man 
AVas  brought,  was  gazed  upon.  The  mutes  began 
To  bind  his  arms.     "  Welcome,  brave  cords," 

cried  he, 
"  From  bonds  far  worse  Jatlar  delivered  me  ; 
From  wants,  from  shames,  from  loveless  house- 
hold feai-s  ; 
Hade  a  nnui's  eyes  friends  witli  delicious  tears  ; 
Restored  me,  loved  me,  put  me  on  a  par 
With  his  great  self.     How  can  I  pay  Jaffar  ?  " 

Haroun,  who  felt  tliat  ou  a  soul  like  this 
The  mightiest  vengeance  could  but  fall  amiss, 
Now  deigned  to  smile,  as  one  great  lord  of  fate 
Might  smile  upon  another  half  as  great. 
He  said,  "  Let  worth  grow  frenzied  if  it  will  ; 
'I'he  caliph's  judgment  shall  bo  master  .still; 
Go,  and  since  gifts  so  move  thee,  take  this  gem. 
The  richest  in  the  Tartar's  diadem, 
•And  hold  the  giver  as  thou  dcemest  fit  !  " 
"(lifts  !  "  cried  the  friend  ;  he  took  and  hold- 
ing it. 
High  toward  the  heavens,  as  though  to  meet  his 

star, 
E.xclaimed,  "  Thi.s  too,  1  owe  to  thee,  .Tslfar  !" 


VTR  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 

Vi't.  have  been  friends  together 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut-tree 

In  infancy  we  played. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  friends  together. 

Shall  a  light  won!  jiart  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together  ; 

We  have  laughed  at  little  jests  ; 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 

AVarm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts. 
But  laughter  now  hath  ficd  thy  lip. 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  gay  together. 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together  ; 
We  have  wept  with  bitter  tears 


O'er  the  gras.-.gni\Mi  j,'i,ivcs  where  slumbered 

The  hopes  nl  ,:,il\   vars. 
The  voices  uhi.  1,  nmiv  Mlenl  then 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  sad  together. 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

Caroline  e.  Norton. 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 

0,  ASK  not,  hope  thou  not,  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below  ; 
Beware  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  How  : 
Few  —  and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet  — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  licet. 

It  may  he  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns  ; 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring,  — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times,  — 

A  sorrowful  delight !  — 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes, 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night  ; 
The  wind  that,  with  .so  many  a  tone. 

Some  chonl  within  can  thrill,  — 
These  nuvy  have  language  all  thine  own, 

To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not  for  this  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years  : 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew. 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 
If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part. 
And  watched  through  sickness  by  thy  bed. 

Call  hi.t  a  kindred  heart  ! 

But  f.ir  those  bonds  all  perfect  made. 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend. 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend. 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied. 

Never  to  mortals  given, 
0,  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  siside. 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven  ! 

FF.I-1C1.<   HEMANS. 


POEMS   OF  FRIEXD.SHIP. 


n".    Qj 


59 


THE  VALK  OF  AVOCA. 

i 
There  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters 

meet ; 
0,  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my 

heart ! 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 
'T  was  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill,  — 
0,  no  !  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

T  was  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom, 
were  near. 

Who  made  everj'  dear  scene  of  enchantment 
more  dear, 

And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  im- 
prove. 

When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we 
love. 

Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could  I  rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love 

best ; 
Where  the  stoiTiis  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world 

should  cea.se. 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in 

peace. 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE  ROYAL  GUEST. 

They  tell  me  I  am  shrewd  with  other  men  ; 

With  thee  I  'm  slow,  and  dillicult  of  speech. 
With  others  1  may  guide  the  car  of  talk  ; 

Thou  wing'st  it  oft  to  realms  beyond  my  reach. 

If  other  guests  should  come,  I  'd  deck  my  hair. 
And  choose  my  newest  garment  from  the  shelf; 

When  thou  art  bidden,  I  would  clothe  my  heart 
With  holiest  purpose,  as  for  God  himself. 

For  them  I  while  the  hours  with  tale  or  song,       j 
Or  web  of  fancy,  fringed  with  careless  rhyme ; 

But  how  to  find  a  fitting  lay  for  thee. 
Who  hast  the  harmonies  of  every  time  ? 

0  friend  beloved  !     I  sit  apart  and  dumb,  — 
.Sometimes  in  sorrow,  oft  in  joy  divine ; 

My  lip  will  falter,  but  my  prisoned  heart 

.Springs  forth  to  measure  its  faint  pulse  with 
thine. 


Where  simple  rustics  spread  their  festal  fare 
And,  blushing,  own  it  is  not  good  enough. 

Bethink  thee,  then,  whene'er  thou  com'st  to  me. 

From  high  emprise  and  noble  toil  to  rest, 
Jly  thoughts  are  weak  and  trivial,  matched  with 
thine ; 
But  the  poor  mansion  offers  thee  its  best. 

JULIA  Ward  Howe. 


THE  QUARREL  OF  FRIENDS. 

FROM   "CUR 


Alas  1  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  : 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poi.son  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 

And  life  is  thorny ;  and  youth  is  vain ; 
And  to  Ije  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  ma<lness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Iioland  and  Sir  Leoline  I 
Each  spoke  words  of  high  disdain 

And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother ; 
They  parted,  —  ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 

But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining. 
They  stood  aloof,  the  .scars  remaining. 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder ; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  Ijeen. 
s.  T.  Coleridge. 


43-^ 


Thou  art  to  me  most  like  a  royal  guest. 

Whose  travels  bring  him  to  some  lowly  roof. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

A  EtTDD\'  drop  of  manly  blood 

The  surging  sea  outweighs  ; 

The  world  uncertain  comes  and  goes, 

The  lover  rooted  stays. 

I  fancied  he  was  fled,  — 

And,  after  many  a  year, 

Glowed  unexhausted  kindliness. 

Like  daily  sunri-se  there. 

My  careful  heart  was  free  again  ; 

0  friend,  my  bosom  said. 

Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched. 

Through  thee  the  rose  is  red ; 

All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form. 

And  look  beyond  the  earth  ; 

The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 

A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 

Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To  master  my  despair  : 

The  fountains  of  niy  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  friendship  fair. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


^ 


.•fh, 


CO 


I'OEiVS  OF  FlUENDSHIP. 


■^ 


KUIKNl>SlUr 


11am.     llonilio,  llion  lilt  o't'ii  iisjust  i>  num 
As  I'lT  my  ooiivoitwlioii  ('opml  witluil. 

lloK,    O,  m_v  Uoiii'  liml 

Mam.  Niiv,  .lo  not  tliiiiK  1  lliiitcr  ; 

Koi'  what  lulviuuTiiii'iil  miiy  1  lioiu'  IVoui  tliri' 
Tlml  no  ivvonui'  liiisl  lull  lliv  >^»"l  spiriis, 
To  Iwil  unci  olollio  tluv  ?     Wliv  sluniia  llu-  i^or 

111'  IlllltOlVll    f 

No,  lot  tin-  I'liiulit'il  loujjui'  liok  ivlwunl  pomii, 
Aiul  oiMok  lliii  |iii'j»iiiuit  liinj»t's  of  tlu'  kinH>, 
WliiMvtlii'irt iiiiiy  I'oUow  I'liwiiiiij;.    Post Ihouhoni'f 
Siiu'o  my  ilrur  soul  wus  misttvss  of  lu>i'  I'lioico, 
Aiiil  ooulil  of  moil  ilistiiijjnisli,  liov  olootioii 
Hulli  souloil  tlioo  for  lioi-solf ;  for  tlion  liast  boon 
As  Olio,  ill  sult'oiiuj'  all,  llint  ttiilVoi's  nothing,  — 
A  mini  tliat  Foitiino's  bnll'ots  and  ivwiinls 
lliist   ta'oii  with  o<iual  thanks  ;  ami  Mossed  are 

thoso 
\VliosolihnHl«iid  judgniont  luv  sowoll  oo-niinnlod, 
Tlnil  thoy  aiv  not  a  \i\v>  for  I'oituno's  Wwgor 
To  sound  what  stop  silio  jdoaso  ;  Oivo  ino  that 

man 
That  is  not  ^vassion's  slavo,  and  1  will  woar  him 
hi  my  hoiirt's  ooi-o.  ay,  in  my  hoart  ofhoart. 
As  1  do  thoo. 


I  Oroamt  of  oncountoi-s  "twixt  tlivsolf  and  mo, 
Wo  Imvo  boon  down  togothor  in  my  sloon, 
I'nbuoklinj;  holms,  listinj;  oaoli  othor's  tlirout. 
And  wiikod   half  doiid   with   nolliiii;,'.      Worthy 

.Miiivins, 
Had  wo  no  othor  nunrivl  olso  to  Konio,  but  Ihut 
Tlion  art  (homo  Imnishod,  wo  would  innstor  nil 
Kivm  twolvo  to  sovouty  ;  and,  (louring  war 
into  tho  binvols  of  niigriitol'iil  Homo, 
liiko  II  \xi\d  Hood  o'orbour.     0,  oomo  !  go  in. 
And  tako  our  IViondly  sonatoi-s  by  tho  hands. 
Who  now  ai-o  hoiv,  taking  thoir  loavos  of  mo. 
Who  am  propirod  iignin.st  your  torritorios. 
Though  not  for  Homo  itsolf. 

.\  Ihousund  woloomcs  ! 
.\iul  moiv  II  friond  thiiii  o'or  an  onomy  ; 
Yot,  Maivins,  thut  was  miioh. 


h 


aiAKTl^iVL  FRIENDSHIP. 

VROM   "  OORIOI.ANVS." 
tAitf\,ti«s  the  WJsclaii  tv>  Cftius  Marv'ivis  Cofiol.in«s.l 

Ai'K,  tt  Maivius,  Maivius  ! 

Kaoli  wm\l  Ihoii  hast  sjioko  hath  woodod  tivm  mv 

hoiirl 
•V  iwl  of  aiioioiit  ouvy.      If  .Iniiitor 
Should  l'i\>m   yond'  oUnid  spwik  divino  tilings, 

and  say, 
""T  isfruo,"  1 M  not  Kdiovo  thom  nioiv  than  thoo, 
.\ll-noblo  Maivius,       Lot  mo  twino 
Mino  arms  aKnit  that  Kvly,  whoiv-against 
I^ly  gi-sumM  ash  an  lumdii-d  timos  hath  broke, 
\iid  soaixil  tlio  nuwn  with  s|>lintors  !    Uoro  1  clip 
Tho  anvil  of  my  swonl  ;  and  do  ivntest 
As  hotly  and  as  nobly  with  thy  lovo. 
As  over  in  ambitious  stivngMi  1  divl 
l\ii»tond  agjiinst  thy  \iiloi\     Know  tlion  lirst, 
1  lovod  tlio  maid  1  marriod  :  nowr  man 
Sigluvl  truor  biiwth  :  but  that  I  soo  thiH<  here, 
Tlion  noblo  tiling  I  morv  dam-tw  my  rai>t  hoiirt 
Than  when  I  tii'st  my  W(Hldt>»l  iiiistivss  saw 
Ivstrido  my  tluwhoid.    Why.  thou  Mai's  !  I  toll 

th.v. 
Wo  have  a  jwwor  on  tWt  ;  and  1  had  imrjx>s<< 
Onoo  mor<>  to  how  thy  targ<>t  fi-om  tJiy  brawn. 
Or  hvso  mino  arm  for  't.    Thou  hast  Iwit  mo  out 
T^vol\•^'  sovoral  timos,  and  1  h«vo  nightly  sinoo 


THE  MKMOKY   OF  TtlK  HKAUT. 

U"  stoivs  of  dry  and  lollrn^d  loro  wo  giiiu, 
Wo  koop  thom  in  tho  moiiiory  of  tho  biiiin  ; 
Kainos,  things,  and  faots,  —  wliato'orwo  knowl- 

inlgKi  oall,  — 
Thoiv  is  tho  oommon  lodgi'r  for  thom  «U  ; 
.\iid  imagi's  on  this  oold  snrfaoo  traood 
Mako  slight  impivssioii,  and  aiv  soon  ollaood, 
l>nt  wo  'vo  a  (mgo,  moiv  glowing  and  moiv  bright, 
tin  wliioli  our  frioiidshiii  and  our  lovo  to  write  ; 
That  those  may  never  fivni  tho  soul  doinirt. 
Wo  trust  thom  to  the  memory  of  the  heart. 
Thoiv  is  no  dininiing.  no  ort'iu'einont  tlioix'  ; 
Kaoh  new  (inlsation  keo|>s  the  ivooixl  clear  ; 
Warm.  g<>ldon  lottoi-s  all  tho  tablet  till. 
Nor  lose  their  luster  till  tJio  heart  stands  still, 

IIANIBL  WKBSTRR. 


WTIEN  TO  THE  SESSIONS  OV  SWKET  SILENT 
THOUQUT, 


WilEX  to  the  sessions  of  swoot  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  nnneuibninoe  of  things  i>ast, 
I  sigh  the  laok  of  many  a  thing  1  sought, 
.Vnd  with  old  woes  now  wail  my  dear  time's  waste. 
Thou  oan  1  divwu  an  oyo.  unused  to  How, 
For  |ir»'oions  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night. 
And  wi-ep  afivsh  love's  long  sinoe  eiuieoUed  woe. 
And  moiui  th'  exiH<uso  of  miuiy  a  \-anisheil  sight. 
Then  oan  1  grieve  at  grio\'!>m'es  foregone. 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woo  tell  o'er 
The  s!>d  aeoonnt  of  fore-lvnuwnJ'd  nuwn, 
Whioh  1  new  jwy,  as  if  not  jviid  Wforx'  : 
Hut  if  tlio  while  1  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
.\ll  livssos  ar\'  rvstonvl,  juid  sorrows  end, 

SHAKKSPKARK. 


i 


FOEMS  OF  FlllESDHUlP. 


Gl 


-a 


EAKLY   FKIKNtlHIUI-. 

The  half-seen  memories  of  chil'lisli  'lays, 
When  {rains  and  jjhiasures  lightly  came  and  went ; 
'I'Ik;  »ym)athies  of  boyhood  rashly  sijcnt 
i  II  fearful  wanderings  through  forbidden  ways  ; 
The  vague,  but  manly  wisli  U)  tr"««l  the  maze 
Of  life  to  noble  ends,  —  whereon  intent. 
Asking  to  know  for  what  man  here  is  sent. 
The  bravest  heart  must  often  jKiuitc,  and  gaze,— 
The  linn  rcstjlve  to  s<;ek  the  chosen  end 
Of  rnanliorxl's  judgment,  cautiomt  and  mature,  — 
Kaeh  of  these  viewless  Ixinds  binijii  friend  to  friend 
With  strength  no  selfish  purjKisc  can  secure  : 
My  happy  lot  is  this,  that  all  attend 
That  friendship  which  first  came,  and  which  shall 
last  endure. 

AUEKEV  DE  VEKE. 


A  TEMPLE  TO  FEIENDHHIP. 

"A  TKMi'LB  to  Friendship,"  cri<;d   Laura,  en- 

clianted, 
"  I  '11    build  in  thin  garden  ;    the  thought   id 

divine," 
So  the  temple  was  built,  and  she  now  only  want/jd 
An  image  of  Friendship,  to  place  on  the  shrine. 

.So  she  flewt^j  the  sculptor,  who  satdown  Ixjfore  her 
An  im;ige,  the  fairest  his  art  could  invent ; 
but  so  cold,  and  so  dull,  that  the  youthful  a/lorer 
Saw  phiinly  this  was  not  the  Friemlshipshe  meant. 

"0,  never,"  said  she,  "could  1  think  of  enshrin- 
ing 

An  image  whose  lw)k»  are  so  joyless  and  dim  ; 

liut  yon  little  goil  u\xm  roses  reclining. 

We  '11  make,  if  you  please,  sir,  a  Friendship  of 
him." 

So  the  Ixirgain  was  struck  ;  with  the  little  god 

la<len. 
She  joyfully  flew  Ui  her  home  in  the  grove. 
"  Farewell,"  said  the  sculptor,  "  you  're  not  the 

first  maiden 
Who  came  but  for  Friendship,  and  took  away 

Love ! " 

Thomas  mooke. 


1  HAD  sworn  to  be  a  bachelor,  she  ha/l  sworn  to 
>*  a  maid. 

For  we  (juif!  agreod  in  douMing  whether  matri- 
mony paid  ; 


Besides,   we  lia/1  our  higher  loves,   -  fair  w:'ikw.i. 

ruled  my  heart. 
And  she  said  her  young  affections  were  all  wound 

up  in  art. 

So  we  laughe'l  at  those  wise  men  who  say  that 

friendship  cannot  live 
"I'wixl  nuiii  and  woman,  unless  ea/.h  has  soiiie- 

thiiig  more  ti>  give  : 
We  would  Ije  Iriemis,  and  frienilj)  a»  true  a»  e'er 

were  man  and  man  ; 
I  'd  be  a  scond  Uavi<i,  and  she  ^li»s  Jonathan. 

We  ivMTiieil  all  wmtimental  trash,  —  vows,  kisses, 

tears,  and  sighs ; 
lligli  fricmlship,  such  as  ours,  might  well  such 

childiith  arts  despise  ; 
We  likud  each  other,  that  was  all,  (juite  all  there 

W!i»  to  say. 
So  we  just  shook  hand«  upon  it,  in  a  business 

sort  of  way. 

We  shared  our  screts  and  our  joys,  t/^getlicr 

hoiH;<l  and  f'earcl. 
With  common  jiurjios*:  sought  the  goal  ttiat  young 

Ambition  ti^tcA  ; 
We  dreamed  together  of  the  days,  the  driyini- 

bright  days  to  come. 
We  were  strictly  confidential,  and  we  called  'ach 

other  "  chum." 

And  many  a  day  we  wandered  together  o'er  the 

hills, 
I  seeking  buj;s  and  butterflies,  and  she,  the  rained 

mills 
And  rastic  bridges,  and  the  like,  tliat  picturc- 

niakei^  prize 
To  ran  in  with  their  waterfalls,  and  groves,  an  I 

summer  skies. 

And  many  a  quiet  evening,  in  hours  of  silent  i-jw.. 
We  iictiiWl  down  the  river,  or  stroUwl  >x;neath 

the  trees. 
And  talked,  in  long  gradation  from  the  yietH  Ui 

the  weather. 
While  the  western  skies  and  my  cigar  burned 

slowly  out  together. 

Yet  through  it  all  no  whispercl  word,  no  U:]\- 

tale  glance  or  sigh. 
Told  aught  of  wanner  sentiment  than  friendly 

symjiathy. 
We  talked  of  love  as  oolly  as  we  talked  of 

nebuUe, 
And  thought  no  more  of  being  cme  than  we  did 

of  being  Ihret. 


-& 


ifr 


u:i 


POUMS  OF  FRIENVSHIP. 


-^ 


"  Well,  gvicKl  by,  chuiu  ! "     1  took  hor  luuul,  for  Tho  wonU  cmuo  lightly,  tpivly,  Imt  ii  givut  soK 

the  time  hiul  oouu>  to  J^>.  just  Miiiul, 

My  J^>iug  lupttut  our  ^wrtinj;,  when  to  uu>et,  w»  Woiloil  ujiwiiul  with  tt  »toiy  of  ijuiio  a  dill'oi'eut 

vtivl  uot  know.  kiuvl. 

1  had  liu^oitnl  long,  »iul  saiil  fawwoU  with  a 


very  heavy  heart ; 
Far  althouitli  we  were  but  />■«(;«<>•,  "t  is  hajxl  for 
houest  iVieuds  to  ^wrt. 

"  Gowl  by,  old  fellow  !  diui't  foi'gxa  your  tVieuds 

Kiyoiul  the  sea, 
Aud  some  ilay,  wheu  you  ve  lots  ol  liuie,  di\>j>  a 

liue  vU'  two  to  me." 


Aud  tlieu  siie  l'ais«^l  her  eyes  to  luiue,  —  great 

liijuid  eyes  of  blue, 
Jelled  to  the  briux,  aud  ruuuiug  o'er,  like  violet 

cuiw  of  dow  ; 
Oue  louj!,  long  glaui-e.  aud  theu   I  diki.  what   1 

never  vlid  MXu-e  — 
Perhai>s  the  tam  uu«nt  tVieudship,   but    I  'm 

sure  the  Aiisif  meaut  uuuv. 

WU.l.l.*M    U    TBKKllir. 


•L 


-tP 


a-'- 


-a 


POEMS    OF    LOVE. 


COMPLIMENT    AND    ADMIRATION. 


WHEN  IN  THE  CHRONICLE  OF  WASTED  TIME. 

SONNET. 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 

I  see  description.^  of  the  fairest  wights, 

And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme, 

In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights ; 

Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty'.s  best 

Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 

I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 

Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 

Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring  ; 

And,  for  they  looked  but  with  divining  eyes. 

They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing ; 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days. 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


O  MISTRESS  SnNE. 

0  MisTRKSs  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
0,  stay  and  hear !  your  true-love 's  coming 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low ; 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting  I 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting,  — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?  't  is  not  hereafter ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty,  — 
Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth  's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

SHAKESPEARI 


OLIVIA. 

FROM   "  TWELFTH  NIGHT." 

VhiLA.     'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  an 

white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on  : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel' st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave. 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 


PORTIA'S  PICTURE. 


FROM  -THE 


OP  VENICE." 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?    M'lxat  deini;;  1 1 
Hath  come  .so  near  creation?     .Move  liie^ir  eyes ' 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine. 
Seem  they  in  motion?     Here  are  severed  lips. 
Parted  with  sugar  breath ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends:  Here  in  her 

hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider ;  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men, 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs :  But  her  eyes,  — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his. 
And  leave  itself  unfurnished. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


THE  NIGHT  PIECE. 

TO  JULIA. 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee. 
The  shooting-starres  attend  thee ; 
And  the  elves  also. 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

"So  Will-o'-th'-wispe  mislight  thee. 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on  thy  way. 

Not  making  .stay. 
Since  ghost  there  's  none  t'  affright  thee ! 

Let  not  the  darke  thee  cumber; 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber? 
The  .stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 

I/ike  tapers  cleare,  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee. 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  nie  ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soule  I  '11  pour  into  thee ! 


U-- 


-^ 


r^ 


04 


I'OEMS  OF  LOVE. 


■^ 


THE  KOKWAKD  VIOLET  THUS  DIP  1  CHIDE. 


The  fonviuvl  violet  thus  liid  1  oliide: — 

Swwt  thiof,  whouco  dklsl  thou  steal  thy  sweet 

that  swells. 
If  uot  fivm  my  love's  luvath  '  the  purple  piide 
Whkh  ou  thy  soft  iliwk  for  couiplexiou  dwells, 
111  my  loves  veins  thou  hast  too  gi-ossly  dyeil. 
The  lily  1  eoiidemutii  for  thy  liaud, 
A»d  buds  of  uuujoi-am  had  stoUu  thy  hair  : 
The  ivses  fearfully  ou  thorns  ilid  siaud, 
One  bhishiug  shame,  another  white  dos|iair; 
A  thiitl,  uor  i\il  nor  white,  had  stoleu  of  Ivth, 
And  to  this  ivbK-ry  liad  annexed  thy  bi-eath: 
15ut,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  givwth 
A  veugefid  canker  eat  him  up  lo  death. 
More  tlowers  1  notetl,  yet  1  none  could  see, 
But  sweet  or  color  it  had  stoU'u  fix>m  thee. 

SHAKtSPBAKE. 


GOOD  AXD  FAIR. 

How  near  to  gootl  is  what  is  fair  ! 

Which  we  uo  soouer  see. 

But  with  the  lines  and  outwai\i  air 

Our  senses  taken  be. 

We  wish  to  se*  it  still,  and  pivve 

Wh.it  waj-s  we  may  deserve  ; 
We  court,  we  praise,  we  moif  than  love, 

We  ai-e  uot  grieveil  to  serve. 

be.\  jonson. 


Like  to  Piana  iu  her  summer  weed. 
Girt  with  a  crimson  rolv  of  brightest  dj-v. 

Goes  fair  Saniela ; 
Whiter  th.sn  be  the  flocks  that  straggling  feed, 
W"hen  washe*.!  by  .Xwthusa  faint  they  lie. 

Is  fair  fiamela : 
As  fair  .\urora  iu  her  morning  gray, 
Deckevl  with  the  ruddy  glister  of  her  love, 

Ts  fair  S;imela : 
Like  lovely  Thetis  ou  a  cahueil  day, 
WTienas  her  brightness  Xeptuue's  fancy  move, 

Shines  fair  Sanu-Ia : 
Her  tresses  gold,  her  ej-es  like  glassy  streams. 
Her  teeth  are  pearl,  the  breasts  ai-e  ivory 

Of  fair  Samela  : 
Her  tfhe«ks,  like  rose  and  lily  yield  forth  gleams, 
Her  brows"  bright  aix-hes  framed  of  ebony ; 

Thus  fair  Sttuela 
fair  Venus  in  her  bravest  hue. 


And  ,luuo  iu  the  sliow  of  msyesty. 
For  she  "s  Samela  : 
I'iUlas  iu  wit,  all  thive,  if  you  will  view. 
For  lieauty,  wit,  and  matchless  dignity. 
Yield  to  Samela. 

KOSHKr  GKEE.NE. 


THEKE  IS  A  GAKDEK  IN  HER  FACE. 

FKO.V  "AN   HOVKE-S   KECKBA110.N  Iti    MVSlCliE.-     1(106. 

TuEKE  is  a  gai\len  in  her  face. 
Where  i-oses  and  white  lilies  blow : 

A  heavenly  pju-ailise  is  that  place, 
Wheivin  all  pleas)«ut  fruits  do  gix>w  ; 

Then-  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 

Till  cherry-rijie  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row. 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows. 

They  look  like  iv>sebuds  tiUeil  with  snow; 
Yet  them  no  jieer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still. 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand. 

Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 

These  sacreil  cherries  to  come  nigh. 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Richard  .\luso.\. 


I  THE   WHITE  ROSE. 

SENT  BY  A  ITORKISH  LOVER  1\>  HIS  L.USCASTR1AN  UISTSES& 

I  If  this  fair  ixvse  oftend  thy  sight, 

flacevl  in  thy  bosom  bare, 
'T  will  blush  to  find  itself  less  white. 
And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

But  if  thy  ruby  tip  it  spy. 

As  kiss  it  thou  mayest  deign. 
With  envy  jvile  "t  will  lose  its  dye, 
1  And  Y'orkisli  turn  .-tgiuu. 


MT  SWEET  SWEETING. 


FROM  A  MANfSCR 


:  TIME  OF  K£^RV  VIIL 


&- 


Ah.  my  sweet  sweeting  : 

My  little  pretty  sweeting. 

Mv  sweeting  will  1  love  wherever  I  go  : 

She  is  so  proper  and  pure, 
Ftill,  steadfast,  stable,  and  demure. 

There  is  none  such,  \-ou  may  be  sure, 
.Vs  my  sweet  sw^eeting. 


COMPLIMENT  AND  ADMIRATION. 


65 


-Qi 


icll  tliiM  ui.il.l,  as  lliiiikctli  iiic, 
luiic  .SI)  jilcasaiit  t(j  my  (;'e, 


III 
Is 
'I'liat  1  ain  ^jliid  so  ol't  to  see, 

As  my  sweet  sweeting. 
Wild)  I  behold  my  sweeting  sweet, 
Hit  face,  lier  liands,  her  minion  leet, 
'I'lii'V  seem  to  me  there  is  none  so  mete 

As  my  sweet  sweeting. 

AliDVr  all  olhcr  piaise  must  I, 
And  luve  my  |Mc-lty  l>yg.'inye, 
Fur  none  1  lind  .so  womanly 
As  my  sweet  sweeting. 


A  VISION  OF   BEAUTY. 

It  was  a  beauty  tliat  I  saw,  — 
So  [lure,  so  [lerfeet,  as  the  frame 
I  If  all  the  universe  were  lame 

To  that  one  figure,  could  I  draw, 

(Ir  give  least  lino  of  it  a  law  : 
A  .skein  of  silk  without  a  knot  ! 

A  fair  march  ma<l(!  without  a  halt ! 

A  curious  fiinn  without  a  fault ! 
A  printed  book  without  a  blot  ! 
All  beauty  !  —  and  without  a  spot. 

lll.N   Jo 


GIVE  I'LACE,    YE   LOVERS. 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 

That  sjjent  your  boasts  and  brags  in  vain 

My  lady's  beauty  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayen, 

Than  doth  the  sun  the  candle-light. 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  liath  a  troth  as  just 

As  had  r.-ml..|ir  the  fair;' 
For  wlial  shi'  sailli,  yc  may  it  trust. 

As  it  liy  wiiliii;^'  scaled  were  : 
Anil  virtues  hath  .she  many  mo' 
Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

1  lould  rehearse,  if  that  I  would. 
The  whole  effect  of  Nature's  plaint, 

When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mold. 
The  like  to  whom  sho  eould  not  paint  ; 

With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did  cry. 

And  what  she  said,  1  know  it  aye. 

1  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind. 

Her  kingdom  only  set  a]iart, 
There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 

That  eould  have  gone  so  neai'  her  heart  ; 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain  ; 
"  She  could  not  make  the  like  again." 


.Sitli  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise. 
To  be  the  chiefest  work  she  wrought, 

In  faith,  methink,  some  better  ways 
On  your  behalf  might  well  be  sought. 

Than  to  compare,  as  ye  liav('  done, 

To  matcli  the  candle  with  the  sun. 

LUUD  SUKRHV. 


I'HILLIS   IS  MY  ONLY  JOY. 

I'liiLLis  is  my  only  joy  ; 

Faithless  as  the  wind  or  seas  ; 
Sometimes  coming,  sometimes  coy, 
Yet  she  never  fails  to  i)lease. 
If  witli  a  frown 
I  am  cast  ilown, 
i'hillis,  sniiling 
And  beguiling, 
iMakes  me  happier  than  before. 

Though,  alas  !  too  late  1  lind 
Nothing  can  her  fancy  hx  ; 
Yet  the  moment  she  is  kind 
1  forgive  her  all  her  tricks  ; 

Which  though  1  sec, 

I  can't  get  free  ; 

She  deceiving, 

I  believing. 
What  need  lovers  wish  for  more  ? 

SIR   CUARLBS  SEDLEV. 


YOU   MEANER  BEAUTIES. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night. 
That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 

More  by  your  number  than  your  light,  — 
You  common  people  of  th''  skies, 
What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise  ? 

You  curicnis  chanters  of  the  wood, 

That  warble  forth  Dame  Nature's  lays. 

Thinking  your  passions  understood 

By  your  weak  accents,  —  what  'a  your  praiso 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  ajipear, 

liy  your  j)ure  purple  mantles  known. 

Like  the  ]irnud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own,  — 
What  are  you  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

So  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  other  mind  ; 

By  virtue  lirst,  then  choice,  a  queen,  — 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  designed 
Tir  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 


d 


cA' 


u6 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


^ 


ly-- 


GO,  LOVELY  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows. 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  ami  fail-  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that 's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied. 

That  hadst  thou  sjirung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide. 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  I'rom  the  light  retired  ; 

Bid  her  come  forth. 
Suffer  herself  to  bo  desired. 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  ; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share. 
That  are  so  wondrous,  sweet,  and  fair. 

EDMUND  Waller. 

STANZA  ADDED   BY   HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Yet,  though  thou  fade. 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise  ; 

And  teach  the  maid. 
That  goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies, 
That  virtue  lives  when  beautv  dies. 


MY  LOVE  IN  HER  ATTIRE. 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  sliow  her  wit. 

It  doth  so  well  become  her  : 
For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  tit. 
For  Winter,  Spring,  and  Summer. 
No  beauty  she  doth  miss 

When  all  her  robes  are  on  ; 
But  beauty's  self  she  is 
When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 

ANONYMOUS. 


On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Wluch  Jews  might  ki.ss,  and  Infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose. 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those : 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends  : 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  ofl'ends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 


Yet,  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  ]iride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide  ; 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget  them  all. 

ALE.\ANDER   POPE. 


MOODS. 

Oirx  upon  it.     1  have  loved 
Tliree  whole  days  together  ; 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more. 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moidt  away  his  wings. 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on  't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me  : 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

Anil  that  veiy  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 

Sir  John  suckling 


"MY  LOVE  IS  ALWAYS  NEAR." 

My  only  love  is  always  near,  — 

In  country  or  in  town 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 

The  whisper  of  her  gown. 

She  foots  it  ever  fair  and  young. 

Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste. 
And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung, 

And  hangs  below  her  waist. 

She  ran  before  me  in  the  meads ; 

And  down  this  world-worn  track 
She  leads  me  on  ;  hut  while  she  leads 

She  never  gazes  back. 

And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams. 
To  witch  me  more  and  more  ; 

That  wooing  voice  !     Ah  me,  it  seems 
Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 

Lightly  1  sped  when  hope  was  high. 
And  youth  beguiled  the  eJiase,  — 

I  follow,  follow  still ;  but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  face. 

FREDERICK  Locker 


i 


©^- 


COMPLIMENT  AND  ADMIRATION. 


67 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE. 

Ali  iinfcii  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  liover  ; 
And  near  the  saered  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait. 

Expectant  ol'  lier. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rcnit 

And  noise  and  Immniing  ; 
Tlicy  've  hushed  the  minster  bell ; 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell : 

She  's  coming,  coming ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timiil  and  step])ing  fxst, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast ; 
She  comes,  —  she  's  here,  —  she 's  past! 

May  Heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel  umlisturk-d,  lair  saint ! 
Pour  out  your  pi'aise  or  jdaint 

Meekly  and  duly : 
1  will  not  enter  there. 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait, 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 

WILLIAM   MAKBI-LACE  THACKF.RAV. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phan'^om  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  ujion  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament  ; 
H,r  ,vrs  ;,s  shirs  of  twilight  fair  ; 
Likr  Th  iliLiliis,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
r.iit  all  tliiiiL;^  else  about  her  drawn 
From  JIay-tinie  and  the  cheerful  dawn  : 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 


A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food. 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  : 
The  I'eason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

William  Woruswortm 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

SllK  walks  in  Ijcauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies. 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  ivspecl  and  her  eyes, 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Wliich  lieaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 

Will-re  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
Iliiw  pure,  liow  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

Anil  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  .smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

liut  tell  of  days  in  goodness  .spent,  — 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Lord  bvro.n. 


THE  MILKING-MAID. 

The  ye.ar  .stood  at  its  equinox, 

And  bluff  the  North  was  blowing  ; 

A  bleat  of  lambs  came  from  the  flocks. 
Green  hardy  things  were  growing  ; 

I  met  a  maid  with  shining  locks 
Where  milky  kine  were  lowing. 

She  w'ore  a  kerchief  on  her  neck. 
Her  bare  arm  showed  its  dimple. 

Her  apron  spread  without  a  sjieck. 
Her  air  was  frank  and  simple. 

She  milked  into  a  wooden  pail. 
And  sang  a  country  ditty,  — 


^-& 


68 


pojlMs  of  love. 


^ 


u 


All  iniiofi'ut  I'oiul  lovers'  tiilo, 

Tliat  WHS  lull'  wise  nor  witty, 
rallu'tirally  nistinil, 

'I'lMi  pointless  tor  tho  city. 

Shi'  kept  ill  timo  without  ii  lient. 

As  true  ns  I'huu'h-lu'U  riiijjiirs, 
Uiiloss  she  tainiwl  time  with  her  feot, 

til'  sciueezeil  it  with  her  liiigere  ; 
ller  eleiir,  uiistuilieil  notes  were  sweet 

As  iimny  a  in-.ietii'eil  singer's. 

1  stood  a  niimite  out  of  sight, 

Stood  silent  lor  a  niiiuite, 
To  eye  the  (lail,  ami  eieaniy  white 

The  frothing  milk  within  it,  — 

To  eye  the  eomely  inilking-inaiil, 

Herself  so  fresh  ami  ereaiiiy. 
"Oood  (lay  to  you  !  "  at  last  1  saiil  ; 

She  turned  her  head  to  see  me. 
"tiood  day  '  "  she  said,  with  lifted  head  ; 

Her  eyes  looked  soft  and  dreamy. 

And  all  the  while  she  milked  and  milked 

The  grave  cow  heavy-ladi'ii  : 
I  've  seen  grand  ladies,  iihuned  and  silked, 

But  not  a  sweeter  maiden  ; 

But  not  a  sweeter,  fresher  maid 

Than  this  in  homely  eotton, 
Whose  pleasant  face  and  silky  hraiii 

1  have  not  yet  forgotten. 

Seven  springs  have  passed  since  then,  as  I 

Count  with  a  sol>er  sorrow  ; 
Seven  springs  liave  come  and  passed  mo  by. 

And  spring  sets  in  to-morrow. 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  shake  myself 
Fi-ee,  just  for  once,  from  London, 

To  set  my  work  u|>on  the  shelf. 
And  leave  it  done  or  undone  ; 

To  run  down  hy  the  early  train, 

Whirl  down  with  shriek  and  whistle. 

And  feel  the  Mull'  North  blow  again. 
And  mark  the  sprouting  thistle 

Set  up  on  waste  patch  of  the  lane 
Its  green  and  tender  bristle  ; 

And  spy  the  scan'e-blown  violet  banks. 
Crisp  prinii'ose-leaves  and  othei-s. 

And  watch  the  lanilw  leap  at  their  pi-anks. 
And  butt  their  i>atient  mothei-s. 

Alns  !  one  point  in  all  my  plaii 
My  serious  thoughts  demur  to  : 


Seven  yeare  have  passed  for  maid  and  man, 
Seven  years  have  passed  for  her  too. 

Porhaiis  my  rose  is  over-blown, 

Not  rosy  or  too  rosy  ; 
Perhaps  in  farm-house  of  her  own 

Some  husband  keeps  her  cosy, 
Where  I  should  show  a  face  unknown,  — 

Good  by,  my  wayside  posy  ! 

CHRlSTl.VA  GliORCI.VA   ROSSETTI. 


A   VIOLET   IN   HEK   HAIR. 

A  VIOLET  in  her  lovely  hair, 
A  rose  upon  her  bosom  fair  I 

Hut  0,  her  eyes 
A  lovelier  violet  disclose. 
And  her  ripe  lips  the  sweetest  rose 

That  's  'neath  the  ."-kies. 

A  lute  beneath  her  graceful  hand 
Breathes  iiinsie  forth  at  her  eommand  ; 

But  still  her  tongue 
Far  richer  music  calls  to  birth 
Than  all  the  minstrel  power  on  earth 

Can  give  to  song. 

And  thus  she  moves  in  tender  liglit, 
Tlie  purest  ray,  where  all  is  bright. 

Serene,  and  sweet  ; 
And  sheds  a  graceful  influence  rouud. 
That  hallows  e'en  the  very  ground 

Beneath  her  feet  ! 


THE  ROSE  OF  THE  "WORLD. 

Lo,  when  the  Lord  made  north  and  south, 

And  sun  and  moon  oulained,  he. 
Forth  bringing  each  by  woiil  of  mouth 

In  oixler  of  its  dignity, 
Did  man  from  the  crude  clay  express 

By  sequence,  and,  all  else  decreed. 
He  formed  the  woman  :  nor  might  less 

Than  Sabbath  such  n  work  succeed. 

And  still  with  favor  singled  out, 

Marred  le.ss  than  man  by  mortal  fall, 
Her  disposition  is  devout. 

Her  countenance  angelical. 
No  faithless  thought  her  instinct  shrouds. 

But  fancy  checkers  settled  sense. 
Like  alteration  of  the  clouds 

On  noonday's  azure  permanence. 
Pure  courtesy,  composure,  ease, 

Declare  aft'eetions  nobly  fixed, 


-4- 


LOVE. 


69 


n 


And  impulse  sprung  from  due  degrees 

Of  sense  and  spirit  sweetly  mixed. 
Her  modesty,  licr  eliiefcst  glare, 

The  cestus  ehuspiiig  Venus'  side, 
Is  potent  to  dejeet  the  face 

Of  him  who  would  affront  its  pride. 
Wrong  dares  not  in  her  presence  speak, 

Nor  spotted  thought  its  taint  disclo.se 
Under  the  protest  of  a  cheek 

Outbragging  Nature's  boa-st,  the  rose. 
In  mind  and  manners  how  di.scrcet  ! 

ilow  artless  in  her  very  art  ! 
How  candid  in  discourse  !  how  sweet 

The  concord  of  her  lips  and  heart  ! 
How  (not  to  call  tnie  instinct's  bent 

And  woman's  very  nature  hann), 
How  amiable  and  innocent 

Her  pleasure  in  her  power  to  chann  ! 


How  humbly  careful  to  attract. 

Though  crowned  with  all  the  soul  desires, 
Connubial  aptitude  exact, 

Diversity  that  never  tires  ! 


COVIiNTRV  va 


SWEET,  BE  NOT  PKOUD. 

SWKET,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes, 
Which  starlike  sparkle  in  their  skies; 
Nor  be  you  proud  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives,  yours  yet  free. 
I5e  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair, 
Whifdi  wantons  with  the  love-sick  air ; 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
.Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  .soft  car. 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty  's  gone. 

KOIfLRT  llliKKICK. 


LOVE. 


h 


IF  IT  BE  TRUE  THAT  ANY  UEAUTEOUS  TllINO. 

If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing 
Raises  the  pure  and  just  desire  of  man 
From  earth  to  Ood,  the  eternal  fount  of  all, 
Such  I  believe  my  love ;  for  as  in  her 
So  fair,  in  whom  I  all  besides  forget, 
I  view  the  gentle  work  of  her  Creator, 
I  have  no  care  for  any  other  thing. 
Whilst  thus  I  love.     Nor  is  it  marvelous. 
Since  the  effect  is  not  of  my  own  jiower, 
If  the  soul  dotli,  by  nature  tempted  forth, 
Enamored  through  the  eyes. 
Repose  upon  the  eyes  which  it  resembleth. 
And  through  them  riseth  to  the  Primal  Love, 
As  to  its  end,  and  honors  in  admiring; 
For  who  adores  the  jMaker  needs  must  love  his 
work. 

From  the  It.ili.in  of  MICMABL  ANGHr.o. 

by  J.  E.  Taylor. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  ONE  FAIR  FACE. 

The  might  of  one  fair  Dice  sublimes  my  love, 
For  it  hath  weaned  my  heart  from  low  desires; 
Nor  death  I  heed,  nor  purgatorial  (ires. 
Thy  beauty,  antcpa.st  of  joys  above, 
Instnicts  me  in  the  bliss  that  saints  approve ; 
For  0,  how  good,  how  beautiful,  must  be 
The  Ood  that  made  so  good  a  thing  as  thee, 
So  fair  an  image  of  the  heavenly  Dove  ! 


Forgive  me  if  I  cannot  tnm  away 

From  those  sweet  eyes  that  are  niyearthly heaven, 

For  they  are  guiding  stars,  benignly  given 

To  tempt  my  footsteps  to  the  upward  way  ; 

And  if  I  dwell  too  fondly  in  thy  sight, 

I  live  and  love  in  God's  ]>eculiar  light. 

From  the  nslian  >,f  yU':uM'.l.  AsCl'.tx*. 
by  J.   n.  TAYLOR. 


LOVE  SCORNS  DEGREES. 

Love  scorns  degrees  ;  the  low  he  lift^th  high, 
The  high  he  drawetli  down  to  that  fair  plain 
Whereon,  in  his  divine  equality. 
Two  loving  hearts  may  meet,  nor  meet  in  vain  ; 
'Gainst  such  sweet  leveling  Custom  cries  amain. 
But  o'er  its  harshest  utterance  one  bland  sigh. 
Breathed   jKission-wise,   doth  monnt  victorious 

still, 
For  Love,  earth's  lord,  must  have  his  lordly  will. 
Paul  II   Haynr. 


PHUXLS  THE  FAIR. 

Ok  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower, 
Fair  befall  the  dainty  sweet! 

By  that  flower  there  is  a  bower 
Where  the  heavenly  muses  meet. 


.^1 


ItJ^ 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


Ill  ll\iil  lunv.'l'  IliiM't-  is  11  rliiiir, 
Kiin.ni'il  iill  iilioul  Willi  j,'"l'l. 

Wlirivaolli  sil  111.-  Iiiiivsl  liiii- 
Tliiil  ov.M' ,'v  aul  y.'t  lu'lu.ia. 

ll  is  l-liillis,  I'llil-  .111.1  l.ii,«lil. 
Sli.'  lluil  is  llu>  sli.'lili.'i.rs  j.iY, 

Sll,'   lllMl    V.MlllS.li.l   .L'spil... 

Au.l  .li.l  Mill.!  li.T  lilll.'  hoy. 

Wl...  VV..11I.I  ii.il  lluil  111.'.,  u.luiirof 
W'li.i  w.Mil.l  ii.il  lliis  siiiiit  ii.lol'o* 

M'li.i  w.ml.l  imt  lliis  sislit  lU'siiv, 
'rii.nif^li  li.<  lli.iuj{lil  1.1  sw'  110  iuou>y 

'rii.>ii  I  hilt  Mil  til.'  slioiiliciiVs  .1110011. 

l.ooU  up.. II  lliy  lovo-si.'k  swain! 
l\v  Illy  .'.miloil  liiivo  lioou  s.vii 

IV'iul  laou  l.iHiiij;lit  to  lil'o  njpiiii. 

NU  1101  AS  l'.Kin\>N. 


LOVK  IS  A  SIOKNKSS. 

I..1VK  is  a  sioknoss  full  ..f  woos, 

All  ivmo.lios  ivl'iisiiij; ; 
A  (iltiiit  tluil  iinvsl  willi  oiiltinj;  i;i\i\vs, 
M.ist  hinvii  with  bost  using. 
Why  so » 
Mmo  vv.'  oiy.iy  il.  nmiv  it  .lies  ; 
If  not  oigovo.l.  il  sij;liiiig  ori.-s 
li.'i^'h-ho! 

liovo  is  !i  tonuoiil  of  tho  niin.l, 

A  t.'ini..-st  ovoi'liistinj{ ; 
Ami  .lov.'  h:ith  nitulo  it  of  a  kin.l. 
N.>l  w.ll,  nor  full,  noi-  fasting. 
Why  so' 
Xl.'ro  wo  oiijoY  il,  inoix>  it  tlios  ; 
If  not  otyov.'il,  it  sighinj;  oriosi 
lioigh-ho  ! 


All  !  WHAT  IS  l.OVK? 

All  !  what  is  lovo  >     It  is  a  |>ivtly  thiiijj. 
As  swfot  unto  rt  sho|>hoi\l  as  a  kill);, 

.\ml  swootor  too ; 
I'.iv  kiiijpi  havo  oaivs  that  wait  niion  a  oivwn, 
.\n.l  .-aivsoaii  inako  tho  sw.-otost  faoo  to  fivwn  ; 

Ah  thou,  ah  tlion. 
If  oounliy  hn'os  sn.h  swoot  >h'sii>'s  jipiin. 
What  huly  wonhl  not  h>vo  a  shoi.ln'i\l  swain  • 

Ills  Ihvks  aiv  fohUnl  •  ho  oonu**  homo  at  night 
As  worry  as  a  kinj;  In  liis  dolijjht, 

An.l  movrioi'  t.n^ ; 
h'or  kings  tvthink  thoin  what  tho  stato  i"(>.)uiiv, 
Whoiv  shoi>hoi>ls.  oaivloss,  oMv^l  hy  tho  liiv  : 

Ah  thon,  ah  thon. 


I  U'.'oiiiidy  lovo  sii.'li  swool  ilosiros gain, 
What  la.ly  w.ml.l  ii.it  lovo  a  shi'iihoi'd  swain  '! 

llo  kis.s.'lli  liisl,  Ili.'U  silsasl.litlio  to<>al 

His  .■r.'iiiu  iiii.l  .ur.l  as  .I..II1  llu'  king  his  iiu-al, 

Au.l  lililhoi-  (....  ; 
For  kings  liavo  oflon  foars  wh.ii  lli.'v  su]>, 
Whoivslioi.lioiils  .livail  no  i...is..ii  in  tli.'ir  on|.  ; 

Ah  Ihoii,  ah  thon. 
If  .'.niiitry  lovos  sn.'h  shi>oI  il.'.siri's  gain. 
What  hilly  w.ml.l  n.il  l.'vo  a  slu'iihonl  swiiin  ? 

Upon  his  oou.li  ..f  sliaw  ho  .sloops  as  s.niii.l 
.\s  .hitli  tho  king  upon  his  li.'.ls  of  .lowii, 

Moiv  sonn.lor  too  ; 
Kor  I'aivs  .'iiuso  kings  full  ofl  tlioiv  sl.'.'p  l.isi.ill, 
Wlu'iv  woary  shophonlslio  an.l  snort  llioir  till  ; 

Ah  th.-ii,  ah  thou. 
If  count  ly  lovos  such  swool  ilosiivs  gsiin. 
What  huly  wonhl  not  lovo  a  .shophoi.l  swain  ! 

Tlius  with  his  wil'o  ho  siioinls  tho  y.miv  as  hlilli.' 
.\s  (loth  tho  king  at  ovory  ti.lo  or  sylli. 

Ami  hlilhor  too  ; 
Kor  kings  havo  win's  ami  broil,  to  tako  in  haml, 
Whon  shojihoiils  laugh,  ami  lovo  upon  tliolaml  ; 

Ah  thon,  ah  thon. 
If  oountry  lovos  suoh  swool  itosiix>s  gain. 
What  la.ly  would  not  lovo  a  slnpli.nl  swain  I 

KvUIUR'r  O.RUliNl:. 


TKLL  ME,  MY  HEART,  IF  THIS  BE  I.OVE. 

Wiii;n  Polia  on  tho  plain  apiH-ai's, 
Awoil  hy  a  thousand  tondor  foal's, 
)  wouhl  appuwoh,  but  daix>  not  niovo ; — 
Toll  nu>,  uiy  hoart,  if  this  bo  lovo. 

Whoiio'or  slio  si>oaks,  my  ravishod  oar 
No  othoi'  voioo  than  hoi^  oan  hoar  ; 
No  othor  wit  but  hoi's  appixno;  — 
Toll  1110,  my  hoart,  if  this  bo  lovo. 

If  .sho  somo  othor  swain  oommon.l. 
Though  I  was  01100  his  londost  frioiid. 
His  instant  onomy  1  provo;  — 
Toll  1110,  my  hotirt,  if  this  bo  lovo. 

Whon  sho  is  alvsont,  1  i\o  moiv 
FH'lijjlit  in  all  that  j>U>as<Hl  U-foiv, 
Tho  oloaivst  spviujt,  tho  sliadiost  giwo;  — 
Toll  mo,  my  hoart,  if  this  Iw  lovo. 

Whon  foiul  of  {xnvor,  of  iKVinty  vain, 
llor  nots  sho  spivad  for  ovory  swain, 
1  stiwo  to  liato,  but  vainly  strovo; — 
Toll  mo,  my  hoart,  if  this  V  lo\-o. 

OlvOR.'.i;,   l.ORlt  L\TTRn 


-.-S 


HEIGH-HO! 


•  I.oi'f  in  a  <,/r/ene»ji  /uli  a/  7/w*. 
Ail  reifiediet  rf/uii'n^; 
A  plant  that  most  with  tutting  j/rovjt. 
Afoit  barren  mlih   bat  uting."" 


[& 


LOVE. 


71 


-a 


GO,  HAPPY  ROSE ! 

do,  luippy  Rose!  and,  iiilurwove 

With  other  llowers,  bind  luy  love  ! 

Tell  her,  too,  she  must  not  be 

Longer  flowing,  longei'  free, 

'i'liat  so  oft  Imth  fettered  nje. 

Siiy,  if  she 's  fretful,  I  have  bands 
Of  pearl  and  gold  to  bind  lier  han<l3 ; 
Tell  her,  if  she  straggle  still, 
1  have  myrtle  rods  at  will, 
For  to  tame,  though  not  to  kill. 

Take  llicii  my  blessing  thus,  and  go, 

And  tell  her  this,  —  but  do  not  so  ! 

Lest  a  handsouK'  anger  fly, 

Like  a  lightning  from  her  eye. 

And  Ijurn  thee  up,  as  well  as  L 

KOUKRT  IIF.RRICK. 


LOVE. 

FROM   ■Tnit  MtiRCHANT  OF  VENtCE." 

Tei.i.  me  where  is  Fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Heply,  rejily. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed  ;  and  Fani'y  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  Fancy's  knell  ; 

I  'U  begin  it,  — Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Ding,  dong,  bell. 


THE    DECEIVED 


LOVER    .STJETII    ONLY    FOR 
LIBERTY. 


&.- 


If  chance  assigned 
Were  to  my  mind, 
]!y  every  kind 

Of  destiny ; 
Yet  would  I  crave 
Naught  else  to  have 

Hut  dearest  life  and  liberty. 

Then  wen;  I  sure 
I  might  endure 
The  displeasure 

Of  cruelty ; 
Where  now  I  plain 
Alas  !  in  vain, 

Lacking  my  life  for  liberty. 


For  without  th'  one, 
Th'  other  is  gone. 
And  there  can  none 
It  remedy  ; 
If  th'  one  be  past, 
Th'  other  doth  waste. 

And  all  for  lack  of  liberty. 

And  so  I  drive, 
As  yet  alive. 
Although  1  strive 

With  misery; 
Drawing  my  breath, 
Looking  for  death. 

And  loss  of  life  for  liberty. 

But  thou  that  still 
Mayst  at  thy  will 
Turn  all  this  ill 

Adversity ; 
For  the  repair 
Of  my  welfare, 

Grant  mc  Ijut  life  and  liberty. 

And  if  not  so. 
Then  let  all  go 
To  wretched  woe. 

And  let  me  die  ; 
For  Ih'  one  or  th'  other, 
There  is  none  other  ; 

My  death,  or  life  with  liberty. 
Sir  Thomas  wva 


My  banks  they  are  furnished  with  Ikjcs, 

Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  slceji  ; 
My  grottos  are  shaded  with  trees. 

And  my  hills  arc  wliitc  over  with  sheep  ; 
I  seldom  havi^  met  with  a  loss. 

Such  health  do  my  fountains  bestow  ; 
My  fountains  all  bordered  with  moss, 

Where  the  harebells  and  violets  grow. 

Not  a  i]ine  in  my  grove  is  there  seen 

I'ut  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound  ; 
Not  a  beach  's  more  beautiful  green, 

But  a  sweetbrier  entwines  it  around. 
Not  my  fields,  in  the  prime  of  the  year, 

More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfohl  ; 
Not  a  brook  that  i.s  limpid  and  clear. 

But  it  glitters  with  fi.shes  of  gold. 

One  would  think  she  might  like  to  retire 
To  the  bower  I  have  labored  to  rear ; 

Not  a  shrub  that  1  heard  her  admire 
But  I  hasted  and  planted  it  there. 


-ff 


lU 


^ 

J^ 

72                                             POEMS  OF 

LOVE. 

^  * 

(>  liow  siulilon  tl>o  ji'ssninim'  simvo 

11 

is  heart  in  me  kiM'|is  him  ami  me  in  one  ; 

Willi  111,'  lilii,',  to  iviiili'iil  -iiy  1 

My    heart   in    liiiii   las    tlu.uj^lits   ami   senses 

.\\iv:uly  it  rails  for  my  lovo 

To  |Miiin'  till'  Willi  Inaiiilii's  away. 

11 

K'ni.les  ; 
e  loves  my  heart,  lor  oiu'P  it  was  his  own  ; 

l''roiii  till'  [ilaius,  tVoiii  tlio  wooiUaiuls,  niul  ^rovos, 
What  stniiiis  ol'  wilil  mi'loily  Mow  ; 

\ 

I  eherish  his  heeanse  in  nui  it  hiiles  ; 

y  tnie-love  hath  my  heart,  ami  1  have  his. 

How  llio  iiisjlilinjjiilos  wailiU'  llirii- lovos, 
Kroiii  lliirUots  of  I'oM's  tlial  Mow  1 

-  -♦     - 

AihI  wlii'U  lii'V  laiglit  form  shall  a|iinniv, 
Kiiili  I'inl  sliall  liavmoniously  join 

1    SAW    'I'WO    I'l.lUMiS    A'f    MDHNINC}. 

Koi  u  I'oiioiit  so  soil  nmi  so  ilcar, 
As  slu'  umy  not  ln>  loiul  to  ivsij;". 

1  liavi-  IVmnil  out  a  gifl  fof  \iiy  lair  ; 

1  SAW  two  elomls  at  morninXi 
Tinj^'il  hy  the  risinj;  sun. 

Ami  in  the  ilawn  they  lloateil  on, 
Ami  miufjleil  into  one  ; 

1  liavo  foiuul  wlu'iv  tlio  \vooil-|iii;oous  lirooil ; 
liut  U'l  mo  llial  i>limiU<r  foiboar, 

I  thought  that  niorniu};  eloml  was  blesseil, 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

Slui  will  say  't  was  ii  Uulmrous  ilwil. 

l>'or  lio  iio'or  ooulil  lu>  trmi,  slu'  iivoni-il, 

1  saw  two  sumnnu-  eurvents 

Who  oo\ilil  mil  a  jiooi'  liiixl  of  his  youiij; ; 
Ami  1  IovihI  l>or  llir  moiv  xvluii  1  luaul 

l'"low  smoothly  to  their  meetinj;, 
Ami  join  their  eoui-se,  with  silent  foive, 

Suoh  lomlonioss  fall  from  l»-r  loiij^iio. 

1  havoh.'anl  li.-r  with  sw.vtm'ss  iiiifoUl 
How  that  |iity  was  ihu'  to  a  ilovo  ; 

'I'hal  it  ovrratlouiliHl  Ihc  hohl, 

Ami  sho  i-alh'il  it  tlu'  sistor  of  l.ovo. 

In  (leaee  eaeh  other  greet inj;  ; 
Calm  was  their  eoni'se  through  hanks  of  green, 
While  ilimpling  oiUlies  nhiyetl  between. 

Sueh  be  vour  ginitle  motion, 
Till  life's  last  l>nlso  shall  beat  ; 

I'mt  lior  wouls  sm'h  ii  plrasmv  I'onvoy, 

Like  summer's  beam,  ami  snmnu'r's  stream. 

So  murh  1  lii'V  acoouts  iuUm>, 
l.i't  lu'r  s|ii'ak,  iiiul.  whatovor  sho  sny, 

Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
.\  iiilmer  sea,  wheiv  storms  shall  eease, 

Mi'thinks  1  shoiiKl  lovo  hor  tlio  moiv. 

A  jmivr  sky,  wheiv  all  is  j>eaee. 

Jiin.V  l"..  f.    IIKAINAKO 

fail  a  luxsom  so  jjoiitlo  ivmain 

I'umovi'il  whon  hor  Ciivyilon  sijjlis  f 
Will  a  nyiuiih  that  is  I'omi  of  the  plain 

TllK    KlvIAK   OV  OKIIKKS  OKAY. 

'I'lu'so  iilaiiis  ami  this  valloy  iK'spiso  f 
Ui-ivr  ivgious  of  sih'iiio  ami  shaili>  I 

Soft  soonos  oVoontoiitinont  ami  oiiso  ! 
WhiMv  1  oo\ilil  hi>vo  (iloasingly  stniyoil, 

Ir  was  a  friar  of  oi\lei-s  giiiy 
AValked  lorlh  to  tell  his  Iwails  ; 

Alul  he  met  with  a  lady  fair 
t'lail  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

If  aiij;ht  in  her  iiKsonio  oowhl  ploaso. 

r>nl  wlnMv  iliMvs  my  rhyltiila  stniy  ' 
Ami  whoiv  ai-p  liov  j;rots  anil  hor  Kiwora  ? 

Aw  tl\i>  jjixivi-s  anil  llio  valloys  as  jpiy. 
Ami  tlio  slu-iihoi\ls  as  j^Mitle  as  ours  » 

"Now  Christ  thee  .save,  then  nveivnd  friar; 

1  pray  thee  tell  to  me. 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  trm'-love  thon  didst  see." 

Thi>  i;i\>vos  may  (vrhaivs  K>  as  lair, 
Ami  tlio  lai'o  of  tlio  valle\-s  as  lino  ; 

"And  how  should  1  know  your  true-love 
Fivni  tnany  another  one?" 

riio  swains  may  in  mannoi-s  ivmiwit), 
l>nt  tlu'ir  lovo  is  not  oqual  to  niino. 

"  0,  by  his  eoekle  hat,  and  sfalV, 
And  l>y  his  -siindal  shoon. 

WllllAM  SHFNSIVWB. 

— • — 

"  r>ut  ehielly  by  his  I'aee  atul  mien. 
That  weiv  so  fair  to  view  : 

MY   TKUK  l.OVK    H.\f)l    MY    tlKAKT. 

My  tiui'lovo  liath  my  hwirt,  ami  1  Imvo  his, 
r>y  Just  oxi'han_tf<'  ono  to  tlio  othor  given  : 

1  holil  his  iloar,  ami  mine  lie  oai\uot  n>iss, 
Theiv  never  was  a  Ivtter  Iwrjtuiu  driven  ; 

>ly  trne-lovo  hath  my  heart,  ami  1  have  his. 

His  tlaxeti  looks  that  sweetly  enrlod. 
And  eyes  of  lovely  blue," 

*'  0  lady,  he  is  dead  and  gvme  ! 

l,ady,  he  "s  dead  and  g\>ne  ! 
Ai\d  at  his  head  a  given  grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

J-- 

aj.j._. 


^ 


LOVE. 


73 


'"Ql 


"  WitJiin  tliewi  holy  KloiiiUjilt  long 

lib  luiif;ui»lic<J,  aii<l  lie  did, 
Lamenting  of  a  la<ly'H  luvi;, 

And  'plaining  ol  litr  inidc. 

"  Hero  l)ore  him  Ijaicfau^/l  on  hi»  bier 

Six  proper  youlliH  and  t:il], 
And  many  a  war  Ijedewwl  his  grave 

Within  yon  kirk-yard  wall," 

"And  art  thoudea<l,  thou  gentle  youth? 

And  art  thou  dea/1  and  gone  f 
And  diilKt  thou  die  for  love  ol'  me  ? 

lireak,  cruel  licart  of  stone  1" 

"0  weep  not,  hwly,  weep  not  m; 

Some  ghostly  wmfort  (seek ; 
Let  not  vain  wjrrow  rive  thy  licart, 

Nor  tear*  lx;<lcw  thy  ehcik." 

"0  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar, 

My  liorrow  now  reprove  ; 
For  1  have  lout  the  Kweet<;«t  youth 

That  e'er  won  laily'»  love. 

*'  And  now,  aU»  1  for  thy  sad  loud 
I  '11  evermore  weep  and  sigh  : 

For  tlie<!  I  only  wij>he<l  Ui  live, 
For  thee  I  wish  to  die." 

"  Wc*i>  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more. 

Thy  wjrrow  in  in  vain  ; 
For  violetB  plucked,  the  isweetetit  (showers 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  again. 

"Our  joys  as  wingW  dreams  do  fly ; 

Why  then  should  wjrrow  last? 
8in(«  giief  but  aggravates  thy  loss. 

Grieve  not  for  what  iii  jKuit." 

"  0  say  not  so,  thou  holy  fiiar  ; 

I  pray  th'se,  say  not  so ; 
For  since  my  true-love  die<l  for  me, 

'T  is  meet  my  t«ar»  shouhl  (low. 

"  And  will  he  never  come  again 'f 

Will  he  ne'er  come  again  ? 
Ah  !  no,  he  is  dea/1  and  laid  in  his  grave. 

Forever  to  remain. 

"  His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  lose ; 

The  comelicst  youth  was  he ! 
But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave  ; 

AUs,  and  woe  is  me!" 

"Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more. 

Men  were  delivers  ever : 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land. 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 


"  Ila<lst  tliou  Ijccn  fond,  he  lia/1  U^en  lal»<!. 

And  left  thee  sail  and  heavy  ; 
For  young  men  ever  were  tickle  foun<i. 

Since  summer  trees  were  leafy." 

"  Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thw  say  not  s*) ; 
My  love  he  lia/l  the  truest  licart,  — 

O,  he  was  ever  true  ! 

"And  art  thou  d<^l,  thou  much-loved  youtli, 

And  diilsl  thou  die  for  me  ', 
Then  farewell  home  ;  forcverniorc 

A  pilgrim  I  will  Ut. 

"  Hut  (irst  upon  my  true  love's  giave 

My  weary  limbs  I  '11  hiy. 
And  thric«  1  'II  kiss  the  gri»:n-grass  turf 

Tliat  wi-a£»s  his  breathless  chiy." 

"Vet  stay,  fair  laily  ;  rest  awhile 

liemsith  this  cloister  wall  ; 
S<;c  through  the  liawthora  blows  the  cold  wind. 

And  drizzly  rain  <ioth  tall," 

"  0  stay  me  not,  tliou  holy  filar, 

0  stay  me  not,  I  pray  ; 
No  drizzly  rain  tliat  falls  on  me 

Can  wash  my  fault  away." 

"  Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  tiir/i  again. 

And  dry  thow,-  [xairly  t/ars  ; 
For  s<«;,  l>;neath  this  gown  of  gray 

Thy  own  tru<;-love  ap|(eais. 

"  Here  forcwl  by  grief  and  lioj*l<;ss  love, 

Tli<a>e  holy  wccls  I  sought ; 
And  here,  amirl  thev;  lonely  walls, 

'fo  end  my  "lays  I  thought. 

"  But  liaply,  for  my  ywir  of  graee 

Is  not  yet  jw"*"!  away, 
Might  I  still  ho|K;  to  win  thy  love. 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 

"Now  farewell  giief,  and  weh^jmejoy 

Once  more  unto  my  heart  ; 
For  since  I  liave  found  the/;,  lovely  youth. 

We  nevennore  will  jrart." 

K'U\ArA  by  THOMA-;  PRKCV- 


OK  LOVt. 

T/IKBP.  is  no  worldly  pleasure  here  ls;low. 
Which  by  experience  doth  not  folly  prove; 

But  among  all  the  follies  tliat  I  know. 
The  sweetest  folly  in  the  worhl  is  love : 


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f 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


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But  not  that  passion  which,  witli  tools'  consent, 

Aliove  tlie  reason  bears  imperious  sway, 
Making  their  liletime  a  perpetual  Lent, 

As  if  a  man  were  born  to  fast  and  pray. 
No,  that  is  not  the  humor  I  approve. 

As  either  yielding  pleasure  or  promotion  ; 
I  like  a  mild  and  lukewarm  zeal  in  love, 

Although  I  do  not  like  it  in  devotion  ; 
For  it  has  no  coherence  with  my  creed, 

To  think  that  lovers  die  as  they  pretend ; 
If  all  that  say  they  dy  had  dy'd  indeed, 

Sure  long  ere  now  the  world  had  had  an  end. 
Besides,  we  need  not  love  but  if  we  please, 

No  destiny  can  force  men's  disposition  ; 
And  liow  can  any  die  of  that  disease 

Whereof  himself  may  be  his  own  phy.sician  ? 
But  .some  seem  so  distracted  of  their  wits. 

That  I  would  think  it  but  a  venial  .sin 
To  take  some  of  those  innocents  that  sits 

In  Bedlam  out,  and  put  some  lovers  in. 
Yet  some  men,  lather  than  incur  the  slander 

Of  true  apostates,  will  false  martyrs  prove. 
But  1  am  neither  Iphis  nor  Lcander, 

I  '11  neither  drown  nor  hang  myself  for  love. 
Methinks  a  wise  man's  actions  should  be  such 

As  always  yield  to  reason's  best  advice  ; 
Now  for  to  love  too  little  or  too  much 

Are  both  extreams,  and  all  extreams  are  vice. 
Yet  have  I  been  a  lover  by  report. 

Yea  I  have  dy'd  for  love,  as  others  do ; 
But,  praised  be  God,  it  was  in  such  a  sort. 

That  I  revived  within  an  hour  or  two. 
Tims  have  I  lived,  thus  have  1  lov'd  till  now, 

And  find  no  reason  to  repent  me  yet ; 
And  whosoever  otherways  will  do, 

His  courage  is  a",  little  as  his  wit. 

sin   ROBERT  AVTON. 


THE  LADY'S   LdOKING-GLASS. 

Cell\  and  1,  the  other  day, 

AValked  o'er  the  sand-liills  to  the  sea : 

The  settins;  sun  adorned  the  coast. 

His  beams  entire  his  fierceness  lost: 

-And  on  Tlie  surface  of  the  deep 

The  winds  lay  only  not  asleep  ; 

The  nymphs  did,  like  the  scene,  appear 

Serenely  pleasant,  calmly  fair  ; 

Soft  felt  her  words  as  flew  the  air. 

With  secret  joy  I  heard  her  say 

That  she  would  never  miss  one  day 

A  walk  so  fine,  a  sight  so  gay  ; 

But  0,  the  change  !   The  winds  grow  liigh, 

Impeuding  tempests  charge  the  .sky. 

The  lightning  flies,  the  thunder  roars. 

The  big  waves  lash  the  frightened  shores. 


Struck  with  the  horror  of  the  sight, 
She  turns  her  head  and  wings  her  flight ; 
And,  trembling,  vows  she  '11  ne'er  again 
Approach  the  shore  or  view  the  main. 

"  Once  more  at  least  look  back,"  said  I, 
"  Thyself  in  that  large  glass  descry ; 
When  thou  art  in  good-humor  drest. 
When  gentle  reason  rules  thy  breast. 
The  sun  upon  the  calmest  sea 
Appears  not  half  so  bright  as  thee  : 
'T  is  then  that  with  delight  I  rove 
Upon  the  boundless  depth  of  love  : 
I  bless  my  chain,  I  hand  my  oar. 
Nor  tliink  on  all  I  left  on  shore. 

"  But  when  vain  doubt  and  gi'oundless  fear 
Do  that  dear  foolish  bosom  tear  ; 
When  the  big  lip  and  watery  eye 
Tell  me  the  rising  storm  is  nigh  ; 
'T  is  then  thou  art  yon  angi'y  main 
Deformed  by  winds  and  dashed  by  rain  ; 
And  the  poor  sailor  that  must  try 
Its  fury  labors  less  than  I. 
Shipwrecked,  in  vain  to  land  I  make. 
While  love  and  fate  still  drive  me  back  : 
Forced  to  dote  on  thee  thy  own  way, 
1  chide  thee  first,  and  then  obey  : 
Wretched  when  from  thee,  vexed  wher.  nigli, 
I  with  thee,  or  without  thee,  die." 

Mattheu-  Prior. 


•SHALL  I  TELL  YOU  WHOM  I  LOVE'?" 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  awlule  to  me  ; 
And  if  such  a  woman  move. 

As  I  now  shall  vensifie. 
Be  assured,  't  is  she  or  none 
That  1  love,  and  luve  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  nmch  right 
As  she  scorns  the  helpe  of  art. 

In  as  many  vertues  dight 
As  e'er  yet  imbraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tride. 

Some  for  lesse  were  deifide. 

Wit  she  hatb  without  desire 

To  make  knowiie  how  much  she  hath  ; 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 
Full  of  pitty  as  may  be, 
Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 

Reason  masters  every  sense. 
And  her  vertues  grace  her  birth 


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LOVE. 


~rn 


Lovely  as  all  excellence, 

Modest  in  her  most  of  inirtli  : 
Likelihood  enough  to  prove, 
Onely  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is  :  and  if  you  know 
Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung  ; 

Be  she  brown  or  faiie,  or  so 

That  she  be  but  somewhile  young, 

Be  assured  't  is  she  or  none 

That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

WILLIAM  bko\v.\ 


LOVE  NOT  ME   FOR  COMELY  GRACE. 

Love  not  nie  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face. 
Nor  for  any  outward  part. 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart  ; 

For  those  may  fail  or  tum  to  ill. 
So  thou  and  I  shall  sever ; 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye. 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why. 

So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  d<ite  upon  me  vvn: 


HE  THAT  LOVES  A  ROSY  CHEEK. 

He  tliat  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires. 
Or  from  starlike  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  liis  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay. 
So  his  dames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  tires  :  — 

Where  these  are  not,  1  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

Thom.^s  Care 


LOVE  ME  LITTLE,  LOVE  ME  LONG. 


ilGINALLY  PRINTED  I 


Love  me  little,  love  me  lo:ig  ! 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song  : 
Love  that  is  too  hot  and  strong 

Bumeth  soon  to  waste. 
Still  I  would  not  have  thee  cold,  — 
Not  too  backward,  nor  too  l.iold  ; 
Love  that  lasteth  till  't  is  old 

Fadeth  not  in  haste. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long  ! 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 


If  thou  lovest  me  too  much, 

'T  will  not  prove  as  true  a  touch  ; 

Love  me  little  more  than  such, — 

For  I  fear  the  end. 
I  'm  with  little  well  content. 
And  a  little  from  thee  sent 
Is  enough,  with  true  intent 

To  be  steadtast,  friend. 

Say  thou  lovest  nic,  while  tliou  live 
I  to  thee  my  love  will  give. 
Never  dreaming  to  deceive 

While  that  life  endures  ; 
Nay,  an<l  after  death,  in  sooth, 
I  to  theo  will  keep  my  truth. 
As  now  when  in  my  Jlay  of  youth  : 

This  my  love  assures. 

Constant  love  i.s  moderate  ever, 
And  it  will  through  life  pcrsever  ; 
Give  me  that  with  true  endeavor,  — 

I  will  it  restore. 
A  suit  of  durance  let  it  be. 
For  all  weathers,  —  that  for  me,  — 
For  the  land  or  for  the  sea : 

Lasting  cvenuore. 

Winter's  cold  or  summer's  heat. 
Autumn's  tempests  on  it  beat ; 
It  can  never  know  defeat, 

Never  can  rebel  : 
Such  the  love  that  1  would  gain. 
Such  the  love,  I  tell  thee  plain, 
Thou  must  give,  or  woo  in  vain  : 

So  to  thee  —  farewell  ! 


I  DO  NOT  LOVE  THEE  FOR  THAT  FAIR. 

I  DO  not  love  thee  for  that  fair 
Rich  fan  of  thy  most  curious  hail', 
Though  the  wires  thereof  be  drawn 
Finer  than  the  threads  of  lawn, 
And  are  softer  than  the  leaves 
On  which  the  subtle  spider  weaves. 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  those  flowers 
Growing  on  thy  cheeks — love's  bowers- 
Though  such  cunning  them  hath  spread. 
None  can  paint  them  white  and  red. 
Love's  golden  arrows  thence  are  shot. 
Yet  for  them  I  love  thee  not. 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  those  soft 
Red  coral  lips  I  've  kissed  so  oft  ; 
Nor  teeth  of  pearl,  the  double  guard 
To  speech  whence  music  still  is  hc.ir.l. 


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POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


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Though  from  those  lips  a  kiss  being  takeu 
Might  tyrants  melt,  and  death  awaken. 

1  do  not  love  thee,  0  my  fairest, 
For  that  richest,  for  that  rarest 
Silver  pillar,  which  stands  under 
Thy  sound  head,  that  globe  of  wonder ; 
Though  that  neck  be  whiter  far 
Thau  towers  of  polished  ivory  are. 

THOMAS  CAREA 


A  HEAITH. 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone  ; 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own. 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  Hows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her. 

The  measures  of  her  hours  ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy. 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers  ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft. 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain. 
Anil  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
Wlien  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon. 
Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame. 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry. 

And  weariness  a  name. 

EDWARD  COATn  PINCK.NEY. 


FAIEEE  THAN  THEE. 

Faikee  than  thee,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee  !  — 
There  is  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

Not  the  glad  sun,  beloved, 

Bright  though  it  beams  ; 
Not  the  green  earth,  beloved, 

Silver  with  streams  ; 

Not  the  gay  birds,  beloved, 

Happy  and  free  : 
Yet  there  's  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

Not  the  clear  day,  beloved, 

Glowing  with  light ; 
Not  (fairer  still,  beloved) 

Star-crowned  night. 

Truth  in  her  might,  beloved, 

Grand  in  her  sway  ; 
Truth  with  her  eyes,  beloved, 

Clearer  than  day ; 

Holy  and  pure,  beloved. 

Spotless  and  free. 
Is  the  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

Guard  well  thy  soul,  beloved  ; 

Truth,  dwelling  there. 
Shall  shadow  fortli,  beloved, 

Her  image  rare. 

Then  shall  I  deem,  beloved, 

Tliat  thou  art  she  ; 
And  there  '11  be  naught,  beloved. 

Fairer  than  thee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  CHOICE. 

Genteel  in  personage. 
Conduct,  and  equipage ; 
Noble  by  heritage  ; 
Generous  and  free ; 

Brave,  not  romantic ; 

Learned,  not  pedantic ; 

Frolic,  not  frantic,  — 

This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining. 
Meanness  disdaining. 
Still  entertaining. 
Engaging  and  new ; 


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LOVE. 


r] 


Neat,  but  not  finical ; 
Sage,  but  not  cynical  ; 
Never  tyrannical. 
But  ever  true. 


THE  LOVELINESS  OF  LOVE. 

It  is  not  Beauty  I  ilemand, 

A  ciystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 

Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand. 
Nor  meimaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair  : 

Tell  nie  not  of  your  staiTV  eyes. 
Your  lips  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 

Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies, 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed,  — 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks, 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers  ;  — • 

These  are  but  gauds  :  nay,  what  are  lips  ? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream. 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft 
That  wave  hot  youth  to  fields  of  blood  ? 

Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne'er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardor  bum ; 

Breath  can  poison  that  erst  perfumed  ; 
There  's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn. 

With  lovers'  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 

For  crystal  brows,  there  's  naught  within  ; 

They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride  ; 
He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 

Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  Beauty's  bust, 

A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind. 
Which  with  temptation  I  wonld  trust. 

Yet  never  linked  with  error  find,  — 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes. 

Like  the  care-burdened  honey-fly 
That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose,  — 

My  earthly  Comforter !  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be 
Tliat,  when  my  spirit  wonned  above. 

Hers  could  not  stay,  for  sympathy. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER. 

Three  students  were  traveling  over  the  Rliine  ; 
They  stopped  when  they  came  to  the  landlady's 

sign; 
"Good  landlady,  have  you  good  beer  and  wine? 
And  where  is  that  dew  little  daughter  of  thine  ?" 

' '  My  beer  and  wine  are  fresh  and  clear ; 
My  daughter  she  lies  on  the  cold  death-bier  !  " 
And  when  to  the  chamber  they  made  their  way, 
There,  dead,  in  a  coal-black  shrine,  she  lay. 

The  fii-st  he  drew  near,  and  the  veil  gently  raised. 
And  on  her  pale  face  he  mounifulh'  gazeil. 
"Ah  !  wert  thou  but  living  yet,"  he  saiii, 
"  I  'd  love  thee  from  tliis  time  forth,  fair  maid  1 " 

The  second  he  slowly  put  back  the  shroud. 
And  turned  him  away  and  wei)t  aloud  : 
"Ah  !  that  thou  liest  in  the  cold  death-bier! 
Alas !  I  have  loved  thee  for  many  a  year  I" 

The  third  he  once  more  uplifted  the  veil, 
Anil  kissed  her  upon  her  mouth  so  pale : 
"Thee  loved  I  always;  I  love  still  but  theo; 
And  thee  will  I  love  through  eternity  ! " 

From  the  GerniAn  of  UHLAND. 
by  J.  S.  DWIGIIT. 


"THREE  LOVES." 

Theke  were  three  maidens  who  loved  a  king  ; 

They  sat  together  beside  the  sea  ; 
One  cried,  "  I  love  him,  and  I  would  die. 

If  but  for  one  day  he  might  love  me  :  " 

The  second  whispered,  "  And  1  would  die 
To  gladden  his  life,  or  make  hini  great." 

The  thir-d  one  spoke  not,  but  gazed  afar 
W^ith  dreamy  eyes  that  were  sad  as  Fate. 

The  king  he  loved  the  first  for  a  day, 
The  second  his  life  with  fond  love  blest  ; 

And  yet  the  woman  who  never  spoke 

Was  the  one  of  the  three  who  loved  him  best. 


TO  A  GENTTL WOMAN 


SosiE  women  fayne  that  Paris  was 

The  falsest  louer  that  could  bee  ; 

Who  for  his  [life]  did  nothing  passe. 

As  all  the  world  might  playnly  see  : 

But  ventred  life  and  limmes  and  all. 
To  keepe  his  freend  from  Greekish  tlirall : 
With  many  a  broyle  bee  dearely  bouglit, 
His  [Hellen]  whom  hee  long  had  sought. 


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POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


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For  lirst  [Dame  Venus]  granted  him, 

A  galliuit  gil'tc  of  Ueautiiis  lleeco  : 

Wliii'li  lioldely  tor  to  seeke  to  win, 

l!y  suiging  Seas  lieo  sayld  to  Greece  : 

And  when  lie  was  arrived  theare, 
Hy  earnest  sute  to  win  his  Deare 
No  greater  paynes  niiglit  man  endure. 
Than  Paris  did  for  Hcllen  sure. 

Besides  all  this  when  they  were  well. 

Both  liee  and  sheo  ai'ryn'd  at  Troy  : 

Kiiigc  jMenelaiis  wrath  did  swell, 

And  swore,  by  sword,  to  rid  their  ioyc  : 

And  so  heo  did  for  ten  yeres'  space, 
I  lee  lay  before  the  Troy  an  face  ; 
With  all  the  hoste  that  ho  could  make, 
To  bee  ri^veng'd  for  Ilellcns  sake. 

Loo  ?  thus  much  ilid  pooiv  Paris  bide, 

Who  is  accounted  most  untrue  : 

All  men  bee  false  it  hath  bin  sayd. 

They  think  not  what  they  speake,  (say  you) 
Yes  Paris  spoke,  and  sped  with  speede. 
As  all  the  heavenly  Gods  de(-'reed 
.\nd  prooud  himselfo  a  louor  iust 
Till  stately  Troy  was  turned  to  dust. 

I  doo  not  reado  of  any  man. 

That  so  much  was  unfaythfull  found. 

You  did  us  wrong,  t'  accuse  us  than. 

And  say  our  freendship  is  not  sound  : 
I  f  any  fault  bee  found  at  all, 
To  womens  lot  it  needes  must  fall  : 
If  Ilcllen  had  not  bin  so  light 
Sir  Paris  had  not  died  in  light. 

The  falsest  men  I  can  excuse 

That  euer  you  in  stories  rcado  : 

Therefore  all  men  for  to  accuse, 

Methinkes  it  was  not  well  decreede : 
It  is  a  signo  you  have  not  tride 
What  stedfastnesse  in  men  dotli  bide  : 
Pint  when  your  time  alinl  try  them  true. 
This  juilgment  then  you  must  renue. 

I  know  not  every  mans  devise 

But  commonly  they  stedfast  are  : 

Though  you  doo  make  them  of  no  price. 

They  lireake  their  vowes  but  very  rare  : 

They  will  jierformo  theyr  promis  well. 
And  specially  when'  lone  doth  dwell  : 
Where  freendship  dolh  not  iustly  frame, 
Then  men  (torsooth)  nnist  beare  the  blame. 

O.  R 

From  "  A  porcious  Gallery  of  Gall.int  Inucntions." 
Iiiipriiilcd  m  London,  1578. 


NOT  OURS  THE   VOWS — 

Nor  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  plight 

Tlicir  troth  in  sunny  weather, 
While  leaves  are  green,  and  skies  are  bright. 

To  walk  on  (lowers  together. 


But  wo  have  loved  as  those  who  tread 

The  thorny  path  of  sorrow. 
With  clouds  above,  and  cause  to  dread 

Yet  deeper  gloom  to-morrow. 

That  thorny  path,  those  stormy  skies. 
Have  drawn  our  spirits  nearer  ; 

And  rendered  us,  by  sorrow's  tics, 
Each  to  the  other  dearer. 

Love,  born  in  hours  of  joy  and  mirth, 
With  mirth  and  joy  may  perish  ; 

That  to  which  darker  hours  gave  birth 
Still  more  and  more  we  cherish. 

It  looks  beyond  the  clouds  of  time. 
And  through  death's  shadowy  jioital  ; 

Made  by  adversity  sublime. 
By  faith  and  hope  immortal. 


A  " MERCENARY"  MARRIAGE. 

She  moves  as  light  across  the  grass 

As  moves  my  shadow  large  and  tall  ; 
And  like  my  shadow,  close  yet  free, 
The  thought  of  her  aye  follows  me. 
My  little  maid  of  Moreton  Hall. 

No  matter  liow  or  where  we  loved, 
Or  when  we  '11  wed,  or  what  IhI'mII  ; 

I  only  feel  she  's  mine  at  last, 

I  only  know  I  '11  hold  her  fast, 
Though  to  dust  crumbles  Jloreton  Hall. 

Her  pedigree  —  good  sooth,  't  is  long  ! 

Her  grim  sires  stare  from  every  wall  ; 
And  centuries  of  ancestral  grace 
Kevive  in  her  sweet  girlish  face, 

As  meek  she  glides  through  Morctou  Hall. 

Wliilst  1  have  —  nothing;  save,  perhaps. 

Some  worthless  heaps  of  idle  gold 
And  a  true  heart,  —  the  which  her  eye 
Through  glittering  dross  spied,  womanly  ; 
Therefore  they  say  licr  heart  was  sold  ! 

I  laugh  ;  she  laughs  :  the  hills  and  vales 
Laugh  as  we  ride  'neatli  chestnuts  tall, 
Or  start  the  deer  that  silent  graze. 
And  look  up,  large-eyed,  with  soft  gaze. 
At  the  fair  maid  oi'  Murcton  Hall  ; 

We  let  the  neighbors  talk  their  till, 

Kor  life  is  sweet,  and  love  is  strong, 
And  two,  close  knit  in  marriage  tics, 
The  whole  world's  shams  may  \\A\  despise,  • 
Its  folly,  madness,  shame,  and  wrong. 


'^ 


f 


LOVE. 


79 


-a 


h^- 


We  are  not  proud,  with  a  fool's  priile, 
Xor  cowards,  —  to  Ije  held  in  tliruU 

ISy  pelf  or  lineage,  rank  or  laml^  ; 

One  honest  heart,  two  honest  li;uids, 
Are  worth  far  more  than  Moreton  Hall. 

Therefore  we  laugh  to  scorn  —  we  two  — 

The  bars  that  weaker  souls  appall ; 
I  take  her  hand,  and  hold  it  fast, 
Knowing  she  '11  love  ine  to  the  last. 
My  dearest  maid  of  Moreton  Hall. 

Dl.NAH    MUl.OCK  CRAllC 


SONG. 

Shall  I  love  you  like  the  wind,  love. 

That  is  so  fierce  and  strong. 
That  sweeps  all  barriers  from  its  [lath 

And  recks  not  riglit  or  wrong  ! 
The  jjassion  of  the  wind,  love. 

Can  never  last  for  long. 

Shall  I  love  you  like  the  fire,  love. 
With  furious  heat  and  noise. 

To  waken  in  yo>i  all  love's  fears 
Anil  little  of  love's  joys  ? 

The  passion  of  the  fire,  love, 
Whate'er  it  finds,  destroys. 

I  will  love  you  like  the  stars,  love, 

Set  in  the  heavenly  blue. 
That  only  shine  the  brighter 

After  weeping  tears  of  dew  ; 
Above  the  wind  and  fire,  love. 

They  love  the  ages  through. 

And  when  this  life  is  o'er,  love. 

With  ail  its  joys  and  jars, 
We  'U  leave  behind  the  wind  and  fire 

To  wage  their  boisterous  wars,  — 
Then  we  shall  only  be,  love. 

The  nearer  to  the  stars  ! 

R.  w.  ravmo.vd. 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

Bkfoiik  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 
Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 

Before  1  let  thy  future  give 
Color  and  form  to  mine. 

Before  I  peril  all  for  tbec, 

Question  thy  soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret  : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet  ? 


Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free 

As  that  which  I  can  pledge  to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 

A  possible  future  shim:. 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe, 

Untouched,  unshared  by  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost, 
0,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost ! 

Look  deeper  still  :  if  thou  canst  feel, 

Within  thy  inmost  soul. 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  jiortion  back, 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole, 
Let  no  false  jiity  spare  the  blow. 
But  in  tine  mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fullill  '. 
One  chonl  that  any  other  liand 

Could  bett<-i'  wake  oj-  still  .' 
Speak  now,  lest  at  some  future  day 
My  whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon-spirit,  change, 
Sliedding  a  passing  gloi-y  still 

On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone,  — 
But  shield  my  heart  against  thine  own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 

And  answer  to  my  claim. 
That  fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake,  — 

Not  thou,  —  had  been  to  blame  ! 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus  ;  but  thou 
Wilt  surely  warn  and  .save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  ?w/,  —  1  dare  not  hear, 
The  words  would  come  tfra  late  ; 

Yet  I  would  si>are  thee  all  remorse. 
So  comfort  thee,  my  fate  : 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall. 

Remember,  I  would  risk  it  all  ! 

ADELAIDE  A.VNE  PROCTER. 


THE  LADY'S   "YES." 

"Yes,"  I  answered  you  last  night ; 

"  No,"  this  moniing,  sir,  I  say. 
Colors  seen  by  candleliglit 

Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the  viols  played  their  heat. 
Lamps  above,  and  laughs  below. 

Love  me  sounded  like  a  je.st. 
Fit  for  yen  or  fit  for  tm. 


^ 


[&-- 


80 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


^^ 


Call  me  false  or  call  me  free, 
Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, 

No  man  on  your  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both  ; 

Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo  ; 
Wooing  light  makes  fickle  troth  ; 

Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 

Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 

Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high. 
Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death, 

With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards. 

Point  her  to  tlie  starry  skies, 
Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words. 

Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true, 

Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore  ; 
And  her  yes,  once  said  to  you. 

Shall  be  Yes  forevennore. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


LOVE'S  SILENCE. 

Because  I  breathe  not  love  to  everie  one. 
Nor  do  not  use  set  colors  for  to  weare. 
Nor  nourish  special  locks  of  vowed  haire, 

Nor  give  each  speech  a  full  point  of  a  groane,  — 

The  courtlie  nymphs,  acquainted  with  the  moane 
Of  them  who  on  their  lips  Love's  standard  beare, 
"What,  he?"  say  they  of  me  ;  "now  I  dare 
sweare 

He  cannot  love  :  No,  no  !  let  him  alone." 
And  think  so  still, —  if  Stella  know  my  minde. 

Profess,  indeed,  I  do  not  Cupid's  art  ; 

But  you,  faire  maids,  at  length  this  true  shall 
finde,  — 
That  his  right  badge  is  but  worne  in  tlie  hearte. 
Dumb  swans,  not   chattering  pies,   do  lovers 

prove  : 
They  love  indeed  who  ijuake  to  say  they  love. 
SIR  Philip  Sid.ney. 


THE  MAID'S   REMONSTRANCE. 

Never  wedding,  ever  wooing. 
Still  a  love-lorn  heart  pursuing, 
Read  you  not  the  wrong  you  're  doing 

In  my  cheek's  pale  hue  ? 
All  my  life  with  sorrow  strewing. 

Wed,  or  cease  to  woo. 


Rivals  banished,  bosoms  plighted, 
Still  our  days  are  disunited  ; 
Now  the  lamp  of  hope  is  lighted, 

Now  half  ([uenched  appears. 
Damped  and  wavering  and  benighted 

Midst  my  sighs  and  tears. 

Charms  you  call  your  dearest  blessing, 
Lips  that  thrill  at  your  caressing, 
Eyes  a  mutual  soul  confessing. 

Soon  you  '11  make  them  grow 
Dim,  and  worthless  your  possessing. 

Not  with  age,  but  woe  ! 


GIVE  ME  MORE  LOVE  OR  MORE  DISDAIN 

Give  me  more  love  or  more  disdain  ; 

The  torrid  or  the  frozen  zone 
Brings  equal  ease  unto  my  pain  ; 

The  temperate  affords  me  none  ; 
Either  e.vtreme,  of  love  or  hate, 
Is  sweeter  than  a  calm  estate. 

Give  me  a  storm  ;  if  it  be  love, 
Like  Danae  in  a  golden  shower, 

I  swim  in  pleasure  ;  if  it  prove 
Disdain,  that  toiTent  will  devour 

My  vulture  hopes  ;  and  he 's  possessed 

Of  heaven  that 's  but  from  hell  released  ; 

Then  crown  my  joys,  or  cure  my  Jiain  ; 

Give  me  more  love  or  more  disdain. 

THOtlAS  carew. 


LOVE  DISSEMBLED. 


FROM  ■'  AS  1 


Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him  ; 
'T  is  but  a  peevish  hoy  :  —  yet  he  talks  well  ;  — 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  —  yet  words  do  well. 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
But,  sure,  he 's  proud  ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes 

him  ; 
He  '11  make  a  proper  man  :  The  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion  ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offense,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall  ;  yet  for  his  years  he  's  tall  ; 
His  leg  is  but  so  so  ;  and  yet  't  is  well  : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip, 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 
Than  that  mi.\ed  in  his  cheek  ;  't  was  just  the 

difference 
Betwi.xt  the  constant  red,  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  tliey  marked 

him 
In  parcels,  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him  :  but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not  ;  and  yet 


LflVE. 


81 


-a 


I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him ; 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 

He  said  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black ; 

And,  now  I  am  remembered,  scorned  at  me  : 

I  marvel,  why  I  answered  not  again  : 

But  that  '3  all  one  ;  omittance  is  no  quittance. 


MILLAIS'S   "HUGUENOTS.' 


Your  fav'rite  picture  rises  up  before  me, 

Whene'er  you  play  that  tune ; 
I  see  two  figures  standing  in  a  garden, 

In  the  still  August  noon. 

One  is  a  girl's,  with  pleading  face  turned  upwards, 

Wild  with  great  alarm  ; 
Trembling  with   haste  she  binds  her  broidered 
kerchief 

About  the  other's  arm. 

Whose  gaze  is  bent  on  her  in  tender  pity. 

Whose  eyes  look  into  hers 
With  a  deep  meaning,  though  she  cannot  read  it. 

Hers  are  so  dim  with  tears. 

Wliat  are  they  saying  in  the  sunny  garden. 

With  summer  (lowers  ablow  ! 
What  gives    the   woman's   voice  its   passionate 
pleading  ? 

What  makes  the  man's  so  low  ? 

"See,  love  !"  she  muimurs  ;   "you  shall  wear 
ny  kerchief. 

It  is  the  badge,  I  know  ; 
And  it  will  bear  you  safely  through  the  conflict. 

If —  if,  indeed,  you  go  ! 

"  You  will  not  wear  it  ?    Will  not  wear  my  ker- 
chief < 

Xay  !     Do  not  tell  me  why, 
I  will  not  listen  !     If  you  go  without  it. 

You  will  go  hence  to  die. 

"Hush  !    Do  not  answer  !   It  is  death,  1  tell  you  ! 

Indeed,  I  speak  the  truth. 
You,  standing  there,  so  warm  with  life  and  vigor. 

So  bright  with  health  and  youth  ; 

' '  You  would  go  hence,  out  of  the  glowing  sunshine. 

Out  of  the  garden's  bloom. 
Out  of  the  living,  thinking,  feeling  present. 

Into  the  unknown  gljom!  " 

Then  he  makes  answer,   "Hush  !  0,  hush,  ray 
darling ! 
Life  is  so  sweet  to  me. 


So  full  of  hope,  you  need  not  Ijid  me  guard  it, 
If  such  a  thing  might  be  ! 

"  If  such  a  thing  might  be  !  —  but  not  through 
falsehood, 

I  could  not  come  to  you  ; 
I  dare  not  stand  here  in  your  pure,  sweet  presence. 

Knowing  myself  untrue. " 

"It  is  no  sin  !  "  the  wild  voice  interrupts  him, 

"  This  is  no  open  strife. 
Have  you  not  often  dreamt  a  nobler  warfare, 

In  which  to  spend  your  life  ? 

"  Oh  !  for  my  sake  —  though  but  for  my  sake, 
wear  it  I 

Think  what  my  life  would  be 
If  you,  who  gave  it  first  true  worth  and  meaning, 

Were  taken  now  from  me. 

"Think  of  the  long,  long  days,  so  slowly  passing ! 

Think  of  the  endless  years  ! 
I  am  so  young  '     Must  I  live  out  my  lifetime 

With  neither  hopes  nor  fears  ?  " 

He  speaks  again,  in  mournful  tones  and  tender. 

But  with  unswerving  faith  : 
' '  Should   not   love   make   us  braver,    ay,    and 
stronger. 

Either  for  life  or  death  ? 

"And  life  is  hardest  I    0  my  love  !  my  treasure  ! 

If  I  could  bear  your  part 
Of  this  great  sorrow,  1  would  go  to  meet  it 

With  an  unshrinking  heart. 

"Chilli  !  child!   1  little  dreamt  in  that    bright 
summer. 

When  first  your  love  I  sought. 
Of  all  the  future  store  of  woe  and  anguish 

Which  I,  unknowing,  wrought. 

"  But  you  '11  forgive  me  ?     Yes,  you  will  forgive 
me, 
I  know,  when  I  am  dead  ! 
I  would  have  loved  you,  —  but  words  have  scant 
meaning  ; 
God  loved  you  more  instead  1  " 

Then  there  is  silence  in  the  sunny  garden. 

Until,  with  faltering  tone. 
She  sobs,  the  while  still  clinging  closer  to  him, 

"  Forgive  me  —  go  —  my  own  !  " 

So  human  love,  and  death  by  faith  unshaken, 

llingle  their  glorious  psalm, 
Albeit  low,  until  the  passionate  pleading 

Is  hushed  in  deepest  calm. 


^.- 


-^ 


1^s7 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-^ 


WILL  YOU  LOVE  ME  WHEN  I'M  OLD? 

Will  affection  still  infold  me 

When  the  day  of  life  declines, 
When  old  age  with  ruthless  rigor 

Plows  my  face  in  furrowed  lines  ; 
When  the  eye  forgets  its  seeing, 

And  the  hand  forgets  its  skill, 
ind  the  very  words  prove  rebel 

To  the  mind's  once  kingly  will  ; 

When  the  deaf  ear,  strained  to  listen, 

Scarcely  hears  the  opening  word. 
And  the  unfathoiued  depths  of  feeling 

Are  by  no  swift  current  stirred  ; 
When  fond  memory,  like  a  limner, 

Manv  a  line  perspective  casts, 
Spreading  out  our  bygone  pleasures 

On  the  canvas  of  the  Past  ; 

When  the  leaphig  blood  grows  sluggish. 

And  the  fire  of  youth  has  fled  ; 
A'hen  the  friends  who  now  surround  us 

Half  are  numbered  with  the  dead  ; 
K'hen  the  years  appear  to  shorten. 

Scarcely  leaving  us  a  trace  ; 
When  old  Time  with  bold  approaches 

Marks  his  dial  on  my  face  ; 

When  our  present  hopes,  all  gathered. 

Lie  like  dead  flowers  on  our  track  ; 
When  the  whole  of  our  existence 

Is  one  fearful  looking  back ; 
When  each  wasted  hour  of  talent. 

Hardly  measured  now  at  all, 
Sends  its  witness  back  to  haunt  us. 

Like  the  writing  on  the  wall  ; 

"Wlien  the  ready  tongue  is  palsied, 

And  the  form  is  bowed  -n-ith  care  ; 
When  our  only  hope  is  Heaven, 

And  our  only  help  is  prayer  ; 
When  our  idols,  broken  round  us. 

Fall  amid  the  ranks  of  men  : 
Until  Death  uplifts  the  curtain,  — 

Will  thy  love  endure  till  then  » 

ANON^'MOUS. 


A  PASTOKAL. 


She  touched  my  shoulder  with  fearful  finger  , 
She  said,  "  We  linger,  we  must  not  stay  ; 

My  flock 's  in  danger,  my  sheep  will  wander  ; 
Behold  them  yonder,  how  far  they  stray  !  " 

I  answered,  bolder,  "  'Say,  let  me  hear  you, 
And  stUl  be  near  you,  and  still  adore  ! 

No  wolf  nor  stranger  will  touch  one  yearling,  — 
Ah  !  stay,  my  darling,  a  moment  more  !  " 

She  whispered,  sighing,  "  There  will  be  sorrow 
Beyond  to-morrow,  if  I  lose  to-day  ; 

My  fold  unguarded,  my  flock  unfolded,  — 
I  shall  be  scolded  and  sent  away  !  " 

Said  I,  repl}-ing,  "  If  they  do  miss  you. 

They  ought  to  kiss  you  when  you  get  home  ; 

And  well  rewarded  by  friend  and  neighbor 
Should  be  the  labor  from  which  you  come." 

"They  might  remember,"  she  answered,  meekly, 
"  That  lambs  are  weakly  and  sheep  are  wild  ; 

But  if  they  love  me,  it  's  none  so  fervent  — 
I  am  a  servant,  and  not  a  child." 

Then  each  hot  ember  glowed  quick  within  me. 
And  love  did  win  me  to  swift  reply  : 

"Ah  !  do  but  prove  me,  and  none  shall  bind  you. 
Nor  fray,  nor  find  you,  until  I  die  !  " 

She  blushed  and  started,  and  stood  awaiting. 

As  if  debating  in  dreams  divine  ; 
But  I  did  brave  them,  —  I  told  her  plainly. 

She  doubted  vainly,  she  must  be  mine. 

So  we,  twin-hearted,  from  all  the  valley 
Did  rouse  and  rally  her  nibbling  ewes  ; 

And  homeward  drove  them,  we  two  together. 
Through  blooming  heather  and  gleaming  dews. 

'  That  simple  duty  such  grace  did  lend  her. 
My  Doris  tender,  my  Doris  true, 
That  I,  her  warder,  did  always  bless  her, 
And  often  press  her  to  take  her  due. 

And  now  in  beauty  she  fills  my  dwelling 
With  love  excelling  and  undefiled  ; 
1  And  love  doth  guard  her,  both  fast  and  fervent. 
No  more  a  servant,  nor  yet  a  child. 

'  .\RTHLR  J     MUNDV. 


I  S-\T  with  Doris,  the  shepherd  maiden  ; 

Her  crook  was  laden  with  ■i\Teatlied  flowers  ; 
I  sat  and  wooed  her  through  sunlight  wheeling. 

And  shadows  stealing,  for  hours  and  hours. 

And  she,  my  Doris,  whose  lap  incloses 
Wild  summer  roses  of  faint  perfume, 

The  while  I  sued  her,  kept  hushed,  and  hearkened 
Till  shades  had  darkened  from  gloss  to  gloom. 


FETCHING  WATER  FROM  THE  WELL. 

Early  on  a  sunny  morning,  while  the  lark  was 

singing  sweet. 
Came,  beyond  the  ancient  farm-house,  sounds  of 

lightly  tripping  feet. 


ly- 


^ 


[&-- 


'T  was  a  lowly  cottage  maiden  gouig  —  why,  let 

young  hearts  tell  — 
With  her  homely  pitcher  laden,  fetching  water 

from  the  well. 
Shadows  lay  athwart  the  pathway,  all  along  the 

quiet  lane, 
And  the  breezes  of  the  morning  moved  them  to 

and  fro  again. 
O'er  the  sunshine,  o'er  the  shadow,  passed  the 

maiden  of  the  farm. 
With  a  charmed  heart  within  her,  thinking  of 

no  ill  nor  harm. 
Pleasant,  surely,  wero  her  musings,  for  the  nod- 
ding leaves  in  vain 
Sought  to  press  their  bright'ning  image  on  her 

ever-busy  brain. 
Leaves  and  joyous  birds  went  liy  her,  like  a  dim, 

half-waking  dream  ; 
And  her  soul  was  only  conscious  of  life's  gladdest 

summer  gleam. 
At  the  old   lane's  shady  turning  lay  a  well  of 

water  bright, 
Singing,  soft,  its  hallelujah  to  the  gracious  morn- 
ing light. 
Fei'u-leaves,  broad  and  green,  bent  o'er  it  where 

its  silvery  droplets  fell. 
And  the  fairies  dwelt  beside  it,  in  the  .spotted 

foxglove  bell. 
Back  she  bent  the  shailing  fern-leaves,  dipt  the 

pitcher  in  the  tide,  — 
Drew  it,  with  the  dripping  waters  flowing  o'er  its 

glazed  side  ; 
But  before  her  arm  could  place  it  on  her  shiny, 

wavy  hair. 
By  her  side  a  youth  was  standing  !  —  Love  re- 
jo. ced  to  see  the  pair  ! 
Tonesof  tremulous  emotion  trailed  uponthemorn- 

ing  breeze, 
Gentle  words  of  heart-devotion  wliisi)ered  'neath 

tlie  ancient  trees  ; 
But  the  holy,  blessed  secrets  it  becomes  me  not 

to  tell  : 
Life  had  met  another  meaning,   fetching  water 

from  the  well  ! 
Down  the  rural  lane  they  sauntered.    He  the  bur- 
den-pitcher bore  ; 
She,  with  dewy  eyes  down-looking,  grew  more 

beauteous  than  before  ! 
When  they  neared  the  silent  homestead,  up  he 

raised  the  pitcher  light  ; 
Like  a  fitting  crown  he  placed  it  on  her  hair  of 

wavelets  bright  : 
Emblems  of  the  coming  burdens  that  for  love  of 

him  she  'd  bear, 
Calling  every  burden   blessed,   if  his   love  but 

lighted  there. 
Then,  still  waving  benedictions,  farther,  farther 

off  he  drew. 


'E.  83 

While  his  shadow  seemed  a  glory  that  across  the 

pathway  grew. 
Now  about    her  household    duties  silently   the 

maiden  went. 
And  an  ever-radiant  halo  o'er  her  daily  life  was 

blent. 
Little  knew  tlie  aged  matron  as  her  feet  like  music 

fell. 
What  abundant  treasure  found  she,  f'elchingwater 

from  the  well  1 

ANONV.MOUS. 


OTHELLO'S  DEFENSE. 

Othello.  1  '11  present 

How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love. 
And  she  in  mine. 

Her  father  loved  me  ;  oft  invited  me  ; 
Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year ;  —  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  passed. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  ilays, 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it : 
Wherein  1  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances. 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  llehl  ; 
Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly 

breach  ; 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 
And  sold  to  slavery  ;  of  my  redemption  thence. 
And  portance  in  my  travel's  history  : 
Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  deseits  idle. 
Rough   fjuarries,   rocks,   and   hills  whose   heads 

touch  heaven. 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  —  such  was  tlie  process  ; 
And  of  the  t'annibals  that  each  other  eat. 
The  Anthrojiophagi,  and  men  who.se  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     This  to  hear. 
Would  Desdemona  seriou.sly  incline  : 
But  still  the  house  affairs  would  diaw  lier  thence  ; 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch, 
She  'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  car 
Devour  up  my  discourse.     Which  1  ob.serving. 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour  ;  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 
That  I  would  all  my  [nlgi-image  dilate. 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively  :  I  did  consent  ; 
-■Vnd  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
\Vlien  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  suff'ered.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  : 
She  swore,  —  in  faith  't  was  strange,  't  was  pass- 
ing strange  ; 
'T  was  pitiful,  't  was  wondrous  jiitiful  : 
She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wished 
That   Heaven   had  made   her  such  a  num  :  she 


thanked  me  : 


— w 


a- 


84 


PUEMS  OF  LOVE. 


^ 


c;i-. 


And  liiule  lue,  if  1  had  a  Irieiid  that  loved  her, 
I  slmuld  Uwh  him  liow  tu  Il-U  my  story, 
And  tliut  would  woo  hor.  Ujioii  this  liiiit,  1  spaku 
She  lovod  mu  for  the  dangers  1  had  [lassod  ; 
And  1  loved  hor  that  she  di<l  jiity  thorn, 
'i'lus  only  is  tlie  wilelu'rait  1  have  used  : 
Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  wituess  it. 


FOLLOW   A   SHADOW,    IT  STILL  FLIES  YOU. 

Follow  m  sliadow,  it  still  Hies  you  ; 

Seem  to  lly  it,  it  will  pursue  : 
So  court  a  mistress,  she  denies  you  ; 

Let  her  alone,  she  will  court  you. 
Say,  are  not  women  truly,  then, 
.Styled  I'ut  tlie  shadows  of  us  men  ? 

At  luoru  and  even,  shades  are  longest  ; 

At  noon  they  are  or  short  or  none  : 
So  men  at  weakest  they  are  strongest, 

IJut  grant  us  perfect,  they  're  not  known. 
Say,  are  not  women  truly,  then. 
Styled  but  the  shadows  of  us  men  .' 

Ul-N  JONSON. 


TIIK  rUKll'AN   LOVERS. 

Drawn  out,  like  lingering  bees,  to  share 
The  last,  sweet  summer  weather, 

Benealli  the  reddening  maples  walked 
Two  rurilans  li>gether,  — 

A  youth  and  maiden,  heeding  not 

The  woods  which  round  them  brightened, 

Just  conscious  of  each  other's  thoughts. 
Half  h,'iiii)y  and  half  frightened. 

Grave  were  their  brows,  and  few  their  words 
And  coarse  their  garb  and  simple  ; 

The  nuiiden's  very  cheek  seemed  shy 
To  own  its  worldly  dimple, 

For  stern  the  tiiiic  ;   they  dwelt  with  fare. 

And  fear  was  oft  a  comer  ; 
A  sober  April  ushered  in 

The  Pilgrim's  toilful  summer. 

And  stiTU  tlieir  creed  ;  tlu\v  tarried  hern 

Mere  desert  dand  sojourners  ; 
They  must  not  dream  of  mirth  or  rest, 

God's  humblo  lesson dearnors. 

The  tcmjile's  sacred  perfume  round 
Their  week-day  robes  was  clinging  ; 

Their  nurth  was  but  the  golden  bells 
On  priestly  garments  ringing. 


Hut  as  to-day  they  softly  talked. 

That  serious  youth  and  maiden, 
Their  plainest  words  strange  beauty  wore, 

Like  weeds  with  dcwdrops  laden. 

The  saddest  theme  had  something  sweet. 

The  gravest,  something  tender, 
While  with  slow  steps  they  wandered  on, 

Mid  summer's  fading  splendor. 

He  said,  "  Ne.\t  week  the  churrli  will  hold 

A  day  of  prayer  and  fasting"  ; 
And  then  he  stoi)ped,  and  bent  to  pick 

A  wdiite  lile-cverlasting,  — 

A  silvery  Idooni,  with  fadeless  leaves  ■, 

He  gave  it  to  lier,  sighing  ; 
A  mute  confession  was  his  ghinee, 

Her  blush,  a  mute  replying. 

"  Mchetabel  1 "  (at  last  he  spoke,) 

' '  My  fairest  one  and  dearest  ! 
One  thought  is  ever  to  my  heart 

The  sweetest  and  the  nearest. 

"  You  read  my  soul  ;  you  know  my  wish  ; 

0,  grant  mo  its  fulfilling  !  " 
She  answered  low,  "  If  Heaven  snules, 

And  if  my  father  's  willing  !  " 

No  idle  passion  swayed  her  heart. 
This  (|naint  New  Knghind  beauty  ! 

Faitli  was  the  guardian  of  her  life,  — 
Obedience  was  a  duty. 

Too  truthful  for  reserve,  she  stood. 
Her  brown  eyes  earthward  easting. 

And  held  with  trendiling  hand  the  wlnle 
Her  white  life-everlasting. 

Her  sober  answer  pleased  the  youth.  — 
Frank,  clear,  and  gravely  elu'crful  ; 

He  left  lier  at  her  father's  door, 
Too  hnjipy  to  be  fearful. 

She  looked  on  high,  witli  earnest  plea. 
And  Hc:i\c  II  M  ,  iiH  .1  iM-ight  above  her  ; 

And  wdieii  sIm'  ^In  1\  --["ike  his  name. 
Her  I'allu'i  piMi^.d  her  lover. 

An.l  when,  that  night,  she  sought  her  couch 
With  head-board  high  and  olden. 

Her  prayer  was  praise,  her  pillow  down. 
And  all  her  ilreams  were  golden. 

And  still  upon  her  throbbing  heart, 

In  bloom  and  breath  undying, 
A  few  life-everlasting  flowers. 

Her  lover's  gift,  were  lying. 


1 


LOVE. 


85 


13] 


0  Venus'  myrtles,  frosh  and  green  I 

()  (.'iqiiil's  liliisliing  roses  I 
Not  oil  your  classic  llowers  alone 
The  sacred  light  reposes  ; 

Thoiifjh  f;cntler  care  may  shield  your  l)uds 
Kroin  north-winds  rude  and  blastin^^, 

As  dear  to  liovo,  those  few,  palo  llowers 
or  white  life-evorhusting. 

ANNM!  D.  CRL!1!N  (MARIAN  DOUGLAS). 


WERE  I  AS  ISASE  AS  13  THE  LOWLY  I'LAIN. 

Wriik  I  as  li.iso  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 
And  you,  my  love,  as  hij,'li  as  heaven  aliove, 
Yot  should  the  thoughts  ol'  me  your  humlile  swain 
Ascend  to  lumvon,  in  honor  of  my  love. 

Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  ])lain. 
And  you,  my  love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Wlioreso'or  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should 

Were  you  the  earth,  dear  love,  and  1  the  skies, 
My  love  should  shine  on  yo\i  like  to  the  sun. 
And  look  n])iin  you  with  ten  thousand  (^yes 
Till  heaven  waxed  Ijlind,  and  till  tlie  world  were 
done, 

Whereso'cr  1  am,  lielow,  or  else  above  you, 
Whereso'er  you  aic,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 

JOSnUA  SVLVHS'IeK. 


AH,   HOW  SWEET  I 

All,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love  ! 

Ah,  how  gay  is  young  desire  ! 
And  what  pleasing  pains  we  prove 

When  we  first  approach  love's  fire  ! 
I'ains  of  love  arc  sweeter  far 
'I'lian  :ill  other  jilt^asurcs  are. 

Sighs  which  arc  from  lovers  blown 
Do  but  gently  heave  the  heart : 

E'en  the  ti'ars  they  shed  alone 
('me,  like  trickling  balm,  their  smart. 

Lovers,  when  they  lose  their  breath, 

lileed  away  in  easy  death. 

Love  and  Time  with  reverence  use. 
Treat  them  like  a  ]ia.rting  friend  ; 

Nor  the  goldi;n  gifts  r(!fuse 

Which  in  youth  sincere  they  .send  ; 

For  each  year  their  jirice  is  more. 

And  they  less  simide  than  before. 


Love,  like  spring-tides  full  and  high, 
Swells  in  i^very  youthful  vein  ; 

ISut  each  tide  does  less  supply. 
Till  they  (|uite  shrink  in  again. 

If  a  How  in  age  ajijiear, 

'T  is  but  ruin,  and  runs  not  clear. 


THE   FIRE  OK  LOVE, 

TiiK  lire  of  love  in  youthful  blood. 
Like  what  is  kindled  in  brushwood, 

But  lor  a  moment  burns  ; 
Yet  in  that  moment  makes  a  mighty  noise  ; 
It  crackles,  ami  to  vapor  turns, 

And  soon  itself  destroys. 

But  wlien  crept  into  aged  veins. 
It  slowly  burns,  then  long  rcnuiins, 

And  with  a  silent  heat, 
Like  lire  in  logs,  it  glows  and  warms  'em  long  ; 
And  though  the  llamo  b(!  not  so  great, 

Vet  is  the  heat  as  strong. 

Laki,  Ol'  DOKSeT. 


CHILD  AND  MAIDEN. 

Am,  Chloris  !  could  1  nr>w  but  sit 

As  uni:oncerned  as  when 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  happiness  or  ]iain  ! 
When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire, 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 
I  little  thought  the  rising  lire 

Would  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  hannlcss  eliildliood  Iiiy 

Like  metals  in  a  mine  ; 
Age  from  no  fa(-(!  takes  more  away 

Than  youth  concealeil  in  thine. 
But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  tlwiir  fiei-fcc!tion  jircst. 
So  love  as  unjierccived  did  lly, 

And  ccntereil  in  my  breast. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

Wliile  I'lijiid  at  my  heart 
Still,  as  his  mother  favonsl  you, 

Threw  a  new  llaming  dart. 
Each  gliu'i(«l  in  tludr  wanton  part  ; 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employed  the  utmost  of  his  art  ; 

To  make  a  l)eauty,  she. 

Sm  CIIAKLI'.S  SF'Dl.I 


-3 


a-^- 


8G 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


ON  A  GIRDLE. 

'I'liM'  wliii'li  hi'v  sUniilor  wiiist  I'liuliiuxl 
SluiU  lunv  my  joyful  tcuipli's  hiiul ; 
No  UHiuiuvli  Imt  would  fjivo  Ills  iTown, 
His  unns  inii;lit  ilo  wlml  lliis  luilh  iloiio. 

It    was  lUV   luMVl'll's  CNlliMlU'sl   Splu'VO, 

Tlu'  imU.\vlii,'h  lioM  lliiil  lov.'ly  Aw: 
My  joy,  my  ijncr,  luy  liopf,  my  love, 
IH.l  all  within  this  riivlc  move. 

A  iianow  ,-omi«ss  !  an.l  \v\  Www 
llwill  all  lliat  's  -ooa,  aii.l  all  lliat  's  fail', 
llivo  me  tml  what  this  rililion  liouiul. 
Take  all  the  test  the  smi  goes  I'ouiul  I 


WHY,   LOVELY  CHARMER') 

FROM  '■  lllu  llivi;  ■■ 

■\ViiY,  lovely  eliarmer,  tell  me  why 
80  very  kiiiil,  ami  yet  so  sliy  ' 
^\'hy  lioes  that  eoli'l,  I'orliiiUiiiif,'  aiv 
(live  liamiis  ot'  somnv  ami  despair  f 
Ov  why  that  smile  my  soul  subdue, 
And  kindle  uji  my  llames  anew  ' 

In  vain  you  strive  with  all  your  art, 
lly  turns  to  lire  and  t'li'e/e  my  heart  ; 
When  1  behold  11  liiee  so  lair. 
So  sweet  a  look,  so  soft  un  nir, 
My  ravished  soul  is  ehnrmed  lUl  o'er, 
1  eamiot  love  thee  loss  or  more. 

ANONVMOUS 


I  PRITHEE  SEND  ME  BACK   MY  HEART. 

1  riilTllEl'.  scud  me  Kiek  my  heart, 

Sinee  1  eanuot  have  thine  ; 
V'or  if  from  yours  yon  will  not  part. 

Why  then  shouldst  thou  have  nduo  ? 

Yet,  now  1  think  on  't.  let  it  lie  ; 

To  timl  it  weiv  in  vain  ; 
For  tlion  'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

^Vould  steal  it  baek  asniiu. 

Why  sluaild  two  hearts  in  one  bivnst  li», 
.\n,l  yet  not  lodgt"  totrether  ? 

0  l.ove  !  whore  is  thy  syiuiwthy 
If  thus  our  bivasts  thou  sever  ? 

Hut  love  is  sueh  a  mystery, 

1  eanuot  liud  it  out  ; 
For  when  1  think  1  'ni  Iwsl  resolved 

Then  1  am  most  in  doubt. 


Tlieu  larewell  care,  ami  farowell  woo  ; 

I  will  no  lons;er  pine  ; 
For  1  '11  believe  I  have  her  heart 

As  mueh  as  she  has  mine. 

SIK    lOUN  SUCK 


IK   DOIHJIITY   DEEDS  MY   LADY   PLEASE. 

ll''  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please, 

liighl  soon  1  11  nu)uut  my  stood. 
And  strong  his  arm  ami  fast  his  seat 

That  bears  I'l-.ie  uu'  the  nu<od. 
1  '11  wear  tliy  eolors  in  my  eap, 

'I'hy  pieture  at  my  heart. 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  oyo 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart  ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thoc,  Love  ; 

O,  tell  nui  how  to  woo  thee  ! 
For  thy  dear  sake  mu'  eare  1  '11  take, 
Though  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye, 

I  '11  diglit  me  in  array  ; 
1  '11  tend  thy  fhamber  door  all  night. 

And  squire  tliee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  ean  win  thine  ear, 

Tho.se  sounds  1  '11  strive  to  eateh ; 
Thy  voiee  1  '11  steal  to  woo  thysell, 

That  voioo  that  nane  oau  mateh. 

l?nt  if  fond  love  tliy  lieart  ean  g.dii, 

I  never  broke  a  vow  ; 
Nae  nuiiden  lays  her  .skaith  to  me  ; 

1  never  loved  but  yon. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  tlie  blue  ; 
For  you  alone  1  strive  to  sing, 
("1.  tell  n\e  how  to  woo ! 

Then  tell  nu'  how  to  woo  thee,  l.ove 

0,  toll  mo  liow  to  woo  thee '. 
For  thy  dear  sake  nae  eaix'  1  '11  take. 
Though  ne'er  another  trow  me. 
OK.\nAM  or 


TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON. 

\Vhi-:n  Love  with  uiu'onliu^d  wings 

llo\vrs  within  my  girtes. 
And  my  divine  Althoa  brings 

To  wbisper  at  the  grates  : 
When  1  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetteivd  to  her  eye. 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  sueh  liberty. 

AVheu  flowing  eups  nui  swiftly  round 
AVith  no  aUaving  Thanu>s, 


■-'-91 


TELL  ME  HOW  TO  WOO  THEE. 

'*  J/  doughty  (icctis  my  indy  please 
Right  soon  I  'it  mount  my  steed ^ 
And  strong  his  arm  and /ntt  itis  seat 
That  Itears  frae  me  the  meed^ 


LOVE. 


87    T 


Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned, 
Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 

AVhen  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 
When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 

Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnet-like  confined,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  gi-eat  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood. 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Xor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love. 

And  in  my  soul  am  free. 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


WELCOME,   WELCOME   DO  I  SING. 

Welcome,  jrclcome,  do  I  sing. 
Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  forever. 

Love,  that  to  the  voice  is  near. 
Breaking  from  your  ivoiy  pale. 

Need  not  walk  abroad  to  hear 
The  delightful  nightingale. 

Welcome,  welcmnc,  then  I  sing,  etc. 

LoTe,  that  still  looks  on  your  eyes. 
Though  the  winter  have  begun 

To  benumb  our  arteries. 

Shall  not  want  the  summer's  sun. 
Welconw,  welcome,  then  I  sing,  etc. 

Love,  that  still  may  see  your  cheeks. 
Where  all  rareness  still  reposes, 

Is  a  fool  if  e'er  he  seeks 
Other  lilies,  other  roses. 

Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing,  etc. 

Love,  to  whom  your  soft  lip  yields. 
And  perceives  your  breath  in  kissing. 

All  the  odors  of  the  fields 

Never,  never  shall  be  missing. 

William  Browne. 


RIVALKY  IN  LOVE. 

Of  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares, 

With  which  our  lives  are  curst  ; 
Of  all  the  plagues  a  lover  bears. 

Sure  rivals  are  the  worst  ! 
By  partners  in  each  other  kind. 

Afflictions  easier  grow  ; 
In  love  alone  W'e  hate  to  find 

Companions  of  our  woe. 

Sylvia,  for  all  the  pangs  you  see 

Are  lab'ring  in  my  breast, 
1  beg  not  you  would  favor  me. 

Would  you  but  slight  the  rest  ! 
How  great  soe'er  your  rigors  are, 

With  them  alone  1  '11  cope  ; 
I  can  endure  my  own  despair. 

But  not  another's  hoi«;. 


VERSES  WRITTEN   Es"  AN  ALBUM. 

Heke  is  one  leaf  reserved  for  nu-, 
From  all  thy  sweet  memorials  free  ; 
And  here  my  simple  song  might  tell 
The  feelings  thou  must  guess  .so  well. 
But  could  I  thus,  within  thy  miud, 
One  little  vacant  corner  find. 
Where  no  impression  yet  is  seen. 
Where  no  memorial  yet  has  been, 
0,  it  should  be  ray  sweetest  care 
To  write  my  name  forever  there  ! 

Tho.\ias  moore. 


HER  LIKENESS. 

A  GIRL  who  has  so  many  willful  ways 

She  would  have  caused  Job's  patience  to  for- 
sake him. 
Yet  is  so  rich  in  all  that 's  girlhood's  praise. 
Did  Job  himself  upon  her  goodness  gaze, 
A  little  better  she  would  surely  make  him. 

Yet  is  this  girl  I  sing  in  naught  uncommon. 
And  very  far  from  angel  yet,  I  trow. 

Her  faults,  her  sweetnesses,  are  purely  human  ; 

Yet  she  's  more  lovable  as  simple  woman 
Than  any  one  diviner  that  1  know. 

Therefore  I  wish  that  she  may  safely  keep 

This  womanhede,  and  change  not,  only  grow  ; 
From  maid  to  matron,  youth  to  age,  may  creep, 
And  in  perennial  blessedness  still  reap, 

On  every  hand,  of  that  which  she  doth  sow. 
Dinah  muloci 


tzh 


-^J 


e- 


ss 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


»-4J 


A  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

Sleep  ou  !  ami  dream  of  lleaveu  awhile  ! 

Though  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lijis  still  wear  a  smile, 

Ami  move,  iiml  breathe  delicious  sighs. 

Ah  1  now  soft  blushes  tiuge  her  iheeks 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow  ; 

Ah  !  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks, 
What  most  I  wish,  and  fear,  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  slu'  weeps  ! 

Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast ;  — 
And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 

A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  control, 

Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee  ; 
Ami  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 

Hemaiu  within  its  sanctuary  ! 

Samuf.l  Rogers. 


SHE  IS  NOT  FAIR  TO  OUTWARD  VIEW. 

Shk  is  not  fair  to  outward  view. 

As  many  maidens  bo ; 
Her  loveliness  1  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me  : 
0,  then  1  saw  her  eye  wa.s  bright,  — 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold  ; 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply  ; 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye  : 
Her  vpiy  frowns  are  better  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are ! 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


03.- 


THE  FLOWER'S   NAME. 

Hfiif.  's  the  garden  she  walked  across. 

Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since  : 
Hark  !  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Himlei-s  the  hinges,  and  makes  them  wince. 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  nnirmur  the  wicket  swung  ; 
Forshe  laid  the  poor  snail  mychancefoot.spurned, 

To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  bruslied  the  box  ; 
And  liore  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-wliite  phlox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  jxissed  you  by  ! 


She  loves  you,  noble  roses,  1  know  ; 

Hut  yonder  see  where  the  rock-plants  lie  ! 

This  Hower  she  stopped  at,  linger  on  lip,  — 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim  ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip. 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name. 
What  a  name  !  was  it  love  or  praise  ? 

S[ieoch  half  asleep,  or  song  half  awake  .' 
I  must  learn  Spanish  one  of  these  days. 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

1  may  biing  her  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell,  — 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanisu  phra.so. 
Uut  do  not  detain  me  now,  for  she  lingei'S 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground  ; 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  lingei'S 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard  !  look  that  you  grow  not,  — 

Stay  as  you  are,  and  be  loved  forever  ! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you,  't  is  that  you  blow  not,  — 

Mind  !  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never  ! 
For  while  thus  it  pouts,  her  fingei-s  wrestle. 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
Till  round  they  turn,  and  down  they  nestle  : 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen  > 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish  ; 

Whither  1  follow  lier,  beauties  llee. 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June  's  twice.! imesinceshe breathed  itwith  me? 
Come,  bud  !  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces. 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall  : 
Ah  !  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces,  — 

Roses,  }'ou  are  not  so  fair  after  all  ! 

RomiKT  Browning. 


WHY  7 


Why  came  the  rose  ?    Because  the  sun  in  shining. 
Found  in  the  mould  some  atoms  rare  and  fine  •. 

And  stooping,  drew  and  warmed  them  into  grow- 
ing. — 
Dust,  with  the  spirit's  mystic  countei-sign. 

'\\'hat  made  the  perfume  ?  All  his  wondrous  kisses 
Fell  on  the  sweet  red  mouth,  till,  lost  to  sight. 

The  love  became  too  e.xquisite,  and  vanished 
Into  a  viewless  rapture  of  the  night. 

Why  did  the  rose  die  ?  Ah,  why  ask  the  question  ? 

There  is  a  time  to  love,  —  a  time  to  give  ; 
She  perished  gladly,  folding  close  the  secret 

Wherein  is  garnei-ed  what  it  is  to  live. 


MARV  LOUISE  Rl- 


-^ 


^- 


LOVE. 


89    T 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYINO. 

Get  up,  get  up  !  for  shame  !  tlie  blooming  moni 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unsliom. 
See  how  Aurora  tlirows  her  fair 
Frcsh-nuilteil  colors  through  the  air  ; 
Get  ui),  sweet  shigalieil,  anil  sec 
The  (lew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Eaeh  llowf-r  has  wept,  and  bowed  toward  the  east, 
Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  are  not  drest,  — 
Nay,  not  so  mueli  as  out  of  l«;d, 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said. 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns  :  't  is  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  kee|i  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Kise,  anil  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and 
green. 
And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  ; 
Fear  not,  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  ; 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  ke[it. 
Against  you  come,  some  Orient  pearls  unwept. 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night  ; 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 

j.raying  ; 
Few  beads  arc  best,  when  once  we  go  a- Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come  I  and,  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  cacli  street  a  park, 
Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees ;  .see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch  ;  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Maile  up  of  white  thoni  neatly  intenvove. 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields,  and  wc  not  see  't  ? 
Come,  we  '11  abroad,  and  let 's  obey 
Tlie  proclamation  made  for  May, 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying  ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There  's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 

But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  i-s  come 
Back,  and  with  white  thorn  laden,  home  ; 
Some  have  dispatched  their  cakes  and  cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  ; 

And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted 
troth. 

And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth ; 


Many  a  green  gown  has  Iwen  given  ; 

Many  a  kiss,  Ixjth  odd  and  even  ; 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  V)een  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys'  lietraying 
This  night,   and  locks  picked,  yet  we're   not 
a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  wc  are  in  our  prime. 
And  take  the  hannlcss  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  glow  olil  ajiacc,  and  die. 

Before  we  know  our  liljerty. 

Our  life  is  .short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun  ; 
And  a.s  a  vapor,  or  a  drop  of  rain. 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  Ije  fouml  again. 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  mailc 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shaile, 

All  love,  allliking,  all  delight. 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then,  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying. 
Come,  ruy  Corinna,  coine,  let 's  go  a-Maying. 

KolJI-.RT  HeUKlCK. 


A   MATCH. 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  Ls, 
And  1  were  like  the  haf. 

Our  lives  would  grow  together 

In  sad  or  singing  weather. 

Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
fjreen  pleasure  or  gray  grief ; 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 
And  1  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 

And  love  were  like  the  tune. 
With  douljle  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
Witli  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon  ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  ware  life,  my  d.arling. 

And  I,  your  love,  were  death. 
We  'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 
With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath  ; 
If  you  were  life,  rny  darling, 
And  I,  your  love,  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 
We  'd  jilay  for  livas  and  seasons. 
With  loving  looks  and  trcason.s. 


-^ 


fl- 


90 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-Q: 


And  tears  of  night  and  morrow, 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy  ; 

If  yim  wi'rc  thrall  to  sorrow, 
Anil  1  were  page  to  joy. 

If  yon  were  April's  lady. 

Ami  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We  \i  tlirow  with  leaves  for  hours. 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady, 

And  night  were  Ijriglit  like  day  ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady. 

And  1  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  ciueen  of  pleasure, 

.\nd  1  were  king  of  pain. 
We  'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Plnek  out  his  llying-feather, 
And  teaeli  his  feet  a  measure, 

And  find  his  mouth  a  rein  ; 
If  you  were  (jueeu  of  pleasure. 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


THE  FLOWER  O'  DUMBLANE. 


1 1  lie  lofty  Ben  Lomond, 
I.I  |irosideo'er  the  scene. 


U-- 


TllKsnnhnsgaui'  ilnv 

.\nil  li'ftthrrr.lil 
While  lanely  I  stiay  in  tlir  ralni  snmmergloamin', 

To  nmse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dum- 
Mane. 

How  sweet  is  the  biier,  wi'  its  saftfauldin'  Wossom, 
An<l  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  mantle  o'  green  ; 

Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  liosom. 
Is  lovely  young  .lessie,  the  Flowero'  Dumblane. 

She's  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she's  bonnie, — 
For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain  ; 

And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of  feeling, 
Wha  'il  lilight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  Flower  o' 
Dundilane. 

Sing  on,   thou  sweet   m.avi.s,   thy  hyum    to  the 
e'ening  !  — 
Thou  'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood  glen: 
Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  .and  winning, 
Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dum- 
blane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi'  my  Jessie ! 

The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain  ; 
I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  would  ca'  my  dear  lassie 

Till  charmed  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flower  o' 
Dumblane. 


Though  mine  were  the  station  o'  loftiest  grandeur. 
Amidst  its  profusion  I  'd  languish  in  pain, 

And  reckon  as  naething  the  height  o'  its  splendor. 
If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dum- 
blane. 

KuKUKI    TANNAHU.L. 

THE  LASS  OF  RICHMOND  HILL. 

On  Kichmond  Hill  there  lives  a  lass 
More  bright  than  May-day  morn. 

Whose  charms  all  other  maids  surjiass,  — 
A  rose  without  a  thoin. 

This  lass  so  neat,  with  smiles  so  sweet. 
Has  won  my  right  good-will ; 

I  'd  crowns  resign  to  call  her  mine. 
Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill. 

Ye  zephyrs  gay  that  fan  the  air. 

And  wanton  through  the  grove, 

0,  whisper  to  my  charming  fair, 
1  die  for  her  1  love. 

How  happy  will  the  shepherd  be 
Who  calls  this  nymph  his  own  ! 

0,  may  her  choice  be  fi.\ed  on  me  ! 
Mine  's  ti.xed  on  her  alone. 

James  Upton. 


MARY  MORISON. 

0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ! 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor  : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Coulil  I  the  rich  reward  .secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  hn'. 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing,  — 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw  : 

Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sighecl,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ; 
A  thotight  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

Robert  burns. 


LOVE. 


— a 

91 


y-^- 


THE  POSIE. 

0,  LUVE  will  venture  in  where  it  daunia  weel  be 

seen, 
0,  luve  will  venture  in  where  wisdom  anee  has  been  ! 
But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove  amang  the  woods 

sae  green  : 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu',  the  firstling  o'  the  year, 
And  1  will  pu'  the  pink,  the  emblem  o'  my  dear, 
For  she  'a  the  pink  o'  womankind,  and  blooms 
without  a  peer  : 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  aiu  dear  May. 

I  '11  pu'  the  budding  rose,  when  Phoebus  peeps 

in  view, 
For  it's  like  a  balmy  kiss  o'  her  .sweet  bonnie  moii' ; 
The  hyacinth  's  for  constancy,  wi'  its  unchanging 

blue  : 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

Tlie  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair, 
.\nd  in  her  lovely  bosom  I  '11  place  the  lily  there  ; 
Tlie  daisy  's  for  simplicity  and  unaffected  air  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  JIay. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  jiu',  wi'  its  loekso  siller  gray. 
Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  o'day; 
liut  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush  1   winna 
take  away  : 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  aiu  dear  May. 

The  woodbine   I   will  pn,  when  the  e'ening  star 

is  near, 
And  the  diamonil  draps  o'  dew  shall  be  her  een 

sae  clear  ; 
The  violet 's  for  modesty,  which  weel  she  fa's  to 

wear  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

1  '11  tie  the  posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band  o'  luvc. 
And  I  '11  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I  '11  swear  by 

a'  above 
That  to  my  latest  drauglit  o'  life  the  band  shall 

ne'er  remove  : 
And  this  will  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 


MARY  LEE. 

I  HAVE  traced  the  valleys  fair 
In  May  morning's  dewy  air. 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee  ! 
Wilt  thou  deign  the  wreath  to  wear, 

Gathered  all  for  thee  ? 


They  are  not  flowers  of  I'ride, 
For  they  graced  the  dingle-side  ; 
Yet  they  grew  in  Heaven's  smile. 

My  gentle  Maiy  Lee  ! 
Can  they  fear  thy  frowns  the  while 

Though  oliered  by  me  ? 

Here  's  the  lily  of  the  vale. 
That  perfumed  the  morning  gale, 

My  fairy  Mary  Lee  ! 
All  so  spotless  and  so  pale. 

Like  thine  own  purity. 
And  might  1  make  it  known, 
T  is  an  emblem  of  my  own 
h^ve,  —  if  I  dare  so  name 

My  esteem  for  thee. 
Sursly  (lowers  can  l>ear  no  blame, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee. 

Here 's  the  violet's  modest  blue. 

That  'ncath  hawthorns  hides  fiom  view, 

My  gentle  Mary  Lee, 
V^ould  show  whose  heart  is  true. 

While  it  thinks  of  thee. 
While  they  choose  each  lowly  spot, 
The  .sun  disdains  them  not  ; 
I  'm  as  lowly  too,  indeed. 

My  charming  Mary  Lee  ; 
So  I  've  brought  the  flowi-rs  to  plead, 

A*\d  win  a  smile  from  thee. 

Here  s  a  wild  rose  just  in  bud  ; 
Si)ring's  beauty  in  its  hood, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee  ! 
'T  is  the  first  in  all  the  wood 

I  couM  find  for  thee. 
Though  a  blush  is  scarcely  seen. 
Yet  it  hides  its  worth  within. 
Like  my  Ime  ;  for  1  've  no  power, 

My  angel  Mary  Lee, 
To  speak  unless  the  flower 

Can  makf  excuse  for  me. 

Though  tliey  deck  no  ])rlncely  halls. 
In  bou<|uets  for  glittering  balls. 

My  gentle  Mary  Lee, 
I'icher  Imes  than  painted  walls 

Will  make  them  dear  to  thee ; 
For  the  blue  and  laughing  sky 
Spreads  a  grander  eaii^'jiy 
Than  all  wealth's  golden  skill. 

My  <:harming  Mary  Lee  ! 
Love  would  make  them  dearer  r'ill. 

That  offers-  tliem  to  the«. 

My  wreathed  flowers  are  few, 
Yet  no  fairer  drink  the  dew, 
My  bonny  Mary  Ij<:e  ! 


^ 


a- 


92 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


& 


They  may  seem  as  trifles  too,  — 

Not,  I  hope,  to  tliee  ; 
Some  may  boast  a  richer  prize 
Under  pride  and  wealth's  disguise  ; 
None  a  fonder  offering  bore 

Than  this  of  mine  to  thee  ; 
And  can  true  love  wish  for  more  ? 

Surely  not,  Mary  Lee  ! 

JOHN  Clare. 


THE  BROOKSIDE. 

I  WANDERED  by  tho  brookside, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill ; 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow,  — 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still  ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper. 

No  chirp  of  any  bird. 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree  ; 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade. 

And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 

For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word,  — 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not,  — 
The  night  came  on  alone,  — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 
Each  on  his  golden  tlirone  ; 
The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek. 
The  leaves  above  were  stirre<l,  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind  ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder,  — 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer,  —  nearer,  — 
We  did  not  speak  one  word. 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 

To  Music  at  night 
Wlien,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away  o'er  lawns  and  lakes 

Goes  answering  light ! 


Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far 

And  far  more  sweet 
Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  star. 
Of  horn  or  lute  or  soft  guitar 

The  songs  repeat. 

'T  is  when  the  sigh  —  in  youth  sincere 

And  only  then. 
The  sigh  that 's  breathed  for  one  to  hear  - 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  Dear 

Breathed  back  again. 

Thomas  Moorh 


MY  DEAR  AND  ONLY  LOVE. 


THE  FIRST  PART. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray. 

That  little  world,  — of  thee,  — 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

Than  purest  Monarchic. 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part. 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhore. 
And  have  a  Synod  in  thine  heart, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

As  Alexander  I  will  reign. 

And  I  will  reign  alone  ; 
My  thoughts  shall  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne  ; 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small 
That  puts  it  not  unto  the  touch. 

To  will  or  lose  it  all. 

But  I  will  reign,  and  govern  still, 

And  always  give  the  law. 
And  have  each  subject,  at  my  will. 

And  all  to  stand  in  awe  ; 
But  'gainst  my  batteries  if  I  find 

Thou  kick  or  vex  me  sore, 
As  that  thou  set  me  up  a  blind, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

And  in  the  Empire  of  thine  heart. 

Where  1  should  solely  be, 
If  others  do  pretend  a  part, 

Or  dare  to  vie  with  me, 
Or  if  Committees  thou  erect. 

And  go  on  such  a  score, 
I  '11  laugh  and  sing  at  thy  neglect, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

But  if  thou  wilt  prove  faithful  then. 
And  constant  of  thy  word, 

I  '11  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen 
And  famous  by  my  sword  ; 


LOVE. 


93 


-a 


I  '11  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

Was  never  heard  before, 
1 11  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays, 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 


THE   SECOND    PART 

My  dear  and  only  love,  take  heed 

How  thou  thyself  dispose  ; 
Let  not  all  longing  lovers  feed 

Ujjon  such  looks  as  those  ; 
1  11  marble  wall  thee  round  about. 

Myself  shall  be  the  door, 
And  if  thy  heart  chance  to  slide  out, 

I  'U  never  love  thee  more. 

Let  not  their  oaths,  like  volleys  shot, 

Make  any  breach  at  all. 
Nor  smoothness  of  their  language  plot 

Which  way  to  scale  the  wall  ; 
Nor  balls  of  wildfire  love  consume 

The  shrine  which  I  adore. 
For  if  such  smoke  about  thee  fume, 

1  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

I  know  thy  virtues  be  too  strong 

To  suffer  by  surprise  ; 
If  that  thou  slight  their  love  too  long. 

Their  siege  at  last  will  rise, 
And  leave  thee  conqueror,  in  that  health 

And  state  thou  wast  before  ; 
But  if  thou  turn  a  Commonwealth, 

1  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

And  if  by  fraud,  or  by  consent, 

Thy  heart  to  ruin  come, 
I  '11  sound  no  trumpet  as  I  wont. 

Nor  march  by  tuck  of  drum. 
But  hold  my  arms,  like  Achaiis,  up, 

Thy  falsehood  to  deplore. 
And  bitterly  will  sigh  and  weep, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

I  '11  do  with  thee  as  Nero  did 

When  he  set  Rome  on  fire; 
Not  only  all  relief  forbid, 

But  to  a  hill  retire. 
And  scorn  to  shed  a  tear  to  save 

Thy  spirit  grown  so  poor, 
But  laugh  and  smile  thee  to  thy  grave, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

Then  shall  thy  heart  be  set  by  mine, 

But  in  far  different  case, 
For  mine  was  true  ;  so  was  not  thine. 

But  looked  like  Janus'  face  ; 


For  as  the  waves  with  every  wind, 

So  sails  thou  every  shore 
And  leaves  my  constant  heart  behind,  — 

How  can  I  love  thee  more  ? 

My  heart  shall  with  the  sun  be  fi.x'd, 

For  constancy  most  strange  ; 
And  there  shall  with  the  moon  be  mi.v'd. 

Delighting  aye  in  change  ; 
Tliy  beauty  shiued  at  first  so  bright ! 

And  woe  is  me  therefore, 
That  ever  1  found  thy  love  so  light 

That  I  could  love  no  more. 

Yet  foi-  the  love  1  bare  thee  once. 

Lest  that  thy  name  should  die, 
A  monument  of  marble  stone 

The  truth  shall  testify  ; 
That  every  pilgrim  passing  by. 

May  pity  and  deplore, 
And,  sighing,  read  the  reason  why 

1  cannot  love  thee  more. 

The  golden  laws  of  love  shall  be 

Upon  these  pillars  hung  ; 
A  single  heart ;  a  simple  eye  ; 

A  true  and  constant  tongue  ; 
Let  no  man  for  more  love  pretend 

Than  he  has  hearts  in  store  ; 
True  love  begun  will  never  end  ; 

Love  one  and  love  no  more. 

And  when  all  gallants  ride  about 

These  monuments  to  view, 
Whereon  is  written,  in  and  out, 

Thou  traitorous  and  untrue  ; 
Then,  in  a  passion,  they  shall  pause, 

And  thus  say,  sighing  sore, 
Alas  !  he  had  too  just  a  cause 

Never  to  love  thee  more. 

And  when  that  tracing  goddess  Fame 

From  east  to  west  shall  flee. 
She  shall  recoid  it  to  thy  .shame 

JIo-w  thou  hast  lovfcd  me  ; 
And  how  in  odds  our  love  was  such 

As  few  have  been  before  ; 
Thou  lovedst  too  many,  and  1  too  much  ; 

So  I  can  love  no  more. 

The  misty  mount,  the  smoking  lake. 

The  rock's  resounding  echo. 
The  whistling  winds,  the  woods  that  shake. 

Shall  all,  with  me,  sing  hey  ho  1 
The  tossing  seas,  the  tumbling  boats, 

Tears  dropping  from  each  oar, 
Shall  tuiie  with  me  their  tiirlle  notes,  — 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 


6 


t' 


Jl-I 


rOKMS  OK  LurK. 


•-fl' 


As  (li>lli  llic  luvlli'.  rliiiNt,.  iiml  Inio. 

lloi   IVIlow  s  (U-lltll  ivgivt. 
Ami  (liiily  mminis  lV>i'  lii>i'  mlii'il, 

Ami  m''i'r  iviiowm  1>oi'  mute  i 
t^o,  lluv\ij{h  m_Y  I'uilli  wiix  oviM'  liisl, 

W'liioli  jsi'iovi'N  mo  womliwis  soiv. 
Y('(  1  sliiill  livo  ill  K>vo  »o  oliiisto 

Tlml  1  »liii>l  love  no  moiv. 

lAMiiv  »;k,miam.  MARVl'IS  v>l'  Mv>NrK»Sll. 


UOSAl.lNK, 

LiKK  l»>  the  olwu'  ill  higluKst  splloiv, 
WlnMV  111)  imiH'rittl  j(l»i'V  !<liiii(<s, 
01'  s>-lfsiitm>  I'olor  is  lnM'  liiiii'. 
WliciluM-  imlViUlwl.  or  in  twiiios  ; 

lli-i}{li-lio,  I'liii'  Kiwiilino  ! 
lloi'  oyos  tuH-  siH>i>l\iiV!ii  set  in  snow, 
Kiwmliliiijj  luMVon  l>y  ovtvv  wink  ; 
'I'lio  jjvhIs  do  losir  wln>n«8  llu\v  glow. 
Ami  I  >U>  uvmblo  wlu'ii  I  think 

lloi^li-lio,  wouM  slio  wviv  uiiiio  I 

lliM-  >'lnH'ks  i»v  like  tlip  Uusliiiig  olovui 
'rii»(  iHHivUilii's  Auivra's  rai-e, 
ih  liki>  llio  silvoi  I'limsou  slii\mil 
'I'liivl  riio'lms'  smiliiijj  looks  violli  graoo  ; 

lloijjiihis  I'iiiv  UiK-ialim'  I 
lloi'  U|v<  iuv  liko  two  bmUlwl  iwsos 
Whom  nuiks  of  liliiw  m-igUlMi'  iiigU, 
WiUiiti  wluv-h  K>umls  slio  hilm  cm'losos 
Ai>t  to  oinioo  ;>  (loity  ; 

IU'igli-lu>.  woviKl  sUi>  wviv  iuiiu< ! 

llv'V  mvk  is  liko  a  stiito^v  towiiv 
WliiMV  Low  liinisclf  imjiiisonwl  U(>!>, 
To  wiitoU  lof  gliinoos  ouny  liour 
Fi><ii\  lu'i-  tUviiio  ami  saoiwl  p\-v«  ; 

lU'igU-lio.  fair  KvissvUuo ! 
Ilor  ivi^s  aiv  iviitivs  of  >lolij;)»t, 
Hor  iiR-asIs  aiv  orK<  of  luviwiily  lHim>. 
Wlu'iv  Natniv  monUls  tin-  vlow  of  light 
'l\<  flHHl  IHM'fvVtioll  «ith  tlio  s;mu' : 

lloijfhho,  wouUl  slio  woiv  mino  ! 

With  orioiil  |w>rl.  with  rviby  uhI, 
With  marMo  whito,  with  sannUviv  Wuo, 
Hor  Knly  ovory  way  is  IVhI, 
Yot  svft  in  tonoh  anil  swwt  in  viow  : 

lloijthliv*,  fair  l!vv<;>liuo  I 
Xatiuv  hoivolf  hor  shajH'  ailuiirx's  ; 
TUo  j5\hIs  aiv  wmuiuUhI  in  hor  sight : 
Aii.l  I  ow  foiNiikos  his  hiNiwuly  liros 
Aiul  at  hor  oy\>s  his  l>r:»ml  >loth  light  : 

lloigh-Uo,  «\niUl  sho  wviv  niino  ! 


Siuoo  for  a  fair  tlioiv  '»  faiivr  iiono, 
Nor  for  hor  virtuos  so  ilivino  , 

lloigh-ho,  ftiir  Hosaliiio  ' 
lloighho,  my  hoart  I  wonM  lloil  lli:il 
mino  ! 

ruoMA 


KOK   l.OVES  SWKKT  SAKK, 

Awvur  '.       (ho  slany  midnight  lionr 

Hangs  I'hiiinioil,  ami  imnsoth  in  its  lliglil  : 
In  its  own  swoolnos,s  sU'oivi  iho  llowor. 
Ami  tlio  ilovos  lio  liushoil  in  (loop  ilolight, 
Awako  I  awako  ! 
liook  lorlh,  n>j-  lovo,  for  l.ovo's  swoot  sako! 

Awako  !      soft  dows  will  soon  arlso 

I'' linn  daisy  moad  and  thorny  Iniiko  ; 
'rhoii.  swoot,  niu'loud  thoM'  oastorn  oyos. 
Ami  liko  iho  tomlor  morning  luvak  1 
Awaki' !  awako  ' 
l>awn  lortli.  my  lovo.  for  Kovo's  swoot  sjiko! 

Awako  !  —  within  tho  imisk-rvvso  bowor 
I  watoh,  \v>lo  llowor  of  lovo,  for  Ihoo. 
Ah,  oomo  '  and  show  tln>  starry  hour 

What  w<\dth  of  lovo  tlion  hid'st  fivm  mo! 
Awako  !  awiko ! 
Show  all  thy  low,  for  l.ovo's  swoot  sako  1 

.Vwako  !  -  -  no'or  howl  thoitgh  listoning  night 

Stoal  innsio  t\vm  thy  sil\or  voioo  ; 
fmloiivl  thy  Ivauty,  riiii'  and  hright. 
Ami  l>id  tlio  world  and  mo  i^joiw  ! 
.\wako  I  awsiko  !  - 
Sho  oiMUOs  at  last,  for  Low's  swwt  sako. 

KWKV  OORNXVAIU 


LOVK  AND  TIMK, 

Two  j>ilgriiHS  fivlu  tho  distant  (daiii 
I'omo  >(niokly  o'or  tho  mossy  gixmiid, 

t">no  is  a  K>y,  w  ith  loi-ks  of  gvdvl 

Thiok  ourling  i\<nnd  lli^  faoo  so  fair  ; 

TUo  othor  pilgrim,  storii  and  old, 
lias  jmowy  In-aui  and  silvov  hair, 

Tho  wuth  with  many  a  worry  triok 

t>vH<s  singing  on  his  oandoss  way  ; 
Uis  old  wnnwniou  wsdks  sis  .(uiok, 

PmU  siwiks  no  woi\l  hy  night  or  day. 
Whow'or  tho  old  man  tmuls,  tho  grass 

Kast  ladoth  with  a  i-ortain  doom  : 
l»»t  whoiv  tho  IvautorHis  N>y  doth  jviss 

t'nmimlviwl  Uowvtv  ar*  s>vn  to  hUnitn. 


Thon  niwsv>  tiot,  Xynij^lts,  though  X  bo«\vv>n 
TUo  .■>l>sot»i\>  of  fi»«r  Uosaliup, 


^ 


Aitd  thus  KvtVir*?  tUo  sag«>,  tlio  K>y 
Tril>s  lightly  o'or  tlio  blooming  huul 


^4i 


ifh 


Li>VK. 


»1^ 


And  jiroiiilly  Imiirn  »  \mMy  Uiy,  — 
A  r.ryMJti  |{lu»))  witli  (liniiioii'i  <iaiii)H, 

A  ijiiiil'!  '/or  iuiy  I'/nw  wkiiIiI  ixwft 
'I'll  »<■«  liiid  (r'/lic  ill  tliir  sun, 

'!'(;  «(;<:  liiiii  stidkc  till!  cryfstal  «Iiwb, 
Ami  iiink".  tlic  wiTido  niwi!  '(iiirkly  run. 

Aiiil  (iiiw  tli«y  kiifi  tli«  »lr<«i(ii)irt.  <ti:r, 

A  silver  tlir<;(«l  wi  wlill*  fiml  llii»i, 
Ami  ii'/w  Ui«y  r<Mu;li  Hi<!  ojnii  ilnor, 

Aii'l  ii'/w  l.li'^y  lij?liHy  'iiil'^i'  ill  ; 
"Owl  «iv«  nil  liB(<!,"    -  Uial  kiml  wi»li  llino 

mill  xvtmUiT  fr'rtii  lii«  li|«  w  swwit  ; 
"(»(;()  siivii  ymi  kiii'lly,"  Nornli  i.rh'M, 

"  Hit,  i|/rt*(i,  (fiy  (diilil,  iiii'l  rest,  (iii'l  •■.ai," 

"TlittiikK,  j<««t,l«  Niifftli,  I'nir  iiiiil  (/'>'<il, 

W<!  'II  rial  iiwliilo  our  wi;(iry  t<>-X  ; 
Dill,  l.lioiinli  tliiii  ol'l  mini  (i<."«l«lli  fwxl, 

'\'\\ifi:'fi  (i'/l,liifi«  li'ini  tlittt  Ik!  i:(tii  «at, 
lli^  t„i*f<:  is  nirniiv.'',  '"'  '«'♦"  "Ioiks, 

liiiiwdli  tvniii;  riiiiiwl  cli/ixUtr"*  <!«(>«, 
0/  '<i(  fKHfie  Uri,U;rilin  tiirri,-!'*  ttUilin, 

Wliilo  I  can  i>nly  llvi;  on      l('>)X!  1 

"  A  v/iwk  n((o,  »;rn  yon  vtimt  vmi,  ■■- 

It  was  lli«  V'iry  nif<lil,  l«l'(/r(!,  — 
l/|ioi(  wi  KKtny  swM;(,»  I  fi'A 

Wliili!  (xKsiiin  l<y  y/iir  iiKillipr's  iIwjt,  — 
It,  V/IU-:  that,  il«ir,  'li^lii'iuiis  (I'mr 

Wlii:ii  Owi:ii  lii:rii  till!  wiff.y.iiy  l/r«ii(<lit, 
Ami  fiiiinil  yon  in  t,li«  wi»/ill/ini;  \iiivikt,  — 

Hini«  llK-fi,  indwal,  I  'v;  im-AiA  UMiiCm,," 

A  IjIiisJi  «t<!«Ii«  '/vcr  SurMa  (iu:i;, 

A  »n(il«  <-/)ines  avKr  Owi.ii'n  Uniw, 
A  trfinijiiil  ,j'/y  illnnii!'!  t,ti<:  |>l.-i/'<^ 

A«  if  tliB  nim/n  w':r>!  sliininj^  wiw  ; 
Til*:  tx>y  twIi'/Md  tlic  iilwwinx  liiiii, 

Till;  dWf!<!t,  '^rtifiwlmi  111!  liiiA  iIkiib, 
A  nil  sliakftst  the  crystal  glaiw  anftiii, 

And  ni«ke«  tli<!  windft  rni/re  (jnickly  run, 

"  l)i'ar  N'i;r»ti,  we,  an;  i>ilffrirn»,  Ixrtind 

l,'(>(>n  an  (rTii|l<rs«  (latli  silbli/ni!  ; 
W«  (Xi/w  ttiR  !/,ri;<m  i!art,li  ronnil  and  riffltid, 

And  uiortii)!!  call  ii«  (/>VK  and  TfMK  ; 
n<;  fs<:«k»  tli'i  many,  I  tli«  ffw  ; 

I  dwell  witli  fx»i.<!ant,«,  lie,  with  kinifft. 
Wk  swddirtn  tni!<rt,  ;  tint  wtiBH  Wf  do, 

I  tJtkc  h'm  j<la<i«,  and  li«  rny  win({«, 

"  And  til  lis  t/)};<rth<fr  on  wc  j(o, 

Wlicrccr  I  clianwi  or  wisdi  V)  I'swl  ; 

And  Time,  wlio«:  lonely  HUffa  are  slow, 
Now  swwrjw  alon((  with  )it/)itmtiH  »^aA. 

}iitvt  im  our  bri;;ht  jirwlestinwl  way 
We,  rniigt  t'<  '/tlier  Ti:fr)iiiin  jiasn  ; 


Ktit  tekfi  tills  Kitl,  and  nl^lit  and  day 
l/>ok  well  ii|i«/n  lis  Irnlliriil  uliisn, 

"  JIow  ijiiiik  or  slow  tlie  IniKtil  sands'  fall 

Is  liid  fioiii  loveis'  eyes  alone; 
If  yon  can  aixi  llieiii  move  at  all, 

lU-  sine  your  lieart  Inw  i/ildei  ;/M;Wn, 
'T  is  I'oldness  makes  tlie  kImss  j/row  dry, 

Tlie  ley  liand,  tlie  tfu/.iiin  lifow  ; 
I'.iit  wiiiiii  till:  liearl,  and  hreatlie  tlie  sijiili, 

And  Hien  llicy  'II  jiass,  yon  know  n/rf,  li//w." 

Hlin  took  tlie  ((lass  wli<;re  Ixive's  warm  lianda 

A  l/ri((lil  lm|X!rvioii3  vufKir  east ; 
Hlio  I'Kiks,  l/iit  eannot.  B(;e  tlie  sands, 

Altlioi(p;li  slie  feels  lliey   re  fallinj;  fast, 
lint  i^dd  lioiiis  ejinie,  and  tlien,  ala.4  ! 

Hlie  saw  tlieni  fallin({  fiowm  tlifo)ii(li. 
Till  l<«ve's  warm  liiflit  siiirii«;d  tlie  ({laso. 

And  liid  tlie  loos';ninK  samls  from  view  I 

DeMIS  PUfUHU'.K  MAI'.AafllV 


Ol/tNKVKHK  TO  tAKCKUXT, 

WoMA'i  is  etowiied,  lint  niaii  in  triitli  is  king, 
I  am  a  ijiieeii,  liiit  when  my  vassals  hrinj^ 
Krnit  l/i  my  lijis  it  is  m/t  fruit  t//  me. 
While  hitt^^r  hrea/l  would  I*  a  feast  with  thee, 
And  each  hrealti  tremhle  into  e/;stasy  j 
Hilt  Kat»;  forhids  the  dear  delight  Ui  l«, 
I  am  a  i\\tivM,  l/ilt  (x»ve  of '(mens  is  li/rd  ; 
I  am  a  i)iie,<-ii,  l/iil  firtterwl  dy  a  eord 
Tlgiit  as  the  silk  the  t^iiiriils  ((resse/l  around 
The  l<«ir,  ilestroyiiii/  A'loii  with  a  wound, 
Koiiiid  Knil'y  'ly  'In-  l-oves,  (iiid  slain  whin  found  ; 
''oiiilemned  liy  Venus  to  a  death  r'li'/wne'l, 
I  am  a  qiieeri  ;  Ix;  men  iful  t^<  me, 
,My  sulijeet,  Lamelot,     Tine  alone  I  s^-e  ; 
All  el.s<-  is  tuWfiu,  (iinii  xny  swiniminx  eyes. 
That  whi/di  in  ine  was  '(ue,«;fi  is  dead  or  dies, 
lint  v/hat  was  woman  livi«  the  more,  and  sighs 
Like  weary  1/alx-  athirst  at  niidnij^ht  cries. 
A  i|iieeri  e//Himands  n</t.  heart,  litit  li(.  and  knee, 
I'oor  little  ifiieen,  why  must  thou  rovfl  If  ' 
Knight  of  the  smile  and  voic«  so  l.linding  swe,et,. 
Is  ii'rt.  rank  iee,  and  jiasslon  melting  heat ' 
Wi|X!  off  the  (lakes  that  f<f,ain  thy  whiter  feel, 
IJjxm  my  crown,    I/rr/wn  it,  ye  smrws  and  sh;^  I 


KLV  TO  rilK  IjtrjiKtCe,  frhV    WITH  MK. 

Ttl,  IIP  W'/I/HMAMAI.   1»  "(Ml!  I.KiHf  '*    IMR  HAKSM. 

"Vl,v  t/>  the  des/rrt,  (ly  with  ni«. 

Our  Ara>«  f/^nts  are  nnle  for  thee  ; 

I'ut  oh  !  the  choii^j  what  heart  ivin  dotiW 

f>f  t«»it»  with  I</Ve  >it  thrf/Ti«9  withoot 


'       ^ 


©-^- 


90 


POEMS   UF  LOVE. 


■-a 


& 


"  Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
Tir  ucucia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  llowering  iu  a  wilderness. 

"  Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 

The  silvery-footed  antelope 

As  gracefully  and  gayly  sjirings 

As  o'er  the  marble  courts  ui'  kings, 

"Then  come,  — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  aea('ia-tre(!. 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

"0,  there  are  looks  and  tones  tnat  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart. 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  lauglit 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought  ; 

"  As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs. 
And  never  be  forgot  again. 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  as  then  ! 

"So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
When  lirst  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone  ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years  ! 

"Then  lly  with  me,  if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  Hame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  swoni 
Should  ever  in  tliy  heart  be  worn. 

' '  Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee,  — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  underground. 
When  first 't  is  by  the  lapwing  found. 

"  But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  I'udcly  break 
Her  worshiped  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruined  place, 

"  Then,  fare  thee  well  !  —  I  M  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine  !  " 

There  was  a  pathos  in  this  lay. 

That  even  without  enchantment's  art 
Would  instantly  luivo  found  its  way 
Deep  into  Selim's  burning  heait  ; 
But  breathing,  as  it  did,  a  tone 
To  earthly  lutes  and  li]>s  unknown  ; 
With  eveiy  chord  fresh  from  the  touch 
Of  music's  spirit,  't  was  too  much  ! 


Starting,  he  dashed  away  the  cup,  — 

Which,  all  the  time  of  this  sweet  air, 
His  hand  had  held,  untasted,  up, 

As  if  't  were  fi-Kcd  by  magic  there,  — 
And  naming  her,  so  long  unnamed. 
So  long  unseen,  wildly  exclaimed, 
"  0  Nourmahal  !  0  Nourmalial  ! 

Hadst  thou  but  sung  this  witching  strain, 
I  could  forget —  forgive  thee  all. 

And  never  leave  those  eyes  again." 

The  mask  is  off,  —  the  charm  is  wrought,  — 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  has  caught, 
In  blushes  more  than  ever  bright, 
His  Nounnahal,  his  Harem's  Light ! 
And  well  do  vanished  frowns  enhance 
The  charm  of  every  briglitened  glance  ; 
And  dearer  seems  each  dawning  smile 
For  having  lost  its  light  awhile  ; 
And,  happier  now  for  all  her  sighs, 

As  on  his  arm  her  head  reposes, 
She  whispers  him,  with  laughing  eyes, 

"  Remember,  love,  the  Feast  of  Koses  ! " 
Thomas  Moore. 


COME  INTO  THE  GAKDEN,   MAUD. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown  ! 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  .spices  are  wafted  abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves. 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky,  — 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves. 
To  faint  in  its  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune,  — 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
■WHien  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone. 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 


LOVE. 


97 


-a 


i&. 


I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  briel'  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
0  young  loril-lover,  what  sighs  are  those 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  Imt  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever  mine  !  " 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  tlie  music  clashed  in  the  hall  ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  1  stood. 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  tall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  ami  on  to  tlie  wood. 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all  ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That,  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs. 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet, 
Ami  the  valleys  of  Para.lise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  railk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake. 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

(}uccn  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
I  nnio  hither  !  the  dances  are  done  ; 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  ]iear]s, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls. 
To  the  llowers,  and  Iw  tliiir  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
Slie  is  rnniing,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 

Sill'  is  I'oiiiing,  my  life,  my  fate  ! 
The  nil  rn.si-  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is  near"  ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late  "  ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear"  ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet  ! 

Were  it  ever  so  aiiy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  du.st  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tiemble  under  her  feet. 

Ami  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Alfred  TENt^'SON. 


It  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace. 

And  unfamiliar  charm  of  face  ; 

It  may  be  that  across  the  foam 

Which  bore  her  from  her  childhood's  home, 

By  some  strange  spell,  my  Katie  brought, 

Along  with  English  creeds  and  thought,  — 

Entangled  in  her  golden  hair,  — 

Some  EnglLsh  sunshine,  warmth,  and  air  ! 

I  i^annot  tell —  but  here  to-day, 

A  thousand  billowy  leagues  away 

From  that  gi-een  isle  whose  twilight  skies 

No  darker  an^  than  Katie's  eyes. 

She  seems  to  me,  go  whei'e  .she  will. 

An  English  girl  in  England  still. 

I  meet  her  on  the  dusty  street. 

And  daisies  spring  about  her  feet  ; 

Or,  touched  to  life  beneath  her  tread. 

An  English  cowslip  lifts  its  head  ; 

Anil,  iLs  to  do  her  grace,  rise  up 

The  primrose  and  the  buttercup. 

1  roam  with  her  through  fields  of  cane, 

And  seem  to  stroll  an  Knglish  lane. 

Which,  white  with  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Spieads  its  green  carpet  in  her  way. 

As  fancy  wills,  the  patli  beneutli 

Is  golden  gorse,  or  purple  heath  ; 

And  now  we  hear  in  woodlands  ilim 

Their  unarticulated  hymn, 

Now  walk  through  rippling  waves  of  wheat 

Now  sink  in  mats  of  clover  sweet. 

Or  see  before  us  from  the  lawn 

The  lark  go  up  to  giec-t  the  dawn. 

All  liirds  that  love  the  English  sky 

Throng  round  my  path  when  she  is  by  ; 

The  lilackhird  from  a  neighboring  thorn 

With  music  brims  the  cup  of  morn. 

And  in  a  thick,  melodious  rain 

Th<!  mavis  pours  her  mellow  strain. 

I>nt  only  when  my  Katie's  voice 

Makes  all  the  listening  woods  rejoice 

I  hear  —  with  cheeks  that  Hush  and  pale  - 

The  passion  of  the  nightingale. 

Anon  the  pictures  round  her  change. 

And  through  an  ancient  town  we  range 

Whereto  the  shadowy  memory  clings 

Of  one  of  England's  Saxon  kings, 

And  which,  to  .shrine  his  fading  fame. 

Still  keeps  Ids  ashes  and  his  name. 

Quaint  houses  rise  on  either  hand  ; 

But  still  the  airs  are  fresh  and  bland. 

As  if  their  gentle  wings  caressed 

Somi'  new-born  village  of  the  West. 

A  moment  by  the  Nonnan  tower 

We  pause  ;  it  is  the  Sabbath  hour  ! 

And  o'er  the  city  sinks  and  swells 


-4? 


£1-7 

1      "JS 


I'UEMS  OF  LOVE. 


^ 


1&- 


The  chime  of  old  St.  Mary's  bells, 

Wliieh  still  resouml  in  Katie's  eare 

As  sweet  as  when  in  ilistuiit  ycai-s 

She  heard  them  (leal  wiili  jinuiul  din 

A  merry  linglisli  Christmas  in. 

We  pass  the  Abbey's  ruined  arch, 

.\nd  statelier  grows  my  Katie's  march, 

As  round  her,  wearied  with  the  taint 

OrTninsatlantic  pine  and  paint. 

She  sees  a  thousand  tokens  east 

Of  Englanil's  venemble  jMst. 

Our  i-everent  footstejvs  lastly  claims 

The  younger  chapel  of  St.  James, 

Which,  though,  as  Knglish  records  run, 

Not  old,  had  seen  full  many  a  sun, 

Kre  to  the  cold  Uecember  g.\le 

The  thoughtful  I'ilgrini  spivad  his  S!>il. 

There  Katie  in  her  childish  days 

SiH'lt  out  her  pniyei-s  and  lis|wd  her  praise, 

And  doubtless,  as  her  beauty  grew. 

Did  much  as  other  maidens  do,  — 

Across  the  pews  and  down  the  aisle 

Sent  many  a  beau-bowildering  smile, 

.■\nd  to  subserve  her  spirit's  need 

Learned  other  things  beside  the  ei-eed. 

The;v,  too,  to-day  her  knee  she  bows. 

And  by  her  one  w  hose  darker  brows 

Betray  the  Southern  heart  that  burns 

lieside  her,  and  which  only  turns 

Its  thoughts  to  Heaven  iu  one  request. 

Not  all  unworthy  to  be  blest. 

But  rising  from  an  eartldier  juiiu 

Thau  might  lieseem  a  I'hristiau  fane. 

Ah  !  can  the  guileless  maiden  share 

The  wish  that  lifts  that  i«issionate  prayer  ? 

Is  all  at  peace  that  bit-ast  within  ? 

Good  angels  !  wsirn  her  of  the  sin  ! 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  ■  who  can  sjive 

A  w  illing  victim  of  the  wave .' 

W  ho  cleanse  a  soul  that  loves  its  guilt  ? 

Or  givther  wine  when  wine  is  spilt  ? 

Wo  quit  the  holy  house  ami  giun 
The  open  air  ;  then,  happy  twain, 
.\down  familiar  streets  we  go, 
And  now  and  then  she  turns  to  show, 
With  feai-s  that  all  is  changing  fast. 
Some  spot  that 's  sjiered  to  her  past. 
Here,  by  this  way,  through  shadows  cool, 
A  little  maid,  she  tripi>ed  to  school ; 
.■\nd  there,  each  morning  used  to  stop 
Before  a  wonder  of  a  shop 
Where,  built  of  apjilesand  of  i>eai's. 
Hose  pyramids  of  golden  spheivs  ; 
While  dangling  in  her  dazzled  sight, 
Hipe  cherries  cast  a  crimson  light 
.■\iid  made  her  think  of  elfin  lamps. 
And  least  and  sport  in  fairy  camps. 


Whereat  upon  her  royal  throne 
(Most  richly  carved  in  cherry-stone) 
Titauia  ruled,  in  iiueeuly  state. 
The  boisterous  revels  of  the  fete  ! 
'Twas  yonder,  with  their  "horrid"  noise, 
Dismissed  from  books,  she  met  the  boys. 
Who,  with  a  barbarous  scorn  of  girls. 
Glanced  lightly  at  her  sunny  curls, 
And  laughed  and  leaped  as  reckless  by 
As  though  no  pretty  face  were  nigh. 
But  here  the  maiden  grows  demuiv,  — 
Indeed,  she  's  not  so  very  sure 
That  in  a  year,  or  haply  twain. 
Who  looked  e'er  failed  to  look  again  ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  1  little  dottbt 
(Some  !\zure  day  the  truth  will  out '.) 
That  certain  baits  in  certain  eyes 
Caught  many  an  unsuspecting  prize  ; 
And  somewhere  underneath  tlie.se  eaves 
A  budding  flirt  put  forth  its  leaves  ! 

Has  not  the  sky  a  deeper  bine. 
Have  not  the  trees  a  greener  hue, 
And  bend  they  not  with  louUier  grace 
And  noble  shapes  above  the  place 
Wheivon,  one  cloudless  winter  morn. 
My  Katie  to  this  life  was  born  ' 
Ah,  folly  !  long  hath  tied  the  lioin- 
When  love  to  sight  gave  keener  power. 
And  lovers  looked  for  special  boons 
In  brighter  flowers  and  larger  moons. 
But  wave  the  foliage  as  it  may. 
And  let  the  sky  be  ashen  gray. 
Thus  much  at  least  a  manly  youth 
May  hold  —  and  yet  not  blush  —  as  truth  : 
If  near  that  blessed  spot  of  earth 
Which  saw  the  cherished  maiden's  birth 
No  softer  dews  than  usual  rise. 
And  life  there  keeps  its  wonted  guise. 
Yet  not  the  less  that  spot  may  seem 
As  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream  ; 
And  should  a  fervid  faith  incline 
To  make  thereof  a  sainted  shrine. 
Who  may  deny  that  roumi  us  throng 
A  hundred  earthly  creeds  as  wrong. 
But  meaner  far,  which  yet  unblamed 
Stalk  by  us  and  are  not  ashamed  > 
So,  therefore,  Katie,  as  our  stroll 
Ends  at  this  portal,  while  you  roll 
Those  lustrous  eyes  to  catch  each  ray 
That  may  recall  some  vanished  day, 
I  —  let  them  jeer  and  laugh  w  ho  will  — 
Stoop  down  and  kiss  the  sacred  sill ! 
So  strongly  sometimes  on  the  sense 
These  fancies  hold  their  iiUluence, 
That  iu  long  well-known  streets  I  stray 
Like  one  who  fears  to  lose  his  way. 
The  stranger  I,  the  native  slie. 


i 


LOVE. 


•-a 


99 


Myself,  not  Kate,  had  crossed  tlie  sea  ; 

And  changing  place,  and  mixing  times, 

I  walk  in  unfamiliar  climes. 

'I'tjesc  houses,  free  to  every  breeze 

That  lilows  from  warm  Flondian  seas. 

Assume  a  massive  English  air. 

And  close  around  an  English  square  ; 

While,  if  I  issue  from  the  town, 

An  English  hill  looks  greenly  down. 

Or  lound  me  rolls  an  English  park. 

And  in  the  Broad  1  liear  the  lark. 

Thus  when,  where  woodland  violets  hide, 

I  rove  with  Katie  at  my  side. 

It  .scarce  would  seem  ami.ss  to  say  ; 

"  Katie  !  my  home  lies  far  away. 

Beyond  the  jiathless  waste  of  brine, 

In  a  young  land  of  pahn  and  pine. 

There  by  the  tropic  heats  the  soul 

Is  touched  as  if  with  living  coal. 

And  glows  with  such  a  fire  as  none 

Can  feel  beneath  a  Northern  sun, 

Unless  —  my  Katie's  heart  attest !  — 

'T  Ls  kindled  in  an  English  breast. 

Such  is  the  land  in  which  I  live. 

And,  Katie  !  such  the  soul  I  give. 

Come,  ere  another  morning  beam. 

We  '11  cleave  the  sea  with  wings  of  steam  ; 

And  soon,  despite  of  storm  or  calm. 

Beneath  my  native  groves  of  palm. 

Kind  friends  shall  greet,  with  joy  and  pride, 

The  Southron  and  his  English  bride  I 


U-- 


KATIE  LEE  AND  WILLIE  GREY. 

Two  brown  heads  with  tossing  curls, 
Red  lips  shutting  over  pearls. 
Bare  feet,  white  and  wet  with  dew, 
Two  eyes  black,  and  two  eyes  blue  ; 
Little  girl  and  boy  were  they, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  were  standing  where  a  brook. 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Flashed  its  silver,  and  thick  ranks 
Of  willow  fringed  its  mossy  banks  ; 
Half  in  thought,  and  half  in  play, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Orey. 

They  had  cheeks  like  cherries  red  ; 
He  was  taller,  —  near  a  head  ; 
She,  with  arms  like  wreaths  of  snow, 
Swung  a  basket  to  and  fro 
As  she  loitered,  half  in  play, 
Chattering  to  Willie  Grey. 

"  Pretty  Katie,"  Willie  said,  — 
And  there  came  a  da.sh  of  red 


Through  the  brownness  of  his  cheek, 
"  Boys  are  strong  and  girbj  are  weak. 
And  1  '11  carry,  so  1  will, 
Katie's  basket  up  the  hill." 

Katie  answered  with  a  laugh, 
"  You  shall  carry  only  half"  ; 
And  then,  tossing  back  her  curls, 
"  Boys  are  weak  as  well  as  girls." 
Do  you  think  that  Katie  guesscl 
Half  the  wisdom  she  expressed  ? 

Men  are  only  hoys  grown  tall  ; 
Hearts  don't  change  much,  after  all  ; 
And  when,  long  years  from  that  day, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey 
Stood  iigain  beside  the  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook,  — 

Is  it  strange  that  Willie  said. 

While  again  a  dash  of  re<l 

Crossed  the  brownness  of  his  cheek, 

"  I  am  strong  and  you  are  weak  ; 

Life  is  but  a  slipf)ery  steej). 

Hung  with  shadows  cold  and  deep  : 

"  Will  you  trust  me,  Katie  dear,  — 
Walk  beside  me  without  fear  ? 
May  I  carry,  if !  will. 
All  your  burdens  up  the  hill  ? " 
And  she  answered,  with  a  laugh, 
"No,  but  you  may  carry  half." 

Close  beside  the  little  brook. 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Wtishing  with  its  silver  hands 
Late  and  early  at  the  sands. 
Is  a  cottage,  where  to-day 
Katie  lives  with  Willie  Grey. 

In  a  porch  she  sits,  and  lo  ! 
Swings  a  l>asket  to  and  fro  — 
Vastly  different  from  the  one 
That  she  swnng  in  years  agone  : 
This  is  long  and  deep  and  wide, 
And  has  —  rocirrs  nt  Oir  side. 


ENCHANTMENT.?. 

A  LI.  in  the  May-time's  merriest  weather 

Rode  two  travelers,  bride  and  groom  ; 
Breast  and  breast  went  their  mules  together. 

Fetlock  deep  through  the  daisy  bloom. 
Roses  peeped  at  them  out  of  the  hedges. 

White  flowers  leaned  to  them  down  from  the         I 
thorn. 
And  up  from  the  furrows  with  sunlit  edges  ' 

Crowded  with  children  that  sowed  in  the  corn,         T 


^ 


Cheek  o'er  cheek,  ami  with  red  so  tender 

Rippiing  briglit  tlirougli  the  gypsy  brown, 
Just  to  see  how  a  lady's  sjilendor 

Shone  tlie  heads  of  the  daffodils  down. 
Ah,  but  the  wonder  grows  and  lingers. 

All,  but  their  fields  look  low  and  lorn, 
Just  to  think  how  her  jeweled  fingers 

Shamed  the  seeds  of  their  yellow  corn  ! 

0,  it  was  sweet,  so  sweet  to  be  idle  ! 

Each  little  sower  with  fate  fell  wroth  ; 
0,  but  to  ride  with  a  sjiangled  bridle  ! 

0  for  a  saddle  with  scarlet  cloth  ! 
Waving  corn  —  each  stalk  in  tassel  ; 

Home,  with  its  thatch  and  its  turf-lit  room  — 
What  was  this  by  the  side  of  a  castle  ? 

Wliat  was  that  to  a  tossing  plume  ? 

Winds  through  the  violets'  misty  covering 

Now  kissed  the  white  ones  and  now  the  blue, 
Sang  the  redbreast  over  them  hovering 

All  as  the  world  were  but  just  made  new. 
And  on  and  on  through  the  golden  weather, 

Fear  at  the  faintest  and  hope  at  the  best. 
Went  the  tine  lovers  riding  together. 

Out  of  the  East-land  and  into  the  West. 

Father  and  mother  in  tears  abiding, 

Bridemaids  all  with  their  favors  dressed. 
Back  and  backward  the  daisies  sliding, 

Dove-throat,  Black-foot,  breast  and  breast. 
Yet  hath  the  bridemaid  joy  of  licr  pining, 

And  grief  sits  light  on  the  mother's  brow  ; 
Under  her  cloud  is  a  silver  lining,  — 

The  lowly  child  is  a  lady  now. 

But  for  the  sowers,  the  eyes  held  shady 

Either  till'  sun-brown  arm  or  hand  ; 
Darkly  tiny  tullow  the  lord  and  lady 

AVitli  jcnlous  hatred  of  house  .and  land. 
Fine  —  it  was  all  so  fine  to  be  idle  ; 

Dull  and  weary  the  work-day  doom  ; 
0,  Imt  to  ride  with  a  spangled  bridle  ! 

0  foi'  a  cap  with  a  tossing  plume  ! 

Nearer  the  castle,  the  bells  fell  ringing, 

And  strong  men  and  maidens  to  work  and  wait. 
Cried,  "God'sgraceonthebride'shome-bringing," 

And  master,  mistress,  rode  through  the  gate. 
Five  select  ladies  —  maids  of  the  chamber  — 

One  sewed  her  silken  seams,  one  kept  herrings. 
One  for  the  pearl  combs,  one  for  the  amber. 

And  one  for  her  green  fan  of  peacock  wings. 

And  sweetly  and  long  they  abode  in  their  castle. 
And  daughters  and  sons  to  their  love  were  born ; 

But  doves  at  the  dew-fall  homeward  nestle. 
To  lodge  in  the  rafters  they  left  at  morn  ; 


And  memory,  holding  true  and  tender, 
As  pleasures  faded  and  years  increased. 

Oft  bore  the  lady  from  all  her  splendor 
Out  of  the  West-land  into  the  East ; 

And  far  from  the  couch  where  sleep  so  slowly 

Came  to  her  eyes  through  the  purples  grand. 
Left  her  to  lodge  in  the  bed  so  lowly. 

Smoothed  by  the  mother's  dear,  dear  hand. 
But  after  all  the  ado  to  assemble 

The  sunrise  pictures  to  brighten  the  set. 
One  there  was  thrilled  her  heart  to  a  tremble. 

Half  made  of  envy  and  half  of  regret. 

Ah,  was  it  this  that  in  playful  sporting, 

And  not  as  lamenting  her  maiden  years. 
Often  she  brought  from  the  time  of  the  courting. 

When  hopes  are  the  sweeter  for  little  fears. 
That  one  day  of  the  days  so  pleasant. 

When,  while  she  mused  of  her  lord,  as  it  fell. 
Rode  from  the  castle  the  groom  with  his  jiresent. 

Dear  little  Dove-throat,  beloved  so  well  ? 

Or  altar,  in  splendor  of  lilies  and  laces. 

Long-tressed  bridemaids,  or  jjriest  close  shorn? 
Or  ride  through  the  daisies,  or  green  field  spaces. 

Gay  with  children  that  sowed  in  the  corn  ? 
Ye  who  have  left  the  noontide  behind  you, 

And  whom  dull  shadows  begin  to  ojipress, 
Say,  ere  the  night-time  falleth  to  blind  you, 

Which  was  the  picture  —  pray,  do  you  guess  ? 

All  in  the  castle  was  sweet  with  contentment, 

For  Fortune,  in  granting  all  favors  but  one, 
Threw  over  the  distance  a  cruel  enchantment 

That  darkened  the  love-light  and  darkened  the 
sun. 
Of  alms  and  of  pleasures  the  life-long  bestowers. 

The  lord  and  the  lady  had  just  one  lament  : 
0  for  the  lives  of  the  brown  little  sowers  ! 

And  0  for  their  artless  and  homely  content  ! 

ALlCr;  CARV. 


THE  WELCOME. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning  ; 
Come  when  you  're  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning  ; 

Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before  you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I  '11  adore 

you  ! 

Light  is  myheart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted; 

Red  is  mycheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted  ; 

The  gi-een  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than 

ever. 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "True  lovers  don't 


-4J' 


LOVE. 


101 


n 


I  '11  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you  choose 

them, 
Or,  after  you  've  kissed  them,  they  '11  lie  on  my 

bosom  ; 
1  '11  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire 

you; 
I  '11  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire 
you. 
Oh  !  your  step  's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer- 
vexed  farmer. 
Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor  ; 
I  '11  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above 

me. 
Then,  wandering,   1  '11  wish  you  in  silence  to 
love  me. 

We  '11  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the 

eyrie  ; 
We  '11  tread  round  tlic  rath  on  the  track  of  the 

fairy  ; 
We  '11  look  on  the  stars,  and  we  '11  list  to  the 

river. 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can 
give  her. 
Oh!    she'll    whisper  you,  —  "Love,   as  un- 
changeably beaming. 
And   trust,   when  in   sei^ret,    most   tunefully 

streaming ; 
Till  the  starl  ight  of  heaven  above  us  .shall  quiver, 
As  our  souls  How  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning; 
Come  when  you  're  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning  ; 
Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I  '11  adore 
you  ! 
Liglit  is  my  heart  since  thedaywewereplighted; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted; 
The  green  of  thetreeslooks  fargreenerthan  ever, 
And  tlie  linnets  aresinging,  "True  lovers  don't 
sever !  " 

TnoM.\s  Davis. 


CA'  THE   YOWES  TO  THE   KNOWES. 


t]— 


Oa'  the  yowes  to  the  Icnovjes, 
Ca'  tliem  where  tite  heatlt^r  grows, 
Ca'  tliem  where  the  burnie  roiaes, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Hark  the  mavis'  evening  sang 
Sounding  Cluden's  woods  amang  ; 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
Cn  the,  etc. 


We  '11  gae  down  by  Cluden  side, 
Thro'  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 
O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 
Ca'  live,  etc. 

Yonder  Cluden's  silent  towers. 
Where  at  moonshine  midnight  liours, 
O'er  the  lU'wy  bending  llowors, 
Kairies  diiiice  sac  chccrie. 
Cit'  the,  etc. 

Chaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fi'ar  : 
Thou  'rt  to  Love  and  Heaven  sae  dear, 
Kocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
Oa   the,  etc. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart  ; 
I  can  die  —  but  canna  part, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
Ca'  tlie,  etc. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea  ; 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 
Till  clay-canld  death  shall  blin'  my  e'e, 
Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 
Ca'  tlw,  etc. 

ROBtRT  BCK.N& 


CHARLIE  MACHREE. 

A  BALLAD. 

Come  over,  come  over 
The  river  to  me, 
If  ye  are  my  laddie, 
Kold  Charlie  machree. 

Here  's  Mary  McPherson 
And  Susy  O'Linn, 
Wlio  say  ye  're  faint-hearted. 
And  darena  plunge  in. 

But  the  dark  rolling  water, 
Tlioiigh  deep  as  the  sea, 
I  know  willna  scare  ye. 
Nor  keep  ye  frae  me  ; 

For  stout  is  yer  back. 
And  strong  is  yer  arm. 
And  the  heart  in  yer  bosom 
Is  faithful  and  warm. 

Come  over,  come  over 
The  liver  to  me, 
If  ye  are  my  laddie, 
Rold  Charlie  machree  ! 


-^ 


f 


102 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-a 


I  see  liii.i,   I  s,T  linii! 
Ilo'r.  iilui.Kcl  in  I.Im;  tide, 
ilia  sli'oiig  iiniis  iiro  diisliiiig 
Tlio  big  waves  aside. 

0,  the  (lark  rolling  water 
Shoots  swift  as  tlic  sea, 
Hilt  blithe  is  the  glance 
or  his  bonny  blue  e'e  ; 

And  his  cheeks  are  like  rosos, 
Twa  buds  on  a  hough  ; 
Who  says  ye  'I'e  faint-hearted, 
My  bmvo  Charlie,  now  ? 

]lo,  ho,  foaniing  river, 
Ye  may  roar  as  ye  go, 
Hut  yu  caniia  bear  ( 'harlie 
'J'o  the  dark  loeh  lielow  ! 

Come  over,  come  over 
The  river  to  ino, 
My  true-liearted  laddio. 
My  Charlie  niaehrco  ! 

He  's  sinking,  he  's  sinking, 
0,  what  shall  I  do  ! 
Strike  out,  Charlie,  boldly. 
Ten  strokes  and  ye  're  thro'. 

Ill' 's  sinking,  ()  Heaven  ! 
Ne'er  fear,  man,  ne'er  fear  ; 
1  've  a  kiss  for  ye,  (Charlie, 
As  soon  as  yo  're  hero  I 

Ho  rises,  I  soo  him,  — 
Five  strokes,  Charlie,  inair,  — 
Me 's  shaking  the  wet 
From  his  bonny  brown  hair  ; 

He  eoiniuers  (he  eurront. 
He  gains  on  the  sea,  — 
Uo,  when'  is  tlie  swimmer 
Like  Charlie  maehree  ' 

Come  over  the  river. 
Hut  onee  eome  to  mo, 
And  1  '11  love  ye  forever. 
Dear  Charlie  niaehroo  I 

He's  sinking,  he  's  gone,  — 
0  God  !  it  is  1, 
It  is  I,  wlio  have  killed  him  - 
Help,  helii  !  —  he  must  die  ! 

Hel]i,  hel|i  !  —  ah,  lie  rises,  - 
Strike  out  and  yo'ro  free  ! 
Ho,  liravely  done,  Charlie, 
Onee  wore  now,  for  mo  1 


Now  eliiig  to  the  roek. 
Now  gie  lis  yer  hand,  -- 
Ye  're  safe,  dearest  Charlie, 
Yo  're  safe  on  the  land  ! 

Come  rest  in  my  bosom, 
I  f  there  ye  can  sleep  ; 
1  eanna  speak  to  ye, 
1  only  can  weep. 

Ye  've  crossed  tlie  wild  river, 
Yo  've  risked  all  for  me. 
And  1  '11  part  frae  ye  never. 
Dear  Charlie  niiiehiee  ! 

W1I.1.IAM  J.  Ho 


ROBIN   ADAIR. 

What  's  this  dull  town  to  me  ? 

Koliiii  's  not  near,  — 
He  wlnnn  I  wished  to  .see. 

Wished  for  to  hear  ; 
Where  's  all  the, joy  and  mirth 
Made  life  a  heaven  on  earth, 
0,  they  're  all  fled  with  tliee, 

Ixobin  Adair! 

What  made  the  assembly  shine? 

Kobin  Adair : 
Wliat  made  the  ball  so  fine  ? 

liobin  was  there  : 
What,  when  the  play  was  o'er, 
What  made  my  heart  so  sore  1 
0,  if  was  imrting  with 

liobin  A.lair  ! 

But  now  thou  art  far  from  mo, 

Kobin  Adair  ; 
But  now  1  never  see 

Kobin  Adair; 
Yet  him  I  loved  so  well 
Still  in  my  heart  shall  dwell ; 
0,  1  can  ne'er  forget 

Kobin  Adair ! 

Welcome  on  shore  again, 

Robin  Adair  I 
Welcome  once  more  again, 

Kobin  Adair  ! 
I  feel  thy  trembling  hand  ; 
Tears  in  thy  eyelids  stand. 
To  greet  thy  native  land, 

Kobin  Adair. 

Long  I  ne'er  saw  thee,  love, 

Kiibiii  Adair  ; 
Still  I  prnye.l  lor  thee,  love, 

Kobiii  Adair ; 


f 


LOVE. 


103 


-a 


U-- 


Whin  thou  werl  liir  at  aca, 
Ahuiy  iiiailo  lovu  to  me, 
lint  slill  1  tlic)iij;ht  uu  tlicc, 
Kobiii  Adaii'. 

Comic  to  my  heart  attain, 

Kohin  Adair; 
NcviT  to  part  agaiu, 

Kobiii  Ailair  ; 
And  if  thou  still  art  true, 
I  will  bo  constinit  too, 
Ami  will  wed  none  but  you, 

Hol>in  Adair  I 


TllK   lilllTII  OF   PORTRAITURE. 

An  'inrc  a  (Jrcrian  maitlen  wove 

llc.ryarland  mid  thr  summer  bowers, 
TliiTe  stood  a  youth,  with  eyes  ol'  love. 

To  watch  her  while  she  wreathed  the  llowcrs. 
Till'  youth  was  skilled  in  painting's  art, 

liut  ne'er  had  studii^d  woman's  Iprow, 
Nor  knew  wliat  magic  hues  the  heart 

Can  shed  o'er  Nature's  charm,  till  now. 


Blest  bo  Love,  to  whom  we  owe 
All  that '»  fair  and  bright  below. 

His  haiid  had  pictured  many  a  rose. 

And  sket(dicd  the  rays  that  lit  the  brook; 
liut  what  wore  these,  or  what  were  tliose, 

T"  woman's  blush,  to  woman's  locdi  < 
"  (),  if  such  magie  power  there  b(\ 

This,  this,"  he  cried,  "is  all  my  [■i.iyer. 
To  p.iiut  that  living  light  I  see. 

And  fix  the  soul  that  sparkles  there  !  " 

His  prayer  as  soon  as  breathed  was  heard  ; 

His  pallet  touched  by  Lov(^  grew  warm, 
.And  painting  saw  her  thus  transferred 

l''riim  lifeless  llowers  to  woman's  form. 
Still,  as  from  tint  to  tint  he  stole, 

'I'lie  fair  design  shone  out  lln^  more. 
And  Ihere  was  now  a  life,  a  soul. 

Where  only  .-olors  glowed  bcfoi'e. 

Then  lirst  iariiali(.n  learned  to  speak, 

And  libei  into  life  were  brought ; 
While,  mantling  on  the  maiden's  elieek, 

■young  ro.ses  kindled  into  thought  : 
Then  hyacinths  their  darkest  dyes 

IJjion  the  locks  of  li(siuty  threw  ; 
And  violets  transformed  to  eyes, 

Inslirinod  a  soul  within  their  blue. 


Blest  be  Love,  to  whom  we  owe 

All  that's  bright  ami  lair  Iwdow ; 

Song  was  cold  and  [lainting  dim, 

Till  .song  and  painting  learned  from  him. 


O  NANCY,  WILT  THOU  OO  WITH  ME? 

0  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me. 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  Haunting  town  'f 
Can  silent  gleus  have  charms  for  thee. 

The  lonely  cot  and  russet  gown  ' 
No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen. 

No  longer  decked  with  jewels  rare. 
Say,  canst  thou  cpiit  eacdi  conrlly  seeno 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ( 

0  Nancy  !  when  thou  'it  far  away. 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a  wish  licdiind  ? 
Say,  canst  thou  face'  the  pandiing  ray, 

Nor  shrink  before  the  winlry  wiml  1 
0,  can  that  .soft  and  gentle  mien 

Kxtrenu's  of  hai'dshiji  leaiii  l.i  ii    i. 
Nor  sad  regret  each  courtly  seen" 

WIkm-c  llnai  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  I 

0  Nancy  !  canst  thou  love  so  true, 

Through  perils  keen  with  me  to  go. 
Or  when  thy  swain  nu.shaji  shall  rue. 

To  share  with  him  the  pang  of  woe  ? 
Say,  should  disease  or  pain  befall. 

Wilt  thou  assunu,'  the  nur.Hir's  care. 
Nor  wistful  those  gay  scenes  recall 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  thc!  fair  ? 

And  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die, 

Will  thou  receive  his  parting  breath  ? 
Wilt  thou  lepress  each  struggling  sigh, 

And  cheer  with  smiles  tlu^  bed  of  death 
And  wilt  thou  o'er  his  breathless  clay. 

Strew  llowers,  aixl  drop  the  tender  tear. 
Nor  then  regret  tho.se  scenes  so  gay. 

Where  thou  werl  fairest  of  I  lie  fair  ' 


WHISTLE,  AND  I  'LL  COME  TO  VOU,  MY  LAU. 

O  wuisri.F,  and  I  'II  come  to  yon,  my  lad, 
O  whistle,  and  1  'II  eotnc  to  you,  my  lail  ; 
Tho'  father  and  mither  atid  a'  should  gae  mad, 
O  whistle,  and  I  '11  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

Hut  warily  tent,  when  ye  one'  lo  <'ourt  me. 
And  come  na  mdess  the  back-yett  be  a-jee  ; 


-EP 


G- 


104 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


1 


«■ 


Syno  up  Ihr  l«uk  .ttilo,  iiiiil  l>'l  imolHiily  moo, 
Aiul  coiui'  US  yo  wiTc  im'  oiiniiii'  to  mo. 
A.ul  <oiiio,  olo. 

O  wl.isllo,  oU'. 

At  kirk,  111'  111  imirkot,  whoiip'or  yo  moot  mo, 
(lull},'  liy  uio  iiM  dm'  tlml  yo  oiiroil  imo  ii  Ilio  ; 
lUil  siriil  1110  11  Mink  o'  ymii-  luiimio  liliiok  o'o, 
Vot  look  MS  yo  woio  nil  lookiu'  at  mo. 
Vol  look,  olo. 

(1  wliisllo,  oto. 

Ayr  vow  iiml  prulost  tlml  yo  oiii'o  ua  I'dr  mo, 
Ami  «liilos  yo  may  li^'lilly  my  boaiily  a  woo; 
Km  ooiii't  iiao  aiiitlior,  llio' jiikiu'  yo  bo, 
l''oi'  loar  tliat  slio  wilo  yoiii-  I'lmoy  IVao  mo. 
Km-  loar,  oto. 

O  wliistlo,  oto. 


TIIK  SUKrUKKD  TO  HIS   l.OVE. 

fiiMi,  livo  wilh  mo,  ami  l.o  mv  lovo, 
Aial  wo  will  all  tlio  [iloa-uros  piuv,' 
Thai  valloys,  jjrovos,  and  liilU,  ami  lioUls, 
WooiU  or  .stoopy  moiuitaiiis,  yioUls, 

Ami  wo  will  sit  Ilium  tli  •  rooks, 
Sooiiij;  tho  slu'iilionls  IVoil  llioir  Hooks 
liy  shallow  rivor.s,  to  wlioso  falls 
Moloitious  liinla  sing  mailrigiils. 

Tlioro  will  1  iiiftko  tlioo  liods  of  roses 
Willi  a  tliousiiml  fragriuit  [losios  ; 
.\  oa|i  of  llowoi's,  ami  a  kirtlo, 
iMuluvicloroil  all  with  loavos  of  myrtlo  ; 

.\  gown  imulo  of  tho  tiiiost  wool, 
Whioh  from  our  |>rotty  lambs  wo  [luU  ; 
Kair-Uuoil  slippors  for  tho  oohl, 
Wilh  buoklos  of  tho  piuvst  gohl  ; 

A  bolt  of  straw,  ami  ivy  bmls. 
With  coral  olasps  ami  ainbor  stmls  : 
.\ml  if  thoso  ploasuros  may  llioo  movo, 
t'omo,  livo  with  mo,  ami  bo  my  lovo. 

Tlu'  shoplioitl  swains  shall  ihiuoo  ami  .sing 
For  thy  ilolight  oaoh  May  nioriiiiig  : 
If  thoso  ilolights  thy  miml  may  niovf, 
Thou  livo  with  mo,  ami  bo  my  lovo. 

CmtlSlv^I'IlBR  MAKl-OWR. 


THE  NYMPH'S  REPLY. 

\v  that  tho  worhl  ami  lovo  woif  young, 
.\ml  truth  in  ovory  shophonl's  tonguo, 
Thoso  pntty  ploasuros  might  mo  niovp 
To  livo  with  tlioo  anil  K>  thy  lovo. 


Itul  limoilrivos  llork^  Iroiii  lold  lo  I,, 1,1, 
Whon  runs  iaj;o,  ami  looks -row  ool.l  ; 
Ami  I'hiloinol  booomolh  diiuili. 
Ami  all  oumplain  of  oaros  to  oonio. 

Tho  llowors  do  fudo,  and  wauluii  Holds 
To  wayward  wintor  rookoning  yiolds  ; 
A  hoiioy  touguo,  a  hoarl  of  gall, 
l.s  fanoy's  spring,  but  .sorrows  fall. 

'Thy  gowns,  thy  shoos,  thy  bods  of  rosoa, 
Tliy  oa|i,  thy  kirtlo,  ami  thy  posios 
Soon  broak,  soon  withor,  soon  I'orgotton,  — 
In  folly  ripo,  in  roason  rolton. 

'Thy  bolt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
Thy  ooral  clasps  luid  ainbor  studs,  — 
All  thoso  in  ino  no  moans  can  movo 
'To  oomo  to  Ihoo,  ami  bo  thy  lovo. 

I'.nl  oouKI  youth  last,  and  lovo  still  brood. 
Had  joys  no  dato,  nor  ago  no  mod, 
'Thou  thoso  doliglits  my  mind  might  movo 
To  livo  with  tlioo,  and  bo  thy  lovo. 

SIK  W'.\l.ri;K  KALHIGII. 


MAUD  MUl.l.KK. 

M.vrii  Mrii.KU,  on  a  summoi's  ibiv, 
Uak.'d  tho  moadow  swoot  willi  hay. 

Honoalh  hor  torn  hat  glowod  tho  woalth 
l>f  simplo  boauty  and  rustio  hoallh. 

Singing,  sho  wrought,  and  hor  luony  gloo 
'Tho  mook-bird  oohood  from  his  troo. 

I5ut,  whon  sho  ghuiood  to  tho  far-olf  tow  ii, 
Whito  Iroiii  its  hill-slopo  looking  down, 

'Tho  swoot  song  diod,  and  a  vagno  unrost 
.\iid  a  iiiimoloss  longing  lillodhor  broasl, 

.\  wish,  that  sho  hardly  darod  to  own. 
For  .somothing  bettor  than  sho  had  known. 

Tho  .ludgo  rode  slowly  down  tho  Inno, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  ohestnut  inano. 

He  diinv  his  bridle  in  the  sliade 

Of  tho  apple  ti-oos,  to  git-et  tho  mnid, 

.\nd  ask  a  dmuglit  from  the  spring  that  llowod 
Through  the  moadow,  across  the  iiind, 

Sho  stooped  whoro  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up. 
And  tilled  for  him  her  small  tin  oii|>. 


■^ 


^- 


LOVJi.  10 


r^ 


h 


And  IJushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks  I  "  said  the  Judge,  "a  sweeter  drauglit 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  ijualfed. " 

He  spoke  of  llie  glass  and  flowers  and  trees. 
Of  tlie  singing  birds  and  the  liuniming  bees  ; 

Tlien  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  wliether 
The  eloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graeeful  ankles,  bare  and  brown, 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surjirisc 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  .Muller  looked  and  sighed  :  "  Ah  me  ! 
That  1  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine. 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  eoat, 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I  'd  dress  rny  mother  so  graml  and  gay. 
And  the  iMby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  lack  as  he  ilimbed  the  hill. 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still  : 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet. 
Ne'er  Iiath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay. 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle,  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sister  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 


But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon. 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love  tune  ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well. 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower. 
Who  live<i  for  fashion,  as  he  for  [xjwer. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 

And  sweet  .Vlauil  Muller's  liazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  re<l. 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instea<l, 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  mea<lows  and  clover  blooms  ; 

And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a  secret  pain, 
"Ah,  tliat  1  were  free  again  I 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day 

Wiere  the  Ijarefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  [ilayed  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  child-birth  i»ain. 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  liay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 

And,  gazing  down  with  a  timid  giace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  lialls  ; 

Tlie  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  tunied, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned  ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
iJozing  and  gnimbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  .she  saw. 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again. 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  Wn." 


[0- 


1(16 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


n 


h 


Alas  for  maiden,  alas  forjudge, 

For  rich  repiiicr  and  lioiiscliold  drudge  ! 

Cod  (lity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  tho  (hfanis  of  youth  rooall  ; 

Kor  ol'  all  sail  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :  "  It  might  have  been  !  " 

Ah,  %v(dl  !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Docply  buried  IVoni  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Koll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 

John  Gkeenleaf  whittier. 


QTTAKERDOM. 

TlIROTTGii  her  forced,  abnormal  quiet 
Fla-shed  the  sold  of  frolic  riot. 
And  a  nsost  malicious  laughter  lighted  up  her 
downcast  eyes  ; 
All  in  vain  1  tried  each  topic. 
Ranged  from  polar  climes  to  tropic,  — 
Every  commonplace  1  started  met  with  yes-or-no 
replies. 

Kor  lier  mother  —  stiff  and  stately. 
As  if  starched  and  irone.l  lately  — 
Sat  erect,  with  rigid  idlunvs  l)edilcd  thus  in  curv- 
ing palms  ; 
There  she  sat  on  L,'n:inl  bcfnn'  us, 
And  in  words  ]ir(risr,  dn  .nuus, 
And  most  calm,  revicwrrl  the  w.ather,  and  recited 
several  ]isalms. 

How  without  abruptly  ending 

This  my  visit,  and  offending 
Wealthy  neighbors,  was  the  problem  which  em- 
|)loyed  my  mental  care  ; 

When  the  butler,  bowing  lowly, 

Utl.'red  clearly,  stiffly,  slowly, 
"Madam,  jdrase,  the  gardener  wants  you,"  — 

Heaven,  1  thought,  has  heard  my  prayer. 

"  Pardon  me  !  "  she  grandly  uttered  ; 
Howing  low,  I  gladly  muttered, 
"Surely,   nuidam!"  and,  relieved,    1  turned  to 
scan  the  danghter's  face  : 
Ha  !  what  pent-up  mirth  outllashes 
From  beneath  those  penciled  lashes  ! 
How  the  drill  of  Quaker  custom  yields  to  Na- 
ture's brilliant  grace  ! 

r.rightly  springs  the  prisoned  fountain 
From  the  side  of  Delphi's  mouutuiu, 


When  the  stone  that  weighed  upon  its  buoyant 
life  is  thrust  aside  ; 
So  the  long-enforced  stagnation 
Of  the  maiden's  conversation 
Now   imparted    fivefold    brilliance  to   its   ever- 
varying  tide. 

Widely  r,anging,  quickly  (diauging, 
Witty,  winning,  from  beginning 
Unto  end  I  listened,  merely  Hinging  in  a  casual 
word  ; 
Eloquent,  and  yet  how  simple  ! 
Hand  and  eye,  and  eddying  dinijile. 
Tongue  and  lip  together  made  a  music  seen  a-; 
well  as  heard. 

When  the  noonday  woods  are  liuging. 
All  the  birds  of  summer  singing, 
Suddenly  there  falls  a  silence,  and  we  know  a 
serpent  nigh  : 
So  upon  the  door  a  rattle 
Sto])ped  our  animated  tattle, 
And  the  stately  mother  found  us  prim  enough  to 
suit  her  eve. 


THE  CHESS-BOARD. 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember. 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise. 

Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 

Cuitained  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 

When  you  and  I  played  chess  together, 

(.'heekmated  by  each  other's  eyes? 

Ah  !  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o'er  Queen  and  Knight ; 

Brave  Pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand ; 
The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings ; 
The  IMsliop,  bent  on  distant  things, 
Moves,  sidling,  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch  ;  our  glances  meet, 
And  falter  ;  falls  your  golden  hair 

Against  my  cheek  ;  your  bosom  sweet 
Is  heaving.  Down  the  field,  your  Queen 
liides  slow,  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 

Ah  me  !  the  little  Irattle  's  done  : 
Disperst  is  all  its  idiivalry. 
Full  many  a  move  .since  then  have  we 
Mid  life's  perplexing  checkers  m.ade. 
And  many  a  game  with  fortune  played  ; 

What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this  at  least,  —  if  this  alone  : 


^d' 


STMMKK    PAYS. 

**/w  suMuur.  w/ifN  tht'  days  iver^  /cwi*. 
nV  xtuiikni  together  in  the  uhhh/ : 

Our  hfitrt  was  ftght.  our  st^/  was  strong.' 
Swret  JlttttfriMg^  7t'ert'  there  m'n  onr  blood 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  /ong:*^ 


LOVE. 


-rf^j 


107 


That  never,  never,  nevermore, 

As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore, 
(Ere  we  were  gi'own  so  sadly  wise,) 
<  'an  you  and  1  shut  out  tlie  skies, 

.Shut  out  the  world  and  wintry  weatlier, 

And,eyes  exchanging  warmth  with  eyes, 

I'lay  chess,  as  then  we  jjlayed  together. 

KODIiRT  UULWEK  LVTroN. 


DINNA  ASK  ME. 

0,  DiSNA  .ask  me  gin  I  lo'e  ye  : 

Troth,  I  daunia  tell ! 
Diniia  a.^k  me  gin  1  lo'e  ye,  — 

Ask  it  o'  yoursel'. 

0,  (linna  look  sae  sair  at  me, 

For  weed  ye  ken  me  true ; 
0,  gin  ye  look  .sae  sair  at  me, 

I  daunia  look  at  you. 

Wlien  ye  gang  to  yon  braw  hraw  town, 

And  bonnier  lassies  see, 
0,  dinna,  Jamie,  look  at  them, 

Lest  ye  should  mind  na  me. 

For  I  could  never  bide  the  la.ss 
That  ye  'd  lo'e  mair  than  ine ; 

And  0,  I  'm  sure  my  heart  wad  tirak, 
Gin  ye  'd  prove  fause  to  me  ! 


In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 
On  ciainty  chicken,  snow-white  brea<l, 

We  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song ; 
We  jjlucked  wild  strawberries,  ripe  and  red. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  lorjg. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not,  — 
For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then  ; 

We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men  ; 

And  dre.imeil  of  (!od  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone. 

I  see  her  not ;  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood  : 
But  one  fair  si)irit  hears  my  sighs ; 

And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 
The  honest  ilaylight  of  her  eyes. 

That  charmed  me  under  earlier  .skies. 

In  sumniei,  when  the  days  are  long, 
I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old. 

My  heart  is  liglil,  niy  step  is  strong  ; 
For  love  brings  back  tho.se  houra  of  gold, 

lu  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

A.NO.NVMOUS. 


SUMMER  DAYS. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  walked  together  in  the  wood  ; 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong  ; 
Sweet  flutterings  were  there  in  our  blood. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  strayed  from  morn  till  evening  came  ; 
We  gathered  Mowers,  and  wove  u.s  crowns  ; 

We  walked  mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs  ; 

And  always  wished  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
VVc  h'aped  the  hedgerow,  crossed  the  brook ; 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song. 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees. 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 

And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze. 
We  feasted,  many  a  gorgeous  .June, 

While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 


GENEVIEVE, 

Am,  thoughts,  all  jjassions,  all  delights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  .again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  Lay 
IJeside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armtd  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 


^ 


a- 


108 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


n 


u 


1  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story,  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  tliat  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
Tlie  Lady  of  tlui'  land. 

I  told  licr  how  he  pined  :  and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
Willi  which  1  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  Hitting  blnsli, 
With  ilowneast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

ISut  wlieu  1  tuld  the  cruel  scorn 
Tliat  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods. 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  sliade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  tlie  face 
All  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  savi'd  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ; 

Anil  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  liis  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain  ; 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave. 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  th('  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; 

—  His  dying  words  —  but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  luirp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity. 


All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  imisie  and  the  doleful  tale. 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame  ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  lier  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  —  she  stejiped  aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  slept,  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
Slio  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  lialf  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  lace. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  baslil'ul  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  !ier  fears,  and  slie  was  calm, 
And  told  lier  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
Anil  so  I  won  my  (ienevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Hride. 


WHEN  THE  KYE  COME   HAME. 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  sheiiherds. 

That  whistle  throngh  the  glen  ! 
I  '11  tell  ye  o'  a  secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken  : 
What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o'  man  can  name  ? 
'T  is  to  woo  a  bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  come  hame. 
Ifhcn  the  kye  come  hame, 
li'hcn  the  k)je  come  hame,  — 
'Tira-n  the  gloamin  an  the  mirk, 
H'hen  the  ki/e  come  luime. 

'T  is  not  beneath  the  burgonet. 

Nor  yet  beneath  the  crown  ; 
'T  is  not  on  couch  o'  velvet, 

Nor  yet  in  bed  o'  down  : 
'T  is  bi'iieatli  the  spreading  liirk. 

In  the  glen  without  the  name, 


-^ 


[&-- 


LOVE. 


lO'J 


^ 


W'i'  ;l  bonuie  bonnie  lassie. 
When  the  kye  come  hame. 

Tliere  the  blackbird  bigs  his  nest, 

For  the  mate  he  lo'es  to  see, 
Ami  ou  the  tapmost  bough 

O,  a  happy  l)ird  is  he  ! 
There  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 

And  love  is  a'  the  theme  ; 
And  he  '11  woo  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

Wlien  the  blewart  bears  a  pearl. 

And  the  daisy  turns  a  pea, 
And  the  bonnie  lucken  gowan 

Has  fauldit  up  his  ec, 
Then  the  lavrock,  frae  the  blue  lift, 

Draps  down  and  thinks  nae  shame 
To  woo  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

See  yonder  pawky  shepherd. 

That  lingers  on  the  hill  : 
His  yowes  are  in  the  fauld, 

And  his  lambs  are  lying  still  ; 
Yet  he  dowua  gang  to  bed. 

For  his  heart  is  in  a  flame. 
To  meet  his  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

When  the  little  wee  Lit  heart 

Rises  high  in  the  breast, 
And  the  little  wee  bit  stam 

Rises  red  in  the  east, 
0,  there  's  a  joy  sae  dear 

That  the  heart  can  hardly  frame  ! 
Wi'  a  bonnie  bonnie  lassie. 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

Then  since  all  Nature  joins 

In  this  love  without  alloy, 
0,  wha  wad  prove  a  traitor 

To  Nature's  dearest  joy  ? 
Or  wha  wad  choose  a  crown, 

Wi'  its  perils  an'  its  fame. 
And  miss  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  luime  ? 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  WEDDING 
OR,  TEN  YEARS  AFTER. 

The  country  ways  are  full  of  mire. 
The  boughs  toss  in  the  fading  light,. 

The  winds  blow  out  the  sunset's  fire. 
And  sudden  droppeth  down  the  night. 

I  sit  in  this  familiar  room, 

Where  mud-splashed  hunting  sijuires  resort 


My  sole  companion  in  the  gloom 
This  slowly  dying  pint  of  port. 

'Mong  all  the  joys  my  soul  hath  known, 

'Mong  errors  over  which  it  giieves, 
I  sit  at  this  dark  hour  alone. 

Like  Autumn  mid  his  withered  leaves. 
This  is  a  night  of  wild  farewells 

To  all  the  past ;  the  good,  the  fair  ; 
To-morrow,  and  my  wedding  bells 

Will  make  a  music  in  the  air. 

Like  a  wet  fisher,  tempe.st-tost. 

Who  sees  throughout  the  weltering  night. 
Afar  on  some  low-lying  coast. 

The  streaming  of  a  rainy  light, 
I  saw  this  hour,  —  and  now  't  is  come  ; 

The  rooms  are  lit,  the  feast  is  set ; 
W^ithin  the  twilight  1  am  dumb. 

My  heart  filled  with  a  vain  regret. 

I  cannot  say,  in  Eastern  style. 

Where'er  she  treads  the  pansy  blows  ; 
Nor  call  her  eyes  twin  stars,  her  smile 

A  sunbeam,  and  her  mouth  a  rose. 
Nor  can  1,  as  your  bridegrooms  do, 

Talk  of  my  raptures.     0,  how  sore 
The  fond  romance  of  twenty-two 

Is  parodied  ere  thirty-four. 

To-night  I  shake  hands  with  the  past,  — 

Familiar  years,  adieu,  adieu  ! 
An  unknou7i  door  is  open  cast, 

An  empty  future  wide  and  new 
Stands  waiting.     0  ye  naked  rooms, 

Void,  desolate,  without  a  charm. 
Will  Love's  smile  chase  your  lonely  glooms, 

And  drape  your  walls,  and  make  Ihem  warm  ! 

The  man  wlin  knew,  while  lii'  was  young. 

Some  soft  and  soul-subduing  air. 
Melts  when  ngain  he  hears  it  sung, 

Although  't  is  ordy  half  .so  fair. 
So  I  love  thee,  and  love  is  sweet 

(My  Florence,  't  is  the  cruel  truth) 
Because  it  can  to  age  rei)c.at 

That  long-lost  passion  of  my  youth. 

0,  often  did  my  spirit  melt. 

Blurred  letters,  o'er  your  artless  rhymes  ! 
Fair  trees,  in  which  the  sunshine  dwelt, 

I  've  kissed  you  many  a  million  times  ! 
And  now  't  is  done,  —  my  passionate  tears. 

Mad  pleadings  with  an  iron  fate, 
And  all  the  sweetness  of  my  years. 

Are  blackened  ashes  in  the  grate. 

Then  ring  in  the  wind,  my  wedding  chimes  ; 
Snnle,  villagers,  at  every  door  ; 


i 


©- 


110 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


■-f^ 


Old  churchyard,  stuffed  with  buried  crimes, 
Be  clad  in  sunshine  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

And  youthful  maidens,  white  and  sweet, 
Scatter  your  blossoms  far  and  wide  ; 

And  with  a  bridal  chorus  greet 

This  hajijiy  bridegroom  and  his  bride. 

"This  happy  bridegroom  !  "  there  is  sin 

At  bottom  of  my  thankless  mood  : 
What  if  desert  alone  could  win 

For  me  life's  chiefest  grace  and  good  ? 
Love  gives  itself ;  and  if  not  given. 

No  genius,  beauty,  state  or  wit. 
No  gold  of  earth,  no  gem  of  heaven, 

Is  rich  enough  to  purchase  it. 

It  may  be,  Florence,  loving  thee. 

My  heart  will  its  old  memories  keep  ; 
Like  some  worn  sea-shell  from  the  sea, 

Filled  with  the  music  of  the  deep. 
And  you  may  watch,  on  nights  of  rain, 

A  shadow  on  my  brow  encroach  ; 
Be  startled  by  my  sudden  pain. 

And  tenderness  of  self-reproach. 

It  may  be  that  your  loving  wiles 

Will  call  a  sigh  from  far-otT  years  ; 
It  may  be  that  your  happiest  smiles 

Will  brim  my  eyes  with  hopeless  tears  ; 
It  may  be  that  my  sleeping  breath 

Will  shake,  with  painful  visions  wrung  ; 
And,  in  the  awful  trance  of  death, 

A  stranger's  name  be  on  my  tongue. 

Ye  phantoms,  born  of  bitter  blood, 

Ye  ghosts  of  passion,  lean  and  worn. 
Ye  terrors  of  a  lonely  mood, 

Wliat  do  ye  here  on  a  wedding-morn  ? 
For,  as  the  dawning  sweet  and  fast 

Through  all  the  heaven  spreads  and  flows. 
Within  life's  discord,  rude  and  vast. 

Love's  subtle  music  grows  and  grows. 

And  lightened  is  the  weaiy  curse. 

And  clearer  is  the  weary  road  ; 
The  very  worm  the  sea-weeds  nurse 

Is  cared  for  by  the  Eternal  God. 
My  love,  pale  blossom  of  the  snow, 

Has  ])ierced  earth  wet  mtli  wintry  showers,- 
O  may  it  drink  the  sun,  and  blow. 

Followed  by  all  the  year  of  flowers  ! 

Black  Bayard  from  the  stable  bring  ; 

The  rain  is  o'er,  the  wind  is  down, 
Round  stin'ing  farms  the  birds  will  sing. 

The  dawn  stand  in  the  sleeping  town. 
Within  an  hour.     This  is  her  gate, 

Her  sodden  roses  droop  in  night. 


And,  emblem  of  my  happy  fate. 
In  one  dear  window  there  is  light. 

The  dawn  is  oozing  pale  and  cold 

Through  the  damp  east  for  many  a  mile 
When  half  my  tale  of  life  is  told, 

Grim-featured  Time  begins  to  smile. 
Last  star  of  night  that  lingerest  yet 

In  that  long  rift  of  rainy  gray. 
Gather  thy  wasted  splendors,  set. 

And  die  into  my  wedding  day. 

Ale.\a.\der  Smith. 


ATAiANTA  VICTORIOUS. 


And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide 
Foot  set  to  foot,  —  a  young  man  slim  and  fair. 
Crisp-haired,  well  knit,  with  firm  limbs  often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may  spare ; 
D.ainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore. 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 

But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  he  contend  ? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 
When  in  the  woods  she  lists  her  bow  to  bend, 
Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad, 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar  ; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  world  live  free  from  war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ; 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear  ; 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were  set 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul  were  near; 
But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear. 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turned 
His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that  burned. 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the  trum- 
pet's clang. 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there  sprang. 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side  ; 
But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last. 
And  round  about  it  still  abreast  they  passed. 


But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they  ran, 
W^hen  half-way  to  the  starting-point  they  were, 
A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew  near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear  ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground  could  feel, 
And  bliss  unhoped  for  o'er  his  heart  'gan  steal. 


4 


1&-- 


LOVE. 


Ill 


n 


t&^- 


But  midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he  heard 
Her  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the  sound 
( )f  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeared 
H  is  flushed  and  eager  face  he  turned  around, 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 
I'leet  as  the  wind,  but  scarcely  saw  her  there 
'I'ill  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood  she,  breathing  like  a  little  chUd 
Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep, 
I'or  no  victorious  joy  her  red  lips  smiled, 
Her  cheek  its  wonted  freshness  did  but  keep  ; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and  deep. 
Though  some  divine  thought  softened  all  her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the  place. 

But  her  late  foe  stopped  short  amidst  his  course. 
One  moment  gazed  upon  her  piteously. 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did  force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could  see ; 
And,  changed  likeone  who  knows  his  time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword  ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly  blade, 
Bared  of  its  flowers,  and  through  the  crowded  jjlace 
Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it  the  maid 
Went  by  the  poor  wretch  at  a  gentle  pace. 
And  he  to  hers  upturned  his  sad  white  face  ; 
Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 

William  MorriS- 


ATALAJSTTA  CONQUERED. 


Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by. 
Again  are  all  folk  round  the  running  place. 
Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the  race, 
For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 
Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  looked  upon. 

But  yet  —  what  change  is  this  that  holds  the 
maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing  blade, 
Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory  ? 
The  others  seemed  to  say,  "  We  come  to  die. 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while. 
That  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy  smile." 

But  he  —  what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
He  cast  on  her  ?  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ? 
Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happiness  ? 
So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but  dead, 
E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head  ; 


So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 
Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his  mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lid.s  before  his  gaze. 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise. 
And  wish  that  she  were  clad  in  other  guise  ? 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were  heard. 
Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maiden's  word  ? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  williout  a 

name. 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before. 
This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of  fame. 
This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er. 
These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more  and 

more  ? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  gi'ows  near, 
And  weak  defeat  and  woful  victory  fear  ? 

But  while  she  seemed  to  liear  lier  beating  heart. 
Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang  out. 
And  forth  they  sprang  ;  and  she  must  play  her 

jiart ; 
Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a  doubt, 
Though  slackening  once,  she  turned   her  liead 

about, 
But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed  him  dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand, 
.\nd  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light  tlierc  flew 
And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the  sand  ; 
Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew. 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there  grew 
To  have  the  toy ;  some  god  she  thought  had  given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she  ran. 
And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again,  the  great-limbed  man 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold, 
And  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  pursuit, 
Thougli  with  one  hand  she  touched  the  golden 
fruit. 

Note,  too,  the  how  that  she  was  wont  to  hear 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize. 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair 
Three  aiTows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  wellnigh  won. 


But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it, 
White  fingers  underneath  his  own  were  laid. 


-^ 


[& 


112 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


U 


And  wliiti'  limbs  I'roni  his  dazzled  eyes  did  Hit, 
Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
Hut  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,  and  turned  and  made  no 

stay 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 

Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast  around, 
Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see. 
And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she  wound 
To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had  she 
To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty  spaci; 
Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winnmg  place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet. 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him,  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet. 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple  cast. 
She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so  fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfill, 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win 
Once  more,  an  unblest  woful  victory  — 
And  yet  —  and  yet  — why  does  her  breath  begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily  ? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
Tlie  goal  is  ?  why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow  dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every  limb  ? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay  to  find 
Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findetli  this, 
A  .strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  twined. 
Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss. 
So  wrapped  she  is  in  new,  unbroken  bliss  : 
Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath  won, 
She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


THE  SIESTA. 

FROM  THH  SPANISH. 


Air.';,  that  wander  and  murmur  round. 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow  ! 

Make  in  tlie  elms  a  lulling  sound. 
While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Lighten  and  lengthen  her  noonday  rest. 

Till  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  is  o'er. 
Sweet  be  her  slumbers  !  though  in  my  breast 

The  pain  she  has  waked  may  slumber  no  more. 
Breathing  soft  from  the  blue  profound. 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound. 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 


Airs  !  that  over  tlie  bending  boughs. 

And  under  the  shade  of  pendent  leaves, 
Munnur  soft,  like  my  timid  vows 

Or  the  secret  sighs  my  bosom  heaves,  — 
Gently  sweeping  the  grassy  ground. 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow. 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound. 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


ACBAR  AND  NOtTRMAHAI,. 

0,  BEST  of  delights,  as  it  everywhere  is, 

To  be  near  the  loved  one, —  what  a  rapture  is  his 

Who  in  moonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly  may 

glide 
O'er  the  Lake  of  Cashmere  with  that  one  by  his  side ! 
If  woman  can  make  the  worst  wUderuess  dear. 
Think,  think  what  a  heaven  she  must  make  of 

Cashmere  ! 

So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acliar, 
When  from  power  and  pomp  and  the  trophies  of  war 
He  flew  to  that  valley,  forgetting  them  all 
With  the  Light  of  the  Harem,  his  young  Nour- 

mahal. 
When  free  and  uncrowned  as  the  conqueror  roved 
By  the  banks  of  that  lake,  -with  his  only  beloved. 
He  saw,  in  thewreaths  shewould  playfully  snatch 
From  the  hedges,  a:  glory  his  crown  could  not 

match. 
And  preferred  in  his  heart  the  least  ringlet  that 

curled 
Down  her  exijuisito  neck  to  the  throneof  the  world! 

There  's  a  beauty  forever  unchangingly  bright. 
Like  the  long  .sunny  lapse  of  a  summerday's  light. 
Shining  on,  shiningon,  by  no  shadow  madetemler, 
Till  love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendor. 
This  was  not  the  beauty  —  0,  nothing  like  this. 
That  to  young  Nourmahal  gave  such  magic  of  bliss. 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  Hies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the 

eyes  ; 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  has  of  heaven  in  his 

dreams  ! 
When  pensive,  it  seemed  as  if  that  very  grace. 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face  ; 
And  when  angry,  —  for  even  in  the  tranquilest 

climes 
Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  flowers  sometimes, — 
The  short,  passing  anger  but  seemed  to  awaken 
New  beauty,  like  flowers  that  are  sweetest  when 

shaken. 


J=V- 


LOVE. 


113 


If  tenderness  touched  her,  the  dark  of  lier  eye 

At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye. 

From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  re- 

vealings 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  liglit  of  her 

feelings  ! 
Then  her  mirth  —  0,   't  was  sportive  as  ever 

took  wing 
From  the  heart  with  a  burst  like  the  wild-bird 

in  spring,  — 
llhimed  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages. 
Vet  playful  as  Peris  just  loosed  from  their  cages. 
While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  control 
liut  the  sweet  one  of  gracefidness,  rung  from  her 

soul ; 
And  where  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could  dis- 
cover, 
In  lip,  cheek,  oreyes,  forshe  brighteneilall  over, — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upon. 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples,  and  laughs  in  the 

sun. 
Such,  such  were  the  peerless  enchantments  that 

gave 
Nourmahal  the  proud  Lord  of  the  Kast  for  her 

slave  ; 
And  though  bright  was  his  Harem,  —  a  living 

parterre 
Of  the  flowers  of  this  planet,  —  though  treasures 

were  there, 
For  which  Solomon's  self  might  have  given  all 

the  store 
That  the  navy  from  Ophir  e'er  winged  to  his  shore. 
Yet  dim  before  licr  were  the  smiles  of  them  all, 
And  the  Light  of  his  Harem  was  young  Nounnahal ! 
TiioMAS  Moore. 


f&-.- 


PYGMALION  AND  THE  IMAGE. 

FROM   "THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE." 


A  Man  of  Cyprus,  a  Sculptor  named  Pygmalion,  made  an  lm.ige 
of  a  Woman,  fairer  than  any  that  had  yet  been  seen,  and  in  the 
end  came  to  love  his  own  handiworlt  as  though  it  had  been  alive  ; 
wherefore,  praying  to  Venus  for  help,  he  obtained  his  cud,  for  she 
made  the  image  ahve  indeed,  and  a  Woiuan.  and  Pygmalion  wedded 

At  Amathus,  that  from  the  southern  side 
Of  Cyprus  looks  across  the  .Syrian  sea. 
There  did  in  ancient  time  a  man  abide 
Known  to  the  island-dwellers,  for  that  he 
Had  wrought  most  godlike  works  in  imagery, 
And  d.ay  by  day  still  greater  honor  won,  — 
Which  man  our  old  liooks  call  Pygmalion. 

The  lessening  marble  that  he  worked  upon 
A  woman's  form  now  imaged  doubtfully  ; 
And  in  such  guise  the  work  had  he  begun, 
Because  when  he  the  untouched  block  did  see 
In  wandering  veins  that  form  there  seemed  to  be, 


Whereon  he  cried  out  in  a  careless  mood, 
"  0  lady  Venus,  make  this  presage  gootl  ! 

"And  then  this  blockof  stone  .shall  bethy  maid, 
And,  not  without  rich  golden  ornament, 
Shall  biile  within  thy  ijuivering  myrtle-shade." 
So  spoke  he,  but  the  goddess,  well  content. 
Unto  his  hand  such  godlike  masteiy  sent. 
That  like  the  first  artificer  he  wrought. 
Who  made  the  gift  that  woe  to  all  men  brought. 

And  yet,  but  such  as  he  was  wont  to  do. 
At  first  indeed  that  work  divine  he  deemed, 
And  as  the  white  chips  from  the  I'hisi'l  Hew 
Of  other  matters  languidly  he  dnamnl, 
p'or  easy  to  his  haiiil  that  labor  s'_riiiiil. 
And  hewas  stirred  with  many  atroubling  thought. 
And  many  a  doubt  perplexed  him  as  he  wrought. 

And  yet,  again,  at  last  there  came  a  day 
When  smoother  and  more  shapely  grew  the. stone, 
And  he,  grown  eager,  put  all  thought  away 
But  that  which  touched  his  craftsmanship  alone. 
And  he  would  gaze  at  what  his  hands  had  done, 
Until  his  heart  with  boundless  joy  wouUl  swell 
That  all  was  wrought  so  wonderfully  well. 

Yet  long  it  was  ere  he  was  .satisfied, 
;Vntl  with  his  pride  that  by  his  mastery 
This  thing  was  done,  whose  ei[ual  far  and  wide 
In  no  town  of  the  world  a  man  could  see, 
(^amc  burning  longing  that  the  work  should  be 
E'en  better  still,  and  to  his  heart  there  came 
A  strange  and  strong  desire  he  ivmhl  not  name. 

The  night  seemed  long,  and  long  the  twilight 

seemed, 
A  vain  thing  seemed  his  flowery  garden  fair  ; 
Though  through  the  night  still  of  his  work  he 

dreamed, 
And  though  his  smooth-stemmed  trees  so  nigh  it 

were, 
That  thence  he  could  behoM  the  marble  hair. 
Naught  was  enough,  until  with  steel  in  hand 
He  came  before  the  wondrous  stone  to  stand. 

Blinded  with  tears,  his  chisel  up  he  caught, 
And,  drawing  near,  and  sighing,  tenderly 
Upon  the  marvel  of  the  face  lie  wrought, 
E'en  as  he  used  to  pa.ss  the  long  days  by  ; 
But  his  sighs  changed  to  sobbing  presently. 
And  on  the  floor  the  useless  steel  he  flung. 
And,  weeping  loud,  about  the  image  clung. 

"Alas!  "  he  cried,  "why have  I  made  thee  then, 
That  thus  thoxi  raockest  me  ?    I  know  indeed 
That  many  such  as  thou  are  loved  of  men, 
Whose  passionate  eyes  poor  wTetches  still  will  lead 
Into  their  net,  and  smile  to  see  them  bleed  ; 


-& 


p 


114 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-^\ 


& 


I '.III  llirso  Iht  Gods  luiuk',  ;iiul  Uiishaiul  maile  theo 
Who  wilt  not  speak  one  littlo  word  to  luu." 

'I'licii  IVoiu  the  inmye  did  ho  draw  aliack 
'I'o  g;i/A'  uu  it  throiigli  tuars  ;  and  you  llad  said, 
Kc'gariliiig  it,  that  little  ilid  it  lack 
To  bo  a  living  and  most  lovely  maid  ; 
Naked  it  was,  its  unbound  looks  wore  laid 
Over  the  lovely  shoulders;  with  one  hand 
Reaehed  out,  as  to  a  lover,  did  it  stand. 

Tlie  dllici'  belli  a  lair  roso  ovor-blown  ; 
Nu  smili'  was  un  the'  i)arted  lijis,  tho  eyes 
Seemed  as  il'  oven  now  great  love  had  shown 
Unto  tliem  something  of  its  sweet  surjiriso, 
Yet  saddened  them  with  hall'-seen  mysteries. 
And  still  midst  passion  maiden-like  she  soeniod, 
As  though  of  love  unchanged  for  aye  she  dreamed. 

lieproachfuUy  beholding  all  her  grace, 
I'ygnialion  stood,  until  he  grew  dry-eyed. 
And  tlieu  at  last  ho  turneil  away  liis  face 
As  if  I'roni  her  cold  oyi'S  his  grief  to  hide  ; 
.\Hd  thus  a  weary  while  did  ho  abide. 
With  nothing  in  his  heart  but  vain  desire, 
The  iver-buniing,  unconsuming  fire. 

Xo  word  indeed  the  moveless  imago  said. 
But   with  tho  sweet  grave  eyes  his  hands  had 

wrought 
Still  gazed  down  on  his  bowed  imploring  head  ; 
Yet  his  own  words  some  solace  to  him  brought, 
(Ulding  the  net  whoroin  his  soul  was  caught 
With  something  like  to  hope,  and  all  tiuit  day 
Some  tender  words  ho  ovor  founil  to  say  ; 

And  still  ho  i'clt  as  sonu>thing  heard  him  speak; 
Sometimes  he  jjraised  her  beauty,  and  somoliui 
Koproachod  her  in  a  feeble  voice  and  weak. 
And  at  tho  last  drew  foi'th  a  book  of  rliynws, 
Wherein  were  writ  the  tales  of  many  climes. 
And  read  aloud  the  sweetness  hid  therein 
0(  lovers'  sorrows  and  their  tangled  sin. 

And  wIlcii  the  sun  went  down,  the  frankincense 
Again  upon  the  altjir-llauie  he  cast 
That  through  tho  open  window  floating  thence 
O'er  the  fresh  odors  of  the  garden  passed  ; 
And  so  another  day  was  gone  at  last, 
And  he  no  more  his  lovelorn  watch  could  keep, 
lint  now  for  utter  weariness  iiuist  sleep. 

But  tlie  nextuuirn,  e'en  whilethe  ini'cnse-smoke 
At  sunrising  curled  round  about  her  head. 
Sweet  sound  of  songs  the  wonted  ipiiet  broke 
nown  in  the  street,  and  he,  by  something  led. 
He  knew  not  what,  uuist  leave  liis  ju-ayer  unsaid, 
.■\ud  through  the  freshness  of  the  morn  must  see 
Tho  folk  who  went  with  that  sweet  minstrelsy  ; 


Damsels  and  youths  in  woiulerfnl  attire, 
And  in  their  midst  upon  a  car  of  gold 
An  image  of  the  Mother  of  Desire, 
Wrought  by  his  hands  in  days  that  seemed  grown 

old. 
Though  those  sweet  limbs  a  garment  did  enfold, 
Colored   like    llamo,   enwrought  with   precious 

things, 
Most  fit  to  be  the  prize  of  striving  kings. 

Tlieu  he  romombored  that  the  nuiuner  was 
That  I'air-clad  jiriests  the  lovely  CJueeu  shouldtake 
Thrice  in  tho  year,  and  through  the  city  pass. 
And  with  sweet  songs  tho  dreaming  folk  awake  ; 
And  through  tho  clouds  a  light  there  seemed  to 

break 
When  he  remembered  all  the  tales  well  told 
About  her  glorious  kindly  deeds  of  old. 

So  his  unfinished  prayer  he  finished  nut, 
But,  kneeling,  ouco  more  kissed  the  marble  fi'ct, 
And,  while  his  Iioart  with  many  thoughts  \va.\ed 

hot. 
He  clad  himself  with  fresh  attire  and  meet 
For  that  bright  service,  and  with  blossoms  sweet 
Entwined  with  tender  leaves  he  crowned  his  head. 
And  followed  after  as  the  goddess  led. 

.So  tliere  he  stood,  that  help  from  her  to  gain, 
Bewihha'cd  by  that  twilight  midst  of  day  ; 
Downc'ast  with  listening  to  the  joyous  strain 
He  hud  no  part  in,  hopeless  with  delay 
Of  all  the  fair  things  he  had  meant  to  say  : 
Yet,  as  the  incense  on  the  llame  ho  east. 
From  stammering  lips  and  jialo  these  words  there 
passed,  - 

"  O  thou  forgotten  lielp,  dost  thou  yet  know 
What  thing  it  is  I  need,  when  even  I, 
Bent  down  before  thee  in  this  shame  ami  woo, 
Can  I'rame  no  sot  of  words  to  tell  thee  why 
1  needs  must  pray,  O  hell)  ""'  *"'  '  ^^^^  • 
Or  slay  me,  and  in  slaying  take  from  me 
Kven  a  dead  man's  feeble  memory. 

Yet  soon,  indeed,  before  his  door  ho  stood, 
And,  as  a  num  awaking  from  a  dream. 
Seemed  waked  from  his  old  folly  ;  naught  seemed 

good 
In  all  tho  things  that  ho  before  had  doomed 
At  least  worth  life,  and  on  his  heart  there  streamed 
Cold  light  of  day,  —  he  found  himself  alone, 
lleft  of  desire,  all  love  and  nnuiuoss  gone. 

Thus  to  his  chamber  at  the  last  he  came. 
And,  pushing  through  the  still  half-opened  door, 
Ho  stood  within  ;  but  there,  for  very  shame 
Of  all  the  things  that  he  had  done  before. 
Still  kept  his  eyes  bent  down  upon  the  floor, 


^ 


a-- 


LOVE. 


11 


rn 


t 


Thinking  of  all  that  he  haj  done  and  said 
Since  he  had  wrought  that  luck  less  marble  maid. 

Yet  soft  his  thoughts  were,  and  the  very  place 
Seemed  perfumed  with  some  nameless  heavenly  ail'. 
So  gaining  courage,  did  he  raise  his  face 
Unto  the  work  his  hands  had  made  .so  fair, 
And  cried  aloud  to  sec  the  niche  all  bare 
Of  that  sweet  form,  while  through  liis  heart  again 
There  shot  a  pang  of  his  old  yearning  pain. 

Yet  while  he  stood,  and  knew  not  what  to  do 
With  yearning,  a  strange  thrill  of  hope  there  came, 
A  shaft  of  new  desire  now  pierced  liim  through, 
And  therewithal  a  soft  voice  called  his  name. 
And  when  he  turned,  with  eager  eyes  aflame. 
He  saw  betwi.xt  him  and  the  setting  sun 
The  lively  image  of  his  loved  one. 

He  trembled  at  the  sight,  for  though  her  eyes, 
Hirr  very  lips,  were  such  a.s  he  had  made. 
And  though  her  tresses  fell  but  in  such  guise 
As  he  had  wrought  them,  now  was  she  arrayed 
In  that  fair  gannent  that  the  priests  had  laid 
l-'pon  the  goddess  on  that  very  morn, 
Dyed  like  the  setting  sun  upon  the  corn. 

'  Speechless  he  stood,  but  she  now  drew  anear. 
Simple  and  sweet  as  she  was  wont  to  be, 
And  once  again  her  silver  voice  rang  clear. 
Filling  his  soul  with  great  felicity. 
And  thus  she  spoke,  "Wilt  thou  not  come  to  me, 
0  dear  companion  of  my  new-fmind  life, 
For  I  am  called  thy  lover  and  thy  wife  ' " 

She  reached  her  hand  to  him,  and  with  kind 
eyes 
Gazed  into  his  ;  but  he  the  fingers  caught 
And  drew  her  to  him,  a:id  midst  ecsta-sies 
Passing  all  words,  yea,  wellnigh  passing  thought. 
Felt  that  sweet  breath  that  he  so  long  had  sought, 
Felt  the  warm  life  within  her  heaving  breast 
.As  in  his  arms  his  living  love  he  pressed. 

But  as  his  cheek  touched  hers  he  heard  her  say, 
"Wilt  thou  not  speak,  0  love?  why  dost  thou 

weep  ? 
Art  thou  then  sorry  for  this  long-wished  day, 
Or  dost  thou  think  perchance  thou  wilt  not  keep 
This  that  thou  boldest,  but  in  dreamy  sleep? 
Xay,  let  us  do  the  bidding  of  the  Queen, 
And  liand  in  hand   walk   through   thy  garden 

green  ; 

"  Then  shalt  thou  tell  me,  still  beholding  me. 
Full  many  things  whereof  I  wish  to  know. 
And  as  we  walk  from  whispering  tree  to  tree 
Still  more  familiar  to  thee  .shall  I  grow, 
And  such  things  shalt  thou  say  unto  me  now 


As  when  thou  deemedst  thou  wast  quite  alone, 
A  madman  kneeling  to  a  thing  of  stone." 

But  at  that  word  a  smile  lit  up  his  eyes 
And  therewithal  he  spake  some  loving  word, 
And  she  at  first  looked  up  in  grave  suiprise 
When  his  deep  voice  and  musical  she  heard. 
And  clung  to  him  as  somewhat  grown  afeard  ; 
Then  cried  aloud  and  said,  "O  mighty  one  ! 
What  joy  with  thee  to  look  upon  the  sun  !  " 

Then  into  that  fair  garden  did  they  pass, 
And  all  the  story  of  Ids  love  he  told. 
And  as  the  twain  went  o'er  tlie  dewy  grass. 
Beneath  the  risen  moon  could  he  behohl 
The  bright  tears   trickling  down,  then,  wa.'cen 

bold, 
He  stopped  and  said,  "Ah,  love,  what  meaneth 

this  ? 
Seest  thou  how  tears  still  follow  earthly  bliss  !" 

Then  both  her  white  arms  round  his  neck  she 
threw. 
And  sobbing  said,  "O  love,  what  hurteth  me  ? 
When  first  the  sweetness  of  my  life  I  knew, 
Xot  this  I  felt,  but  when  I  lirst  saw  thee 
A  little  pain  and  great  felicity 
Hose  up  within  me,  and  thy  talk  e'en  now 
Made  pain  and  pleasure  ever  greatei-  grow." 

"  0  sweet,"  he  said,  "this  thing  is  even  love, 
Whereof  I  told  thee  ;  that  all  wise  men  fear. 
But  yet  escape  not ;  nay,  to  gods  above. 
Unless  the  old  tales  lie,  it  draweth  near. 
But  let  my  happy  ears,  I  pray  tln-e,  licar 
Thy  story  too,  and  how  thy  lilesse<l  birth 
Has  made  a  heaven  of  this  once  lonely  earth." 

"  My  sweet,"  she  said,  "as  yet  I  am  not  wise. 
Or  stored  with  words,  aright  the  tale  to  tell. 
But  listen  :  when  I  opened  first  mine  eyes 
1  stood  within  the  niche  thou  knowcst  well. 
And  from  mine  hand  a  heavy  thing  there  fell 
Carved  like  these  flowers,  nor  could  I  see  things 

clear, 
And  but  a  strange  confused  noise  could  hear. 

"  At  last  mine  eyes  could  see  a  woman  fair. 
But  awful  as  this  round  white  moon  o'erhead, 
.So  that  I  trembled  when  I  saw  her  there. 
For  with  my  life  was  bom  some  touch  of  dread. 
And  therewithal  I  heard  her  voice  that  said, 
'  Come  down,  and  learn  to  love  and  be  alive, 
For  thee,  a  well-prized  gift,  to-day  I  give. ' 

"Then  on  the  floor  I  stepped,  rejoicing  much,        | 
Not  knowing  why,  not  knowing  aught  at  all. 
Till  she  reached  out  her  hand  my  brea.st  to  touch. 
And  when  her  fingers  thereupon  did  fall,  J 

3 


a- 


116 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-a 


6 


Tliouglit  came  unto  my  life,  and  therewithal 

I  knew  Iier  for  a  goddess,  and  hegaii 

To  niurnuir  in  some  tongue  unknown  to  man. 

"  iVnd  then  indeed  m)t  in  lliis  guise  was  I. 
No  sandals  had  1,  and  no  safl'ron  gown, 
But  naked  as  thou  knowest  utterly, 
lO'en  as  my  limbs  beneath  thine  hand  had  grown, 
And  this  fair  ])erl'umed  robe  then  fell  adown 
(.)ver  the  goddess'  feet  and  swept  the  ground, 
And  round  her  loins  a  glittering  belt  was  bound. 

"  I'ut  when  the  stammering  of  my  tongue  she 
heard 
Upon  my  trembling  lips  her  hand  slie  laid, 
Anil  spoke  again,  '  Nay,  say  not  any  word. 
All  that  thine  heart  would  say  I  know  unsaid. 
Who  even  now  thine  heart  and  voice  have  made  ; 
But  listen  rather,  for  thou  knowest  now 
What  those  words  mean,  and  still  wilt  wiser  grow. 

'"Thy  body,  lifeless  till  1  gave  it  life, 
A  certain  man,  my  servant,  well  hath  wrought, 
I  give  thee  to  him  as  his  love  and  wife, 
With  all  thy  dowry  of  desire  and  thought, 
Since  this  his  yearning  heart  hath  ever  sought ; 
Now  from  my  temple  is  he  on  the  way. 
Deeming  to  find  thee  e'en  as  yesterday  ; 

"  '  Bide  thou  his  coming  by  the  bed-head  there. 
And  wdieu  thou  seest  him  set  his  eyes  upon 
Thine  empty  niche,  and  hear'st  him  (n-y  for  care. 
Then  call  him  by  his  mmie,  Pygmalion, 
And  certainly  thy  lover  hast  thou  won  ; 
But  when  ho  stands  before  thee  silently. 
Say  all  these  words  that  I  shall  teach  to  thee.' 

' '  With  that  she  said  what  first  I  told  thee,  love. 
And  then  went  on,  '  Moreover  thou  shalt  say 
That  1,  the  daughter  of  almighty  Jove, 
Have  wrought  for  him  this  long-desired  day  ; 
1  n  sign  whereof,  these  things  that  pass  away. 
Wherein  mine  image  men  have  well  arrayed, 
I  give  thee  for  thy  wedding  gear,  0  maid. ' 

"  Tlicn  witli  lirr  i.iiinent  she  put  off  from  her, 
And  Ini.l  bare  »U  lirr  perfect  loveliness, 
And,  smiling  on  me,  came  yet  more  anear. 
And  on  my  mortal  li]is  her  lips  did  [u-ess. 
And  said,  '  Now  herewith  shalt  thou  love  no  less 
Than  Psyche  loved  my  son  in  days  of  old  ; 
Karewell,  of  thee  shall  many  a  tale  be  told.' 

"  And  cvin  with  that  last  word  was  she  gone, 
Mow,  1  know  not,  and  I  my  limbs  arrayed 
In  her  fair  gifts,  and  waited  thee  alone  — 
Ah,  love,  indeed  the  word  is  true  she  said. 
For  now  I  love  thee  so,  1  gi-ow  afraid 


Of  what  the  gods  upon  our  heads  may  send  — 
I  love  thoe  so,  I  think  upon  the  end." 

What  words  ho  .said  ?     How  can  1  tell  again 
What  words  they  said  beneath  the  glimmering 

liglit, 
Some  tongue  they  used  unknovm  to  loveless  men 
As  each  to  each  they  told  their  great  delight. 
Until  for  stillness  of  the  growing  night 
Their  soft  sweet  murmuring  words  seemed  grow- 
ing loud. 
And  dim  the  moon  grew,  hid  by  fleecy  cloud. 


The  gray  sea,  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves,  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm,  sea-scented  beach  ; 

Three  fields  to  cross,  till  a  farm  appears  : 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match. 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  ami  fears, 

Than  the  tw'o  hearts,  beating  each  to  each. 

ROUHRT  HKOWNINC. 


A  MAIDEN  WITH  A   MILKING-PAIL. 


What  change  has  made  the  pastures  sweet, 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 

And  (doud  that  wears  a  golden  hem  ? 
This  lovely  world,  the  hills,  the  sward,  — 
They  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 

Hut  yesterday  had  finished  them. 

And  here 's  the  field  with  light  aglow  ; 
How  fresh  its  boundary  lime-trees  show  ! 

And  how  its  wet  leaves  trembling  shino  ! 
Between  their  trunks  come  through  to  me 
The  morning  .sparkles  of  the  sea. 

Below  the  level  browzing  line. 

I  see  the  pool,  more  clear  by  half 
Than  ])ools  where  other  waters  laugh 

Up  at  the  breasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
I  saw  reflected  yesterday 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-pail. 


-4' 


LOVE. 


117 


^ 


There  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste,  — 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

Tlie  other  lifted  to  her  jiail,  — 
She,  rosy  in  the  morning  light, 
Among  the  water-daisies  white. 

Like  some  fair  slooj)  appeared  to  sail. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod 
The  lucky  huttei-i:ups  did  nod  : 

I  leaneil  upon  the  gate  to  see. 
The  sweet  thing  looked,  but  did  not  speak  ; 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek. 

And  all  my  lieart  was  gone  from  me. 

Then,  as  I  lingereil  on  the  gate. 
And  she  eame  up  like  coming  fate, 

I  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes,  — 
Clear  dancing  eyes,  moi'e  black  than  sloes  I 
Cheeks  like  the  mountain  pink,  that  gi'ows 

Among  white-headed  majesties  ! 

I  saiil,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  1  would  fain  to  thee  imfold  : 

Ah  I  let  me,  —  let  me  tell  the  tale." 
Bui  high  she  held  her  comely  head  : 
"  I  cannot  heed  it  now,"  she  said, 

"  For  carrying  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     What  good  to  make  ado  ? 
I  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  through, 

And  took  her  homeward  path  anon. 
From  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  lied  ; 
It  rested  on  my  heart  instead, 

lietlected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

With  happy  youth,  and  work  content, 
So  sweet  and  stately,  on  she  went. 

Right  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 
Each  step  she  took  I  loved  her  more, 
And  followed  to  her  dairy  <loor 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail. 


For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth  lurk, 
Plow  fine,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work  ! 

For  work  does  good  when  reasons  fail,  — 
Good  ;  yet  the  ax  at  every  stroke 
The  echo  of  a  name  awoke,  — 

Her  name  is  Mary  Martindale. 

I  'm  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Aright  by  other  men.     A  bird 

Knows  doubtless  what  his  own  notes  tell 
And  1  know  not,  — but  I  can  say 
I  felt  as  shamefaced  all  that  day 

As  if  folks  heard  her  nanjc  ri'dit  well. 


And  when  the  west  began  to  glow 

I  went  —  I  could  not  choose  but  go  — 

To  that  same  dairy  on  the  hill  ; 
And  while  sweet  Mary  moved  about 
Within,  1  came  to  her  without. 

And  leaned  upon  the  window-sill. 

The  garden  border  where  I  stood 

Was  sweet  with  pinks  and  southernwood. 

I  spoke,  —  her  answer  seemed  to  fail. 
I  smelt  the  [jinks,  —  I  coidd  not  see ; 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered  me ; 

And  in  the  dusk  she  heard  ray  tale. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
I  begged  a  kiss,  —  1  pleaded  well  : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline  ; 
r.ut  yet,  I  think  —  I  think  't  is  true  — 
That,  IciUied  at  last  into  the  dew. 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine  ! 

0  life  !  how  dear  thou  hast  become  ! 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  1  was  dumb  ! 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair  .shine  the  blue  that  o'er  her  spread.s, 
Green  be  the  pastures  where  she  treads. 

The  maiilen  with  the  milking-pail  1 

JBAN  I.VGELOW. 


THK  MILKMAID'S  SONG. 

Trr.N,  turn,  for  my  cheeks  they  bum, 

Tuni  by  the  dale,  my  liany ! 
'  Fill  pail,  fill  pail, 

J  le  has  turned  by  the  dale. 

And  there  by  the  stile  waits  Harry. 
I  Fill,  fill. 

Fill  pail,  (ill, 

For  there  by  the  stile  waits  Harry ! 

The  world  may  go  round,  the  world  may  stand  still. 

But  I  can  milk  and  marry, 
I  Fillpail, 

1  can  milk  and  marry. 

I  Wheugh,  wheugh  ! 
0,  if  we  two 

Stood  down  there  now  \>y  the  water, 
I  know  who  'd  carry  me  over  the  ford 
As  brave  as  a  soldier,  as  proud  as  a  lord. 
Though  I  don't  live  over  the  water. 
Wheugh,  wheugh  !  he  's  whistling  through. 
He's  whistling  "The  Fanner'.s  Daughter." 
Give  down,  give  down, 
My  cnimpled  brown  ! 
He  shall  not  take  the  road  to  the  town, 
For  I  '11  meet  him  beyond  the  water. 
Give  down,  give  down, 
.My  crumpled  brown ! 


_^] 


e-^- 


118 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-n 


And  send  me  to  my  Harry. 

The  folk  o'  towns 

May  have  silken  gowns, 

l!ut  I  can  milk  and  marry, 

Filli-ail, 

1  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wlu-ugh  !  he  has  whistled  through, 

He  has  whistled  throngh  the  water. 

Kill,  fill,  with  a  will,  a  will. 

For  he 's  whistled  throngh  the  water. 

And  he  's  whistling  down 

The  way  to  the  town. 

And  it 's  not  "  The  Farmer's  Daughter  !  " 

Churr,  churr  !  goes  the  cockchafer. 

The  suu  sets  over  the  water, 

Churr,  churr  !  goes  the  cockchafer, 

1  'm  too  late  for  my  Harry ! 

And,  0,  if  he  goes  a-soldiering, 

The  cows  they  may  low,  the  bells  they  may  ring 

Hut  I  '11  neither  milk  nor  marry, 

Fillpail, 

Neither  milk  nor  marry. 

My  brow  beats  on  thy  Hank,  FUlpail, 

Give  down,  good  wench,  give  down  ! 

I  know  the  primrose  bank,  Filljiail, 

Between  him  and  the  town. 

Give  doAvn,  good  wench,  give  down,  Fillpail, 

iiul  he  shall  not  reach  the  town  ! 

?train,  strain  !  he  's  whistling  again, 

He 's  nearer  by  half  a  mile. 

Wore,  more  !  0,  never  before 

Were  you  such  a  weary  while  ! 

Fill,  fill  !  he  's  crossed  the  hill, 

I  can  see  him  down  by  the  stile. 

He  's  passed  the  hay,  he  's  coming  this  way. 

Ho  's  coming  to  me,  my  Harry  ! 

Ciive  silken  gowns  to  the  Iblks  o'  towns. 

He 's  coming  to  me,  my  Harry  ! 

There  's  not  so  grand  a  dame  in  the  land. 

That  she  walks  to-night  with  Harry ! 

Come  late,  come  soon,  come  sun,  come  moon, 

O,  I  can  milk  and  many, 

Fillpail, 

1  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wheugh  !  he  has  whistled  through. 

My  Harry  !  my  lad  !  my  lover  ! 

••■^et  tlie  sun  and  fall  the  dew. 

Heigh-ho,  merry  world,  what's  to  do 

That  you  're  smiling  over  and  over  ? 

Up  on  the  hill  and  down  in  the  dale. 

Ami  along  the  tree-tops  over  the  vale 

Shining  over  and  over. 

Low  in  the  grass  and  high  on  the  bough. 

Shining  over  and  over, 

O  world,  have  you  ever  a  lover? 

You  were  so  dull  and  cold  just  now. 


0  world,  have  you  ever  a  lover  ? 

1  could  not  see  a  leaf  on  the  tree, 

And  now  I  could  count  them,  one,  two,  three. 

Count  them  over  and  over. 

Leaf  I'rom  leaf  like  lips  apart. 

Like  lips  apart  for  a  lover. 

And  the  hillside  beats  with  my  beating  heart, 

.\nd  the  apple-tree  blushes  all  over. 

And  the  May  bough  touched  me  and  made  me 

start. 
And  the  wind  breathes  warm  like  a  lover. 

Pull,  pull !  and  the  pail  is  full, 

And  milking 's  done  and  over. 

Who  would  not  sit  here  under  the  tree  ? 

What  a  fair  fair  thing 's  a  green  field  to  see  ! 

Brim,  brim,  to  the  rim,  ah  me  ! 

I  have  set  my  jiail  on  the  daisies  ! 

It  seems  so  light,  —  can  the  sun  be  set  ? 

The  dews  must  be  heavy,  my  cheeks  are  wet. 

I  could  cry  to  have  hurt  the  daisies  ! 

Harry  is  near,  Harry  is  near. 

My  heart 's  as  sick  as  if  he  were  here. 

My  lips  are  burning,  my  cheeks  are  wet. 

He  hasn't  uttered  a  word  as  yet. 

But  the  air  's  astir  with  his  imiises. 

My  Harry  ! 

The  air's  astir  with  your  praises. 

He  has  scaled  the  rock  by  the  pi.xy's  stone. 

He's  among  the  kingcups  —  he  picks  me  one, 

I  love  the  grass  that  I  tread  upon 

When  I  go  to  my  Harry  ! 

He  has  jumped  the  brook,  he  has  climbed  the 

knowe. 
There 's  never  a  faster  foot  I  trow. 
But  still  he  seems  to  tarry. 

0  Harry  !  0  Harry  !  my  love,  my  pride. 
My  heart  is  leaping,  my  arms  are  wide  ! 
KoU  up,  roll  up,  you  dull  hillside, 

KoU  up,  and  bring  my  Harry  ! 

They  nmy  talk  of  glory  over  the  sea. 

But  Harry  's  alive,  and  Harry  's  for  me. 

My  love,  my  lad.  my  Harry ! 

Come  spring,  come  winter,  come  sun,  come  snow. 

What  cares  Dolly,  whether  or  no, 

While  I  can  milk  and  marry  ? 

Right  or  wrong,  and  wrong  or  right. 

Quarrel  who  quarrel,  and  fight  who  fight. 

But  I  '11  bring  my  pail  home  every  night 

To  love,  aud  home,  and  Harry  ! 

AVe  '11  drink  our  can,  we  '11  eat  our  cake. 

There  's  beer  in  the  barrel,  there  's  bread  in  the 

bake, 
The  world  may  sleep,  the  world  may  wake. 
But  I  shall  milk  and  marry. 
And  marry, 

1  shall  milk  and  marry. 


'-^ 


r 


LOVE. 


iiy 


-n 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN.* 

SUMMER. 

TuE  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane  ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said,  "  Auf  wicderschen /" 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again, 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright. 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  niglit, 
She  said,  "Aufwiedcrsrheii:" 

Thi-  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair  ; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  i-ich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  1  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she,  "  Auf  viiedcrsehen  I" 

'T  is  thirteen  years :  once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane  ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
1  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah  yes, 
1  hear  "  Aiif  wiulcrschcn  !  " 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain. 
But  these  —  they  drew  us  heai-t  to  lieart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 

She  said,  "Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

James  Russell  Lowe; 


SWEET  MEETING  OF  DESIRES. 

I  GREW  assured,  Ijefore  I  asked. 

That  she  'd  be  mine  without  reserve, 
And  in  her  unclaimed  graces  basked 

At  leisure,  till  the  time  should  serve,  — 
With  just  enough  of  dread  to  thrill 

The  hope,  and  make  it  trebly  dear  ; 
Thus  loath  to  speak  the  word,  to  kill 

Either  the  hope  or  happy  fear. 

Till  once,  through  lanes  returning  late. 

Her  laughing  sisters  lagged  behind  ; 
And  ere  we  reached  her  father's  gate. 

We  paused  with  one  presentient  mind: 
And,  in  the  dim  and  perfumed  mist 

Their  coming  stayed,  who,  blithe  and  free. 
And  very  women,  loved  to  assist 

A  lover's  opportunity. 

Twice  rose,  twice  died,  my  trembling  word  ; 

To  faint  and  frail  cathedral  chimes 
Spake  time  in  music,  and  we  heard 

The  chafers  rustling  in  the  limes. 

•  Till  we  meet  again  ;  like  au  revotr  in  French. 


Her  dress,  that  touched  me  where  I  stood  ; 

The  warmth  of  her  confided  arm  ; 
Her  bosom's  gentle  neighborhood  ; 

Her  pleasure  in  her  power  to  charm  ; 

Her  look,  her  love,  her  form,  her  touch  ! 

The  least  seemed  most  by  blissful  turn, 

Ulissful  but  that  it  pleased  too  much, 

And  taught  the  wayward  .soul  to  yearn. 
It  was  as  if  a  harp  with  wires 

Was  traversed  by  the  breath  I  drew  ; 
And  0,  sweet  meeting  of  desires  ! 

She,  answering,  ownied  that  slie  loved  too. 

COVENTRY   I'ATMORE. 

ZARA'S  EAR-RINGS. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

'My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they  'vc  dropt  into 
the  well. 

And  what  to  say  to  Mu(;a,  I  cannot,  cannot  tell. " 

'T  was  thus,  Granada's  fountain  by,  spoke  Albu- 
harez'  daughter,  — 

"The  well  is  deep,  fardown  they  lie,  beneath  -he 
cold  blue  water. 

To  me  did  Mucjagive  them,  when  he  sjiakc  lii^  ,ad 
farewell, 

And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back,  alas!  1  can- 
not tell. 

"  Jly  car-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they  were  pearls 

in  silver  .set, 
Tliat  wlieu  my  Moor  was  far  away,  I  ne'er  should 

him  tbrget. 
That  I  ne'er  to  other  tongue  should  list,  nor  smili^ 

on  other's  tale. 
But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kissed,  piireas  those 

ear-rings  pale. 

When  he  comes  back,  andhears  that  lhavedropi)ed 
them  in  the  well, 

0,  what  will  Mu9athinkof  me,  I  cannot,  cannot  tell. 

"  My   ear-rings !   my  ear-rings  !  he  '11  say  tliey 
should  have  been, 
j  Not  of  pearl  and  silver,  but  of  gold  and  glittering 
i  sheen, 

Of  jasperandofonyx,  andofdiamoiid.shiningclear, 
Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with  radiance 

insincere  ; 
That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are  not 

befitting  well, — 
Thus  will  he  think,  —  and  what  to  say,  alas !  I  can- 
not tell. 

"He'll  think  when  I  to  market  went  I  loitered  by 

the  way  ; 
He'll  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all  the  lads 

might  say  ; 


-^ 


^- 


f^ 


V20 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


— *-tl 


U- 


Ho  "11  lliink  soiuo  oUvov  lovi>i''s  liaiul,  ;>mi>uj;  my 
t\x\<sos  iu»v<oil, 

Kwiu  tlio  rill's  wluMV  ho  Usui  jiltu'inl  thorn  iny  rings 
of  [wivl  ui>KH>soii  ; 

llo  '11  think  whon  I  was  spoilinj;  so  Invsido  this 
nnu'Wo  woU. 

My  jHHii'ls  loll  in,  !«n>i  what  to  Siiv,  silasl  1  can- 
not toll. 

■■llo'lls)>y  1  rtiuawotnan, andwoaivall  thos;nno; 
Ho  "11  say  1  IovxhI  whon  ho  was  hoiv  to  whisi«>v  of 

his  lliinto,  — 
Unt  whon  ho  wont  to  Tunis  niy  vii'gin  twtlt  had 

hiMkon, 
And  thoiij'ht  no  nioiv  ot'  Xlu\-a,  an>l  oaivil  not  fov 

his  tokou. 
Mv  ««--vi«^ !  jnv  OiU'-riit^ !  0.  luokloss,  Inokloss 

woU ! 
For  what  to  say  to  Mu\'i>,  tvks !  I  oannot  toll. 

"  1  '11  toll  tho  truth  to  Mnija,  ami  1  hojH>  ho  will 

Miovo 
That    1  'vo  thought   of  hint  at   tnorning.  and 

thvxight  of  him  at  ovo  ; 
That  musing  on  my  lovor,  whon  dowit  tho  sun  w!«s 

gono. 
His  <>j>r-rings  in  my  hand  I  hold,  hy  the  fountain 

all  aloiu>  ; 
.\ndthat  my  miudwits  o'or  tho  sort,  whon  ftvm  tuy 

hand  thoy  toll, 
Andthat  doophis  lovo  lios  in  my  h<\>rt,  as  thoy  lio 

in  tho  woU. " 

,lonN  i;n'.s\"»N  lovkhakt. 


•O  SWAILOW.   SWALLOW,   FLYINO  SOirTH." 

l-K».VM  "  V»V.  VRINv-KSS." 

"  0  SwAi.i.OW,  SwiUlow,  Hying,  living  South, 
Fly  to  hor,  and  fall  ujHUt  hor  jj'ldoil  oaws. 
And  toll  hor,  toll  hov  what  1  toll  to  tlioo. 

"ll  toll  hor.  Sw)vllow,  thou  that  knowx\<!t  oaoli. 
That  hright  Mid  liorvv  and  tioklo  is  tho  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tondor  is  tho  North. 

"0  Swiilhw,  Sw!illv>w,  if  I  ivnld  follow  arid 
light 
I'jHMi  hor  lattivw  1  would  jujw  ami  trill. 
And  oluvp  and  twittor  twonty  million  lo\"<>s, 

■•0  wor»>  1  thvm  that  sho  might  tako  mo  in. 
And  lay  mo  on  hor  Kv<oin,  and  hor  hoart 
Would  r\H-k  tho  snowy  oradlo  till  1  dioil  ! 

••  Why  lingojioth  sho  to  olotho  hor  hoart  with 
lo>\>, 
IVlayiiig  ,^s  tho  toiidor  sish  dolaj-s 
I'o  olotho  horsolf,  whon  all  tho  wovvls  aro  grxvn  ? 


"0  toll  hor,  Swallow,  that  thy  hivod  is  llowu. 
Say  to  hor,  1  do  but  wanton  in  tho  South, 
Uut  in  tho  North  long  siiioo  my  nost  is  mado. 

"l^  toll  hor.  hriof  is  lifo,  hut  lovo  is  long. 
And  hriof  tho  sun  of  summor  in  tho  Norlli, 
And  hriof  tho  moon  of  Iwiuty  in  tho  Snutli, 

"  0  Swallow,  Hying  fiMiu  tho  goldon  womls. 
Fly  to  hor,  and  iiipo  and  woo  hor,  and  mako  hrt 

mino. 
And  toll  hor,  tell  hor,  that  1  I'oUow  thoo." 

AU-Kltl>  TKXNTOON. 


'ASK  ME  NO  MORK." 


TKOM  "TlIK  I'RINOIISS-" 

Ask  mo  no  moro  :  tho  moon  may  ditiw  tho  so« ; 
Tho  olond  may  stoop  fivm  hoavon  and  tako 

tho  shaiH', 
With  fold  to  told,  of  nuninlain  or  of  oaju*  ; 
Ihlt,  Otoo  I'ond  !  whon  havo  I  answoivvl  thoo! 
Ask  mo  no  moro. 

Ask  mo  no  moiv :  w  hat  auswor  should  I  givo ) 
I  lovo  not  hollow  ohook  or  fadoil  oyo ; 
Yot,  0  my  iVioud,  I  will  not  havo  thoo  dio  ! 

Ask  mo  no  moiv,  lost  1  should  hid  llnv  livi-  ; 
Ask  mo  no  moiv. 

Ask  tno  no  moiv  :  thy  fato  and  mino  aiv  sojiUhI  : 
I  strovo  against  tho  stivtuu,  tuid  all  in  vain  : 
l^'t  tho  giwit  rivor  tako  mo  to  tho  main  : 
No  moro,  d«U'  lovo,  for  at  a  tonoh  1  yiold  ; 
Ask  mo  no  moiw 

ALKRUO  Tknnvson. 


ATHVl.F  AXP  irmu.fA. 

Atiivi.v.  .         .         .  Ai>jvai\>d 

Tho  prinooss  with  that  niorry  ohild  Trinoo  l',uy 
Ho  lovos  mo  woll,  and  mado  hor  stop  and  sit. 
And  Silt  nnon  hor  knoo,  and  it  so  ohaiKwl 
That  in  his  \-;irious  ohattor  ho  doniivd 
That  1  oould  hold  his  hand  within  my  own 
So  olos»>ly  as  to  hido  it  :  this  Iwing  trio<l 
AVas  piMvotl  iigainst  him  ;  ho  insistwl  thou 
I  Ov^nld  not  hy  his  ivyal  sistor's  hand 
T>o  likowiso.     Starting  at  tho  random  woi\l. 
And  dumh  with  tiv|>idatioii,  thoiv  1  stivnl 
Sonio  s<H.HMids  as  Ivwitohwl :  thon  I  hnikwl  ujv 
And  in  hor  fai-o  Ivhold  an  orient  flnsh 
Of  half-howilder»\l  pleasure  :  from  whieh  tranet 
She  with  <ui  instant  oiiso  ivsninwl  herst>lf. 
And  fmnkly,  with  a  pletistuit  laugh,  hold  out 
Her  arrvwy  hand. 

1  thought  it  tivinWeil  as  it  lay  in  mine, 
Hut  vet  her  Uvks  were  oh\>r,  dirxx-t,  and  five. 


•4 


[&-- 


LOVE. 


121 


^ 


And  said  that  ubc  felt  nothing. 

fillJliix:.  And  wJiat  ff;lt'»t  thou  ? 

Atjici.f,    a  fiort  of  (iwarmiiig,  curling,  tremu- 

louB  tumbling, 
As  though  ther<;  were  an  ant-hill  in  my  lx>«om. 
I  Hnid  I  wafi  aximJiifA.  —  SHroc,  you  smile, 
If  at  my  folly,  well !     But  if  you  fcmile, 
Su^picioufi  of  a  taint  ujKin  my  Iwairt, 
Wide  hi  your  error,  and  you  never  lovi^I. 

Hl;M<y  TAVt/JR. 


h 


HETV'EN  TIMES  THEEE. 

i/r/E. 

1  LEAXKn  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  whit<;  cbver, 
Dark,  <iark  was  the  garden,  I  i>aw  not  the  gaVr ; 
"Xow,  if  there  be  f'xit«te[«,  li*  i-'juum,  my  one 
lover  — 
Hujih,  nightingale,  hush  !    0  sweet  nightin- 
gale, wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  (Step  draweth  near. 
For  my  love  he  in  lat«  ! 

"The  skies  in  the  darkness  stAXip  n'sirer  and 
nearer, 

A  ';lu*t«r  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree,  . 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer : 

To  what  art  thou  listftniug,  and  what  do*t  thou 

I>;t  the  Ktar-duKtcrs  glow, 
Let  the  «we«t  waters  (low, 
And  cross  (juickly  to  me. 

"  You  night-rnoths  that  hover  where  honey  brims 
over 
From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep  ; 
You  glow-worms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  dis- 
cover 
To  him  that  cjmes  darkling  along  the  rough 
steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  has-te, 
For  the  time  runs  to  wa*-te, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep,  — 

"Too  deep  for  swift  telling ;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 
I  're  cjnned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to- 
night." 
By  the  sycamore  jiasse'i  he,  and  through  the  white 
clover ; 
Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  ha/1  fashioned  took 
flight; 
But  1  '11  love  him  more,  more 
Tlian  e'er  wife  loved  >>efore. 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 

JEAJC  IKGELOW, 


FATIMA  AXD   EADCAK, 

FfcOM  IHk.  6FAKISM. 


"  Fausb  diamond  s":!  in  flint  I    liard  h':«irt  in 

liaughty  breast ! 
Byasfjfter,  warmer  bosom  the  tigcr'scouch  is  prest. 
Thou  art  fickle  as  the  sea,  thou  art  wandering  as 

the  win'l. 
And  the  restless  ever-mounting  (lame  i*  not  more 

hard  to  bin<L 
If  the  tears  I  shcl  were  tongues,  yet  all  to*/  few 

would  1/e 
To  tell  of  all  the  treachery  that  thou  hast  shown 

t/t  me. 
Oh !  I  could  chide  theesharidy,  —  but  every  maiden 

knows 
Tliat  she  who  chides  her  lover  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes. 

"Thou  hast  called  me  oft  tlie  flower  of  all  Ora- 

naila's  maids. 
Thou  hast  said  that  by  the  side  of  me  the  6r?t  and 

fairest  fa/ies  ; 
And  they  thought  thy  heart  was  mine,  and  it 

seemwl  to  every  one 
TIjat  wliat  tiifiu  d'ulst  Ui  win  my  h/ve,  for  love  of 

me  was  done. 
Alas ;  if  they  l>ut  knew  thee,  as  mine  it  is  to  know, 
Tliey  well  might  see  another  mark  to  which  thine 

arrows  go ; 
But  thou  giv'st  little  hee*!,  —  for  I  si<eak  to  one 

who  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes. 

"It  wearies  me,  mine  enemy,  that  I  must  weep 

and  Vjear 
\S'hat  fills  thy  heart  with  triumph,  and  fills  my 

own  with  care. 
Tliou  art  leagued  with  those  that  hate  me,  and 

ah  !  thou  know'st  I  feel 
That  cruel  wopis  as  surely  kill  as  sharpest  bla/les 

of  steel. 
'T  was  the  doubt  that  thou  wert  false  that  wrung 

my  heart  with  pain  ; 
But,  now  I  knowthy  perfidy,  I  shall  be  well  again. 
I  would  proclaim  thee  as  thou  art  —  but  every 

maiden  knows 
Tliat  she  who  chides  her  lover  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes." 

Thus  Fatima  complain«<l  to  the  valiant  Eaduan, 

Where  underneath  the  myrtles  Alhambra's  foun- 
tains ran  : 

The  Moor  was  inly  mo  ve*!,  and  blameless  as  he  was. 

He  took  her  white  hand  in  his  own,  and  plea;le<l 
thus  his  cause : 


f 


122 


I'OE.VS  OF  LOVE. 


-a 


u 


"  0  lady,  dry  thosu  star-like  eyes,  —  their  dim- 
ness does  me  wrong ; 

If  my  heart  be  made  of  Hint,  at  least 't  will  keep 
thy  image  long ; 

Thou  hast  uttered  cruel  words, — but  I  grieve  the 
less  for  those. 

Since  she  who  chides  hor  lover  forgives  him  ere 
he  t;oes." 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


THE  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG. 

Mkllow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning  ; 
Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning  ; 
Bent  o'er  the  tire,  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting. 
Is  croaning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  kiut- 

ting,  — 
"  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping." 
"'Tis  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass 

flapping." 
"  Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 
"'Tis  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer 

wind  dying." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 
Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing. 
Thrills  tlie  sweet  voice  of  the  voung  maiden  siug- 


"  What 's  that  noise  that  I  hoar  at  the  window, 
I  wonder  ! " 

"'Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush 
under. " 

"  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your 
stool  on, 

And  singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  'The 
Coolun'  ? " 

There's  a  fonn  at  the  casement, — the  form  of 
her  true-love,  — 

And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  "  I  'm  waiting 
for  you,  love  ; 

Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step 
lightly, 

We  '11  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon  's  shin- 
ing brightly." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring. 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's 
stirring ; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing. 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  sing- 
ing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays  her  fin- 
gers. 

Steals  np  from  her  seat,  —  longs  to  go,  and  yet 
linsjers  ; 


A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grand- 
mother, 

Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with 
the  other. 

Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round  ; 

Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's  sound ; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 

The  maid  steps,  —  then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her 
lover. 

Slower  —  and  slower  —  and  slower  the  wheel 
swings ; 

Lower  —  and  lower  —  and  lower  the  reel  rings  ; 

Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stop  their  ringing  and 
moving. 

Through  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moon- 
light are  roving. 

JOHN  FRA.NCIS  WALLLK. 


A  SPINSTER'S  STINT. 

Six  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three ! 

Good  mother,  so  you  stinted  me, 

And  here  they  be,  —  ay,  six  and  three ! 

Stop,  busy  wheel !  stop,  noisy  wheel  ! 
Long  shadows  down  my  chamber  steal. 
And  warn  me  to  make  haste  and  reel. 

'T  is  done,  —  the  spinning  work  complete ; 

0  heart  of  mine,  what  makes  you  beat 
So  fa.st  and  sweet,  so  fast  and  sweet  ? 

1  must  have  wheat  and  pinks,  to  stick 
My  hat  from  brim  to  ribbon,  thick,  — 
Slow  hands  of  mine,  be  quick,  be  quick ! 

One,  two,  three  stars  along  the  skies 
Begin  to  wink  their  golden  eyes,  — 
I  '11  leave  my  thread  all  knots  and  ties. 

0  moon,  so  red  !  0  moon,  so  red  ! 
Sweetheart  of  night,  go  straight  to  bed  ; 
Love's  light  will  answer  in  your  stead. 

A-tiptoe,  beckoning  me,  he  st.-mds,  — 
Stop  trembling,  little  foolish  hands. 
And  stop  the  bands,  and  stop  the  bands ! 


SOMEBODY. 

Somebody  's  courting  somebody 
Somewhere  or  other  to-night ; 
Somebody  's  whispering  to  somebody, 
Somebody  's  listening  to  somebody. 
Under  this  clear  moonlight. 


-J-. 


LOVE. 


— R-, 

123 


Near  the  bright  river's  flow, 
Kunning  so  still  and  slow, 
Talking  so  soft  and  low, 
She  sits  with  somebody. 

Pacing  the  ocean's  shore, 
Edged  by  the  foaming  roar, 
Words  never  used  before 
Sound  sweet  to  somebody. 

Under  the  maple-tree 
Deep  though  the  shadow  be, 
Plain  enough  they  can  see, 
Bright  eyes  has  somebody. 

No  one  sits  up  to  wait. 
Though  she  is  out  so  late, 
All  know  she  's  at  the  gate. 
Talking  with  somel>ody. 

Tijjtoe  to  parlor  door, 
Two  shadows  on  the  floor, 
Moonlight,  reveal  no  more, 
Susy  and  somebody. 

Two,  sitting  side  by  side, 
Tloat  with  the  ebbing  tide, 
"  Thus,  dearest,  may  we  glide 
Through  life,"  says  somebody. 

Somewhere,  somebody 
Makes  love  to  somebody 
To-night. 

ANO.N"YMOfS. 

THE  MISTRESS. 

If  he  's  capricious,  she  '11  be  so  ; 

But,  if  his  duties  constant  are, 
She  lets  her  loving  favor  glow 

As  steady  as  a  tropic  star. 
Appears  there  naught  for  which  to  weep. 

She  '11  weep  for  naught  for  his  dear  sake  ; 
She  cla.sps  her  sister  in  her  sleep ; 

Her  love  in  dreams  is  most  awake. 
Her  soul,  that  once  with  pleasure  shook 

Did  any  eyes  her  beauty  own. 
Now  wonders  how  they  dare  to  look 

On  what  belongs  to  him  alone. 
The  indignity  of  taking  gifts 

E.'ihQarates  her  loving  breast ; 
A  rapture  of  submission  lifts 

Her  life  into  celestial  rest. 
There 's  nothing  left  of  what  she  was,  — 

Back  to  the  babe  the  woman  dies  ; 
And  all  the  wisdom  that  she  has 

Is  to  love  him  for  being  wise. 
She 's  confident  because  she  fears  ; 

And,  though  discreet  when  he  's  away. 
If  none  but  her  dear  despot  hears, 

She  '11  prattle  like  a  child  at  play. 


Percliauce,  when  all  her  prai.se  is  said. 

He  tells  the  news,  —  a  battle  won  — 
On  either  side  ten  thousand  dead,  — 

Describing  how  the  whole  was  done  : 
She  thinks,  "  He 's  looking  on  my  lace  ! 

I  am  his  joy  ;  whatc'er  I  do. 
He  sees  such  time-contenting  grace 

In  that,  he  'd  have  me  always  so  !  " 
And,  evermore,  for  cither's  sake, 

To  the  sweet  folly  of  the  dove 
She  joins  the  cunning  of  the  snake, 

To  rivet  and  exalt  his  love. 
Her  mode  of  candor  is  deceit ; 

And  what  she  thinks  from  what  she  '11  say 
(Although  I  '11  never  call  her  cheat) 

Lies  far  as  Scotland  from  Cathay. 
Without  his  knowledge  he  was  won, 

Against  his  nature  kept  devout ; 
She  '11  never  tell  him  how  't  was  done. 

And  he  will  never  find  it  out. 
If,  sudden,  he  suspects  her  wiles. 

And  hears  her  forging  chain  and  trap. 
And  looks,  —  she  sits  in  simple  smiles. 

Her  two  hands  lying  in  her  lap : 
Her  secret  (privilege  of  the  Bard, 

Whose  fancy  is  of  either  sex) 
Is  mine ;  but  let  the  darkness  guard 

Mysteries  that  light  would  more  perplex. 
Coventry  I'atmore. 


BONNIE  WEE  THING. 

BoxxiE  wee  thing  !  cannie  wee  thing  ! 

Lovely  wee  thing !  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 
Wishfully  I  look,  and  languish. 

In  that  lx>nnie  face  o'  thine  ; 
And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguish, 

Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

Wit  and  grace,  and  love  and  beauty. 

In  ae  constellation  shine  ; 
To  adore  thee  Is  my  duty. 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine  ! 
Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom. 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 

ROBERT  BL'R.VS 


BELIEVE    ME,    IF   ALL    THOSE    ENDEAKIKG 
YOrNG  CHARMS. 

BELiEVEme,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms. 
Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day. 

Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms. 
Like  fair}--gifts  fading  away. 


-^ 


a- 


124 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


ft 


k 


'I'luHi  u,.iiM.st,  Hlill  Ik'  a.lomi,  us  Has  niuMirnt  llioii 
ml, 

Li'l  lliy  Iiivi^liiii'ss  rude  as  it  will, 
Ami  liioiunl  llir  (luiir  mill  eiicli  wisli  of  my  lu'iirt 

WiuiKI  I'Mlwiiu^  itsolf  voi-iliilitly  still. 

II  is  iiol  wliilr  hrauly  and  youth  aro  tliiiu^  own, 

Ami  lliy  (  lirckH  uii|irolUiiod  by  a  tear, 
riial  I  lir  I.I  v.T  and  liiilli  of  a  soul  may  bo  known, 

'I'u  «liic  li  liiiic  will  but  nuikc  thee  more  dear! 
(I,  the  Ilea  It  lliat  has  truly  loved  never  I'orgcts, 

Hut  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  eloso, 
As  the  Nunllower  turns  to  her  f;od  when  he  sets 

The  same  l(,oU  which  she  turned  wluMi  lu'  rose  ! 


THE  SLEEPING   HEAUTY. 

I'KOM   "TUU  UAV  DUltAM." 

\ \',,\\i  after  year  unto  licr  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  eoueh  alone, 
Across  tlui  imrple  eoverlel. 

The  nuiiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown  ; 
On  either  side  her  Iram-ed  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl  ; 
The  shuiili'rous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  iiol  on  Ihc  n.nndcd  curl. 

The  silk  slur-broidcrcd  cvcrli.l 

Unto  her  limbs  itscli  ,l,.|li  mould, 
Languidly  ever  ;  niul  imud 

Ib^r  full  black  ringlels,  downward  rolled, 
(ilows  forth  each  softly  shiLdowed  arm, 

Willi  bracelets  of  Ihe  diamond  bright. 
Her  constant  bcauly  dulli  inform 

Stillness  Willi  love,  and  day  wllh  light. 

She  sleeps  |  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  ehanibors  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirred 

That  lie  uiion  her  eharmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  ;  on  either  hand  njiswells 

The  golddVinged  pillow  lightly  piest ; 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

.\  iicrfecl  form  ill  perfect  rest. 


THE  REVIVAL  OF  THE  "SLEEPrNQ  BEAUTY.' 

1  k(tM    •••rilH  OAV  OKHAM." 

A  ToiUMl,  a  kiss  I  (ho  eharm  was  sna]it. 

There  roao  n  noise  of  striking  idocks  ; 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  elapt, 

.\nd  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks  ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  alt  ; 

.\  breeze  through  all  the  garden  swept; 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall ; 

Ami  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 


The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  Vilew, 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  serawlcil, 
The  lire  shot  up,  the  martin  Hew, 

The  parrot  .scii^amcd,  the  peacock  s.padlcd  ; 
The  maid  and  page  renewed  their  strife  ; 

The  palace  banged,  iind  buzzed,  ami  <lackt; 
Ami  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 

Dashed  clownward  in  a  cataract. 

And  last  of  all  Ihc  king  awoke. 

And  in  his  chair  himself  npreared. 
And  yawned,  and  rubbed  his  face,  ami  spoke; 

"  liy  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard  I 
How  say  you  (  we  have  slejit,  my  lonls  ; 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
'I'lic  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'T  was  but  an  after-dinner's  na]i. 

"I'ardy!"   returned  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  soniething  stilf  or  so. 
My  lord,  ami  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mentioned  half  an  hour  ago?" 
The  chancellor,  .sedate  and  vain. 

In  courteous  words  retnrneil  rejily  ; 
lint  dallied  with  his  golden  chain. 

And,  smiling,  jiut  tlie  question  by. 

Al.l'KCD  TaN.NVSON, 


Ami  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

.\iid  louiid  her  waist  she  felt  il  fold  ; 
And  far  acro.ss  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old. 
Across  ihe  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  di'c|i  into  the  dying  day, 

Tlu'  happy  princess  folhiwc.l  him. 

"  1  'd  sleep  another  huudivd  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss  !" 
"(),  wake  forever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  O  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne. 
And,  streamed  through  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  mdlcd  into  ninni. 

"  O  eyes  long  laid  in  laqipy  sleep  !" 

"(V  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  lied!" 
"0  liajipy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  .sleep!" 

"O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead! 
And  o'er  them  many  a  llowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoyeil  the  crescent  Iwrk ; 
And,  rapt  through  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 


^ 


LOVE. 


125 


-a 


"A  Imnilred  sumiiiers!  can  it  ha! 

And  wIiillRT  goc-st  thou,  tell  me  where  !" 
"  (»,  si'i-k  my  lUlhci's  court  with  me, 

i'or  IhiTi'  arc  greater  woiidera  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Uryond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
IJcyonil  the  nif,'lit,  aeross  the  day, 

Thr..u;^h  all  the  worlil  she  followed  him. 

ALIfRKD  TENNYSON. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


St.  Aoxes'  Eve,  —ah,  bitti-i'  .Ijill  it  was! 

I'lic  owl,  for  all  liis  fcather.s,  was  a-eold  ; 

'I'lie  haro  limpe<l  trembling  through  the  frozen 

grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  beadsman's  lingers  while  lie  told 
His  rosary,  and  wliile  his  frosted  breath. 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
.Sccmeil  taking  llight  for  heaven  witliout  a  death, 
I'ast  the  sweet  virgin's  pii;tur<',  while  his  [Mayer 

hi,  sailh. 

II. 
His  prayer  ho  .saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  liai'k  rcturneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  di'grees  ; 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  eatdi  side  seemed  tofreeze, 
Imprisoiicil  in  black,  purgatorial  rails; 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orafrics. 
He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
Tolliinkhowtheyniayache  in  icyhoodsand  mails. 


Northw.ard  he  turneth  tlirough  a  little  door. 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  ; 
But  no,  — already  had  his  deatli-bell  rung  ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  .said  and  sung  ; 
His  was  harsh  ponance  on  St.  Agues'  Kve  ; 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Ivoiigh  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  situujrs'  sake  to 
giieve. 

IV. 

Tliat  ancient  beadsman  heard  tin:  prelude  soft : 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
from  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  uj)  aloft. 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  ; 
■fhe  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  ; 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  crosswise 
on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  ('airily 
The  brain,  new-stu(fed,  in  youth,  with  triumphs 

gay 

Of  old  romance.     The.se  let  us  wish  away  ; 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there. 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day. 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  limes  de- 
clare. 

VI. 

They  told  her  how,  u]«m  St.  Agnes'  Kve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white  ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  rcc|uire 
Of  heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they 
.Icsire. 

VII. 
Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard  ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fi.ved  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  swee|jing  train 
Pass  by,  — she  heeded  not  at  all  ;  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired,  not  cooled  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 


She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  ([uick  and  short ; 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand  ;  she  sighs 
.\mid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whi.sperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
Hid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  si;orn. 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy  ;  all  amort 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
.■Vuil  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


So,  pui-jmsing  each  moment  to  retire, 
Slie  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porpliyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
I'Vjr  .Madeline.      Beside  the  portal  doors, 
I'uttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  im- 
plores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline  ; 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tcilious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss,  —  in  sooth 
such  things  have  been. 


-ff 


126 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


--i^ 


He  veutures  in  ;  let  no  buzzed  wliis|)ei-  tell  ; 
All  eyes  be  iiiullled,  or  n  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous  citadel  ; 
For  him,  those  chiunliiis  lirl.i  laibariun  hordes, 
Hyena  foemeu,  and  li^l  liliH.d.d  lords, 
Whoso  very  dogs  would  cxrcnitioMs  howl 
Against  his  lineage  ;  not  one  breast  allbrds 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  nuinsion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 


All,  lia|i]iy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Sliullliiig  along  with  ivory dicaded  wand, 
To  « liere  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-jiillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her  ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this 

,,lace  ; 
They  are  all  hero  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty 


"Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there  's  dwarfish  Hikie- 

braud  ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursfed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land; 
Then  there  's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tamo  for  his  gray  hairs  —  alas  mo !  Hit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away  !  "  —  "  Ah,  gossip  dear. 
We  're  safe  enough  ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how" — "Good  saints,  not  here,  not 

here  ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 

bier." 

XIII. 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Hrushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  iilume : 
And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day  !  " 
lie  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
I'nle,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he; 
"  O,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Whi(di  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
Wlien  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


"  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  — 
Yet  men  will  nnn'der  upon  holy  days  ; 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and  fays, 
To  venture  so.     It  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  F,ve  ! 
(!od's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  jilays 
This  very  night ;  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,   I  ve  mickle  time  to 


Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 

While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 

Like  jiuzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book. 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 

His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold. 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose. 

Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  jiained  heart 

JIade  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  propose 

A  stratagem  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 

"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 

Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 

From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !  1  deem 

Tliou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  tluit  thou  didst 


"  1  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear  !  " 
Quoth  Porphyro  ;   "0,  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
1  f  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace. 
Or  look  with  rufiian  passion  in  her  face  : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  homd  shout,  my  foemen's  ears. 
And  beard   them,   though  they  be  more  fanged 
than  wolves  and  bears." 


"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  atfright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll  ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening. 
Were  never  missed."     Thus  plaining,  doth  she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
AVhatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 


Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  thei'e  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win  )Hili:ips  tb;it  niulit  a  peerless  bride 
While  lri:ioiiril  liiiiirs  pa.  rd  tlic  coverlct. 
And  \<a\r  inrlMutiLiriit  li.ld  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrou: 
debt. 


J 


0-- 


LOVE. 


127 


n 


"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  tlie  dame  ; 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on   this   feast-night ;  by   the   tambour 

frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  ;  no  time  to  spare, 
For  1  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait   here,    my  child,  with   patience  kneel   in 

prayer 
The  while.     Ah!  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 


So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed  : 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The    maiden's    chamber,    silken,    hushed     and 

chaste  ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her 

brain. 


Hfr  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
<>lil  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
Wlifn  iEadeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware  ; 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 
Young  Poi^phiTo,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ! 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  a  ling-dove 
frayed  and  fled. 


Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  ; 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  ; 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in  her 
dell. 


And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A   shielded   scutcheon   blushed   with   blood    ol 
queens  and  kings. 


Full  on  this  ca.sement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  brea.st. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glorj',  like  a  saint ; 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest. 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.     Porphyro  grew  faint  : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 
taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  ;  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wTeathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  ; 
Unclasps  her  wanned  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  ; 
Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is 
fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day  ; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 


Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
PorphjTO  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless. 
And  breathed  him.self ;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wildeme.ss. 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stept. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo!  —  how 
fast  she  slept. 


^- 


A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 

.All  garlanded  mth  can-en  imageries 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 

.\nd  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 

Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings  ; 

And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 


Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Jlorphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 


-^ 


f 


128 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


t 


Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  :  — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 


And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered  ; 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  ijuince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinut  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez  ;  and  spicW  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 


These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathfed  silver.     Sumptuous  they  stand 

In  the  retired  i^uiet  of  the  night. 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 

"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  ; 

Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 

Or  I  shall  di'owse  beside  thee,  .so  my  soul  doth  ache." 


Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  ;  — 't  was  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  icM  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  ; 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  wooffed  fantasies. 


Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumxdtuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tendevest  be. 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called  "La  belle  dame  sans  mercy"; 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan  ; 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  ijuick —  and  suddenly 
Her  blue  afl'rayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  ; 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  assmooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  .she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep  ; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep. 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly . 


"Ah,  Porphyro!  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear  ; 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and 

drear  ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear  ! 
0,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thoudiest,  my  love,  Iknownotwhere  to  go.' 


Beyond  a  mort.il  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose  ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet  ;  meantime  the  frost-wiud  blows 
Like  love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath 
set. 

XXXVII. 

'T  is  dark  ;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet ; 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !  " 
'T  is  dark  ;  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat  : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing  ;  — 
Adove forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick, unpruned  wing." 


' '  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil 

dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest. 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self  ;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 


They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide. 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  ; 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  ; 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  ; 
Tlie  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ; 
The  keytm-ns,and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans 


LOVE. 


129 


-Ph 


And  they  are  gone  !  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  eotiin-worm. 
Were  long  be-nightniared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 
JOHN  Keats. 


THE  LITTLE  MILLINER. 

My  girl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair, 

A  soft  hand,  like  a  lady's,  small  and  fair, 

A  sweet  face  pouting  in  a  white  straw  bonnet, 

A  tiny  foot,  and  little  boot  upon  it ; 

And  all  her  finely  to  charm  beholders 

Is  the  gray  shawl  drawn  tight  around  her  shoulders. 

The  plain  stuff-gown  and  collar  white  as  suow, 

And  sweet  red  petticoat  that  peejis  below. 

But  gladly  in  the  busy  town  goes  she. 

Summer  and  winter,  fearing  nobodie  ; 

She  pats  the  pavement  mth  her  fairy  feet. 

With  fearless  eyes  she  charms  the  crowded  street ; 

And  in  her  pocket  lie,  iu  lieu  of  gold, 

A  lucky  sixpence  and  a  thimble  old. 

We  lodged  in  the  same  house  a  year  ago 
.■-he  on  the  topmost  floor,  I  just  below,  — 
She,  a  poor  milliner,  content  and  wise, 
1.  a  poor  citj'  clerk,  vrith  hopes  to  rise  ; 
And,  long  ere  we  were  friends,  I  learnt  to  love 
The  little  angel  on  the  floor  above. 
For,  every  morn,  ere  from  my  bed  I  stirred. 
Her  chamber  door  would  open,  and  I  heard,  — 
And  listened,  blushing,  to  her  coming  down, 
And  palpitated  mth  her  rustling  gown. 
And  tingled  while  her  foot  went  downward  slow, 
Creaked  like  a  cricket,  passed,  and  died  l)elow  ; 
Then,  peeping  from  the  window,  pleased  and  sly, 
1  saw  the  pretty  shining  face  go  by. 
Healthy  and  rosy,  fresh  from  slumber  sweet,  — 
A  sunbeam  in  the  quiet  morning  street. 

And  every  night,  when  in  from  work  she  tript. 
Red  to  the  ears,  I  from  my  chamber  slipt. 
That  I  might  hear  upon  the  narrow  stair 
Her  low  "Good  evening,"  as  she  passed  me  there. 
And  when  her  door  was  closed,  below  sat  I, 
And  hearkened  stilly  as  she  stirred  on  high,  — 
Watched  the  red  firelight  shadows  in  the  room. 
Fashioned  her  face  before  me  in  the  gloom. 
And  heard  her  close  the  window,  lock  the  door, 
MoWng  about  more  lightly  than  before. 


And  thought,  "  She  is  undressing  now !  "  and  O, 

My  cheeks  were  hot,  my  heart  was  in  a  glow  ! 

And  I  made  pictures  of  her,  —  standing  bright 

Before  the  looking-glass  in  bed-gown  white. 

Unbinding  in  a  knot  her  yellow  hair. 

Then  kneeling  timidly  to  say  a  prayer  ; 

Till,  last,  the  floor  creaked  softly  overhead, 

'Neath  bare  feet  tripping  to  the  little  bed,  • — 

And  all  was  hushed.     Yet  still  I  hearkened  on. 

Till  the  faint  sounds  about  the  streets  were  gone ; 

And  saw  her  slumbering  with  lips  apart. 

One  little  hand  upon  her  little  heart, 

The  other  pillowing  a  face  that  smiled 

In  slumber  like  the  slumber  of  a  child. 

The  bright  hair  shining  round  the  small  white  ear, 

The  soft  breath  stealing  visible  and  clear. 

And  nii.\ing  with  the  moon's,  whose  frosty  gleam 

Made  round  her  rest  a  vaporous  light  of  dream. 

How  free  she  wandered  in  the  wicked  place. 
Protected  only  by  her  gentle  face  ! 
She  saw  bad  things,  —  how  could  she  choose  but 

see '!  — 
She  heard  of  wantonness  and  misery  ; 
The  city  closed  around  her  night  an<l  day, 
But  lightly,  happily,  she  went  her  way. 
Nothing  of  evil  that  she  saw  or  heard 
Could  touch  a  heart  so  innocently  .stirred 
By  simple  hopes  that  cheered  it  through  the  storm. 
And  little  flutterings  that  kept  it  warm. 
No  power  had  she  to  reason  out  her  needs. 
To  give  the  whence  and  wherefore  of  her  deeds  ; 
But  she  was  good  and  pure  amid  the  strife, 
By  virtue  of  the  joy  that  was  her  life. 
Here,  where  a  thousand  spirits  daily  fall. 
Where  heart  and  soul  and  senses  turn  to  gaTl , 
She  floated,  pure  as  innocent  could  be, 
Like  a  .small  sea-bird  on  a  stormy  sea, 
A\Tiich  breasts  the  billows,  wafted  to  and  fro. 
Fearless,  uninjured,  while  the  strong  winds  blow. 
While  the  clouds  gather,  and  the  waters  roar. 
And  mighty  ships  are  broken  on  the  shore. 

'T  was  when  the  spring  was  coming,  when  the 
snow 
Had  melted,  and  fresh  winds  began  to  blow. 
And  girls  were  selling  violets  in  the  town. 
That  suddenly  a  fever  struck  me  down. 
The  world  was  changed,  the  sense  of  life  was  pained, 
And  nothing  but  a  shadow-land  remained  ; 
Death  came  in  a  dark  mist  and  looked  at  me, 
I  felt  his  breathing,  though  I  could  not  see. 
But  heavily  I  lay  and  did  not  stir, 
.\nd  had  strange  images  and  dreams  of  her. 
Then  came  a  vacancy  :  with  feeble  breath, 
I  shivered  under  the  cold  touch  of  Death, 
And  swooned  among  strange  visions  of  the  dead. 
When  a  voice  called  from  heaven,  and  he  fled  ; 


-^ 


1      i:' 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


An.l  su.l.l.Mily  1  wiil;,MM'.l,  ms  it  s.vinca, 

Imuiu  :i  .1c.,'|.'s1,m'|.  wlu'iviii  1  hii.l  iiol  iliviiuiod. 

Ami  it  Wiis  iii^'l.t,  lUi.l  1  .'"iiM  srraii.l  luMi-, 
Al.a    1   Wiisill  111.'  n.i.l.l    I   llrM  ;.n,l.':ll, 
A.I.I  .iii,.w.iiv,  sIivI.'L.mI  ..lit  111.,. II  my  l.i'.l, 
1  h.'iiik,' I  l'..r  .1  l....lsl,'|.  ..v.'iIh'ii.I. 

I'.iil  all  WHS  IuisIhhI.    1  liu.Uo.l  iiri.inul  tlic  room, 
An.l  slowly  iiiiiiU.  oiil  sliiiii.'s  umi.l  tlio  gloom. 
'I'll.'  Willi  WHS  iviUli'iK'il  by  a  rosy  light, 
A  I'liiiil  liiv  llickcivil,  iiiiil  1  kiii'W  't  was  iiiglit, 
lln'iiiisc  lii'low  (lu'i'c  was  a  souml  of  I'l-ot 
Hying  away  along  the  iiuict  stivi'l, 
When,  tuniiiig  my  l>alo  I'lu'o  ami  sighing  low, 
I  saw  II  vision  in  thi'  .[iiii't  gh.w  : 
A  lit  1 1.'  Ii;,'iiiv.  in  !i  .■otion  gown, 

I Ml.:;  ii|...n  Ih.'  lire  an.l  slooliiiig  ilown, 

II.  I  si.lc  I.,  mo,  luT  I'ufi'  illnnu'il,  sin.  oyi-.l 
'I'w..  .'hostnuts  Imniiug  slowly,  siilo  liy  siilo,  — 
111  r  lips  aiiart,  lior  oU'iir  eyes  straini'il  to  sco, 
llcr  litlli.  hamls  claspi'd  tight  aroniul  lu'V  Uno.', 
'I'll.'  liroliglil  gloaming  on  her  gohli-n  hi'iul, 
An.l  tinting  li.T  whito  neck  to  i-osy  rc.i, 
II. T  I'l'iitiiros  bi-ighl,  ami  hoantil'nl,  iin.l  pnri'. 
With  rhil.lish  t'cav  ami  yoarning  hall' ilomur.'. 
O  swi'i'l.  swi'i't:  ilroani  !   I   thought,  an.l  strainoil 

Ki'aring  to  i.ivak  Iho  sp.'ll  with  wofils  ami  sighs. 

.■^ol'tly  sho  atoopod,  hor  tlear  laco  swut'tly  fair, 
.\ml  swept iM'  sinco  a  light  liko  lovo  was  thoro, 
Hrighti'uing,  watohiiig,  moro  ami  moro  olato, 
As  Iho  nuts  glowoil  togotlicr  in  the  grato, 
Craokling  with  littlojots  of  iU'ry  light, 
Till  si.lo  liy  siilo  thoy  turiioil  to  ashes  white,  — 
'I'lieu  np  siie  h'ai>t.  her  faee  east  olf  its  fear 
l''..i'  rapture  that  itself  was  railianee  elear, 
An.l  w.mlil  have  elai.peil  lier  little  hamls  in  glee, 
Kilt.  pa\isiug,  hit  her  lips  ami  peeped  at  nu-, 
.\n.l  met  the  faee  that  yearned  on  Iter  so  whitely, 
An.l  gave  a  ery  ami  trembled,  blushing  brightly, 
Wliil.'.  raise.lon  elbow,  iis  she  turned  to  llee, 
•■  /'<.//(/  ,■"   I  .'lied.       ami  grew  as  red  as  she  I 


It    WM 

.le 


div 


for  soon  niv  thoughts  wen 


ttl 


An.l  she  ...uhl  l.'ll  in.'  all.  ami  1  .'onl.l  hear  ' 
II. .\v  ill  my  siekness  fri.'mlless  1  had  lain  ; 
I1..W  the  har.l  jieoph'  pitied  not  my  pain  ; 
II. .w.  in  .lespite  of  what  ba.l  people  said, 
.sh..  l.'l't  her  labors,  slopjH'd  besi.le  my  be.l. 
An.l  nursed  me,  tluid;ing  sa.Uy  1  woul.l  .lie  ; 
lli.w,  in  the  eml,  the  danger  passeil  me  by  : 
How  she  had  .sought  to  steal  away  befoi-e 
The  siekness  pa.ssed,  and  1  was  strong  om'ouiore. 
l!y  tits  .she  told  the  story  in  lllin.'  ear. 
And  trembled  all  the  telling  with  a  fear 


Lest  by  my  e.dd  man's  heart  she  shouhl  1 hid. 

Lest  1  shouhl  think  hor  bold  in  wh.'it  sh,'  .li.l  ; 

Hut,  lying  on  my  bed,  I  dared  to  say, 

ll..\v  1  had  wntehod  and  loved  her  nuiiiy  a  day; 

How  dear  she  was  to  me,  and  dearer  still 

Kor  that  .strange  kindness  done  wliile  I  \\!is  ill  ; 

Ami  how  1  eouhl  but  think  that  lleav.n  al.ov.' 

Had  ilone  it  all  to  bind  our  lives  in  lov.'. 

And  I'oUy  eriod,  turning  her  faee  away. 

And  seemed    afraid,  and   answered   "yea"   nor 

"nay" ; 
Then  stealing  eloao,  with  little  pants  ami  sighs. 
Looked  on  my  pale  thin  fiu'e  and  earnest  eyes, 
Ami  .seemed  ill  net  to  lling  her  arms  about 
My  neek,  then,   blushing,  paused,   in  llulteriug 

doubt. 
Last,   s]>rang  np..n   i\iy  h.'arl.   sighing  an.l  sob- 
bing, — 
That  1  might  feel  how  gladly  hers  was  throbbing! 

Ah  I  ne'er  shall  1  forget  until  1  die 
How  happily  the  dri'amy  days  went  by. 
While  1  grew  well,  aml'lay  with  soft  lieart-beat.s, 
lleiu'k'ningtlie  pleasant  murmur  from  the  streets, 
.\u.l  I'oUy  by  mo  like  a  sunny  beam, 
.Villi  life  all  ehangod,  and  lovo  a  drowsy  dr.'ani ,' 
'T  was  happiness  enough  to  lie  and  see 
The  little  golden  head  bent  droopiugly 
Over  its  sewing,  while  the  still  time  Hew, 
.\nil  my  fmul  eyes  were  dim  with  happy  dew! 
.\nil  thi'ii,  when  1  was  nearly  well  and  strong, 
Ami  she  went  baek  to  labor  all  day  long. 
How  sweet  to  lie  alone  with  half-slnit  eyes, 
And  hear  the  distant  niurnuus  and  the  cries, 
And  think  how  pure  she  was  from  pain  and  sin,  — 
And  how  the  sumnu'r  days  were  eoming  in  ! 
Then,  as  the  sunset  faded  from  the  room, 
To  listen  for  her  footstep  in  the  gloom. 
To  pant  as  it  eame  stealing  up  the  stair. 
To  feel  my  whole  life  brighten  uiui«are 
When  the  soft  tap  eame  to  the  door,  and  when 
The  door  was  opened  for  her  smile  again  ! 
liest,  the  long  evenings  !  —  when,  till  late  at  night. 
She  sat  beside  me  in  the  ipiiet  light, 
.\n.l  happy  things  were  said  and  kisses  won. 
And  serious  gladness  found  its  vent  in  fun. 
Sometiuu's  I  would  draw  elose  her  shining  hea.l, 
.Ami  poui'  her  bright  hair  out  upon  the  be.l. 
Ami  she  would  laugh,  and  blush,  and  try  to  .s.'ol.l, 
While  "llei-e,"  1  eried,  "1   eount  my  wealth  in 
gohl !  " 

Om-e,  like  a  little  sinner  for  tnmsgressiou. 
She  blushed  upon  my  brea.st.  and  madeeoufessiou  ; 
How,  when  that  night  1  woke  and  looked  aroumi, 
1  foitud  her  busy  with  a  eliarm  profound,  — 
tine  ehestnut  was  herself,  my  girl  eonfesjsod, 
The  other  was  the  person  .she  loved  best, 


LOVE. 


131 


-a 


Anil  ir  ll/i-y  Imriicd  toffcUic-r  M'lii  liy  m\i:, 
i\f  Icivril  Ihm,  ai](l  hIii;  would  Ijccimie  lii.t  briilo  ; 
Ami  burn  inclewl  they  did,  to  hi:r  ilclij;lit,  — 
And  had  tin;  pretty  cliunii  not  |>rovr'ii  ri^dit  I 
Tliiis  Tnucl],  and  more,  with  timorouH  joy,  alio 

Haid, 
While  her  (.oiifessor,  too,  grew  rosy  red,  — 
And  eloHO  to(<ctljer  |ire83cd  two  bliHsfnl  I'accH, 
As  I  atisolved  tlic  »iiiiier,  with  eiubrai.CH. 

And  hero  is  winter  eome  again,  winds  blow. 
The  liouHes  and  the  streets  are  white  with  snow  ; 
And  in  the  long  and  ]ileasant  eventide, 
Why,  what  is  I'olly  making  at  my  side? 
Wliat  fait  a  silk  gown,  beautiful  and  grand, 
We  bought  together  lately  in  the  Strand  ! 
What  but  a  dress  to  go  to  ehureh  in  soon, 
And  wear  right  queetily  'neatli  a  honey-moon  ! 
And  who  shall  mateh  her  with  her  new  straw 

bonnet. 
Her  tiny  foot  and  little  boot  upon  it, 
Krobroidered  jiettieoat  and  silk  gown  new, 
And  shawl  she  wears  as  lew  fine  lailies  do  f 
And  she  will  keep,  to  cliaiin  away  all  ill. 
The  lueky  sixpenee  in  her  poeket  still  ; 
An<l  we  will  turn,  come  fair  or  cloudy  weather, 
To  ashes,  like  the  ehestnuts,  close  together  ! 

KOSIiKT  IJUCItANAN, 


TirE  PAHSIONATE   PILGKIM'H  MONO. 

I-KOM    "Tint  IlklDHf.kOOM  Ol'  (JliAU'IV.' 

LiKK  a  tree  beside  the  river 

Of  her  life  that  nins  from  me. 
Do  I  lean  me,  iiiiirnjuring  ever 

In  njy  love's  idolatry. 
1,0,  I  reach  out  hands  of  f>lessing  ; 

IjO,  I  stretch  out  hands  of  prayer  ; 
And,  with  passionate  caressing, 

four  my  life  upon  the  air, 
In  my  ears  the  siren  river 

Hings,  and  smiles  u[i  in  my  face  ; 
f'.ut  forever,  and  forever, 

Ituns  from  my  ernlirace. 

Spring  fjy  spring,  tfje  Iininelies  duly 

Clothe  themselves  in  tender  flower  ; 
And  for  her  sweet  sake  as  tnily 

All  their  fruit  and  fragrance  shower. 
Ijiit  the  stream,  with  careless  laught.er, 

liuns  in  merry  beauty  by. 
And  it  leaves  me  yearning  after, 

I.om  to  droop  and  lone  to  die. 
In  my  ears  the  siren  river 

Sings,  and  smiles  up  in  my  face  ; 
lint  forever,  and  forever, 

liiius  from  njy  embnice. 


I  stand  mazed  in  the  moonlight. 

O'er  its  happy  face  to  rfrcam  ; 
I  ain  (larched  in  the  moonligfjt 

liy  that  cool  anil  fjrimming  stream  ; 
I  am  dying  liy  the  river 

Of  her  life  that  runs  from  me. 
And  it  sjiarkles  by  me  ever, 

With  its  cool  felicity. 
In  my  ears  the  siren  river 

Sings,  and  smiles  up  in  my  face  ; 
IJut  forever,  and  forever, 

liuns  from  my  embrace. 

f;i:KAi.o  MAssev. 


TllF,  .lunc  roses  covered  the  hedges  with  blushes. 
And  wooed  with  their  perfume  the  murtnuiing 
bee  ; 

And  white  were  the  cups  of  the  odorous  lilies. 
When  fat<^  stole  the  joy  of  existence  from  me. 

With  hands  closely  chwpeil,  and  withlijis  prr'ssed 
together, 
One    instant  we  stfiod,  while  the  heart  in  my 
Ijrenst 
Leapt  eager  and  wild,  as  the  callow  liirds  flutter 
When  the  wing  of  th':  mother  sweeps  over  the 
nest. 

One  st<ir  is  the  tyjic  of  the  glory  of  Iieavcn  ; 
A  shell   from  tin;  biiudi  whispers  still  of  the 
sea  ; 
To  a  rose  all  the  sweetness  of  summer  is  giv(!n  ; 
A  kiss  tells  what  living  anil  loving  might  \x;. 
Makv  I.'. dish  Krrres. 


•niE  MILLKK'H  DAUOilTEK, 

It  is  the  miller's  dauglitcr. 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

That  I  would  Ijc- the  jewel 
Tliat  trenililes  at  her  ear  ; 

For,  bid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I  'd  lou'li  her  neck  so  warm  and  wldte. 

And  f  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  mc 
In  .sfirrow  and  in  rest ; 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  Uy  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs  ; 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasped  at  night. 

AM'Kf'.IJ  TllNNV!,^; 


-ff 


p 


132 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


-a 


4^-- 


BLEST  AS  THE  IMMORTAL  GODS. 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak,  and  sweetly  smUe. 

'T  was  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast  : 
For  whOe  I  gazed,  in  transport  tost. 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed;  the  subtle  flame 
Ean  iiuick  through  all  my  vital  frame  : 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung  ; 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chilled  ; 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled: 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play  — 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

From  thf  Grt-ek  of  SAPPHO 
by  AMBROSE  PHILLII 


THOSE  EYES. 

Ah  !  do  not  wanton  with  those  eyes. 

Lest  I  be  sick  with  seeing  ; 
Nor  cast  them  down,  but  let  them  rise. 

Lest  shame  destroy  their  being. 

Ah  1  be  not  angry  with  those  fires, 
For  then  their  threats  will  kill  me  ; 

Nor  look  too  kind  on  my  desires. 
For  then  my  hopes  will  spill  me. 

Ah  !  do  not  steep  them  in  thy  tears. 

For  so  wiU  sorrow  slay  me  ; 
Nor  spread  them  as  distraught  with  fears,  — 

Mine  own  enough  betray  me. 

Ben  Jonson. 


She  came  along  the  little  lane, 

Where  all  the  bushes  dripped  with  rain. 

And  robins  sung  and  sung  again. 

As  if  with  sudden,  sheer  delight, 
For  such  a  world  so  fresh  and  bri^iht, 
To  swing  and  sing  in  day  and  night. 

But,  coming  down  the  little  lane. 
She  did  not  heed  the  robin's  strain. 
Nor  feel  the  sunshine  after  rain. 

A  little  face  with  two  brown  eyes, 
A  little  form  of  slender  size, 
A  little  head  not  very  wise  ; 


A  little  heart  to  match  the  head, 
A  foolish  little  heart,  that  bled 
At  every  foolish  word  was  said. 

So,  coming  down  the  little  lane,  — 
I  see  her  now,  my  little  Jane, — 
Her  foolish  heart  with  foolish  pain 

Was  aching,  aching  in  her  breast, 
And  all  her  pretty  golden  crest 
Was  drooping  as  if  sore  opprest. 

And  something,  too,  of  anger's  trace 
Was  on  the  flushed  and  frowning  face. 
And  in  the  footsteps'  quickened  pace. 

So  swift  she  stept,  so  low  she  leant, 
Her  pretty  head  on  thought  intent. 
She  scarcely  saw  the  way  she  went. 

Nor  saw  the  long,  slim  shadow  fall 

Across  the  little,  low  stone-wall, 

As  some  one  rose  up  slim  and  tall,  — 

Rose  up,  and  came  to  meet  her  there; 
A  youth,  with  something  in  his  air 
That,  at  a  glance,  revealed  his  share 

In  all  this  foolish,  girlish  pain. 
This  grief  and  anger  and  disdain. 
That  rent  the  heart  of  little  Jane. 

With  hastier  steps  than  hers  he  came, 
And  in  a  moment  called  her  name  ; 
And  in  a  moment,  red  as  flame 

She  blushed,  and  blushed,  and  in  her  eyes 
A  sudden,  soft,  and  shy  surprise 
Did  suddenly  and  softly  rise. 

"What,  you?"  she  cried  :  "I  thought  —  they 

said  — " 
Then  stopped,  and  blushed  a  deeper  red, 
And  lifted  up  her  drooping  head, 

Shook  back  her  lovely  falling  hair. 
And  arched  her  neck,  and  strove  to  wear 
A  nonchalant  and  scornful  air. 

A  moment  thus  they  held  apart. 
With  lovers'  love  and  lovers'  art  ; 
Then  swift  he  caught  her  to  his  lieart. 

What  pleasure  then  was  born  of  pain. 
What  sunshine  after  cloud  and  rain. 
As  they  forgave  and  kissed  again  ! 

'T  was  April  then  ;  he  talked  of  May, 
And  planned  therein  a  wedding-day: 
She  blushed,  but  scarcely  said  him  nay. 


-^ 


r 


LOVE. 


13 


^ 


What  pleasure  now  is  mixed  with  pain, 
As,  looking  down  the  little  lane, 
A  graybeai-d  grown,  I  see  again. 

Through  twenty  Aprils'  rain  and  mist. 
The  little  sweetheart  that  I  kissed, 
The  little  bride  my  folly  missed  ! 

NORA  Perry. 


PAN  IN  LOVE. 

Nay  !  if  you  will  not  sit  upon  my  knee, 
Lie  on  that  bank,  and  listen  while  I  play 
A  sylvan  song  upon  these  reedy  pipes. 
In  the  full  moonrise  as  I  lay  last  night 
Under  the  alders  on  Peneus'  banks, 
Dabbling  my  hoofs  in  the  cool  stream  that  welled 
Wine-dark  with  gleamy  ripples  round  their  roots, 
I  made  the  song  the  while  I  shaped  the  pipes. 
'T  is  all  of  you  and  love,  as  you  shall  hear. 
The  drooping  lilies,  as  I  sang  it,  heaved 
Upon  their  broad  green  leaves,  and  underneath. 
Swift  silvery  fishes,  poised  on  quivering  fins. 
Hung  motionless  to  listen  ;  in  the  grass 
The  crickets  ceased  to  shrill  their  tiny  bells  ; 
And  even  the  nightingale,  that  all  the  eve. 
Hid  in  the  grove's  deep  green,  had  throbbed  and 

thrilled. 
Paused  in  his  strain  of  love  to  list  to  mine. 
Bacchus  is  handsome,  but  such  songs  as  this 
He  cannot  shape,  and  better  loves  the  clash 
Of  brazen  cymbals  than  my  reedy  pipes. 
Fair  as  he  is  without,  he  's  coarse  within,  — 
Gross  in  his  nature,  loving  noise  and  wine, 
And,  tipsy,  half  the  time  goes  reeling  round 
Leaning  on  old  Silenus'  shoulders  fat. 
But  I  have  scores  of  songs  that  no  one  knows. 
Not  even  Apollo,  no,  nor  Mercury,  — 
Theirstrings  can  never  sing  like  my  sweet  pipes,  — 
Some,  that  will  make  fierce  tigers  rub  their  fur 
Against  the  oak  tninks  for  delight,  or  stretch 
Their  plump  sides  for  my  pillow  on  the  sward. 
Some,  that  will  make  the  satyrs'  clattering  hoofs 
Leap  when  they  hear,  and  from   their  noonday 

dreams 
Start  up  to  stamp  a  wild  and  frolic  dance 
In  the  green  shadows.     Ay  !  and  better  songs, 
Made  for  the  delicate  nice  ears  of  nymphs, 
Which  while  I  sing  my  pipes  shall  imitate 
The  droning  bass  of  honey-seeking  bees. 
The  tinkling  tenor  of  clear  pebbly  streams. 
The  breezy  alto  of  the  alder's  sighs. 
And  all  the  airy  sounds  that  lull  the  grove 
When  noon  falls  fast  asleep  among  the  hills. 
Nor  only  these,  —  for  I  can  pipe  to  you 
Songs  that  will  make  the  slippery  vipers  pause. 
And  stay  the  stags  to  gaze  with  their  great  eyes ; 


Such  songs  —  and   you   shall  hear  them  if  you 

will  — 
That  Bacchus'  self  would  give  his  hide  to  hear. 
If  you  '11  but  love  me  every  day,  I  '11  bring 
The  coyest  flowers,  such  as  you  never  saw. 
To  deck  you  with.     I  know  their  secret  nooks,  — 
They  cannot  hide  themselves  away  from  Pan. 
And  you  shall  have  rare  garlands  ;  ami  your  bed 
Of  fragrant  mosses  shall  be  sprinkled  o'er 
With  violets  like  your  eyes,  — just  for  a  kiss. 
Love  me,  and  you  shall  do  whate'er  you  like, 
And  shall  be  tended  wheresoe'er  you  go, 
And  not  a  beast  .shall  hurt  you,  —  not  a  toad 
But  at  your  bidding  give  his  jewel  up. 
The  speckled  shining  snakes  shall  never  .sting. 
But  twist  like  bracelets  round  your  rosy  arms, 
And  keep  your  bosom  cool  in  the  hot  noon. 
You  shall  have  berries  ripe  of  every  kind. 
And  luscious  peaches,  and  wild  nectarines. 
And  sun-flecked  ajiricots,  and  honeyed  dates. 
And  wine  from  bee-stuug  grapes,  drunk  with  the 

sun 
(Such  wine  as  Bacchus  never  tasted  yet). 
And  not  a  ]ioisonous  plant  shall  have  the  power 
To  tetter  your  white  flesh,  if  you  '11  love  Pan. 
And  then  I  '11  tell  you  tales  that  no  one  knows  ; 
Of  what  the  pines  talk  in  the  summer  nights. 
When  far  above  you  hear  them  murmuring. 
As  they  sway  whispering  to  the  lifting  breeze  ; 
And  what  the  storm  shrieksto  the  struggling  oaks 
As  it  flies  through  them  hurrying  to  the  sea 
From    mountain    crags   and   c.lifls.      Or,    when 

you  're  sad, 
I  '11  tell  you  tales  that  solemn  C)'presses 
Have  whispered  to  me.     There  's  not  anything 
Hid  in  the  woods  and  dales  and  dark  ravines. 
Shadowed  in  dripping  caves,  or  by  the  shore. 
Slipping  from  sight,  but  I  can  tell  to  yon. 
Plump,  dull-eared  Bacchus,  thinking  of  himself. 
Never  can  catch  a  syllable  of  this  ; 
But  with  my  shaggj'  ear  against  the  grass 
1  hear  the  secrets  hidden  underground. 
And  know  how  in  the  inner  forge  of  Earth, 
The  ])ulse-like  hammers  of  creation  beat. 
Old  Pan  is  ugly,  rough,  and  rude  to  see, 
But  no  one  knows  such  secrets  as  old  Pan. 


COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

FROM  "IRISH  MELODIES." 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  mj'  own  stricken  deer. 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home 

is  still  here  ; 
Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last 


4zt— - 


e  Last. 


[& 


134 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


n 


Oh  !  wliut  was  lovo  miulu  lor,  if  't  is  not  the  sftino 
Thi-ough  joy  and  through  torment,  througli  glory 

uiul  shniuo  I 
I  know  not,  1  iisk  not,  it'gnilt's  in  that  lieart, 
I  but  know  that  I  Uivo  theo,  whatcvi'r  thou  art. 

Tliou  liast  lalK'ii  mo  tliv  Angol  in  moments  of 

Mi^s. 
Aiul  thy  Angel  1  '11  be,  mill  the  horrors  of  this, 
'I'lirougli  the  fnrnaee,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to 

imrsiie. 
And  shield  thee,  anil  save  thee, — or  jierish  there 


Thomas  Mooki; 


BEDOUIN  LOVE-SONG. 

From  the  Desert  I  <'ome  to  thee, 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  tire  ; 
.\nd  the  winds  are  left  Iwhind 

In  the  sjieed  of  my  desiiv. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand. 

And  the  midnight  heai-s  my  ery  : 
1  love  thee,  1  love  but  thee  ! 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  dio 
Till  the  sun  ffrows  cold, 
Jnd  the  stars  are  old, 
And  llif  h-aixs  of  the  Judijmcnt 
Book  unfold! 

Look  from  thy  window,  and  soe 

My  passion  and  n\y  pain  ! 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

.\nd  1  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  toueh  tliy  brow 
With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh. 
Anil  nu'lt  theo  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  lovo  that  slinll  not  dio 
'Till  the  sun  <;roics  cold, 
.tnd  the  stars  are  old. 
And  the  Icatvs  of  the  Judijmcnt 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  stejis  are  nightly  driven, 
I5y  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  laltiee  breathed 

The  wonl  that  shall  give  me  ivst. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart. 

And  open  thy  ehamlier  door. 
And  my  kisses  sliall  teaeli  thy  lips 
The  lovo  that  shall  fade  no  more 
TUX  the  sun  yroiiw  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old. 
And  the  leaves  o/th$  Judgment 
Book  unfold/ 

BAVARD  Taylor. 


WHEN  YOUR  BEAUTY  APPEARS. 

"  WiiKN  your  beauty  appears. 

In  its  graees  and  ail's, 
All  bright  as  an  angel  now  droi>t  from  the  skies. 

At  distaneo  1  gaze,  and  am  awed  by  my  fears. 
So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eyes  ! 

"  Hut  when  without  art 
Your  kinil  thoughts  yon  inijiart. 
When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  through  every 
vi'in. 
When  it  darts  from  your  eyes,  when  it  pants 
at  your  heart. 
Then  I  know  that  you  're  \von\an  again." 

"  There  's  a  passion  and  pride 

In  our  se.v,"  she  roplied  ; 
"  And  thus  (might  1  gratify  both)  1  would  do, — 

Still  an  angel  appear  to  eaeh  lover  beside, 
But  still  bo  a  womiui  for  you." 

Thomas  I'ak.selu 


KISS  ME  SOFTLY. 

Ai  "itAi  Alil.i.  —  CAHU.1.US. 

Kiss  mo  softly  and  speak  to  mo  low,  — 

Maliee  has  ever  a  vigihuit  ear  ; 

What  if  Maliee  were  lurking  near  ? 
Kiss  me,  deiu- ! 
Kiss  mo  softJy  and  speak  to  me  low. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low,  — 
Knvy  too  has  a  watehful  ear  : 
What  if  Envy  should  ehanee  to  hear? 
Kiss  me,  dear ! 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low  : 
Trust  me,  darling,  the  time  is  near 
When  level's  may  love  with  never  a  fear,  — 
Kiss  me,  dear  I 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

John  Oodi-ruv  Saxe. 


THE  FIRST  KISS. 

How  delieious  is  the  winning 
Of  a  kiss  at  love's  Wginning, 
When  two  mutual  hearts  aro  sighing 
For  the  knot  there  's  no  untying. 

Yet  ivmemlHM',  midst  your  wooing. 
Love  has  bliss,  but  love  has  ruing  ; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  liekle. 
Teal's  for  other  charms  mav  trickle. 


THE  FIRST  KISS. 


"  How  delicious  is  the  winning 
0/  a  kiss  at  lore's  beginnings 
When  two  tnutuai  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there's  no  untying.'"' 


[&-- 


LOVE. 


135 


-^ 


Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries, 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries,  — 
Longest  stays  when  sorest  chidden. 
Laughs  and  flies  when  pressed  and  bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly. 
Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily. 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver,  — 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  forever  ! 

Love  's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and  captured,  — 

Only  free  he  soars  enraptured. 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ring-dove's  neck  from  changing  ? 
No  !  nor  fettered  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there  's  no  untying. 

THOMAS  Campbell. 


SLY  THOUGHTS. 

"  I  SAW  him  kiss  your  cheek  ! " —  "'T  is  true." 
"0  Modesty!"  —  "'T  was  strictly  kept  : 

He  thought  me  asleep  ;  at  least,  I  knew 
He  thought  1  thought  he  thought  I  slept." 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 


& 


THE  KISS. 

1.  Amoxg  thy  fancies  tell  me  this  : 
What  is  the  thing  we  call  a  kiss  ?  — 

2.  I  shall  resolve  ye  what  it  is  : 

It  is  a  creature  born  and  bred 

Between  the  lips  all  cherry  red. 

By  love  and  warm  desires  i'eil  ; 

Clior.    And  makes  more  soft  the  bridal  bed. 

It  is  an  active  flame,  that  flies 
First  to  the  babies  of  the  eyes, 
And  charms  them  there  with  lullabies  ; 
Chor.    And  stills  the  bride  too  when  she  cries. 

Then  to  the  chin,  the  cheek,  the  ear. 
It  frisks  and  flies,  —  now  here,  now  there  ; 
'T  is  now  far  off,  and  then  't  is  near  ; 
Chor.    And  here,  and  there,  and  everpvhere. 

1.    Has  it  a  speaking  virtue  ?  —  2.    Yes. 
1.    How  speaks  it,  say  ? — 2.  Do  you  but  this : 
Part  your  joined  lips,  — then  speaks  your 
kiss ; 
Chor.    And  this  love's  sweetest  language  is. 


1.    Has  it  a  body?  —  2.    Ay,  and  wings. 
With  a  thousand  rare  encolorings  ; 
And  as  it  Hies  it  gently  sings  ; 
Chor.    Love  honey  yields,  but  never  stings. 
Robert  herrk 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

So  you  call  that  a  kiss,  when,  in  token  of  parting. 
Your  lips  touched  my  own  with  such  tremu- 
lous fear  ; 
When   haste   took   for   wages  the  most   of  the 
honey 
And  whispered  that  danger  and  peril  were  near. 

So  you  call  that  a  kiss  !     Let  me  paint  for  a 
minute. 
The  home  of  my  fancy,  my  castle  of  rest, 
Wliere  —  all  the  bright  dreams  of  my  life  stored 
within  it  — 
I  linger  for  hours  with  the  frieuds  I  love  best. 

The   lamps   shed  a  light  like  the  soft  glow  of 
moonbeams. 
The  air  breathes  warm  odors  of  spice  an  I  of 
balm. 
Not  a  sound  breaks  the  hush,  and  the  spirit,  in 
rapture. 
Folds  round  it  the  mantle  of  heavenly  calm. 

You  are  there  in  the  stillness  and   some   one 
beside  you. 
We  '11  say,  for  the  dream's  sake,  the  one  you 
love  best. 
She  is  kneeling  beside  you,  your  arms  are  arouml 
her. 
Her  head  on  your  shoulder  is  pillowed  in  rest. 

You  smooth  the  soft  tresses  away  from  her  fore- 
head. 
Her  breath,  sweet  as  summer,  floats  over  your 
cheek. 
You  tighten  your  clasp   as  you  murmur,  "My 
darling, 
I  am  weai-y  and  faint  for  the  kisses  I  seek." 

She  tui-ns  her  face  toward  you,  her  large  eyes  up- 
lifted. 
Dilated,  and  dark,  vnXli  a  passionate  fire  : 
And  her  rich,  dewy  lips,  in  their  innocent  fond- 
ness. 
Fill  up  in  fidl  measure  your  cup  of  desire. 

0  moment  ecstatic  —  renewed  and  repeated  ! 

Alas  !  weary  world,  with  your  burden  of  care. 
Your  raptures  are  coldness,  your  kisses  are  fail- 
ures. 
When  matched   with   the   ones  of  my  castle 
in  air. 


Mary  Louise  Ritter. 


-^ 


[fi- 


136 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


■a 
i 


THE  I'LAIDIE. 

Upon  anc  stormy  Suiuiay, 

Coming  iitloon  llic  lane, 
Were  a  score  of  lionnio  lassies  — 

And  the  sweetest  1  maintain 

Was  Caddie, 

That  I  took  unncath  my  plaidie, 

To  shield  her  from  the  rain. 

She  said  that  the  daisies  blushed 
For  the  kiss  that  1  had  ta'en  ; 

1  wad  na  hao  thought  the  lassie 

Wad  sae  of  a  kiss  eomplain: 

"  Now,  laddie! 

1  winna  stay  umler  your  plaidie, 
If  I  gang  liame  in  the  rain  ! " 

But,  on  an  after  Sunday, 
When  cloud  there  was  not  ane, 

This  selfsame  winsome  lassie 

(Wo  clianccd  to  meet  in  the  lane) 
Said,  "  Laddie, 

Why  dinna  yc  wear  your  plaidie  ? 
Wha  kens  but  it  may  rain  ?" 

CHARLES  SIllLEV. 


& 


HISSING'S  NO  SIN. 

Some  say  that  kissing  's  a  sin  ; 

But  1  think  it 's  none  ava. 
For  kissing  has  wonn'd  in  this  warld 

Since  ever  that  there  was  twa. 

0,  if  it  wasna  lawfu' 

Lawyers  wadna  allow  it ; 
If  it  wasna  holy. 

Ministers  wadna  do  it. 

If  it  wasna  modest. 

Maidens  wadna  tak'  it ; 
If  it  wasna  plenty, 

Puir  folk  wadna  get  it. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

TiiF.  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  rivers  with  tlic  ocean  : 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  forever. 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single  ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle  :  — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See !  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven. 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 


No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdained  its  brother  ; 

And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth. 
And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  : 

What  are  all  these  kissings  worth. 
If  thou  kiss  not  mo  ? 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SH 


COMIN'  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  through  the  rye. 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body. 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie,  — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  1  ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Anutnri  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

I  dcarbj  lo'e.  miiscV ; 
But  u-liaur  his  ?iamc,  or  what  his  name, 
I  dinna  can  to  tell. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  frae  the  \ovra, 
Gin  a  body  greet  a  body, 

Need  a  body  frown  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie,  — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  1  ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Among  the  train  there  is  a  sirain 

I  dearly  lo'e  myseV  ; 
But  u-haiir  his  hame.  or  what  his  name, 
I  dinnii  care  to  tell. 

Adapted  by  HirRNS. 


KITTY  OF  COLERAINE. 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 
Wit  h  a  pitchcrof  milk,  from  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 

When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  ]iitclier  it 
tumbled, 
And  all  the  sweet  buttermilk  watered  the  jilain. 

"  0,  what  sh.ill  1  do  now  ? —  't  was  lookingat  you 
now  ! 

Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I  '11  ne'er  meet  ;xgain! 
'T  was  the  pride  of  my  dairy:  0  Barney  M'Clcary! 

You  're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girlsof  Coleraine. " 

1  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her. 
That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain. 

A  kiss  then  1  gave  her  ;  and  ere  I  diil  leave  her, 
She  vowed  for  such  pleasureshe'd  bre.^k  it  again 


-& 


r&- 


LOVE. 


137 


-a 


h 


"T  was  hay-making  season  —  I  can't  tell  the  rea- 
son — 

Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  't  is  plain; 
For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 

The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  MOTH'S  KISS,    FIRST. 

FROM  ••  IN  A  GONDOLA." 

The  Moth's  kiss,  first  ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up  ;  so,  here  ami  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  open  burst. 

The  Bee's  kiss,  now  ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dared  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

ROBERT  BROWNINC- 


THE  LITTE-PLAYER. 

FROM   "  HASSAN    BEN  KHALED." 

"  '  Music  ! '  they  shouted,  echoing  my  demand, 
And  answered  with  a  beckon  of  his  hand 
The  gracious  host,  whereat  a  maiden,  fair 
As  the  last  star  that  leaves  the  morning  air, 
Came  down  the  leafy  paths.      Her  veil  revealed 
The  beauty  of  her  face,  which,  half  concealed 
Behind  its  thin  blue  folds,  showed  like  the  moon 
Behind  a  cloud  that  will  forsake  it  soon. 
Her  hair  was  braided  darkness,  but  the  glance 
Of  lightning  eyes  shot  from  her  countenance, 
And  showed  her  neck,  that  like  an  ivory  tower 
Rose  o'er  the  twin  domes  of  her  marble  breast. 
Were  all  the  beauty  of  this  age  compressed 
Into  one  form,  she  would  transcend  its  power. 
Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  young  gazelle's 
And  as  she  walked,  her  anklet's  golden  bells 
Tiukled  with  pleasure,  but  were  quickly  mute 
With  jealousy,  as  from  a  case  she  drew 
With  snowy  hands  the  pieces  of  her  lute. 
And  took  her  seat  before  me.     As  it  grew 
To  perfect  shape,  her  lovely  arms  she  bent 
Around  the  neck  of  the  sweet  instrument. 
Till  from  her  soft  caresses  it  awoke 
To  consciousness,  and  thus  its  rapture  spoke: 
'  I  was  a  tree  within  an  Indian  vale, 
When  first  I  heard  the  love-sick  nightingale 
Declare  his  passion  ;  every  leaf  was  stirred 


With  the  melodious  sorrow  of  the  bird, 
And  when  he  ceased,  the  song  remained  with  me. 
Men  came  anon,  and  felled  the  harmless  tree, 
But  from  the  memory  of  the  songs  I  heard, 
The  spoiler  saved  me  from  the  destiny 
Whereby  my  brethren  perished.     O'er  the  sea 
I  came,  and  from  its  loud,  tumultuous  moan 
I  caught  a  soft  and  solemn  undertone  ; 
And  when  1  grew  beneath  the  maker's  hand 
To  what  thou  seest,  he  sang  (the  while  he  planned) 
The  mirthful  measures  of  a  careless  heart, 
And  of  my  soul  his  songs  became  a  part. 
Now  they  have  laid  my  head  upon  a  breast 
Whiter  than  marble,  I  am  wholly  blest. 
The  fair  hands  smite  me,  and  my  strings  com- 
plain 
With  such  melodious  cries,  they  smite  again, 
Until,  with  passion  and  with  sorrow  swayed. 
My  toi-ment  moves  the  bosom  of  the  maid, 
Wlio  hears  it  speak  her  own.      I  am  the  voice 
Whereby  the  lovers  languish  or  rejoice  ; 
And  they  caress  me,  knowing  that  my  strain 
Alone  can  speak  the  language  of  their  pain.' 

"  Here  ceased  the  fingera  of  the  maid  to  stray 
Over  the  strings  ;  the  sweet  song  died  away 
In  mellow,  drowsy  murmurs,  and  the  lute 
Leaned  on  her  fairest  bosom,  and  was  mute. 
Better  than  wine  that  music  was  to  mo  ; 
Not  the  lute  only  felt  her  hands,  but  she 
Played  on  my  heart-strings,  till  the  sounds  be- 
came 
Incarnate  in  the  pulses  of  my  frame. 
Speech  left  my  tongue,  and  in  my  tears  alone 
Found  utterance.     With  stretched   arms  I  im- 
plored 
Continuance,  whereat  her  fingers  poured 
A  tenderer  music,  answering  the  tone 
Her  parted  lips  released,  the  while  her  throat 
Throbbed,  as   a   heavenly   bird    were   fluttering 

there. 
And  gave  her  voice  the  wonder  of  his  note. 
'His   brow,'  she  sang,   'is  white   beneath   his 

hair  ; 
The  fertile  beard  is  soft  upon  his  chin. 
Shading  the  mouth  that  nestles  warm  within. 
As  a  rose  nestles  in  its  leaves  ;  I  see 
His  eyes,  but  cannot  tell  what  hue  they  be. 
For  the  sharp  eyelash,  like  a  saber,  speaks 
The  martial  law  of  Passion  ;  in  bis  cheeks 
The  quick  blood  mounts,  and  then  as  quickly 

goes. 
Leaving  a  tint  like  marble  when  a  rose 
Is  held  beside  it ;  —  bid  him  veil  his  eyes. 
Lest  all  my  soul  should  unto  mine  arise. 
And  he  behold  it  I '     As  she  sang,  her  glance 
Dwelt  on  my  face  ;  her  beauty,  like  a  lance, 
Transfixed  my  heart.     I  melted  into  sighs, 


^ 


e- 


138 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-a 


Slain  by  tlie  arrows  of  lier  lioauteous  eyes. 

'  Why  is  her  bosom  matle,'  I  cried,  'a  snare  ? 

Wliy  does  a  single  ringlet  of  her  hair 

Hold  my  heart  captive  .' '      '  Would  you  know  ? ' 

she  said  ; 
'  It  is  that  you  are  mad  with  love,  and  chains 
Were  made  for  madmen.'     Then  she  raised  her 

head 
With  answering  love,  that  led  to  other  strains. 
Until  the  lute,  which  shared  with  her  the  smart, 
Kocked  as  in  storm  upon  her  beating  heart. 
Thus  to  its  wires  she  made  impassioned  cries  : 
'  I  swear  it  by  the  brightness  of  his  eyes  ; 
I  swear  it  by  the  darkness  of  his  hair  ; 
By  the  warm  bloom  his  limbs  and  bosom  wear  ; 
liy  the  fresh  pearls  his  rosy  lips  enclose  ; 
By  the  calm  majesty  of  his  repose  ; 
By  smiles  I  coveted,  and  frowns  1  feared. 
And  by  the  shooting  myrtles  of  his  beard,  — 
I  swear  it,  that  from  him  the  morning  drew 
Its  freshness,  and  the  moon  her  silvery  hue. 
The  sun  his  brightness,  and  the  stars  their  fire. 
And  musk  and  camphor  all  llieir  odorous  breath  : 
And  if  he  answer  not  my  love's  desire. 
Day  will  be  night  to  me,  and  Life  be  Death  ! '  " 
HAYAKD  Taylor. 


y^- 


SUB  SILENTIO. 

Husii !  the  night  is  calm  and  quiet 
And  the  crescent  moon  hangs  low  ; 

Silence  deep  and  wide  bath  power, 
And  the  south  wind  wanders  slow  — 

Through  a  casement  where  the  curtain 
Faintly  rustles  to  and  fro. 

Like  a  spirit  .softly  sighing 

l'"lits  it  all  the  chamber  round, 
"Where  the  dim  lamp  failing,  dving, 

.lust  dispels  tbr  ,i;ln,,lil  ]  il ,  .n.iind" ; 
Ibin;_'s  al.ur  Iwo  iLippv  .llr.in.ns, 
l!y  love's  pciii'rt  iirdHiisi'  rniwued. 

Even  through  the  gates  of  slumber 
To  the  shadowy  land  of  rest 

He  still  clasps  his  long-sought  treasure 
Closely,  closely  to  his  breast. 

With  the  ardor  of  a  passion 
Long  denied  and  long  repressed. 

With  his  lips  still  warm  with  kisses 
Close  and  clinging  as  his  own, 

Sighing  still  iu  happy  dreaming 

For  the  joy  his  heart  hath  known  — 

Sweetly,  iieacefully,  he  sluniluMs, 
In  the  arms  about  him  thrown. 

And  she  gazes  at  him,  thinking — 
Not  of  all  her  dreary  years  — 


Only  of  this  isle  of  glory, 

Reached  with  many  doubts  and  fears, 
Over  love's  frail  bridge  of  rainbows 

Fading  in  a  mist  of  tears. 

Then  she  nestles  still  more  closely 
To  the  heart  so  kind  and  dear. 

Whispering,  "  Love  me,  love  me,  darling 
All  ujy  hope  and  rest  is  hero, 

And  without  thee,  earth  is  nothing 
But  a  desert  cold  and  drear. 

"  0,  that  every  night  my  slumbers 

Might  be  so  supremely  blest, 
Bounded  by  thy  dear  embraces. 

Kissed  from  jiassiou  into  rest ; 
1  would  ask  no  better  heaven 

Sheltered  thus  and  thus  caressed." 

Fan  them  gently,  odorous  south  wind. 
And  begone  on  pinions  fleet ! 

Nothing  in  thy  nightly  journey 
Shall  thy  wandering  vision  greet, 

Half  as  perfect  in  fulfillment, 
Satisfying  and  complete. 

Mary  Louise  Ritteb 


CLEOPATRA. 

Here,  Charmian,  take  my  bracelets  ; 

They  bar  with  a  purple  stain 
My  arms  ;  turn  over  my  pillows,  — 

They  are  hot  where  I  have  lain  : 
Open  the  lattice  wider, 

A  gauze  o'er  my  bosom  throw, 
And  let  me  inhale  the  odors 

That  over  the  garden  blow. 

I  dreamed  I  was  with  my  Antony 

And  in  his  arms  I  lay ; 
Ah  me  !  the  vision  has  vanished,  — 

The  music  has  died  away. 
The  flame  and  the  perfume  have  perished  — 

As  this  spiced  aromatic  pastille 
That  wound  the  blue  smoke  of  its  odor. 

Is  now  but  an  ashy  hill. 

Scatter  upon  me  rose-leaves. 

They  cool  me  after  my  sleep. 
And  with  sandal  odors  fan  me 

Till  into  my  veins  they  creep  ; 
Rcacli  down  the  lute,  and  jilay  mo 

A  nii'lancboly  tune. 
To  vliyuie  witli  the  dream  that  has  vanished, 

And  tile  slumbering  afternoon. 


There,  drowsing  iu  golden  sunlight, 
Loiters  the  slow,  smooth  Nile, 


-^- 


LOVE. 


— a 

139 


Through  slender  [lapyri,  that  cover 

The  ivary  crocodile. 
The  lotus  lolls  on  the  water, 

And  opens  its  heart  of  gold, 
And  over  its  broad  leaf  pavement 

Never  a  ripple  is  rolled. 

The  twilight  breeze  is  too  lazy 

Those  feathery  palms  to  wave. 
And  yon  little  cloud  is  as  motionless 

As  a  stone  above  a  grave. 

Ah  me  !  this  lifeless  nature 

Oppresses  my  heart  and  brain  ! 
0,  for  a  storm  and  thunder. 

For  lightning  and  wild  fierce  rain  ! 
Fling  down  that  lute  —  I  hate  it ! 

Take  rather  his  buckler  and  sword, 
And  crash  them  and  clash  them  together 

Till  this  sleeping  world  is  stirred. 

Hark  !  to  my  Indian  beauty  — 

My  cockatoo,  creamy  white, 
Witli  roses  under  his  feathers  — 

That  flashes  across  the  light. 
Look  !  listen  !  as  backward  and  forward 

To  his  hoop  of  gold  he  clings. 
How  he  trembles,  with  crest  uplifted, 

And  shrieks  as  he  madly  swings  ! 

0  cockatoo,  shriek  for  Antony  ! 

Cry,  "  Come,  my  love,  come  home  !  " 
Shriek,  "  Antony  !  Antony  !  Antony  !  " 

Till  he  hears  you  even  in  Rome. 

There  —  leave  me,  and  take  from  my  chamber 

That  stupid  little  gazelle. 
With  its  bright  black  eyes  so  meaningless. 

And  its  silly  tinkling  bell  ! 
Take  him  —  my  nei-ves  he  vexes  — 

The  thing  without  blood  or  brain. 
Or,  by  the  body  of  I  sis, 

I  '11  snap  his  neck  in  twain  ! 

Leave  me  to  gaze  at  the  landscape 

Mistily  stretching  away. 
Where  the  afternoon's  opaline  tremors 

O'er  the  mountains  quivering  play 
Till  the  fiercer  splendor  of  sunset 

Pours  from  the  west  its  fire. 
And  melted,  as  in  a  crucible. 

Their  earthly  forms  expire  ; 

And  the  bald  blear  skull  of  the  desert 
With  glowing  mountains  is  crowned. 

That,  burning  like  molten  jewels. 
Circle  its  temples  round. 


I  will  lie  and  dream  of  the  past  time, 

.Flous  of  thought  away, 
And  through  the  jungle  of  memory 

Loosen  my  fancy  to  play  ; 
When,  a  smooth  and  velvety  tiger, 

Ribbed  with  yellow  and  black, 
Suiiple  and  cushion -footed, 

I  wandered  where  never  the  track 
Of  a  liuman  creature  had  rustled 

The  silence  of  mighty  woods. 
And,  fierce  in  a  tjTannous  freedom, 

I  knew  but  the  law  of  my  moods. 
The  elephant,  trumpeting,  started 

When  he  heard  my  footstep  near. 
And  the  spotted  giraffes  fled  wildly 

In  a  yellow  cloud  of  fear. 
I  sucked  in  the  noontide  splendor 

Quivering  along  the  glade. 
Or  yawning,  panting,  and  dreaming, 

Basked  in  the  tamarisk  shade. 
Till  I  heard  my  wild  mate  roaring. 

As  tlie  shadows  of  night  came  on 
To  brood  in  tlie  trees'  thick  branches. 

And  the  shadow  of  sleep  was  gone  ; 
Then  I  roused  and  roared  in  answer. 

And  unsheathed  from  my  cushioned  feet 
My  curving  claws,  and  stretched  me 

And  wandered  my  mate  to  greet. 
We  toyiKl  in  the  amber  moonlight, 

Upon  the  wann  flat  sand. 
And  struck  at  each  other  our  ma,ssive  anns  — 

How  powerful  he  was  and  grand  ! 
His  yellow  eyes  flashed  fiercely 

As  he  crouched  and  gazed  at  me, 
And  his  quivering  tail,  like  a  serpent. 

Twitched  curving  nervously  ; 
Then  like  a  storm  he  seized  me. 

With  a  wild,  triumphant  cry. 
And  we  met  as  two  clouds  in  heaven 

WTien  the  thunders  before  them  fly ; 
We  grappled  and  struggled  together. 

For  his  love,  like  his  rage,  was  rude  ; 
And  his  teeth  in  the  swelling  folds  of  my  neck 

At  times,  in  our  play,  drew  blood. 
Often  another  suitor  — 

For  1  was  flexile  and  fair  — 
Fought  for  me  in  the  moonlight. 

While  I  lay  crouching  there, 
Till  his  blood  was  drained  by  the  desert ; 

And,  ruffled  with  triumph  and  power. 
He  licked  me  and  lay  beside  me 

To  breathe  him  a  vast  half-hour  ; 
Then  down  to  the  fountain  we  loitered. 

Where  the  antelopes  came  to  drink,  — 
Like  a  bolt  we  sprang  upon  them, 

Ere  they  had  time  to  shrink. 
AVe  drank  their  blood  and  cruslied  them. 

And  tore  them  limb  from  limb, 


^ 


e^- 


140 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


& 


And  the  hungriest  lion  doubted 
Ere  he  disjiuted  with  him. 

That  was  a  life  to  live  for  ! 

Not  this  weak  human  life, 
With  its  frivolous,  bloodless  passions, 

Its  poor  and  petty  strife  ! 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  hero. 

The  shadows  of  twilight  grow, 
And  the  tiger's  ancient  fierceness 

In  my  veins  begins  to  flow. 
Come  not  cringing  to  sue  me  ! 

Take  me  with  triumph  and  power. 
As  a  warrior  storms  a  fortress  ! 

I  will  not  shrink  or  cower. 
Come  as  you  came  in  the  desert, 

Ere  we  were  women  and  men. 
When  the  tiger  passions  were  in  us. 

And  love  as  you  loved  me  then  ! 

William  w.  STOR^■ 


SMILE  AND  NEVER  HEED  ME. 

Though,  when  other  maids  stand  by, 
I  may  deign  thee  no  reply, 
Turn  not  then  away,  and  sigh,  — 

Smile,  and  never  heed  me  ! 
If  our  love,  indeed,  be  such 
xVs  must  thrill  at  every  touch, 
Why  should  others  learn  as  much  ?  — 

Smile,  and  never  heed  me  ! 

Even  if,  with  maiden  pride, 
I  should  bid  thee  ijuit  my  side. 
Take  this  lesson  for  thy  guide,  — 

Smile,  and  never  heed  me  ! 
But  when  stars  and  twilight  meet. 
And  the  dew  is  falling  sweet. 
And  thou  hear'st  my  coming  feet,  — 

Then  thou — then — mayst  heed  me  ! 

CHARLES  SWAIP 


I  ARISE  FROM  DREAMS  OF  THEE. 


I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low. 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ?  — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream,  — 

The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 


The  nightingale's  complaint. 

It  dies  upon  her  heart. 
As  1  must  die  on  thine, 

0,  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

0,  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  faU ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  I'ain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast  : 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again. 

Where  it  will  break  at  last  I 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SH 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGtTESE. 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  ehall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore, 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before. 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forebore,  .  .  ■ 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
AVith  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  he  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  chauged,  I  think. 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy  soul 
.Move  still,  0  still,  beside  me,  as  they  stole 
Betwi.xt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  who  thought  to  sink. 
Was  caught  up  into  love,  and  taught  the  whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of  dole 
God  gave  for  baptism  I  am  fain  to  drink. 
And  praise  its  sweetness.  Sweet,  with  thee  anear. 
The  names  of  country,  heaven,  are  changed  away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shall  be,  there  or  here  ; 
And  this,  this  lute  and  song,  loved  yesterday 
(The  singing  angels  know)  are  only  dear. 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what  they  say. 

Indeed,  this  very  love  which  is  my  boast, 
And  which,  when  rising  up  from  breast  to  brow. 
Doth  crowii  me  with  a  ruby  large  enow 
To  draw  men's  eyes  and  prove  the  inner  cost. 
This  love  even,  all  my  worth,  to  the  uttermost, 
I  should  not  love  withal,  unless  that  thou 
Hadst  set  me  an  example,  shown  me  how. 
When  first   thine  earnest  eyes  with  mine  were 
crossed, 


--& 


a-- 


LOVE. 


141     r 


And    love    called   love.      And    thus,     1    cannot 

ijieak 
Of  love  even,  as  a  good  thing  of  my  own. 
Thy  soul  hath  snatched  up  mine  all  faint  and 

weak, 
And  placed  it  by  thee  on  a  golden  throne,  — 
And  that  I  love  yO  soul,  we  must  be  meek  !) 
Is  by  tliee  only,  whom  I  love  alone. 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say, 
' '  I  love  her  for  her  smile,  her  look,  her  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  —  for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day." 
For  these  things  in  themselves.  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,   or  change  for  thee,  —  and  love  so 

wrought 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry,  — 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 

1  NEVER  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 

To  a  man.  Dearest,  e.xcept  this  to  thee,- 

Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 

I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  lengt-h  and  say, 

"  Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  went  yesterday; 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee. 

Nor  plant  I  It  from  rose  or  m)Ttle  tree. 

As  girls  do,  any  more.     It  only  may 

Now   shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the   mark  of 

tears. 
Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs  aside 
Through  sorrow's  trick.     I  thought  the  funeral- 
shears 
Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justified,  — 
Take  it  thou,  finding  pure,  from  all  those  years, 
The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 

The  soul's  Riulto  hath  its  merchandise  ; 
I  barter  curl  for  curl  upon  that  mart. 
And  from  my  poet's  forehead  to  my  heart 
Receive  this  lock  which  outweighs  argosies,  — 
As  purely  black,  as  erst,  to  Pindar's  eyes, 
The  dim  purpureal  tresses  gloomed  athwart 
The  nine  white  Muse-brows.    For  this  counterpart. 
Thy  bay-crown's  shade.  Beloved,  I  surmise, 
Still  lingers  on  thy  curl,  it  is  so  black  ! 
Thus,  mth  a  fillet  of  smooth-kissing  breath, 
1  tie  the  shadow  safe  from  gliding  back. 
And  lay  the  gift  where  nothing  hindereth. 
Here  on  my  heart,  as  on  thy  brow,  to  lack 
No  natural  heat  till  mine  grows  cold  in  death. 


Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again, 
That  thou  dost  love  me.     Though  the  word  re- 
peated 
Should  seem    "a   cuckoo-song,"   as   thou   dost 

treat  it. 
Remember,  never  to  the  hill  or  plain. 
Valley  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo-strain, 
Comes  the  fresh  spring  in  all  her  green  completed. 
Beloved,  1,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 
By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt's  pain 
Cry  ;  "  Speak  once  more  —  thou  lovest  !  "     Who 

can  fear 
Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven  shall  roll,  — 
Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall  crown  the 

year  ? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love  me,  —  toll 
The  silver  iterance  !  —  only  minding,  dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy  soul. 

Is  it  indeed  so  ?     If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldst  thou  miss  any  life  in  losing  mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly  shine. 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my  head  ? 
I  marveled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 
Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.     I  am  thine  — 
But  ...  so  much  to  thee  ?    Can  1  pour  thy  wine 
While  my  hands  tremble?    Then  my  soul,  instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower  range. 
Then,  love  me.  Love  !  look  on  me  .  .  .  breathe  on 

me  ! 
As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange, 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 
I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and  exchange 
My  near  sweetviewof  Heaven,  for  earth  with  thee  I 

My  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  mute  and  white  !  — 
And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 
Against  my  tremulous  handswhichloose  thestring 
And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to-night. 
This  said,  he  wished  to  have  me  in  his  sight 
Once,  as  a  friend  :  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring 
To  come  and  touch  my  hand  ...  a  simple  thing. 
Yet  1  wept  for  it !  this  .  .  .  the  paper  's  light .  .  . 
Said,  Dear,  I  love  thee  ;  and  I  sank  and  quailed 
As  if  God's  future  thundered  on  my  past. 
This  said,  /  am  thine,  —  and  so  its  ink  has  jialed 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast. 
And  this  ...  0  Love,  thy  words  have  ill  availed. 
If  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last ! 

I  THINK  of  thee  !  my  thoughts  do  twine  and  bud 

About  thee,  as  wild  vines  about  a  tree. 

Put  out  broad  leaves,  and  soon  there's  naught  to  see 

Except  the  straggling  green  which  hides  the  wood. 

Yet,  0  my  palm-tree,  be  it  understood 

I  will  not  have  my  thoughts  instead  of  thee 


-ff 


f 


142 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


-q, 


Who  art  dearer,  better  !  Rather  instantly 
Renew  thy  presence.     As  a  strong  tree  shouUI, 
Rustle  thy  boughs  and  set  thy  trunk  all  bare, 
A  nd  let  these  bands  of  greenery  which  insphere  thee 
Droj)   heavily   down,    burst,    shattered,    every- 
where ! 
Dccause,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and  hear  thee 
And  breathe  within  thy  shadow  a  new  ail', 
1  do  not  think  of  thee,  —  1  am  too  near  thee. 

TiiK  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine  oath 
To  love  me,  1  looked  forward  to  the  moon 
To  slacken  all  those  bonds  which  seemed  too  soon 
And  quickly  tied  to  make  a  lasting  troth. 
Quick-loving  hearts,    I    thought,    may    quickly 

loathe  ; 
And,  looking  on  myself,  1  seemed  not  one 
For  such  man's  love  !  —  more  like  an  out  of  tune 
Worn  viol,  a  good  singer  would  be  wroth 
To  spoil  his  song  with,  and  which,  snatched  in  haste 
Is  laid  down  at  the  first  iU-sounding  note. 
I  did  not  wrong  myself  so,  but  I  placed 
A  wrong  on  thcc.     For  perfect  strains  may  float 
Neath  master-hands,  from  instruments  defaced, — 
And  great  souls,  at  one  stroke,  may  do  and  doat. 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write  ; 
And,  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and  white. 
Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its  "  0  list ! " 
When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight 
Than  that  first  kiss.    The  second  passed  in  height 
The  first.and  soughttheforehead,and  half  missed. 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     0,  beyond  meed  ! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own 

crown, 
AVith  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 
.In  jierfcct,  purple  state  ;  since  when,  indeed, 
1  have  been  proud,  and  said,  ' '  My  love,  my  own  ! " 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?     Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

1  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 

1  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath. 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  ! —  and,  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

Elizabeth  Barrett,  browning. 


MY  LITTLE  SAINT. 

I  c.iRE  not,  though  it  be 

By  the  preciser  sort  thought  popery  ; 

We  poets  can  a  license  show 

For  everything  we  do. 
Hear,  then,  my  little  saint  !  I  '11  pray  to  thee. 

If  now  thy  happy  mind. 

Amidst  its  various  joys,  can  leisure  find 

To  attend  to  anything  so  low 

As  what  I  say  or  do. 
Regard,  aud  be — what  thou  wast  ever  —  kind. 

Let  not  the  blest  above 

Engross  thee  (juite,  but  sometimes  hither  rove  : 

Fain  would  I  thy  sweet  image  see, 

And  sit  and  talk  with  thee  ; 
Nor  is  it  curiosity,  but  love. 

Ah  !  what  delight  't  would  be, 
Wouldst  thou  sometimes  by  stealth  converse  with 
me  ! 

How  should  I  thy  sweet  commune  prize. 

And  other  joys  despise  ] 
Come,  then  !  I  ne'er  was  yet  denied  by  thee. 

I  would  not  long  detain 

Thy  soul  from  bliss,  nor  keep  thee  here  in  pain  ; 

Nor  should  thy  fellow-saints  e'er  know 

Of  thy  escape  below  : 
Before  thou  'rt  missed,  thou  .shouldst  return  again. 

Sure,  heaven  must  needs  thy  love. 
As  well  as  other  qualities,  improve  : 

Come,  then  !  and  recreate  my  sight 

With  rays  of  thy  pure  light  ; 
'T  will  cheer  my  eyes  more  than  the  lamps  above. 

But  if  Fate  's  so  severe 

As  to  confine  thee  to  thy  blissful  sphere 

(And  by  thy  absence  I  shall  know 

Whether  thy  state  be  so). 
Live  happy,  and  be  mindful  of  me  there. 


WAITING  FOR  THE  GRAPES. 

That  I  love  thee,  charming  maid,  I  a  thousand 
times  have  said. 
And  a  thousand  times  more  I  have  sworn  it, 
But 't  is  easy  to  be  seen  in  the  coldness  of  your 
mien 
That  you  doubt  my  afiection  —  or  scorn  it. 
Ah  me  ! 

Not  a  single  grain  of  sense  is  in  the  whole  of 
these  pretenses 
For  rejecting  your  lover's  petitions  ; 


^ 


f 


LOVE. 


143 


ra 


Had  I  windows  in  my  bosom,  0,  liow  gladly,  I  'd 
expose  'em  ! 
To  undo  your  fantastic  suspicions. 

Ah  me  ! 

You  repeat  I  've  known  you  long,  and  you  hint 
I  do  you  wrong, 
In  beginning  so  late  to  pursue  ye  ; 
But  't  is  folly  to  look  glum  because  people  did 
not  come 
Up  the  stairs  of  your  nursery  to  woo  ye. 

Ah  me  ! 

In  a  grapery  one  walks  without  looking  at  the 
stalks, 
While  the  bunches  are  green  that  they  're  bear- 
ing : 
All  the  pretty  little  leaves  that  are  dangling  at  the 
eaves 
Scarce  attract  e'en  a  moment  of  staring. 

Ah  mo  ! 

But  when  time  has  swelled  the  grapes  to  a  richer 
style  of  shapes, 
And  the  sun  has  lent  warmth  to  their  blushes, 
Then  to  cheer  us  and  to  gladden,  to  enchant  us 
and  to  madden. 
Is  the  ripe  ruddy  glory  that  rushes. 

Ah  me  ! 

0,  't  is  then  that  mortals  pant  while  they  gaze  on 
Bacchus'  plant,  — 
0,  't  is  then,  —  will  my  simile  .serve  ye  ? 
Should  a  damsel  fair  repine,  though  neglected  like 
a  vine  ? 
Both  erelong  shall  turn  lu^ads  topsy-turvy. 
Ah  me  ! 


B^- 


BLACK  Airo   BUTE  EYES. 

The  brilliant  black  eye 

May  in  triumph  let  fly 
All  its  darts  without  caring  who  feels  'em  ; 

But  the  soft  eye  of  blue. 

Though  it  scatter  wounds  too, 
Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em  ! 
Dear  Fanny  ! 

The  black  eye  may  say, 

"Come  and  worship  my  ray  ; 
By  adoring,  perhaps  you  may  move  me  !  " 

But  the  blue  eye,  half  hid. 

Says,  from  under  its  lid, 
"  I  love,  and  am  yours,  if  you  love  me  ! " 
Dear  Faimy  ! 


Then  tell  me,  0  why, 
In  that  lovely  blue  eye. 
Not  a  charm  of  its  tint  I  discover  ; 
Or  why  should  you  wear 
The  only  blue  p!Ur 
That  ever  said  "  No"  to  a  lover  ? 
Dear  Fanny  ! 

Thomas  Mo 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 

Do  you  a.sk  what  the  birds  say  ?     The  sparrow, 

the  dove. 
The  linnet,  and  thrush  say,  "  I  love,  and  1  love  1" 
In  the  winter  they  're  silent,  the  wind  is  so  strong ; 
What  it  says  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  louil 

song. 
But  green  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm 

weather. 
And  singing  and  loving, — all  come  back  together. 
But  the  lark  is  so  briml'ul  of  gladness  and  love. 
The  green  fielils  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above. 
That  he  sings,  and  he  sings,  and  forever  sings  ho, 
"  I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me." 

SAMUEL  Coleridge. 


THE  LOVE-KNOT. 

Tvrxc.  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in. 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  .snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  (loafing  hair. 
For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  u])  the  hill. 

Where  the  wind  came  blowing  merry  and  chill ; 

And  it  blew  the  curls  a  frolicsome  race. 

All  over  the  happy  peach-colored  face. 

Till  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied  them  in. 

Under  her  beautiful,  dimpled  chin. 

Ami  it  blew  a  color,  bright  as  the  bloom 
Of  the  pinkest  fuchsia's  tossing  plume. 
All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest  girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  romping  curl. 
Or,  in  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
Tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill. 
Madder,  merrier,  chiller  still. 
The  western  wind  blew  down,  and  played 
The  wildest  tricks  with  the  little  maid. 
As,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 


-i 


& 


144 


rOEilS  OF  LOVE. 


-n 


k 


0  wostcrn  wind,  do  you  think  it  wns  lair 

To  play  snc-li  tiiolvs  witli  luT  lloatiiii;  luiii  ' 

To  i;luilly,  j;U'i'l'ully,  do  your  bost 

To  blow  htn' nj;!iinst  tho  vounj;  nuiii's  brciist, 

\VluMt>  ho  lias'gladly  folci.-d  h'or  in. 

And  kissod  her  mouth  and  dinii'lod  ohiu  ? 

0  EUory  Vnno,  you  Ulth'  thoUf;lit, 
An  hour  ago,  wlu'U  you  besought 
This  country  hiss  to  walk  with  you, 
Afti'V  the  sun  had  driod  tho  dow. 
What  torribhi  danger  you  M  be  in. 
As  sho  tied  hor  bonnet  under  her  ehiu. 


A  GOLDEN  GIRL 

Ll'CY  is  a  goldeu  girl ; 

But  a  man,  a  man,  shouhi  woo  her  ! 
Thoy  who  seek  her  shrink  alvick, 

Whon  tliey  shouM,  likf  storms,  jnu'suo  her. 

All  hor  smiles  are  hid  in  light  ; 

All  her  hiiir  is  lost  in  s]4endor  ; 
But  she  hath  the  eyes  of  Nifjlit 

And  a  hesu't  that 's  over-tender. 

Yet  the  foolish  suitors  fly 

(Is  't  oxoess  of  dread  or  duty  !) 
Fixim  the  starlight  of  her  eye, 

Leaving  to  negleet  her  beauty  ! 

Men  by  fifty  seasons  taught 

Leave  her  to  a  young  beginner. 
Who,  without  a  second  thought, 

Whispers,  woos,  and  straight  must  win  her. 

Luey  is  a  golden  girl ! 

Toixst  her  in  a  goWot  brimniing  I 
May  the  man  that  wins  her  wear 

On  his  heart  the  Kose  of  Women  ! 

UARKV  CORNWALL. 


PHILLIDA  AND  CORYDON. 

Is  the  merry  month  of  May, 
In  a  morn  by  break  of  day. 
With  a  tniop  of  damsels  playing 
Forth  1  ivde,  forsooth,  a-numng. 
When  anon  by  a  woodside. 
Where  as  May  was  in  his  pride, 
1  espii-d,  all  Mono, 
PhiUida  and  Corydon. 

Much  ado  there  was,  Gml  wot  ! 
He  would  love  and  she  would  not  : 


She  said,  "  Never-  man  was  true  "  : 
He  says,  "  None  was  fal.se  to  you." 
lie  said  he  had  loved  hor  long  : 
She  says,  "  l.ove  should  have  no  WTOUg,' 

tVirydon  he  would  kiss  her  then. 
She  says,  "  Maids  must  kiss  no  men 
Till  they  do  for  good  ami  all." 
Then  sho  nnule  the  shepherd  call 
All  the  heavens  to  witness,  truth 
Never  loved  a  truer  youth. 

Thus,  with  many  a  pRHty  oath, 
Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth,  — 
Such  as  silly  shephenls  use 
When  they  will  not  lovo  abuse,  — 
Love,  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded  ; 
And  riiillida,  with  garlands  gay, 
Wivj  made  tho  lady  of  the  May, 


THE  CHRONICLE. 

M.\K0ARITA  tii-st  possiessed. 
If  1  reniember  well,  my  breast, 

Margjirita  fii-st  of  all  ; 
But  when  awhile  tho  wanton  maid 
With  my  i-estless  heart  had  played, 

Martha  took  tlie  Hying  ball. 

Martha  soon  did  it  resign 
To  tho  beauteous  Catharine. 

Beauteous  Catharine  gave  place 
(Though  loath  and  angry  she  to  purt 
With  the  possession  of  my  heart) 

To  Klisa's  conquering  face. 

Eliza  till  this  hour  might  reign, 
Had  she  not  evil  counsels  ta'en  ; 

Fundamental  laws  she  broke. 
And  still  new  favorites  she  chose. 
Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  ix>se. 

And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Anne, 
Both  to  irign  at  once  begjin  ; 

Alternately  they  swayed  ; 
And  sometinu'S  Mary  was  the  fair, 
And  sometimes  Anne  the  crown  did  wear, 

And  sometimes  both  1  obeyed. 

Another  Mai-y  then  arose. 
And  did  rigorous  laws  impose  ; 

A  mighty  t\Tant  she  ! 
Long,  alas  !  should  1  have  l>ecn 
Under  that  iron-sceptered  queen. 

Had  not  Kebccca  set  me  fn>e. 


-^ 


14S 


~r^. 


When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 

"1'  was  then  a  ;^o|iieii  time  with  me  : 

iiiit  Hoon  tiioHC  [ileasureH  lle<l  ; 
Kor  tlie  jjraciou.s  jirinccss  diwl 
In  lier  youth  and  beauty'tt  jiride, 

Ajid  .Indith  n^igncd  in  her  stead. 

One  iii'iritli,  three  days,  and  ijalf  an  hour, 
.Indith  held  the  sovereign  jKnver  : 

Wondrous  heautilul  her  lace  I 
I'.ut  so  weak  and  small  lier  wit, 
That  she  to  govern  was  unfit, 

And  so  Susanna  took  her  jilace. 

Hut  when  Isatella  cime, 
Armed  with  a  resistless  Hume, 

And  the  artillery  of  her  eye. 
Whilst  she  proudly  marched  about, 
Greater  concjuests  to  find  out. 

She  beat  out  Susan,  by  the  by. 

liut  in  her  place  I  then  obeyed 
IJlack-eyed  Bess,  her  viceroy-maid. 

To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy  : 
Thousand  worse  passions  then  possessed 
The  interregnum  of  my  breast ; 

I'less  me  from  such  an  anarchy  ! 

Gentle  Henrietta  then, 

And  a  thinl  Mary  ne.tt  began  ; 

Then  .loan  and  .Jane,  and  AndrL'i ; 
And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 
And  then  another  Catharine, 

And  then  a  long  d  cceltiru. 

liut  I  will  briefer  with  them  be, 
Sini:e  few  of  them  were  long  with  me. 

An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 
My  present  emperess  does  claim, 
Heleonora,  first  of  the  name  ; 

Whom  God  giant  long  to  reign  ! 

AllKAMAM  COWLUV. 


OKKKN   GROW   TIfE   RASHES  O  I 

GisKK.s  grow  the  rashes  0, 

Green  grow  the  rashes  0  ; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 

Are  s[)ent  amang  the  la-sses  0. 

There  's  naught  but  care  on  cv'ry  ban', 
In  every  hour  that  passes  O  ; 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man. 
An'  't  were  na  for  the  hxsscs  O  ? 

The  warly  raf:e  may  riches  cha.se. 
An'  riches  still  may  fly  them  O  ; 


An'  though  at  last  they  catch  them  l'a«t, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them  O. 

Gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearii:  O, 

An'  warly  cares  an'  warly  men 
May  all  gae  tapsalt<«rie  (J. 

I'or  you  «ae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye  're  naught  but  senseless  asses  0  I 

The  wisest  niaij  the  warl'  e'er  saw 
He  dearly  lo'ed  the  lasses  0. 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  nolilest  work  she  idasses  ()  :        _ 

Her  'prentice  ban'  she  tried  on  man. 
An'  then  she  nuule  the  lasses  O. 

KOIIP.KT  nl.'ll^ 


AN  APOLOGV  FOR  OfJINi;  INTO  TUB  COONTkV. 

Cill/iK,  w«  must  not  always  bo  in  heaven 
Forever  toying,  ogling,  kissing,  billing  ; 

The  joys  for  which  I  thousands  woulil  have  given. 
Will  presently  bo  scarcely  woi'tli  a  shilling. 

Thy  neck  is  fairer  than  the  Alpine  snows, 
And,  sweetly  swelling,  beats  the  down  ofiloves, 

Thy  cheek  of  health,  a  rival  to  the  rose  ; 

Thy  pouting  lips,  the  throne  of  all  the  loves  ; 

Yet,  though  thus  beautiful  beyond  expression, 

That  beauty  fadeth  by  too  much  iiossession. 

Economy  in  love  is  peace  to  nature. 
Much  like  economy  in  worldly  matter  ; 
We  should  be  prudent,  never  live  loo  fast  ; 
Profusion  will  not,  cannot  always  last. 

Lovers  are  really  spendthrifts  — 't  is  a  shame  — 
Nothing  their  thoughtless,  wild  career  can  tame. 

Till  penury  stares  theni  in  the  face  ; 
And  when  they  finil  an  enijity  [iiirsc, 
'jrown  calmer,  wiser,  how  the  fault  they  curse. 

And,  limping,  look  with  such  a  sneaking  grace  ! 
.Job's  war-horse  fierce,  his  neck  with  thun<lcr  hung. 
Sunk  to  an  humble  hack  that  carries  dung. 

.Smell  to  the  f(ucen  of  flowers,  the  fragrant  row;  — 
.Smell  twenty  times — and  then, my  dear,  thy  nose 
Will  tell  thee  Oiot  so  much  for  scent  athirst) 
The  twentieth  <lrank  less  flavor  than  ihejiral. 

Love,  doubtless,  is  the  sweetest  of  all  fellows  ; 

Yet  often  should  the  little  god  retire  — 
Abiicnc(f,  dear  Chloe,  is  a  pair  of  Isdlows, 

That  keeps  alive  the  himtikI  tin:. 

DR.   W01.COT  (I'HII'.R   I'INIMR  ) 


-.-g 


Itl--, 


I  ll'> 


WJfAfN  (»*'  /.(»IK. 


•Ij, 


AN    INUKl-nUN    .\UA\N!iT  \,vlUM. 


li^- 


.\\.\.  Is  not  hmMo  tlmt  mIiIiu'IIi  liiiulu  li>  sixwv, 
Not  I'vii'i)'  l>>m>v  xxKiil,  n.t  Tuiiv  lo  >i>ilil, 
'Hio  ilivjtivil  MhiuuTO  iilumn  iliio  I'lilimwl  How, 
Ami  MlMUfjiwI  |ivi\»iii\n  .irt  (111'  iHadiilolight, 

'Hio  iilt>H!.i»\l  Imilo  ilolli  hiilii  llio  liHi'ml'xU 

Auil  0>1j<i>  >UH'oil  oim  loml  «  tVi<>iiill,v  lnuko, 

l.i'V\i<  Is  tl\<>  H^^l^l  \vl»>«ti>  OHtWKwl  lu>\V  (U(ll>  H«**is 
\Vl\ivio  livMl  lH>j<lmiiiijft  jjMixll^v  ("WiuU"  mi\k<> 
Of  Hlii«>in\«  fiiiw,  uiiil  hx'sli  i\s  Sidumi'i'n  f;in»a<i, 
\V|iiv'l»  iw'liliiH'  a«i>mi>  I'tiu  niii\>lv  mil'  wiinl  iim 

sl««ko  i 
riiii  nli.'ii  ()>.'  Kioiiia  .'.lioiiM  m  llio  lliv  Ih' 

ui.lo. 
ri\i>}>\»Kl  ix  jj!\\u>>,  tlu>>li\w»«>  il»tl\  slilliiUUtv, 

lUviVWiUs  ll»'  lUxuv  so  IWI>,  ."«>  fiitiv,  s<>  >jn,Vi 
So  s\vi»i>(  (<>  stiM'll,  »>  sol"!  In  liiuvli  «»<1  trtst  ; 
As  si>o\«<^«  U  sliowld  oinhwv  l\v  ii)5)il  li«'  uyxs 
At(>l  «>'«<<('  \w  with  nn,v  siwi'Hiii  ilofosi  i 

\\\\\  \\\w\\  il\o  lv)U<l\il  M>«il\<>>in>  \vi»\il  \loU> 

0<v«i>  is  \\w  jjlvviy  \\liio>>  \\  m-sl  viivl  sUow, 

t,>w<>  is  tl\i>  stixvjuMo,  wUivso  waufts  so  vs'vhuly  rt»\v 
As  \hIj{1i(  i\>lti'<<  u\<>\>'s  «\i»ils  (o  \vtt>lo  tl»invi»  i 
\,o«>'  is  \\w  i>oiso«  »il\l  \vitl>  »>V)j«r  siS 
As  \i\ij;t>t  •'>  oHt\V!>i\l  s\v<><M«i>»si>  likii\j;  \vi«, 

\\\\{  US  llu>  >i<>.'lvt>  v^^H•|^^l^^  i\\,i<  s(»\vs  |\y  ^»^^!lth 
Sw  jvovSiWl  >»«iV  >>iV<'V«M  \>l'i>\}<SvH^Vt«i«><>  i><>i>ll\, 

>.>M\i>  is  \\w  Mtx\  \vl>iv«'  Irtslo  tl\o  rtsl>  iltvoiiuvs, 
Awvl  makivtthomswidUnv  >lo\\\>ll>iH'li«kiii};)i>vko; 

\  .v>»0  is  1 1\<<  l^\v-t'  W  I\IW1>  fi»iv\\<>4S<'  i\i<i»^x"\iu>)>l  \\s>»ivs, 

A\ul  »»«k<>s  tlxH'  ti'Hst  !»  I«lst>  juivl  l'i>iii>M  loivki- ! 
U\>t  rts  ()>o  t\.vko(hi-  l\v\1isU  tisK  .loih  kill. 
Sv>  rt,'>t.t'vi>vsl»<»k<\s  !)»<>  >ovw'»Uf<>>l<MUs\\iU, 

AX\\N\Mv>V"S. 


I  >)«iv>k)_\  slnvv>kl  tlio  wiUow  \vi\'>v  ; 
V\i»  \\\>»lii  I  <\\sm',  \\\it  <no\\  s*j' 
\VI>i>»  )»vo  is  tiisl  l»o  will  awav  ; 
'lM>o«  ivU  «vis  \v>v<\  \v)ml  sUaM  \  (ivx 
'IV  >'\\iv  thtw  IW\^  \vhivi\<''i>\'  \  \v\v\x  t 

Tl\»>  fi>ii-  >\w<>  shi*  's  »  «>»vk  h>  *\k 
')M«>  \\«\\\\n  .xso)*  >\\>.i  ,iv\tU  \o\vl\'  (vMl, 

Tlvo  \\l!>i'k  V  »  )y\->vl  i>\  fivir  \\>i>u's  oywv. 

rtii-  >\v>it  \\il\  stvH>j>  »t  swy  iwirt'  ! 

I'hi'H  tx>U  \»<s  kms  \vh«<  slisU  I  i>v> 
'l\>  v'vuv  lhiv«T>  tK'M-s,  \vl><<«cVr  I  \v>w  J 


WlStlTO  K«\U  TtlK  St'l'I'OSKn  MJSTKKSS, 

\YllO|{'li.l(  sill'  Iv. 

'I'llill  Dol  liii|i».>i»il>lo  Slii> 

'I'liiil  shuU  oominmiil  iii.v  liwni  auil  iin'  ; 

\Vlioi>t''i'V  slu>  lio, 

l..ii'Ko<l  ii|\  ftMiii  mnitiil  i\vi< 

In  sl\ii\lj'  Imwiw  oriU>,ili\i_v  ; 

'IMlllliiit  lipo  Uirlh 

Olslu.li.ul  Kiiti'  stiuul  I'oidi, 

Au.l  l.i!n-li  h.-r  l\(li'  sL-jis  1.1  .»ii  .vulh  ; 

'I'iU  \\\M  .llvi»o 

lil<>ii  l.ik.'  n  sluiui> 

Or.'iyslrtl  llissli,  tlnM\ij;l\  wlii.-li  t.>  sliinc  ; 

-    MiH>t  )'<««  1\<>I',  m,v  Wish.w, 

\5««|H>i\k  Ix'i"  l.>  m,v  Idissus, 

A«il  lio  jii  oidl.'.l,  iu,v  oKsciit  kiss.w. 

I  wish  hi'V  lH>f\»ty 

Thiit  ow.-s  \»iit  nil  its  <l\\t,Y 

'IV  )jrtu.l,v  lios  i>i'  j{list'vti\n  »l\.H>-ti«  ; 

Sirtix'thii^j*  («i>iv  tlitm 
'1\>H<>I«  ov  liss\>o  (NU>, 
Of  \-;\iti)>iii\t  l<>atK<>v,  .>v  iii'l\  f:m. 

A  ftdv  tlirtt  's  Ixwt 

Hy  its  o\v<\  lH>«Ht\  ilwst, 

Au.l  i-iiu  rtlowo  i~««n»iiml  lln>  wst  ; 

A  Tiuv  uuul.'  H\> 

iVit  of  u>>  nllii'i'  slu>i> 

'rU««  wluit  NiU»ux''s  wliilo  Ivsu.l  sivts  o)).', 

Sy\l\u<»<u»  Aliowxvrs 

I'll"  swwt  liis.vm's.-.  whuso  i><>\\ti-s 

l^Hi  oivwii  v>Ul  Wiutoi-'s  luvsil  \vit1\  ll.iw.'rs. 

\VlH>t<<'0>~  lloH)«l«t 

l>a«  «iak»  .Inj's  I'.uvIk^uI  l<vij;l>t 
i^r  jjivv  .l.nvu  to  tho  \viiij{s  ot"  uvjsht, 

s>>M\  silkon  Uowx's, 

0))<iu  sutis,  slvrt.l;.-  K»\\<'\-s  ; 

'15.>v<>  all,  \)vMl>i\»jj  \Yitliii\  tl\!>t  lowoi-s, 

IVvs  tl>»t  «<Hsl  Kinvw 

I«o  l«vt  of  iht>i<-  };^HH^  iHoviwv 

K»\MH  a  I.MVssjvut  uijjlit  ol~  svwvw  ; 

I'^ys  that,  ill  s)\ito 

OtMa»-k\>iy*s,  l\v  tl\o  lijilit 

Ot'«  >>liv!«r  «>i>ui.  atv'  >la,v  all  >\i>;l>t, 

l.<tV  that  .laftw  st-u.I 

A  .>1»*1Umij;s>  to  l\is  <>t».l. 

At>.l,  \vl>o«  it  wwivs,  say,  "  \V.-l,NMn,\  M.<u>i," 


I.OVK. 


147 


Of  wortli  /(«iy  liatvi!  )i';r  jK/i/r 

Ol'  wii«li<!ii ;  itii'I  I  viMt      wi  mm':. 

Sow,  iCi'llIU;  k/l((W» 
'J'li/it  llw  wlii;)c:  ni/li;iiit  t/rowK 
W<!(»vi!  tlii!j(i  (t  usirUiiiii  <it  my  vawa  ; 

Uw  lliat  <lai<M)  Ix; 

VVluit  lliBW!  liii'X  wluli  t/j  m-M  : 

I  )*(;<jk  (Kj  fiirtli<-.f,  It.  I»  Hli«. 

"J'  l«  Hf)/:,  (tfi/l  lM;ri! 

/<<j !  I  mi':loU)fc  ami  clear 

My  winli';*'  <:l'<i<<ly  i:hnriu:U:t. 

Hiicli  wr<rtl)  ;«  this  i« 
Htiall  CiJ!  /riy  (lyixK  wislifto, 
Ali'l  ili;U:rmilli:  tlluHl  t/<  ki«W!», 

!,<:(,  Jiiif  full  {(I'^ry, 

My  hw.\i;H,  fly  Ixiforo  yr: ; 

J^iiy*:  my  lU-Xioim,   -  l/iil  licr  nUiry, 


"'I'li'iy  aay  ]iiv  nivnu  au  will  ;w  Uki.a  ; 

liii).  I  'ill  u  iiiiii|il>:  ii/aji|irii, 
My  iii'/t.liiir'x  (imt.  miilli;  wli';ii  nli".  wak/!* 

1  iil.lll  liavv  miiH'ul  aii'l  |/iay':<l  in, 

"  I  '/Illy  know  my  iii'/llmr'ii  lovi; 

Wlii'li  n'r/iM  all  ami  a«kii  imlliiiin, 
Ali'l  l.llis  m;w  I'/villX  With  I.Ik:  ll,liKiV'; 

'I'm,  iiiii'ili  III'!  v/ay  'd  l'/alliiii;<, 

"  l/'fl|l:)l«t  Ik:  ){iv<:lt  III':  all  ill  Itillilllli; 

I  r»if<:it  all  lliiii({*  liy  liiiii  : 
'I'll!!  risk  In  UnrHAi:  aii'l  nliniij^i; 
I  tri:iiilil<:,  'loiil/t.,       'I<:iiy  liiiii. 

"  111! '«  >iWi«;U«t  Irl'iii'l,  '/I  tiar<li:»t.  fw, 
l{<«t  aii((i:l,  or  wi/rut  'l<;vll  ; 

I  <:itl|l!l   liaM;  1,1  ■      \l,Vl:  llllll  "i. 
I  (Mlj't,  Id;  lli<;|i:ly  civil  I 

"  Voii  liiinl  a  y/iiiii:lii  v/lm  (nilc  (V/d.li 
(l<;r  \iii,iiMimi',  tlii'k  an  nimiiicr'K '( 

Villi  ttiiiik  Ktii;  <lri:aiii»  v/lial  liivn  in  wiil.li, 
Will/  cauls  il  ty;  iicwm/liicrK  < 


AMW,  c.lUIKI.rV. 

FAdi  Amy  ol'tlic  U-.n-.u-M  ln/iiw, 

Aniiiil.  iiic  I/;  Aiv.hV.r 
Wliy  you  v/lio  woiiM  not.  Iiurt  a  uioiw, 

'>ii  Uirtiirc  WI  your  lover. 

You  «ivi:  your  codec  l/i  tlic  cat, 

Voii  Kl.rokc  till;  do;/  for  ijimiiif^, 
Ali'l  all  your  IWrc  ^(rowii  kiii'lcr  at, 

Tlic  little  \ir'iwii  ix-Ji'n  liiiiiiiiiiii;{. 

IJiit  wliftii  /«!  Iiaiintu  your  'lw;r,  -    the  t'/wri 
MurkH  e'imiiig  ami  marku  ti,''*<'V,, 

Son  w«;iii  (.«  Iiave  ulilj.ln-A  your  ';yeli'|j)  <lowri 
To  tliat  long  (yic<*  of  Hi:wiuK  ! 

Voii  never  give  a  look,  not  you, 
N'oi  ilroj/  dim  a  "Oixxl  morning," 

7'o  kei:)!  liin  long  'lay  warm  and  l<liic, 
Ho  fietlcd  tiy  your  w-z/rning. 

Hlie  stio'ik  )ier  head  ;  "  The  nioiiw!  ami  W; 

Kor  eriinih  or  (lower  will  linger; 
The  dog  in  Uiififiy  at  my  knee. 

The  cat  (iiKTis  at  my  finger, 

"  Hut  /«!  —  Ui  ki/iri.,  till!  Ifcoiit  thing  given 
.Vl/a/m  gri;at  thingx  at  a  'liiitan'*  ; 

lie  wantK  my  wirld,  my  nun,  my  hcavc-n, 
Houl,  U;dy,  whole  nxhUtruK, 


"Hiich  love  'li  a  'rov/nlii'- I/all  t/,  fling, 

A  iiiomi:iit'ii  I'ri-lty  (/a'.time  ; 
I  give       all  me,  if  anything, 

'I'll'!  fir.it  tilii':  aii'l  tli';  l;u(t  time. 

"  liear  neightior  of  tlie  trelllwyl  houw,, 
A  man  nhoiild  murniiii  never, 

Though  U'liUA  woiw:  tlian  'log  and  nioun/: 
Till  dol./:d  on  forever  !  " 


7HK  AHKl'llKhiyA  HKHOhUIIOH. 

HllAl.l.  I,  wanting  in  <le«{>!iii, 
l;ie  hw^auw!  a  v/oman  'ft  fair  ? 
(^n-  niake  //ale  my  chwkn  with  can- 
'Chiim  another'*  ro«y  are  ? 
I5<;  iilie  f:iirer  than  the  'lay. 
Or  the  flowery  nieadis  in  May, 
If  lilie  Ix;  no),  w>  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  U  ? 

Hhall  my  f'/'diah  h':art.  U:  (line'l 
''.'aiii»;  J  i'.'-.i:  a  wiiiiiuii  kind  ? 
Or  a  vii:\ii\i»\,iitiiA  nature 
./oinwl  with  a  lovely  (miiirK  ? 
J{«  nhe  iiitii:ki:t,  kimler  than 
'I'he  turtle-dove  or  (xli'Mii, 
If  ftlie  Ix;  m/t.  a/i  t/>  ine, 
Wliat  '.are  I  how  kind  nhe  Ix^  f 


148 


I'UliMS  OF  LOVE. 


-^ 


Sliiill  a  \voniiin'.s  vii'tmw  niovn 
Ml'  I..  |.urisli  I'lM-  li.'i-  liivi'  I 
Or,  liiT  wi'll-ilcwrviiiK-s  known, 
Miiko  mil  ii»ilo  I'lirj^i't  mini'  own  ? 
liii  slni  Willi  llml  j{ooilnos.s  lilcsl 
Wliicli  niiiy  nu'iit  name  of  Imsl, 
If  slio  1)11  nol  s\ii'li  to  nn', 
What  I'ai'o  1  liow  gooil  .sln'  lie  ? 

•Cans.'  lii'i-  loilnii,.  socnis  loo  liifjli, 
Sliall  1  (.lay  lllc  Tool  an, I  ,li,'  ' 
'I'lioso  Unit,  liiMU'  a  noM.'  iiuial 
Wlu'iv  they  want  nl  li,  Iivn  IumI. 
'I'liinU  wliat  witli  Ihrni  thry  wonlil  do 
Tlial  williont  tlirni  ilaiv  to  woo  ; 

Anil  iinlo.sN  tlial,  niinil  1  sw. 

What  nuv  1  Low  Kival  sli,.  1.,.  ( 

(iivat,  or  j;ooil,  or  Uinil,  or  lair, 
1  will  no'or  the  nioro  ilcspair; 
II'  sli(>  lovo  nic,  this  boliovo,  — 
1  will  ilii'  ore  sho  shall  fjriovo. 
ll'sho  slighl  nu>  when  1  woo, 
I  ran  siorn  ami  lot  her  v;o  : 

For  ir  she  \v  nol  lor  in.'. 

What  carr  I  for  whom  slio  ho  > 


UOSAT.lNll'S  fOMPLAINT. 

I,i>VK.  in  my  hosoni,  liUo  a  hoo, 

Hotli  sni'k  his  swoot  ; 
Now  with  his  winfjs  ho  plays  with  mo, 

Now  with  his  foct;  ; 
Within  mini'  oyos  ho  nnvki's  his  nost, 
His  hoil  aniitlst  my  tonih>r  lux'nsl. 
My  kissi's  aro  his  ilaily  fi'ast. 
Anil  yt>t  ho  ixihs  tuo  of  luy  rest ; 

All!  wanton,  will  vol" 

Anil  if  1  slivp,  thon  poroholh  ho 

With  prwlty  llijjht. 
Ami  niakos  his  pillow  of  my  knoe, 

'l"hi'  livilon);  nighf  ; 
Strike  1  my  Into,  he  tunes  the  string; 
He  musie  plays,  if  1  hut  sinsj; : 
He  lemls  mo  every  lovely  thins;. 
Yet  oruel,  he  my  heart  lUith  sting  : 

Whist  !  wanton,  still  you  I 

Klse  1  with  roses  every  ilay 

Will  whip  you  henoe. 
Anil  himl  you,  when  you  lont;  to  play, 

Kor  your  otVense  ; 
I  '11  shut  my  oyoa  to  keep  you  in, 
1  '11  make  von  fust  it  for  vour  sin. 


I  '11  eounl  your  power  not  worth  a  pin  ; 
Alas  I  what  liereliy  shall  1  win 
If  he  gainsay  me  '( 

What  if  I  heal  the  wanton  hoy 

With  numy  a  nul  '. 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

lieeause  a  j>oil  ; 
'I'hen  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 
Ami  let  thy  hower  my  hosom  he  ; 
lank  in  mine  eyes,  1  like  of  tlieo, 
tt  Cnpiil  1  so  Ihon  |.ily  nie, 

Spare  mil,  Inil  piny  lliee. 

TrioMAS  Loncn. 


CUriD   AND  CAMPASrE. 

Crnn  ami  my  I'ampaspe  playeil 

At  earils  for  kisses,  -     ("npiil  paiil  ; 

He  slakes  his  ipiiver,  how,  ami  arrows, 

His  mother's  iloves,  ami  team  of  sparrows, — 

Loses  them  too  ;  then  ilown  he  throws 

The  eoval  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Ci rowing  on 's  elieek  (hut  none  knows  how); 

With  these  the  erystal  on  his  brow, 

Ami  then  the  ilimple  of  his  eliin,  — 

All  these  iliil  my  Campaspe  win. 

At  last  he  .set  her  both  his  eyes  ; 

She  won,  ami  I'npiil  bliml  iliil  n.si<. 

(>  l.ove  :   hath  she  done  this  to  thee  f 

What  shall,  alas  !  hoeoine  of  mo  t 

JOHN  LVLV. 


DEATH  AND  CUPID. 

Au  '   Mhii  hut  oft  hath  marveleil  why 

The  goils,  who  rule  aliove, 
Shoulil  e'er  )H'rmit  the  young  to  ilie, 

The  ohl  to  fall  in  lov'e  ' 

Ah  :   why  shoul.l  haples.s  human  kiml 
He  p\inisheil  out  of  season  '. — 

Tray  listen,  ami  perhaps  you  '11  linil 
My  rhyme  may  give  the  ivnson. 

Hi'slh.  strolling  out  one  summer's  ilay, 
Mel  Cnpiil,  with  his  sparrows  ; 

Anil,  bantering  in  ii  nierry  way, 
I'roiioseii  a  ehangi"  of  arrows. 

'■  Agreed  !  "  O|uotli  t^upiil.     "  I  foresoo 
The  queerest  game  of  errors  ; 

For  you  the  King  of  Hearts  will  be. 
Anil  I   11  be  King  of  Terrors  !  " 

Ami  so  't  was  done  ; —  alas,  the  day 
That  multiplied  their  arts  !  — 


-^ 


LOVE. 


T4^ 


Kdi:))  from  tlic  other  tioiu  itwuy 
A  portion  of  Ills  ilartH. 

Am!  that  rjxpliiiiiH  thi;  rnaHori  why, 

IJ(;H|.it(;  lh(!  godH  aliovo, 
'I'ho  yoiiiix  arc  often  ilooiiicil  U)  die, 

riie  ohl  to  fall  in  h)ve  I 

JOirW  (jODPUt'.Y  SAXIi 


LKT  NOT  WOMAN   KKK  CCmi'LATH. 

1, 11  not  woman  e'er  eomfjhiin 

Of  ineonHtancy  in  love  ; 
Let  not  woman  e'er  eoinphiin 

Fiekle  man  in  apt  to  rove  ; 
IjOoIc  abroiii!  tlirongli  Xatiire'H  range, 
Nature'H  miglity  law  i»  change  ; 
l,ailie»,  would  it  not  be  strange 

Man  Khould  thi^n  a  monHter  prove? 

Mark  the  wiijifn,  and  mark  the  Hkie»  ; 

Oeeiiii'H  el)l)  and  oeean'»  flow  ; 
8nn  and  moon  hut  net  to  riHe, 

Kound  and  roun<l  the  HeaxoiiH  go. 
Why  then  (oik  of  Hilly  man, 
To  oppow!  gi-eat  Nature'H  plan  'I 
We  'II  he  eoriHtant  wliile  we  ean,  — 

You  ean  hi;  no  more,  you  know. 

RoiieuT  nu( 


LOVK-I.KTTKItH  MAiJE  OF  FI.OWEItH. 

An  exquiHite  invention  thin. 

Worthy  of  Love's  rnoxt  honeyed  kins,  — 

This  art  of  writing  Hlld-duux 

III  liiids,  and  odors,  and  bright  hues! 

Ill  Haying  all  one  feels  and  thinks 

III  r  lever  dalfodils  and  pinks  ; 

In  puns  of  tulips  ;  and  in  jihrases, 

''haniiing  for  tliiu'r  tnitli,  of  daisies  ; 

I.'ttering,  a«  well  ;is  silenee  may, 

The  sweetest  words  the  sweetest  way. 

How  fit  too  for  the  lady's  bosi^mi  I 

The  pla^ic  where  Inl/et-tJfjux  repose  'em. 

What  delight  in  some  sweet  spot 

''r;mbining  hwc  with  ijiirdcn  plot, 

At  onee  to  cultivate  one's  flowers 

And  one's  ejiist^jlary  [mwcrs  ! 

f Growing  one's  own  choice  words  and  fancies 

In  orange  tubs,  and  fxjds  of  jKinsies  ; 

One's  sighs,  and  passionate  ilcdarations. 

In  odorous  rhetoric  of  carnations  ; 

Seeing  how  far  one's  stor;ks  will  rea^di, 

'I'aking  due  care  one's  flowers  of  spwjcli 

To  gu.ard  from  blight  as  well  (U)  bathos, 

And  wat<;ring  every  day  one's  jjathos  I 

A  letter  comes,  just  gathcrwL     We 

Dote  on  its  tender  brilliancy, 


Inhale  its  delicate  expressions 

Of  balm  ami  |iea,  and  its  confessions 

Millie  with  as  sweet  a  lanidtn' h  libmh 

As  evei'  morn  bedewed  on  bush  : 

("V  is  in  reply  to  one  of  ours, 

Miulc  of  the  most  convincing  flowers.) 

Then,  after  we  have  kissed  its  wit, 

And  heart,  in  wal4:r  putting  it 

(To  keep  its  remarks  fresh),  go  roiinil 

Oiir  little  eloipient  plot  of  ground. 

And  with  enchant.ed  hands  compose 

Our  answer,  — all  of  lily  and  rose. 

Of  tuberose  and  of  violet, 

And  lilllr,  iliirliwj  (mignonette)  ; 

Of  hiiik  id  iiu:  and  caUI  wv  to  yiM 

(Words  that,  while  they  greet,  go  through  you); 

(nthoHijIiIji,  i,\Jl(mcH,  fwij(:l..m<.-ni,l, 

HriikvMH,  —  in  short,  the  whole  blest  lot 

Of  vouchers  for  a  lifelong  kist,  — 

And  literally,  breathing  bliss  ! 


TlIK  OIIOOMKMAN  'I'O   IlIH  MIHTREHH. 

EvKKV  wedding,  says  the  |iroverb, 
Makes  another,  wion  or  lat<;  ; 

Never  yet  wan  any  m/imagc 
KnUired  in  the  hook  of  fat*:, 

T'ut  the  names  were  alw>  written 
Of  the  patient  [lair  that  wait. 

lilessings  then  upon  the  mondng 
When  my  friend,  with  fondest  look, 

IJy  the  solemn  rites'  peniiission. 
To  himsidf  his  mistress  t/iok, 

And  the  destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  office, 
.Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed, 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  liride  ; 

I5ut  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgin* 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  Is'side  her  ; 

One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair; 
But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 

.Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair  ; 
Neither  dark  nor  fair  I  call  her, 

Yet  she  wao  the  fairest  there. 

While  }ier  groomsman  —  shall  I  own  it  ? 

Yes,  (0  thee,  and  only  thee  - 
O.'ized  njKjn  this  dark-eyed  maiden 

Who  wa«  faii-i'st  of  the  three, 
Thus  he  thought ;  "  How  blest  the  bridal 

Where  the  bride  were  such  a«  she 


-^ 


1& 


150 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


-a 


Tlu'ii  I  iiuiscd  upon  tlio  ailnge, 
'I'ill  my  wisdom  was  pi'i'iilexeil. 

And  1  wondered,  as  the  ehuivhmnu 
Puilt  uixiii  his  holy  text, 

Whiili  of  idl  wlio  lieai'd  his  lesson 
yhuuld  ivnuire  the  service  next. 

Whose  will  he  the  next  oeeasiou 

I'Vn-  the  llowers,  the  feast,  the  wiuo  ? 

Thine,  perchance,  my  dearest  lady  ; 
Or,  who  knows?  —  it  may  be  mine  ; 

What  if 't  were— forgive  the  fancy  — 
What  if  't  were — both  mine  and  thine? 
THOMAS  William  Parsons. 


MYtEYESl  HOW  I  LOVE  YOU. 

My  eyes  !  how  1  love  you, 
You  sweet  little  dove  you  ! 
Tlieix'  's  no  one  above  you. 

Most  beautiful  Kitty. 

So  glossy  your  hair  is. 
Like  a  sylph's  or  a  fairy's  ; 
And  your  neck,  I  declare,  is 
Exquisitely  pretty  ! 

Quite  Grecian  your  nose  is. 
And  your  cheeks  are  like  roses, 
So  delicious  —  0  Jloses  ! 

Surpassingly  sweet ! 

Xot  the  beauty  of  tulips. 
Nor  the  taste  of  mint-juleps. 
Can  eomiiare  with  your  two  lips, 
Most  beautiful  Kate  ! 

Not  the  black  eyes  of  Juno, 
Nor  Minerva's  of  blue,  no, 
Nor  Venus's,  you  know. 

Can  equal  your  own  ! 

0,  how  my  licai-t  prances. 
And  frolics  luid  dances. 
When  its  I'adiant  glances 

Upon  me  are  thrown  ! 

And  now,  dearest  Kitty, 
It  's  not  very  pretty, 
Indeed  it 's  a  pity. 

To  keep  me  in  sorrow  I 

So,  if  you  "11  but  chime  in. 

We  '11  have  done  with  our  rliymin'. 

Swap  Cupid  for  Hjnucu, 

And  be  nituried  to-morrow. 

.\NONVMOUS 


THE  WHISTLE. 

"Yor  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  to  his  sweet- 
heart, who  stood. 
While  ho  sat  on  a  corii-shcaf,   at   dnyliglit's 
decline,  — 
"  You  have  heard  of  the  Diuiish  boy's  whistle  of 
wood  ■ 
I  wish  that  that  Danish  boy's  whistle  were  mine. " 

"  Ami  what  would  you  do  with  it  ?  —  tell  me," 
she  said, 
While  an  arch  smile  jdayed  over  her  beautiful 
face. 
"  I  would  blow  it,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  then  my 
fair  maid 
AVould  tly  to  my  side,  and  would  here  take  her 
place." 

"Is  that  all  you  wish  it  for  ? —  That  may  be  yours 
Without  liny  magic,"  the  fair  maiden  cried  ; 

"  A  favor  so  slight  one's  good-nature  secures  "  ; 
And  she  playfully  seated  herself  by  his  side. 

"I  would  blow  it  again,"  said  the  youth,  "  ami 

the  charm 

Would  work  so,  that  not  even  Modesty's  check 

Would  be  able  to  keep  from  my  neck  your  line  arm  " : 

She  smiled, —  and  she  laid  her  lino  arm  round 

his  neck. 

"  Yet  once  more  would  1  blow,  and  the  music 
divine 
Would  bring  me  the  third  time  an  exquisite 
bliss  : 
■you  would  lay  your  (iur  check  to  this  brown  one 
of  mine. 
And  your  lips,  stealing  past  it,  would  give  me 
a  kiss." 

The  maiden  laughed  out  in  her  innocent  glee, — 
"What  a  fool  of  yourself  with  your  whistle 
yovi  'd  make  ! 
For  only  consider,  how  silly  't  would  be. 
To  sit  there  ami  whistle  for  —  what  vou  might 
take." 

KOEERT  STORV. 


WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN. 

'  When  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 

t\ies  to  the  city  Ispahan, 

Even  before  he  gets  so  far 

As  the  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are, 

.\t  the  last  of  the  tliirty  palace-gates, 
I  The  Pet  of  the  Harem,  Hose  in  Bloom, 
1  Oixlers  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room,  — 


ff 


e^- 


LOVE. 


151 


-n 


^ 


Glittering  scjuares  of  colored  ice, 

Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice  ; 

Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates  ; 

Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  (ininees, 

Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots  ; 

And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes. 

Aiicl  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 

Of  s])ieed  meats,  and  costliest  fish. 

And  all  tliat  the  curious  palate  could  wish. 

Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedam  doors. 

Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Aie  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets  ; 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
( If  !i  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 
Tlie  dark  Sultana  loosens  her  hair. 
And  stains  with  the  henna  plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pearly  nails,  and  bites  her  lijis 
Till  they  bloom  again  ;  but  alas,  tlud  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows  ! 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zarn/in 
When  he  goes  to  the  city  Ispalian. 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand, 
The  (lancing  girls  of  Samarcand 
Float  in  like  mists  from  Fairy-land  ! 
And  to  the  low  voluptuous  swoons 
Of  music,  lise  and  fall  the  moons 
or  their  full  brown  bosoms.     Orient  blood 
Kuns  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes ; 
And  there  in  this  Eastern  paradise. 
Filled  with  the  fumes  of  sandal-wood. 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes,  and  myrrh. 
Sits  Hose  in  Bloorn  on  a  silk  divan. 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 

That 's  v'Jicn  tlie  Sultan  Sluih-ZaTnan 

Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night, 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say. 

That  tlie  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 

Has  gone  to  the  cily  Ispahan. 

Thomas  Bailey  alurich. 


CtJPID  SWALLOWED. 

T'  OTllElt  day,  as  I  was  twining 
Roses  for  a  crown  to  dine  in. 
What,  of  all  things,  midst  the  heap. 
Should  I  light  on,  fast  asleep. 
But  the  little  desperate  elf. 
The  tiny  traitor,  —  Love  himself ! 
By  the  wings  I  pinched  him  up 
Like  a  bee,  and  in  a  cup 


Of  my  wine  I  plunged  and  sank  him  ; 
And  what  d'  ye  think  I  flid  ? —  I  drank  him ! 
Faith,  I  thought  him  dead.     Not  he  ! 
There  he  lives  with  tenfold  glee  ; 
And  now,  this  moment,  with  his  wings 
I  feel  hhu  tickling  my  heart-strings. 

Laicii  Hunt. 


THE  YOUNG  MAY  MOON. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love. 
The  glow-wonn's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love, 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove. 
While  the  drowsy  world  Ls  dreaming,  love  ! 
Then  awake !  —  the  heavens  look  blight,  my  dear ! 
'T  is  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear  ! 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  days 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear  ! 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love. 

But  the  sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love, 

And  I,  whose  star. 

More  glorious  far. 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake  !  —  till  ri.sc  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  sage's  glass  we  'U  shun,  my  dear. 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light, 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear ! 
Thomas  Moork. 


AH,  SWEET  KITTY  NEIL  I 

"Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil  !  rise  up  from  your  wheel, 
Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from  spin- 
ning ; 
Come,  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore-tree  ; 
Half  the  palish  is  there,  and  the  dance  is  be- 
ginning. 
The  sun  Is  gone  down ;  but  the  full  harvest  moon 
Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew-whitened 
valley ; 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  lovingthings 
Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shadc<l  alley." 

With  a  blush  and  a  smile,  Kitty  rose  up  the 
while. 
Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair, 
glancing  ; 
'T  is  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover  sues. 
So  she  could  n't  but  choose  to  —  go  ofl"  to  the 
dancing. 
And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are  seen,  — 
Kach  gay-hearted   lad   with   the   lass   of  his 
choosing ; 


--ff 


ar 


152 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


tj] 


And    Pal,   without  I'liil,   Ic^uls   out    swi-ft   lutly 
Neil,  — 
Somehow,  when  he  asked,  slic  ne'er  tliou^ht  of 
refusing. 

Now  Kelix  Magee  ]mts  liis  \npofi  to  liin  kneo, 
And,  witli  Ikiurish  so  IVee,  sets  eaeh  eou|ile  in 
motion  ; 
Willi  a  clieer  anil  a  bound,  the  lads  ]iatter  the 
ground, 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on  the 
ocean. 
Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose,  —  feet  light  as  the  Joe'.s, 

Now  coyly  retiring,  now  boldly  advancing  ; 
Search  the  world  all  around  from  Die  sky  to  the 
ground. 
No  siu-h  siglit  can  be  I'ouml  as  an   Irish  lass 
daiu'ing  ! 

Sweet  Kate  !  who  could  view  your  bright  eyes 
of  deep  blue. 
Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark  lashes  so 
mildly, 
Your  fail-turned  arm,   heaving  breast,   rounded 
I'orm, 
Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  )hi1si«  throb 
wildly  ? 
Poor  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  depart, 
Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful  yet  sweet 
love  ; 
The  siglit  loave.s  his  eye  as  he  cries  with  a  sigh, 
"Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under  your 
feet,  love  ! " 

Dl-NIS  FLORRNCE   MACCARTHV. 


DUNCAN  GRAY  CAM'   HERE  TO   WOO. 

Pt;NC.\N  (luAY  cam'  here  to  woo  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 
Oil  blytlie  Yule  night  when  wo  were  fou- 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 
Maggio  coost  her  head  fu'  Iiigh, 
Looked  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigli  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't !  " 

Duncan  lleeclied  and  Ihinean  prayed  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  craig  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 
Duncan  sighed  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  ecu  baith  bleer't  and  blin', 
Spak  o'  lowjiin  o'er  a  linn  — 

11a,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Time  and  chance  arc  but  a  tide  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't  ! 

g-. : 


Slighted  love  is  .snir  In  bide  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Shall  1,  like  a  fool,  iiuoth  he, 

I'lir  a  haughty  hizzie  dee  ? 

Shc^  may  gae  to—  France  for  mo  ! 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't  1 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell — ■ 

Ha,  ha  I  the  wooing  o't ! 

Meg  grew  sick  as  lie  grew  heal  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't  I 

Something  in  her  bosom  w-rings,  — 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings ; 

And  t),  her  een  they  si)eak  sic  things  ! 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't  ! 

Duncan  was  a  lail  o'  grace  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't  I 

Maggie's  was  a  ])iteous  case  • — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death  : 

Swelling  pity  smoored  liis  wrath. 

Now  they  're  eronse  and  canty  liaith, 
lla,  ha  !   th.'  wo.iiiig  o't  ! 


RORY  O'MORE; 

OR.  GOOD  OMF.NS. 

YdiiNf!  Dory  O'More  courted  Kalhlei'ii  Hawii  ; 
Hewas  bold  as  the  hawk,  and  she  soft  as  the  dawn ; 
Ho  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please. 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to 

tease. 
"  Now,  Kory,  be  aisy,"swcet  Kathleen  would  cry. 
Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  hrr  eye  ; 
"With  your  tricks,  I  don't  know,  in  llinilh,  what 

I 'm  about ; 
Faith  you've  toazcd  till  1  've  put  on  my  cloak 

inside  out." 
"  Och  !  jewel,"  says  Kory,  "  that  saiiie  is  the  way 
You  've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day  ; 
And 't  is  phized  that  1  am,  and  why  not,  to  lie  sure  ? 
For 't  is  all  for  good  luck,"  .says  bold  Kory  O'More. 

"Indeed,  then,"  .savs  Kathleen,  "don't  think  of 

the  like. 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Jlike  ; 
The  ground   that   I   walk   on   he   lo\-,.s,   1  '11  be 

bound  "  — 
"  Faith  !  "  says  Eory,  "  1  'd  rather  love  you  than 

the  ground.  " 
"Now,  Uory,  1  'U  cry  if  j'ou  don't  let  me  go  : 
Sure  1  dream  ev'ry  night  that  1  'm  hating  you 

so  ! " 
"Och!"  says  Kory,  "that  same  I'm  delighted 

to  hear. 
For  dhrames  alwavs  go  bv  coiithraiies,  luv  dear. 


-^ 


LOVE. 


153 


-a 


Och  !  jnwel,  kfcp  dliramiiig  tli.-it  saine  till  you 

liio, 
And  bright  raorniug  will  give  dirty  iiiglit  tlio 

black  lie  ! 
And  't  is  jilazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  lie 

sure  ? 
Shire   'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says   bold  llory 

O'More. 

"Arrah,   Kathleen,   my  darliiit,   you've   teazed 

me  enough  ; 
Sure,  1  've  thrashed,  for  your  sake,  Diuny  Orinies 

and  Jim  Duff ; 
And   I  've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health, 

([uite  a  baste. 
So  1  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her 

neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck  ; 
And  he  lookeil  in  her  eyes,  that  were  beaming 

with  light, 
And  ho  kissed  her  sweet  lips  —     Don't  you  think 

he  was  right  ? 
"Now,  llory,  leave  off,  sir  —  you  '11  hug  me  no 

more,  — 
That 's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kissed  me 

before." 
"Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make 

sure. 

For  there's  luck  in  odd  lunnbers,"  .says   Rory 

O'More. 

SAMuiiL  Lover. 


THE  CATALOGUE. 

0,  THAT  's  what  you  mean  now,  a  bit  of  a  song, 
Arrah,  faith,  tlien  here  goes,  you  sha'n't  bother 

me  long  ; 
I  require  no  teazing,  no  praying,  nor  slulf. 
By  my  soul,  if  you  wish  it,  I  'ni  ready  enough 
To  give  you  no  end  ;  you  shall  have  a  beginning. 

And,  troth,  though  the  music  is  not  over  fine, 
'T  is  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  might  sing 

Just  to  set  us  a-going  and  season  the  wine. 

0,  I  once  was  a  lover,  like  some  of  you  here. 
And  could  feed  a  whole  night  on  a  sigh  or  a  tear. 
No  sunshine  I  knew  but  from  Kitty's  black  eye. 
And  the  world  was  a  desert  when  she  was  n't  by ; 
But  the  devil  knows  how,  1  got  fond  of  Miss 
Betty, 

And  Kitty  slipt  out  of  this  bosom  of  mine. 
'T  is  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  might  sing 

Just  to  set  us  a-going  and  season  the  wine. 

Now  Betty  had  eyes  soft  and  blue  as  the  sky, 
And  the  lily  was  black  when  her  bosom  was  nigh  ; 
0,  I  vowed  and  I  swore  if  she  'd  not  a  kind  eye 


1  'd  give  up  the  whole  world  and  in  banishment 

die  ; 
But  Nancy  camo  by,  a  round  plump  little  crea- 
ture. 
And  li.ved  in  my  heart  quite  another  design. 
'T  is  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  might  sing 
Just  to  sot  us  a-going  and  season  the  wine. 

Little  Nance,  like  a  Hebe,  was  buxom  and  gay. 
Had  a  bloom  like  the  rose  and  was  fresher  tliau 

May ; 
0,  1  felt  if  she  fro\vned  1  would  die  by  a  rope, 
And  my  bosom  would  burst  if  she  slighted  my 

hope  ; 
But  the  slim,  taper,  elegant  Fanny  looked  at  me, 
And,  troth,  I  no  longer  for  Nancy  could  pine. 
'T  is  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  might  sing 
Just  to  set  us  a-going  and  season  the  wine. 

Now  Fanny's  light  frame  was  so  slender  and  line 
That  she  skimmed  in  the  air  like  a  shadow  divine. 
Her  motion  bewitched,  and  to  :ny  loving  eye 
'T  was  an  angel  soft  gliding  'twi.\t  earth  anil  the 

sky. 
'T  was  all  mighty  well  till  I  saw  her  fat  sistci-, 

And  tlinl  gave  a  turn  I  could  never  define. 
'T  is  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  might  sing 

Just  to  set  us  a-going  and  season  the  wine. 

0,  SI)  I  go  on,  ever  constantly  blest. 
For  1  find  I  've  a  great  stock  of  love  in  my  breast ; 
And  it  never  grows  less,  for  whenever  1  try 
To  get  one  in  my  heart,  I  get  t>m  in  my  eye. 
To  all  kinds  of  beauty  1  bow  with  devotion. 

And  all  kinds  of  liquor  by  turns  I  make  mine  ; 
So  I  '11  finish  the  thing  that  another  may  sing. 

Just  to  keep  us  a-going  and  season  the  wine. 


THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM. 

Ho  !  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 
That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear. 

All  your  wish  is  woman  to  wdn  ; 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin,  — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  foi-ty  year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains  ; 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer,  — 
Sighing,  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybell's  window-panes,  — 

Wait  tUl  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass  ; 

Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear  ; 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  a.ss, 
Tlien  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass,  — 

Once  you  have  come  to  forty  year. 

•  A  boon  companion  of  George.  Prince  Regent 


-^ 


e- 


154 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


^ 


Pledge  me  round  ;  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray,  — 

Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  past  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away  and  never  be  missed,  — 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian'  s  dead  !  God  rest  her  bier,  — 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 

Marian'  s  married  ;  but  1  sit  here. 

Alone  and  merry  at  forty  year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  (!ascon  wine. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


U-- 


THE  LOW-BACKED  CAR. 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 

'T  was  on  a  market-day  : 
A  low-backed  car  she  drove,  and  sat 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay ; 
But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass. 

And  decked  with  flowers  of  spring, 

No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 
With  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 

As  she  sat  in  the  low-backed  car, 
The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll. 
But  just  rubbed  his  ould  poll, 
And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car. 

In  battle's  wild  commotion, 

Tlio  proud  and  mighty  Mars 
With  hostile  scythes  demands  his  tithes 

Of  death  in  warlike  cars  ; 
While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

lias  darts  in  her  bright  eye, 
Tluit  knock  men  down  in  the  market-town. 

As  right  and  left  they  fly ; 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
Thau  battle  more  dangerous  far,  — 
For  the  doctor's  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart 
That  is  hit  from  that  low-backed  car. 

Swi'ot  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir. 

Has  strings  of  ducks  .and  geese. 
But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 

By  far  outnumber  these  ; 
While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a  turtle-dove. 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage. 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  Love  ! 


While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
The  lovers  come,  near  and  far. 

And  envy  the  chicken 

That  Peggy  is  pickin'. 
As  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car. 

I  'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir. 

With  Peggy  by  my  siilc, 
Than  a  coach  and  four,  and  gold  galore, 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride  ; 
For  the  lady  would  sit  foniinst  me. 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste, 
While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 
With  my  arm  around  her  waist, 
While  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car. 
To  be  married  by  Father  Mahar  ; 
0,  my  heart  would  beat  high 
At  her  glance  and  her  sigh,  — 
Though  it  beat  in  a  low-backed  car  ! 

Samuel  Lovi 


SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY. 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart, 

There  's  none  like  pretty  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There 's  ne'er  a  lady  in  the  land 

That 's  half  so  sweet  as  Sallj' ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em  ; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  bu)'  'em  ; 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally  ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely  ; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely. 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful,  — 

I  '11  bear  it  all  for  Sally  ; 
For  she  's  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that 's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day, 
And  that 's  the  day  that  comes  betwi.xt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 
For  then  1  'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


^^ 


155 


■^ 


My  master  caixies  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamfed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named  : 
I  leave  the  clmrch  in  sermon-time, 

And  slink  away  to  Sally,  — 
SIic  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 

0,  then  I  shall  have  money  ! 
I  '11  hoard  it  up,  and,  box  and  all, 

I  '11  give  it  to  my  honey  ; 
And  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound  ! 

I  'd  give  it  all  to  Sally  ; 
For  she  's  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And  but  for  she  I  'd  better  be 

A  slave,  and  row  a  galley ; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out, 

0,  then  I  '11  many  Sally  ! 
0,  then  we  '11  wed,  and  then  we  '11  bed,  — 

But  not  in  our  alley  ! 

HENRY  Carey, 


y-^- 


LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 

0  LOVELY  Mary  Donnelly,  it 's  you  I  love  the 

best  ! 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you,  I  'd  hardly  see  the 

rest ; 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be 

where  it  will. 
Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before 

me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that  's  flowing  on 

a  rock. 
How  clear  they  are  !  how  dark  they  are  !  and 

they  give  me  many  a  shock  ; 
Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine,  and  wetted  with 

a  shower. 
Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that  has 

me  in  its  power. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows 

lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth  like 

a  china  cup  ; 
Her  hair  's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and 

so  fine,  — 
It's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered 

in  a  twine. 


The  dance  o'  last  Wliit-Monday  night  exceeded 

all  before  ; 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  around  was  missing  from 

the  floor ; 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  0,  but  she 

was  gay  ; 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  and  took  my 

heart  away  ! 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were 

so  complete. 
The  music  nearly  killed  itself,  to  listen  to  her 

feet  ; 
The  fiddler  mouniod  his  blindness,  he  heard  her 

so  much  praised, 
But  blessed  himself  he  was  n't  deaf,  when  once 

her  voice  she  raised. 

And  evennore  I  'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  you 

sung ; 
Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  nanu-  upon 

my  tongue  ; 
But  you  've  as  many  .sweetliearts  as  you  'd  count 

on  both  your  hands, 
And  for  my.sclf  there's  not  a  thumb  or   little 

finger  stands. 

O,  you 're  the  flower  of  womankind,  in  country 

or  in  town  ; 
The  higlier  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I  'm  cast  down. 
If  some  great  lord  .should  conu!  this  way  and  see 

your  beauty  bright, 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I  'd  own  it  was  but  rigid. 

O,  might  wo  live  together  in  lofty  palace  hall, 

Where  joyful  music  rises,  an<l  where  scarlet  cur- 
tains fall ; 

0,  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean  and 
small. 

With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  muil  the 
only  wall  ! 

(-)  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty  's  my  dis- 
tress ; 

It  's  far  too  glorious  to  be  mine,  but  1  '11  never 
wish  it  less  ; 

The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am 
poor  and  low. 

But  blessings  he  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you 
may  go  ! 


THE   FAITHFUL  LOVERS. 

I'd  been  away  from  her  three  years,  —  about  that, 
And  I  returned  to  find  my  Mary  true  ; 

And  though  I  'd  question  her,  I  diduot  doulit  that 
It  was  unnecessary  so  to  do. 


_1^ 


[S 


loG 


I'UEMS  OF  LOVE. 


-^ 


B- 


'T  was  liy  the  I'himnoy-i'onior  wo  were  sitting  : 
"  Miiry,"  said  1,  "have  you  boon  always  tnio  ?" 

"Frankly,"  says sho.just  iiausiiigiii luMkiiilting, 
"  1  don't  think  I  've  uuraithl'ul  been  to  yon  : 

But  for  the  three  yoare  past  I  '11  tell  you  what 

I  've  done  ;  theu  say  if  1  've  been  true  or  not. 

'•  Wlien  first  youleft  my  grief  was  uncoutrollablo ; 

Alone  1  nionrned  my  miserable  lot ; 
And  all  wlio  saw  me  thought  me  inconsolable. 

Till  I'aiitain  t'lillord  eanie  from  Aldershott. 
To  IliK  with  him  anmsed  me  while  't  was  new  : 
1  don't  eount  that  unfaithfulness  —  do  you  ? 

"The  next  —  0!  let  me  see — wasFrankierhimis; 

1  met  him  at  my  uncle's,  Christnnis-tide. 
And  'neath  the  mistletoe,  where  lips  meet  lips, 

llegave  me  his  first  kiss — "  And  here  shesiglied. 
"We  stayed  six  weeks  at  uncle's  —  how  time  Hew  1 
I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness  —  do  yon  ? 

"  I.onl  Cecil  Fossmore  —  only  twenty-one  — 
Lent,  me  his  horse.    I1,  how  we  rode  and  r.n'cd  1 

Wo  scoured  the  downs  —  we  rode  to  hounds  - 
sneh  fun  ! 
And  often  was  his  arm  about  my  waist, — 

That  was  to  lift  me  up  and  down.    But  who 

Would  call  just  that  imfaithfulness  >  Would  you  ? 

"  IVi  you  know  Iveggy  Verc  ?   Ah.  how  he  sings  ! 

Wemet,  —  't  wiisat  a  picnic.  0,  such  weather  1 
He  ,g!U-e  me,  look,  the  fii-st  of  these  two  rings 

When  wo  were  lost  in  Cliefdeu  woods  togetlier. 
All,  what  a  happy  tiuu>  we  spent,  — we  two  ! 
1  don't  count  that  unfaithfidiu'ss  to  you. 

"  1  've  yet  another  ring  from  him  ;  d'  ye  see 
The  plain  gold  eiix-let  that  is  shining  here  ?  " 

I  took  lier  hand  :  "0  Mary  !  eau  it  be 
That  you  — "Quoth  she,  "that  I  amMrs.A'ere. 

I  don't  call  that  uufaithfuliu»ss  —  do  you  ? " 

"No,"  I  replied,  "for  I  am  married  too." 

.\NONVMOUS. 


WIDOW  MACHREE. 

Winow  maehree,  it 's  no  wonder  you  frown,  — 

Och  hone  !  widow  nnichree  : 
Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  siune  dirty  black 
gviwn, — 
Oeh  hone  !  widow  machit^e. 
How  altered  your  air. 
With  that  close  cap  you  wear,  — 
'T  is  destroying  your  hair. 

Which  should  bo  thiwing  free  : 
Be  no  longi'r  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl,  — 
Oeh  hone  !  widow  maehree  ! 


Widow  maehree,  now  the  summer  is  come,  — 

Och  hone  !  widow  maehree. 
When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty  look 
glum  > 
Och  hone  !  widow  nuichroo  I 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
.\nd  the  rabbits  and  hares  ; 
Why,  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree  ; 
And  the  mute  little  lish. 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish,  — 
Och  hone  !  widow  maehree  ! 

Widow  maehree,  and  when  winter  comes  in,  — 

t)ch  hone  !  widow  maehree, . — 
To  be  poking  the  tiro  all  alone  is  a  sin, 
Och  hone  !  widow  maclu'oe  ! 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs. 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs 

Fiill  of  family  glee  ; 
While  alone  with  your  cup 
Like  a  hermit  you  sup, 
Oeh  hone  !  widow  maehree  ! 

And  how  do  von  know,  with  the  comforts  1  've 
to'wld,  — 
Och  hone  !  widow  maelueo,  — 
lUit  von  're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in   the 
eowld  ? 
Och  hone  !  widow  maehree  ! 
With  such  sins  on  your  head, 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  Hod  ; 
Could  yon  sleeji  in  your  bod 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Sonu'  ghost  or  some  sprite. 
That  would  wake  you  each  night. 

Crying  "Och  bono  !  widow  maehree  I  " 

Then  t.nke  my  advice,  darling  widow  machiee, — 

Och  hone  !  widow  maehree,  — 
And  with  my  advice,  faith,!  wish  you  'd  take  me, 
Oeh  hone  !  widow  maehree  ! 
Yo\i  'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire  ; 
And  sure  hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  mo 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart 
When  yon  "d  me  near  your  heart,  — 
Oeh  hone  !  widow  maehree  ! 

Samcel  Lover. 


THE  LAIRD  O'  COCKPEN. 

The  lairvl  o'  Coekpon  lie  's  prond  and  he 's  great. 
His  mind  is  ta'en  \\\>  with  the  things  o'  the  state  ; 
He  wanted  a  wife  his  bn\w  house  to  keep. 
But  favor  wi'  wooin'  was  fashious  to  seek. 


-ff 


a-- 


LOVK. 


15 


ra 


Down  liy  the  dike-side  a  la<ly  did  dwell, 
At  his  taWe-liead  he  thought  she  'd  look  well  ; 
M'Lisli's  ae  daughter  o'  Claverse-ha'  Lee, 
A  i«uiiiil(as  lass  wi'  a  lang  pedigree. 

His  wig  was  weel  pouthered,  and  as  gude  as  new; 
Mis  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  w'as  blue  ; 
He  put  on  a  ring,  a  sword,  and  eocked  liat. 
And  wlia  eould  refuse  the  Laird  wi'  a'  that  ? 

Ill;  took  the  gray  mare,  and  rade  canidly  — 
And  rapjjcd  at  the  yett  o'  Claverse-ha'  Leo  : 
"  'Gae  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily  ben, 
She  's  wanted  to  speak  to  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Mistress  Jean  was  makin'  the  cdder-flower  wine  : 
"  Anrl  what  brings  the  Laird  at  sic  a  like  time  *" 
Slie  put  atr  her  apron,  and  on  her  silk  gown, 
Hir  iMUteh  wi'  red  ribbons,  and  gae<l  awa'  down. 

And  when  she  cam'  ben,  lie  bowed  fu'  low. 
And  what  was  his  errand  he  soon  let  her  know; 
.'Vniazed  was  the  Laird  when  the  lady  said  "  Xa"  ; 
.And  wi'  a  laigh  curtsey  she  turned  awa'. 

Dunibfouudered  he  was  —  nae  sigli  did  he  gio  ; 
He  mounted  his  mare  —  he  rade  cannily  ; 
Aiid  aften  he  thought,  as  he  gaed  through  the  glen, 
"She  's  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

And  now  that  the  Laird  his  exit  had  made, 
Mistress  .Jean  she  rellected  on  what  she  had  said ; 
"Oh  !  for  ane  1  '11  get  better,  it 's  waur  I  '11  get  ten, 
I  was  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Next  time  that  the  Laird  and  the  lady  were  seen, 
They  were  gaun  arm-in-arm  to  the  kirk  on  the 

green. 
Now  she  sits  in  the  ha'  like  a  weel-tappit  hen  — 
Hut  as  yet  there 's  nae  chickens  appeared  at  Cock- 
pen. 

Carolina,  liARoNiiss  Nairn. 


UNSATISFACTORY. 

"  Have  other  lovers  —  say,  my  love  — 

Loved  thus  before  to-day  ? " 
"They  may  have,  yes,  they  may,  my  love  ; 

Not  long  ago  they  may." 

"  P.iit,  though  they  worshiped  thee,  my  love, 

Thy  maiden  heart  was  free  ? " 
"  Don't  ask  too  much  of  me,  my  love  ; 

Don't  ask  too  much  of  me." 

"  Vet,  now  't  is  you  and  I,  my  love, 
Love's  wings  no  more  will  fly  ?" 


'  If  love  could  never  die,  my  love. 
Out  love  should  never  die." 

'  For  shame  !  and  is  this  so,  my  love, 

And  Love  and  1  must  go  ?" 
'  Indeed,  I  do  not  know,  my  love. 

My  life,  I  do  not  know." 

'  You  will,  you  must  bo  true,  my  love,  — 

Not  look  and  love  anew  ! " 
'  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do,  my  love, 

I  '11  see  what  1  can  do. " 


COOKING  AND  COURTING. 

FROM    TOM  TO    NEIJ. 

Deak  Ned,  no  doubt  you'll  be  surjiriseil. 

When  you  receive  and  read  this  letter. 
I  've  railed  against  the  marriage  state  ; 

But  then,  you  see,  I  knew  no  better. 
I  've  met  a  lovely  girl  out  here  ; 

Her  manner  is  —  well  —  very  winning  : 
Wo  're  soon  to  be  —  well,  Ned,  my  dear, 

I  '11  tell  you  all,  from  the  beginning. 

I  went  to  ask  her  out  to  ride 

Last  Wednesday  —  it  wa.s  perfect  weather. 
She  saiil  she  could  n't  possibly  : 

The  servants  had  gone  olf  together 
(Hibernians  always  nish  away. 

At  cousins'  lunerals  to  be  looking) ; 
Pics  must  be  made,  and  she  must  stay. 

She  said,  to  do  that  branch  of  cooking. 

"0,  let  me  help  you,"  tlicn  I  cried  : 

"  I  '11  be  a  cooker  too  —  how  jolly  1 " 
She  laughed,  and  answered,  with  a  smile, 

"  All  right !  but  you  '11  repent  your  folly  : 
For  I  shall  be  a  tyrant,  .sir, 

And  good  hard  work  you  '11  liavc  to  grapple 
So  sit  down  there,  and  don't  you  stir, 

liut  take  this  knife,  and  pare  that  afiiile." 

She  rolled  her  sleeve  above  her  arm,  — 

That  lovely  arm,  so  plump  and  rounded  ; 
Outside,  the  morning  sun  shone  bright ; 

Inside,  the  dough  she  deftly  pounded. 
Her  little  fingers  sprinkled  flour, 

And  rolled  the  pie-crust  up  in  masses  : 
I  passed  the  most  delightful  hour 

Mid  butter,  sugar,  and  molasses. 

With  deep  reflection  her  sweet  eyes 
Gazed  on  each  pot  and  pan  and  kettle  : 

She  .sliced  the  apples,  filled  her  pies. 
And  then  the  upjwr  crust  did  settle. 


& 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


■-a 


llii  iiii|iling  wavoH  (irftciMrii  Imir 

III  .1111.  urml  i-iiil  wi'iv  tiglilly  Iwisli.,!  ; 

Bill  l,..-ki  w,.ul.l  l.iViiU  il,  ii.T,.' 1111.1  Ih.'iv, 
Aii.l  .url  iil...iil  wli.M.M.i  llii.y  lislr.l. 

Aii.l  llu'ii  li.T  sl.vv,.  .■Mill..  .L.ttii,  :iii.l  1 

K;iMl.Mi,..l  it  ii|.       h.'i  hmi.U  «.'i(.  ,I.Mi-liy; 
O.  il  cli.l  tali..  111..  Idii^'.'sl  liiiu.  I 

llov  mill,   Ni.il,  WMN  Nil  iimiul  mul  siinwy. 
Sli,.  l.lusli,.,!,  iiii.l  livnil.U'.l,  ami  Unikwl  sl'iv  ; 

S,.iii..lu>\v  tliiit  iiiM.U.  nil.  nil  til.'  I...l<l.'i".  ' 
ll.'niivli  lips  l.iok...l  so  ml  tlial   I 

W.'ll       loiuul  luT  liwul  iii»iii  my  ,sli,.uUU.r. 

W,. 'iv  I..  I...  luMni.'.l,  No.l,  m-xl  mmilli  ; 

C.MllO  1111.1  nil.. 11.1  llu.  Wl'll.lillg  IVV.'Is. 

I  iviilly  lliiiik  Uiiil  liiu'lielors 

All.  Ilio  most  iiiisi'iiiMi.  ili'vils  ! 
Von  M  Lrtlor  go  r.ir  soiii..  niil's  Imml  ; 

Anil  if  yon  iiic  iiiu'i.rtniii  wtn'lhiT 
\'..i.  .Inn.  lo  iiuvUi.  n  iliio  lU'iimii.l, 

Wliy,  jiisl  try  cooking  pii's  logollior. 


POSSESSION. 

A  roiri'  lovml  u  Star, 

Anil  lo  il  wliisiH'ivil  nightly, 

"  lii'ing  so  lair,  wliy  ni't  tlion,  lov.',  so  I'nr  / 

(If  vvliy  so  rolilly  sliino,  who  shiucat  so  Iniglil 

II  Hi.iinty  woooil  ami  iinpossost  ! 

(1,  might  1  to  tlii.s  beating  lii'nisl 

Itul  i-lasii  thi'i.  oin-c,  ami  thru  ilio  Must  !  " 

'I'lial  .Star  hrr  Pout's  lov.., 

.So  wihlly  warm,  inaih.  Inimnii  ; 

.\ii.l  leaving,  tor  his  siiko,  lirr  hi'a\  ill  nliovi.. 

His    Star    stoopml    ..artliwar.l,    iiml    hciuii 

Woman. 
'•Tlioii  who  hasi  woocil  ami  hast  imssi'st. 
My  lovi.r,  answer  :    Which  was  licsl, 
'I'lui  Star's  hiiani  or  the  Woman's  hreast  /" 
"  1  miss  I'roni  heaven,"  the  iniin  reiiliod, 
■•A  light  that  .Irew  my  spirit  to  it." 
Ami  to  the  iiiiiii  the  woman  sighe.l, 
"  1  miss  IVoui  earth  a  poet." 


e^- 


rOEMS  OF  HOME. 


MARRIAGE 


-a 


'I'lriJil'.  nn^  wlio  miy  IIm'  Iovit'h  lii'iirt 

Im  in  111.'  lovr.l  , •;,  luiiyiii  ; 

O,  iK'Vcf  liy  I(iv(i'k  iiwji  wiinii  iirt 

St)  colli  a  ploa  wiiH  n^nd  1 
Nil  ! —  liiiarU  llml,  lovii  lial.li  crowiioil  or  croHHod 

l.uvr  roiiilly  kiiilH  l.i)f;(iUier  ; 
r.iit  lint,  a  lliiiiif^lil  1)1'  liui!  Ih  loHt 

Tliiil  niiiili:  a  |>arl.  iil' I'iUiiw'. 

II.  JHan  ilMiilil  lali.  Ilial.  tills 

III'  "liuai'lH  ]>y  lovi)  iiiaili;  iiiiii"; 
III-  niowH  who  iiwir  aiKiUicr'H  iIwdIIh 

Moro  coiiKriiiiiH  iiC  liJH  own  ; 
In  I'ai'li  »|irin({  iiji  ni:w  tliouj^hlH  ami  powcrH 

'I'liat,,  mill  lovd't)  wai'iri,  clnar  wiiatlier, 
'I'liKi'lliiM'  l.nnil  liko  rlimliiiif^  IIowci'h, 

y\iii|,  Iniiiiiig,  f^i'inv  togiillior. 

■Siiili  lictions  Mink  Iovi^'h  lii'Ucr  jiart, 

Vii'lil  u|iil.H  liairon.liMS; 
'I'lm  wi'IIh  all)  ill  l.liii  niiiglibor  hoart, 

Will  II  llii'i'ii  JM  tliirHl.  ill  tliiH  : 
'I'll!  II-  liiiili-lli  lovo  Uic  ]iaHKion-llowcr» 

On  wliii-li  it.  liiai-iiH  to  tlirivi), 
Miiki-s  liiiiiiiy  in  anotlii-i-'H  lioworn, 

Hut  liriiif^H  it  homo  to  liivii. 

I.ovd's  lifu  i«  in  itH  own  i-ciilinn,  — 

'IV,  (iiicli  low  lifat;  it  lii-atH, 
HniildH  liiick  the  mnlliM,  Hi((liH  back  tlin  iiiKlm, 

And  ovp.ry  tlii'oli  ivi|)('ntH. 
'I'lii'ii,  Kiiico  oiKi  loving  heart  Htill  throwH 

Two  hIiiiiIowh  in  Iovii'h  mm, 
How  hIioiiIiI  two  loviiin  li(iari,H  coinpimi' 

Ami  iniiiKh)  into  ono  ? 


TirOIJ  HAKT  HWOUN  IIV  Til  V  flOl),  MV  .IHANIK, 

Tiloi;  haHt  sworn  1)y  thy  floil,  my  .loaiiii-, 
Hy  tliat  pretty  wliitu  hainl  o'  thine, 

Anil  liy  a'  tin-  lowiiif^  Htai'H  in  hnavi-n, 
Tliai,  thou  wail  ayo  Im  mine  ! 


Ami  I  liai-  Hworii  hy  iiiy  (ioil,  my  Jeanic, 

Ami  hy  lliut  kinil  heart  o'  thine, 
liy  a'  the  HtarH  Howii  tliiek  owre  heaven, 

That  thou  Hlialt  aye  hi-  mine  I 

Then  toul  hi'  the  ImmlH  that  wad  loiwe  »ii-  hamlH, 

Anil  the  heart  that  wad  part  sic  luve  ! 
lint  there  'h  line  hand  eaii  looMe  my  hand, 

Mut  the  linger  o'  Mini  almve. 
Though  the  wee,  wee  eot  maun  he  my  hii-ld. 

Ami  my  elaithing  ne'er  wie  mean, 
I  wad  lap  me  up  rieh  i'  the  I'auldH  o'  luve,  — 

Jleaven'H  arinrir  o'  my  Jean. 

Her  white  arm  wad  lu!  a  jiiUow  for  me, 

Fu'  Halter  than  the  down  ; 
And  I.uve  wad   winnow  owre  uh  IiIn  kind,   kind 
wingH, 

And  Hweetly  I  'd  hleep,  and  noun'. 
Come  hei-e  to  me,  thou  1««h  o'  my  luve  I 

I'ome  hei-e  and  kneel  wi'  me  ! 
The  morn  in  fu'  o'  the  preHenee  o'  God, 

And  I  lanna  pray  without  thee. 

The  morn  wind  in  Kweet  'inarig  the  liedn  o'  new 
llowei-H, 

The  wee  hirdn  Hing  kindlie  and  hie  ; 
flur  giidernan  leaiiK  owre  IiIh  kiile-yard  dike, 

And  a  hlytheanld  lioilie  i;,  he. 
The   I'.eiik  maun   he  tii'en  whan   the  r.-nle  i-onieH 
liame, 

Wi'  the  lioly  imalmodie  ; 
And  thou  maun  speak  o'  me  to  thy  Hod, 

And  I  will  K|jeak  o'  thee. 


UNTIL   DKATII. 

Makk  me  no  vowh  of  eoiiHtaney,  dear  friend. 

To  love  me,  though  I  die,  thy  whole  life  long. 
And  love  no  other  till  thy  ilayH  shall  end,  — 
Nay,  it  were  rash  and  wrong. 

ir  lli.iu  i-anst  love  another,  he  it  ao  ; 

I  would  not  n-ai-h  out  of  njy  ipiiet  grave 


-JS:. 


a- 


160 


POEMS   OF  HOME. 


-a 


u 


To  bind  tby  lieart,  if  it  should  cliooso  to  go ;  — 
Love  sliould  not  be  a  slave. 

My  placid  ghost,  I  trust,  will  walk  serene 

In  (Jearer  light  than  gilds  thusr  earthly  morns. 
Above  the  jealousies  and  envies  keen 

Which  sow  this  life  with  tlioms. 

Thou  wouldst  not  feel  my  shadowy  earess. 

If,  after  death,  my  soul  should  linger  here; 
Men's  hearts  crave  tangible,  close  tenderness. 
Love's  presence,  warm  and  near. 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more  peacefully 
'I'luU  tliou  wcrt  wasting  aU  thy  life  in  woe 
For  my  poor  sake  ;  what  love  thou  hast  for  me. 
Bestow  it  ere  I  go  ! 

Carve  not  upon  a  stone  when  1  am  dead 

The  praises  which  remorseful  mourners  give 
To  women's  graves,  —  a  tardy  reconipense,  — 
But  speak  them  while  I  live. 

Heap  not  the  heavy  marble  on  my  head 

To  shut  away  the  sunshine  and  the  dew ; 
Let  small  blooms  grow  there,   and  let  grasses 
wave. 
And  raiu-drops  filter  through. 

Thou  wilt  meet  many  fairer  and  more  gay 

Than  I  ;  but,  trust  me,  thou  canst  never  find 
One  who  will  love  and  servo  tlue  night  and  day 
With  a  more  single  mind. 

Forget  me  when  I  die  !     The  violets 

Above  my  rest  will  blossom  just  as  blue. 
Nor  miss  thy  tears  ;  e'en  Nature's  self  forgets;  — 
But  while  1  live,  bo  true  ! 

ANOiNVMOUS. 


Alice  was  a  chieftain's  daughter. 
And  though  many  suitors  sought  her, 
She  so  loved  Glengaritf's  water 

That  she  let  her  lovers  pine. 

Her  eye  was  beauty's  palace, 
And  her  cheek  an  ivory  chalice. 
Through  which  the  blood  of  Alice 

Gleamed  soft  as  rosiest  wine. 

And  her  lips  like  lusmoro  blossoms  which  the 
fairies  intertwine,  — 

And  her  heart  a  golden  mine. 

She  was  gentler  and  shyer 

Than  the  light  fawn  which  stood  by  her. 

And  her  eyes  emit  a  fire 


Soft  and  teniler  as  her  soul  ; 

Love's  dewy  light  doth  drown  her. 
And  the  braided  locks  that  crown  her 
Than  autumn's  trees  are  browner, 

Wlieu  the  golden  shadows  roll 

Through  the  forests  in  the  evening,  when  cathe- 
dral turrets  toll. 

And  the  purple  sun  advanceth  to  its  goal. 

Her  cottage  was  a  dwelling 

All  regal  homes  excelling. 

But,  ah  !  beyond  the  telling 
Was  the  beauty  round  it  spread,  — 

The  wave  and  sunshine  playing, 

Like  sisters  each  arraying, 

Far  down  the  sea-plants  swaying 
Upon  their  coral-bed, 
And  laugniil  as  the  tresses  on  a  sleeping  maiden's 

head. 
When  the  summer  breeze  is  dead. 

Need  we  say  that  Maurice  loved  her. 
And  that  no  blush  reproved  her. 
When  her  throbbing  bosom  moved  her 

To  give  the  heart  she  gave  I 

That  by  dawn-light  and  by  twilight. 
And,  0  blessed  moon,  by  thy  light,  — 
When  the  twinkling  stars  on  high  light 

The  wanderer  o'er  the  wave,  — 

His  steps  unconscious  led  him  where  Glengaritf's 
waters  lave 

Each  mossy  bank  and  cave. 

The  sun  his  gold  is  flinging. 

The  happy  birds  are  singing, 

And  bells  are  gayly  ringing 
Along  Glengaritf's  sea  ; 

Anil  crowds  in  many  a  galley 

To  the  happy  marriage  rally 

Of  the  maiden  of  the  valley 
And  the  youth  of  Ceim-an-eich  ; 
Old  eyes  with  joy  are  weeping,  as  all  ask  on 

bended  knee, 
A  blessing,  gentle  Alice,  upon  thee. 

DF.NIS  FLOKE.^CE  MACCAKTHV. 


NTTPTIAIS  OF  ADAM  AND  EVE. 

Mine  eyes  he  closed,  but  open  left  the  cell 
Of  fancy,  my  intenial  sight,  by  which 
Abstract,  as  in  a  trance,  methought  I  saw. 
Though  sleeping,  where  I  lay,  and  saw  the  shape 
Still  glorious  before  whom  awake  I  stood  ; 
Who,  stooping,  opened  my  left  side,  and  took 
From  thence  a  rib,  with  cordial  spirits  warm, 
And  life-blood  streaming  fresh ;  wide  was  the 
wound, 


^ 


f 


MARRIAGE. 


161 


n 


But  suddenly  witli  flesh  filled  up  and  healed  : 
The  rib  he  formed  and  fashioned  with  his  hands  ; 
Under  his  forming  hands  a  creature  grew, 
Manlike,  but  ditierent  sex,  so  lovely  fair, 
That  what  seemed  fair  in  all  the  world  seemed 

now 
Mean,  or  in  her  summed  up,  in  her  contained 
And  in  her  looks,  which  from  that  time  infused 
Sweetness  into  my  lieart,  unfelt  belbre, 
And  into  all  things  from  her  air  inspired 
The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight. 
She  disappeared,  and  left  me  dark  ;  I  waked 
To  find  hei',  or  forever  to  deplore 
Her  loss,  and  other  pleasuies  all  abjure  : 
When  out  of  hope,  behold  her,  not  far  off, 
Such  as  I  saw  her  in  my  dream,  adorned 
With  what  all  earth  or  Heaven  could  bestow 
To  make  her  amiable.     On  she  came, 
Led  by  her  heavenly  Maker,  though  unseen, 
And  guided  by  his  voice,  nor  uninformed 
Of  nuptial  sanctity  and  maniage  rites  ; 
Grace  was  in  all  her  steps.  Heaven  in  her  eye, 
lu  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 
I,  overjoyed,  could  not  forbear  aloud  : 

"Tins  turn  hath   made   amends;  thou  hast 

fulfilled 
Thy  words,  Creator  bounteous  and  benign, 
Giver  of  all  things  fair,  but  fairest  this 
Of  all  thy  gifts,  nor  enviest.     I  now  see 
Bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh,  myself 
Before  me  ;  W'oman  is  her  name,  of  man 
Extracted  :  for  this  cause  he  shall  forego 
Father  and  mother,  and  to  his  wife  adhere  ; 
And   they   shall   be   one   flesh,  one   heart,   one 

souh" 
She   heard   me    thus,    and    though    divinely 

brought. 
Yet  innocenci!  and  virgm  modesty. 
Her  virtue  and  the  conscience  of  her  worth. 
That  would  be  wooed,  and  not  unsought  be  won. 
Not  obvious,  not  obtinjsive;  but  retired, 
The  more  desirable  ;  or,  to  say  all, 
Nature  herself,  though  pure  of  sinful  thought, 
Wrouglit  in  her  so,  that,  seeing  me,  she  turned  : 
I  followed  her  ;  she  what  was  honor  knew. 
And  with  obsequious  majesty  approved 
My  pleaded  reason.     To  the  nuptial  bower 
1  led  her  blushing  like  the  morn  :  all  Heaven, 
And  happy  constellations  on  that  hour 
Shed  their  selectest  influence ;  the  earth 
Gave  sign  of  gratulation,  and  each  hill ; 
Joyous  the  birds  ;  fresh  gales  and  gentle  airs 
Whispered  it  to  the  woods,  and  from  their  wings 
Flung  rose,  flung  odors  from  the  spicy  .shrub. 
Disporting,  till  the  amorous  bird  of  night 
Sung  spousal,  and  bid  haste  the  evening  star 
On  his  hill-to]i,  to  light  the  bridal  lamp. 


B-.- 


MY  COTTAGE. 

Herk  have  I  found  at  last  a  home  of  peace 
To  hide  me  from  the  woild  ;  far  from  its  noise. 
To  feed  that  spirit,  which,  though  sprung  from 

earth. 
And  linked  to  human  beings  by  the  bond 
Of  earthly  love,  hath  yet  a  loftier  aim 
Than  perishable  joy,  and  through  the  calm 
That  sleeps  amid  the  mountain  solitude. 
Can  hear  the  billows  of  eternity. 
And  hear  delighted.  .  .  . 

There  are  thoughts 
That  slumber  in  the  soul,  like  sweetest  sounils 
Amid  the  harji'sloosestrings,  till  airs  from  Heaven 
On  earth,  at  dewy  nightfall,  visitant, 
Awake  the  sleeping  melody  I     Such  thoughts, 
My  gentle  Mary,  1  have  owed  to  thee. 
And  if  thy  voice  e'er  melt  into  my  soul 
With  a  dear  home-toned  whisper,  —  if  thy  face 
E'er  brighten  in  the  unsteady  gleams  of  light 
From  our  own  cottage-hearth,  —  0  Mary  !  then 
My  overpowered  spirit  shall  recline 
Upon  thy  inmost  heart,  till  it  become. 
Thou  sinless  seraph,  almost  worthy  thee  ! 

John  Wilson. 


I  TO  A  LADY  BEFORE  MARRIAGE. 

0,  FORMED  by  Nature,  and  refined  by  Art, 
With  charms  to  win,  and  sense  to  fix  the  licart  1 
By  thousands  sought,  ClotUda,  canst  thou  free 
Thy  crowd  of  captives  and  descend  to  me. 
Content  in  shades  obscure  to  waste  thy  life, 
A  hidden  beauty  and  a  country  wife  ? 
0,  listen  while  thy  summers  are  my  theme  ! 
Ah  !  soothe  thy  partner  ui  his  waking  dream  ! 
In  some  small  hamlet  on  the  lonely  plain, 
Where  Thames  through  meadows  rolls  his  mazy 

train. 
Or  where  high  Windsor,  thick  with  greens  ar- 
rayed, 
Waves  his  old  oaks,  and  spreads  his  ample  shade, 
Fancy  has  figured  out  our  calm  retreat ; 
Already  round  the  visionary  seat 
Our  limes  begin  to  shoot,  our  flowers  to  sjjiing. 
The  brooks  to  murmur,  and  the  birds  to  sing. 
Wliere  dost  thou  lie,  thou  thinly  peopled  green. 
Thou  nameless  lawn,  and  village  yet  unseen. 
Where  sons,  contented  with  their  native  ground. 
Ne'er  traveled  farthei  than  ten  furlongs  round. 
And  the  tanned  peasant  and  his  ruddy  bride 
Were  born  together,  and  togetner  died, 
AVhere  early  larks  best  tell  the  morning  light, 
And  only  Philomel  disturbs  the  night  ' 
Midst  gardens  here  my  humble  pile  shall  rise. 
With  sweets  sun'ounded  of  ten  tliousand  dyes  ; 


-S 


a^. 


IGli 


roEMS  OF  HUME. 


■a 


All  siivagt>  whero  th'  embrouU>TO(l  giiiduns  ouil, 
Tho  hiumt  of  cclioes,  sliall  my  womU  iisioml ; 
Ami   0,  it'  Ht'iivon  th'   iimlntious  tlumjtht  iip- 

provo, 
A  rill  shiiU  wiirblo  'fivas  tlio  gloomy  grove,  — 
A  liltKi  rill,  o'or  (lolilily  bnls  convi'Voil, 
IJiish  down   tho  stoep,  iiiul  glitter  tlu-ough  tho 

glmlu. 
Whiit   (.'lu'criiig  scouts    thoso    boiiU'ring  banks 

oxlmlo  ! 
How  lovul  that  lioifor  lows  fi-om  yondor  valo  ! 
'I"h:it  thrash  how  shrill !  his  note  so  oloar,  so  high, 
llo  (livwns  oiu'h  feiitlioriHl  iiiinstii'l  of  tJio  sky. 
lUiv  let  me  tittee  beneiith  the  (mrpled  mom 
The  ileep-montheil  beiigle  nnil  tlie  sprightly  horn, 
t1r  luiv  the  trout  with  well-dissembleil  tlios, 
th'  feteh  the  lluttering  (oirtriiige  fiviu  the  skies. 
Nor  shiill  thy  hand  disdain  to  erop  the  vine, 
Tho  downy  peach  or  tlavored  neetarine  : 
Or  rob  the  beehive  of  its  golden  hoanl. 
And  bear  the  unbo\ight  luxiirianee  to  thy  Ixmiil. 
Sometimes  my  books  by  day  shall  kill  the  hours, 
While  fixiu>  thy  needln  rise  tho  silken  llowere, 
.\nd  thou,  by  turns,  to  easo  my  foeblo  sight, 
Kesumo  tho  vobune,  and  deceive  tho  night. 
O,  when  1  mark  thy  twinkling  eyes  oppivst. 
Soft  whispering,  lei  me  warn  my  love  to  ivst ; 
Thenwateh  thee,  oharmed,  while  sleep  locks  every 

sense. 
And  to  sweot  Heaven  commend  thy  innocence. 
Tims  ivigned  our  fathei-s  o'er  the  ruml  fold. 
Wise,  hale,  and  honest,  in  the  days  of  old  : 
Till  courts  arose,  wheiv  snl>stnnce  )i)>ys  for  show. 
And  specious  joys  aiv  bo\ight  with  wal  woo. 

Thomas  Tickklu 


THK  KriTH.VLAMlON, 

W.vKK  now,  my  love,  awake  ;  for  it  is  time; 
The  ixwy  ilorn  long  since  left  Titht^u's  Ivd, 
All  ivady  to  her  silver  coach  to  climb  ; 
And  rhivbus  'gins  to  show  his  glorious  head. 
Hark !  now  the  cheerful  biixls  do  chant  their  lays. 
And  eaivl  of  Love's  pmise. 
The  merry  lark  her  matins  sings  aloft ; 
The  thrush  ivplies  ;  the  mavis  descant  plays  ; 
The  ouzel  shrills  :  the  ruddock  warbles  soft  ; 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent. 
To  this  day's  merriment. 

.\h  !  my  dear  love,  why  do  you  sleep  thus  long. 
When  nn-eter  weiv  Uiat  you  sliould  now  awake, 
T'  await  the  coming  of  your  joyous  nnike,* 
.Vnd  hearken  to  the  bills'  love-leariii'd  song. 
The  dewy  leaves  among  ! 
For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing. 
That  all  the  wooila  tliem  luiswor,  luid  their  echo 
ring. 


6- 


My  love  is  now  awake  out  i€  hor  dream. 
And  her  fair  eyes  like  stai-s  that  dimmed  wei-e 
With  darksome  cloud,  now  show  their  goodly 

beams 
Mow  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rear. 
Come  now,  ye  ilamsels,  daughters  of  delight. 
Help  ipiiekly  hor  to  dight ; 
Uut  liret  oonie,  yo  fair  Hours,  which  wore  begot. 
In  .love's  sweot  iwradise,  of  Day  ami  Night ; 
Which  do  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot, 
.\iul  all.  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fair, 
I'o  make  and  still  repair  ; 
And  ye  thive  handmaids  of  the  fyprian  Queon, 
The  which  do  still  adorn  her  beauties'  pride. 
Help  to  adorn  my  heautil'idest  bride  ; 
And,  as  yo  hor  array,  still  throw  between 
Some  graces  to  be  seen  ; 
And,  as  yo  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing, 
Tho  whiles  tho  woods  slinll  answer,  and   your 

echo  ring. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come  : 
I  Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  await  ; 

.\nd  ye,  fix'sli  boys,  that  tend  upon  her  gi-oom, 
I  l>t»|>aiv  yoni-selves,  for  he  is  coming  stl-aight, 
]  Set  all  your  things  in  seemly  good  array, 
j  Fit  for  so  joyful  day,  — 

The  joyful'st  day  that  over  sun  did  see. 

Fair  Sun  !  show  forth  thy  favorable  ray. 

And  let  thy  lifeful  heat  not  forvont  be, 
I  For  fear  of  burning  her  sunshiny  face, 

Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 

0  faiivst  I'll  vims  !  father  of  the  Muse  ! 
I  If  ever  1  did  honor  thee  aright, 
I  Or  sing  the  thing  that  might  thy  mind  delight, 
I  Do  not  thy  servant's  simple  boon  refuse. 

But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day  be  mine  : 

Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 

Then  1  thy  sovereign  praises  lond  will  sing, 

That  all  tho  woods  shall  answer,  and  tdieir  eolis 
ring. 

Lo !  whero  slio  comes  along  with  portly  jiace. 
Like  Phft^be,  fixim  her  chamber  of  the  east. 
Arising  fortJi  to  run  her  n\ight.v  race. 
Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virjjin  U'st, 
So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  wonhl  ween 
Some  angel  idie  had  Iwen. 
Her  long  loose  yellow  locks,  like  golden  wiiv. 
Sprinkled  with  ]M>arl,  and  petirling  tlowers  atween, 
Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attiro  ; 
And,  being  crownM  with  a  garland  green. 
Seem  like  some  maiden  f|neon. 
Her  modest  eyes,  abaslu''d  to  Iwhold 
So  many  gazera  as  on  her  do  .staiv. 
Upon  the  lowly  ground  allix^d  aro  ; 
Ne  daiv  lift  up  her  eountemuue  too  bold 
But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud, 


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ifl- 


MA  mil  AGE. 


103 


-a 


So  far  fioiii  being  proud. 
Niitliloss  do  y<;  .still  loud  her  prui.scB  sing, 
'I'iiat  all  the  wood»  may  an.swcr,  and  your  echo 
ring. 

Tell  nie,  yo  inercliante'  daugliter.s,  did  ye  .sue 

So  lair  a  creature  in  your  town  Ijei'ore  f 

So  Hweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  slie. 

Adorned  with  beauty's  grace,  and  virtue's  store  ; 

lli'r  goodly  eyes  like  sapiihires  shining  bright, 

Her  loicliead  ivory  whiti-, 

Jlcr  rdieeks    like-    apiil.-t    whieh    the    «un    hath 

riMded, 
Her  liiw  like  cherries  chiirming  men  to  liite, 
Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream  unciudded. 

Why  stand  yc  still,  ye  virgins,  in  arnaze, 
(J|jon  her  so  to  gaze, 

Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing. 
To  which  the  woods  di<l  answer,  and  your  echo 
ring  ? 

l!ut  if  ye  saw  tliat  which  no  eyes  can  Bee, 
'I'll!'  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  sprite, 
(i:irriished  with  heavenly  gifts  of  high  degree, 
M  iirli  more  then  would  yc  wonder  at  tliat  sight, 
And  stand  astonished  like  to  those  which  red  * 
Mwiusa's  niazeful  head. 

There  <lwells  sweet  Love,  and  constatit  Chastity, 
Uiisjiotted  Faith,  and  comely  Womanhood, 
Regard  of  Honor,  and  mild  Modesty  ; 
Thi'rc  Virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal  throne. 
And  givcth  laws  alone, 
TIji'  which  the  base  atrections  do  obey. 
And  yield  their  services  unto  her  will  ; 
Ne  tlionght  of  things  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approach  to  temjrt  her  mind  to  ill. 
Had  yi!  once  seen  these  her  celestial  treasures. 
And  unrcvealfcd  pleasures, 
Tlicn  would  ye  wonder  and  her  praises  sing, 
Tliat  all  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your  echo 
ring. 

flpi-n  llie  temple  gates  unto  my  love, 

(i|uii  iImiij  wide  that  she  may  enter  in, 

And  all  lie-  |iosts  adorn  as  doth  behove, 

And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garlands  I  rim, 

For  to  receive  this  saint  with  honor  ilne, 

Tliat  Cometh  in  to  you. 

With  trembling  ste|is,  and  humble  reverence, 

She  Cometh  in,  before  the  Almighty's  view  : 

Of  hiT,  ye  virgins,  learn  oljedience. 

When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  ]ilaees, 

To  humble  your  proud  faces  : 

Uring  her  up  to  the  high  altar,  that  she  may 

The  sacred  ceremonies  there  jiartiike. 

The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make  ; 

And  let  the  roaring  organs  loudly  jilay 


fe- 


The  praises  of  the  l^ord  in  lively  not<;s; 
'I'he  whiles,  with  hollow  throats, 
The  chori.stei-s  the  joyous  anthem  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  echo 
ring. 

liehold,  while  slie  before  the  altar  stands. 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  s])eak«. 
And  blessetli  her  with  his  two  happy  haiiils, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks. 
And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermeil  slain, 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain  ; 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 
Forget  their  service  and  aljout  her  (ly. 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  sci'ms  more  fair, 
The  more  they  on  it  stare. 
liut  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground. 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 
'J'liat  suH'ers  not  a  look  to  glance  awry. 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 
Why  blush  you,  love,  to  give  to  mi'  your  hand. 
The  pledge  of  all  our  band  ? 
Sing,  ye  sweet  angels.  Alleluia  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo 
ring. 


LIKE   A  LAVEROCK  IN  THE  LIFT. 

It  's  we  two,  it  's  we  two  for  aye, 
Alltheworld,  and  wetwo,  and  Heaven  be  our  stay  1 
Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride! 
All  the  world  was  Adam  once,  with  Kve  by  liis 
side. 

What 's  the  world,  my  lass,  my  love  !  —  what  can 

it  do  ? 
I  am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine  ;  life  is  sweet  and 

new. 
If  the  world  have  missed  the  mark,  let  it  stand  by  ; 
For  wo  two  have  gotten  leave,  and  once  more  will 

try. 

Like  a  laverock  in  the  lilt,  smg,  O  bonny  bild.-  ! 
It's  we  two,  it 's  we  two,  happy  side  by  side. 
Take  a  kiss  from  me,   thy  man  ;  now  the  song 

begins  : 
"All  is  made  afresh  for  us,  and  the  brave  heart 

wins." 

When  the  darker  ilays  come,   and  no  sun  will 

.shine. 
Thou  shalt  dry  my  tears.  Loss,  and  I  '11  dry  thine. 
It 's  we  two,  it 's  we  two,  while  the  worid  's  away. 
Sitting  by  the  golden  sheaves  on  onrwedding  day. 

Jl  AN   I.'J 


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f 


104 


I'OEMa  OF  HOME. 


-a 


MAIBE  BHAN  ASTOR.* 

In  a  valloy  far  away 

With  my  ilaim  blian  astor, 
Short  would  be  the  sumiuei-day, 

Ever  loving  nioro  and  mow  ; 
Winter  days  would  all  grow  long, 

With  the  light  her  heni't  would  [lour, 
With  her  kisses  and  her  soug, 
And  hor  loving  niait  go  le6r. 
Fond  is  Maire  blian  ast6r, 
Fair  is  Maire  bhan  astiSr, 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  sliore, 
Sings  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 

0,  hor  sire  is  very  proud, 

And  hor  mother  cold  as  stono  ; 
But  hor  brother  bravely  vowed 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone  ; 
For  lie  knew  1  lovoil  her  well. 

And  he  knew  she  loved  mo  too. 
So  he  sought  their  pride  to  iiuoll. 
But 't  was  all  in  vain  to  sue. 
True  is  Maire  bhnn  astor, 
Tried  is  Maire  bhan  astor. 
Had  I  wings  1  'd  never  soar 
From  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 

There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  erop  it  sows. 
Glorious  woods  anil  teeming  soil, 

Where  the  broad  Missouri  flows  ; 
Through  the  trees  tlio  smoke  shall  rise. 

From  our  hearth  with  mait  go  leor. 
There  shall  shine  the  happy  eyes 
or  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 

Mild  is  Maire  bhan  astor. 
Mine  is  Mairo  bhan  astor, 
Saints  will  watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  astur. 

THOMAS  DAVl 


THE   BRIDE. 


The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  n  tale. 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape  that  's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  .so  soft  as  she. 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Would  not  stay  on  v.'iiich  tuey  did  bring, 
1 1  was  too  wide  a  pock  ; 


O- 


And,  to  say  truth,  —for  out  it  nnist,  — 

It  looked  like  the  great  collar  —  just  — 

About  our  young  colt's  nock. 

Iter  feet  beneath  her  petticoat. 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out. 

As  if  they  feared  the  light  ; 
But  0,  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  chocks  so  rare  a  white  was  on. 
No  dai.sy  nuikes  comparison  ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there. 
Such  as  are  on  a  Oath'rine  piair. 

The  side  that 's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red  ;  and  one  was  thin, 
Compareil  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly  ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  niurc  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak. 
Thou  'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break. 

That  they  might  jiassage  get  ; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better. 

And  arc  nut  spent  a  whit. 

siK  John  Suckling. 


HEBREW  WEDDING. 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet 
Jloving  slow  our  solemn  feet. 
We  have  boiue  thee  on  the  road 
To  the  virgin's  blest  abode  ; 
With  thy  yellow  torches  gleaming. 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming. 
And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 

Thou  hast  left  the  joyous  feast, 
And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceased 
And  now  wo  sot  thee  down  before 
The  jealously  unclosing  door. 
That  tlic  favored  youth  admits 
'Where  the  \'oil{id  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear. 
Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear. 
And  the  music's  brisker  din 
At  the  bridegroom's  entering  in, 
Entering  in,  a  welcome  guest. 
To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 


-^ 


0- 


MARRIAGE. 


1G5 


■a 


^- 


CHoiius  OF  maidi;ns. 
Now  the  jocund  song  is  thine, 
Bride  of  David's  kingly  line  ; 
How  thy  dove-like  bosom  trenililetli, 
And  thy  shrouded  eye  rescnibleth 
Violets,  when  the  dews  of  eve 
A  luoist  and  tremulous  glitter  leave  ! 

On  the  bashful  sealed  lid. 
Close  within  the  bride-veil  hid. 
Motionless  thou  sitt'st  and  mute  ; 
Save  that  at  the  soft  salute 
Of  ea(di  entering  maiden  friend, 
Thou  dost  rise  and  softly  bend. 

Hark  !  a  brisker,  merrier  glee  ! 
The  door  unfolds,  —  't  is  he  !  't  is  he  ! 
Thus  we  lilt  our  lamjis  to  meet  him. 
Thus  we  touch  our  lutes  to  greet  him. 
Thou  shalt  give  a  fonder  meeting, 
Thou  shalt  give  a  tenderer  greeting. 

IIBNKV  Hart  Milm 


MARRIAGE. 

rRf)M   "  HUMAN   I.lFIi,' 

Thkn  Ijcfore  All  they  stand,  —  the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now, 
liind  her  as  his.     Across  the  tlireshold  led. 
And  every  teai-  kissed  olf  as  soon  as  shed. 
His  house  she  enters,  —  there  to  lie  a  light, 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  niglit ; 
A  guaidian  angel  o'er  his  life  presiding. 
Doubling  his  pleasures  and  his  cares  diviiling. 
Winning  him  back  when  mingling  in  the  throng 
Hack  from  a  woi-ld  we  love,  alas  !  too  long. 
To  fireside  happiness,  to  hours  of  ease, 
fSlcst  with  that  chami,  the  certainty  to  jilease. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  liis  ;  her  gentle  mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclined  ; 
Still  subject,  —  ever  on  the  watch  to  boiTow 
Mirth  of  his  miilh  and  .sorrow  of  his  sorrow  ! 
The  soul  of  music  .slumbers  in  the  shell. 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  .spell. 
And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  rightly  — 

A  thousand  iiieludies  unheard  before  ! 

SAMUHi.  Rogers. 

SEVEN  TIMES  SIX. 


To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 
To  watch,  and  then  to  lose  : 

To  see  my  briglit  ones  disappear, 
Drawn  up  like  morning  dews  ;  • 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 
To  watch,  and  then  to  lose  : 


This  have  I  done  when  God  drew  near 
Among  his  own  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

And  with  thy  lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed. 

Will  let  no  longer  smart.  — 
To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

This  while  thou  didst  1  smiled. 
For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said, 

"  Mother,  give  ME  thy  child." 

0  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind. 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears  ; 
But  when  a  man  like  grace  would  find, 

My  soul  put  by  her  fears. 
0  foiid,  0  fool,  and  blind, 

God  guards  in  happier  s|)heres  ; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  biml 

Is  hope  for  unknown  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose, 
Thy  mother's  tendcrest  wonls  are  said. 

Thy  face  no  more  she  views  ; 
Thy  mother's  lot,  my  dear, 

She  doth  in  naught  accuse  ; 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  love  —  and  then  to  lose. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  LEE. 

O,  THK  banks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  tlie  I,ec, 
And  love  in  a  cottage  for  Mary  and  nie  ! 
There  's  not  in  the  laud  a  lovelier  tide. 
And  I'msurethat  there 'snooncsofairasmy bride. 

She  's  modest  and  meek. 

There  's  a  down  on  her  cheek, 

And  her  skin  is  as  sleek 
As  a  butterfly's  wing  ; 

Then  her  step  would  scarce  show 

On  the  fresh-fallen  snow, 

And  her  whisper  is  low, 

But  as  clear  a.s  the  spring. 
0,  the  banks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  the  Lee, 
And  love  in  a  cottage  for  Mary  and  me  ! 
I  know  not  how  love  is  happy  el.scwhere, 
I  know  not  how  any  but  lovers  are  there. 

0,  so  green  is  the  grass,  so  clear  is  the  stream, 
So  mild  is  the  mist  and  so  rich  is  the  beam. 
That  beauty  sliould  never  to  other  lands  roam. 
But  make  on  the  banks  of  our  river  its  home  ! 

Wlien,  dripping  with  dew, 

The  roses  peep  through, 

'T  is  to  look  in  at  vou 


-^ 


ItU'. 


rOEMS  OF  HOMK. 


Thoy  im«  growing  so  fiist  ; 
Wliil.'  ll\o  soiMit  of  (lu>  llowois 
Musi  ln>  luvii\loil  lV>r  liom-s, 
"r  is  |uiinvil  in  siii'h  sliowors 

Whi-n  my  Mary  jjoi's  (Mst. 


-a 


0,  till'  luinks  of  tlm  Loo,  tlio  Imuka  of  tlio  Loo, 
Anil  lovo  in  i\  oottivgo  for  Mmy  luul  nio  ! 
0,  Miu'v  for  nio,  Mury  for  mo. 
Ana  't  is  litHo  I  W  sij-li  for  tlio  banks  of  llio  l.o. 


HOME. 


VVUK.S    A    WINSOMK   WKK    I'lUNll 

SuK  is  a  winsouio  woo  Uiinj;, 
Sho  is  a  lianilsonio  woo  tiling, 
Slio  is  a  Inmnio  woo  tJiinj;, 
'I'his  swoot  woo  wifo  o'  niino, 

1  novor  SiW  a  faiixu', 

1  novov  lo'od  a  iloiuw. 

Anil  noisl  n>y  hoart  I  'U  woar  liov. 

For  foar  my  jowol  lino. 

Sho  is  a  winsomo  woo  thing, 
Slio  is  a  hanilson\o  woo  tiling, 
Sho  is  a  iHMiiiio  woo  thing, 
'I'liis  swoot  woo  wifo  o'  u>ino. 

'ri\o  warUi's  wmok  wo  sliaiv  o't, 
'riio  wai-stlo  and  tlio  oaiv  o't  : 
\Vi"lior  I'll  hlytholy  hoar  it. 
And  think  n\Y  lot  divino. 

KoliKRV  lU'RNS 


My  l.ovo,  1  Un\ii  i\o  foar  that  thou  shouldst  dio: 
Allvit  I  ask  no  faiivr  lifo  than  this. 
Whoso  nu\nlHMiug-cliH-k  is  still  thy  gx-ntlo  kiss, 
Whilo  'Hnioaud  roaoowithhrtuds«nlooki>d  llv,— 
Yot  oaiv  1  not  whoiv  in  Ktornity 
Wo  livo  and  lovo,  wvll  knowing  that  thoiv  is 
No  Iwokwuixl  stop  for  tlu>so  who  fool  Iho  bliss 
t^f  Faith  as  thoir  nuwt  lofty  yoarnings  high  : 
l.ovo  hath  so  (Miriliod  my  Wing's  ooi-o, 
Mosoonis  I  soaiYoly  should  1h>  starllod,  ovon, 
To  lind,  somo  n\orn,  that  thon  hadst  giino  lH>fon> ; 
Siiioo,  with   thy  lovo.  this  knowloilgo  too  wa.« 

jrixi'ti. 
M'hioh  iv>oh  oaliu  day  doth  stituigthou  inoiv  and 

nxoiv. 
That  thoy  who  lovo  aiv  but  ono  stop  fivm  lloavon. 

I  iWNNOT  think  that  tlion  sluwldst  pjiss  aw-.iy. 
Whoso  lifo  to  niino  is  au  otornal  law. 


A  piooo  of  natnro  that  oan  liavo  no  (law, 
.\  now  and  oorlaiu  snnriso  ovory  day  ; 
lint,  if  thou  art  to  1h>  anothor  ray 
.VlKiut  tho  Sun  of  l.ifo.  and  art  to  livo 
I'V'O  fnnn  all  of  thoo  that  was  fugitivo. 
Tho  dobt  of  l.ovo  I  will  inoiv  fully  imy. 
Not  downoa.st  with  tho  thought  of  thoo  so  high, 
r>nt  mthor  iiiisoil  to  bo  a  noblor  man. 
And  mow  divino  in  my  humanity. 
As  knowing  that  tho  waiting  oyos  whioli  soan 
My  lifo  aiv  liglitod  by  a  pm\>r  boing, 
.\nd  ask  n>ook,  oalni-bixnvod  doods,  with  it  agroo- 
ing. 

I  THot'ollT  our  lovo  (it  full,  but  I  did  orr  ; 
.Toy's  wroiith  droopod  o'or  niino  oyos  ;  1  oonUl  not 

soo 
That  sorrow  in  our  happy  world  nuist  Ih> 
l.ovo's  dooiH'st  spokivsman  and  intorpivtor. 
Ii\it.  as  a  nuilhor  fools  lior  ohild  lirst  stir 
Vndor  hor  hoart.  so  folt  1  instantly 
Poop  in  my  soul  anothor  bond  to  thoo 
Thrill  with  that  lifo  wo  ssiw  doiwrt  fron\  hor : 

II  mothor  of  our  an,gt>l  ohihl  I  twioo  doar  ! 
Uoath  knits  as  woll  as  piivts,  and  still.  1  wis, 
llor  tondor  nidianoo  shall  infold  ns  horo, 
F.von  as  tho  light,  borno  up  by  inwaiil  bliss. 
Thivads  tho  void  glooms  of  sjiaoo  without  a  foiu\ 
To  print  on  fartliost  stars  hov  pitying  ki.ss. 

lAMUS  Kl'SSliLL  l.iVU.l  1., 


ADAM  TO  EVK. 

l")  KAir.Ksr  of  orivition,  last  and  In'st 
llf  all  (IihI's  works,  oivaturo  in  whon>  oxoollod 
Whatovor  oan  to  sight  or  thought  Iv  formod. 
Holy,  divino.  g<wd.  amiablo,  or  swoi>t  ! 
Uow  art  thon  last,  how  on  a  suddon  lost. 
Uofaoixl.  dolloworx'd.  and  now  to  doatli  dovoto  ! 
Kathor.  how  hast  thou  yioldol  to  transgivss 
Tho  stviot  I'orbividanoo.  how  to  violate 
Tho  saoivd  fruit  forbiddou  !     Somo  oursW  fraud 


--& 


[fh- 


HOME. 


1G7 


-a 


Of  enemy  hatli  >x;giiilei]  tlioe,  y';t  unknown, 
Ami  idi:  wild  tine  liatli  i-uim:'!,  lor  with  tli';0 
Ceitiiiii  rrjy  inKolijtion  i»  to  die. 
Ilow  ean  1  live  without  tliee,  liow  I'oref/o 
'I'liy  KWeet  eoiiverw;,  ari'l  love  lo  ileaily  joitie'I, 
To  live  again  in  thew:  wiM  woiAh  lor  loin  ( 
.SlioiiM  Owl  creati:  another  Kve,  ari'l  1 
Another  lih  alfonl,  yet  Iohk  of  thee 
Would  never  from  niy  heart ;  no,  no,  I  feel 
The  link  of  nature  draw  nre  ;  lleKh  of  llech, 
lione  of  nry  Ikjiii;  thou  art,tand  from  thy  «tat« 
Mine  never  >iliall  Ije  parKA,  hlinit  or  v/tK. 

However,  I  with  th'je  have  i'lXcA  rny  lot, 
Ci;rtain  to  uniler(^o  like  d'wni  ;  if  death 
Contort  with  thee,  death  in  Ui  nie  a«  life  ; 
So  forcible  within  my  heart  1  feel 
The  Ijond  of  nature  draw  me  Ui  my  owrr. 
My  own  in  thee,  for  what  thou  art  i.t  mine  ; 
Oui'  BUtft  cannot  fj*;  f«:vered,  we  are  one, 
<>ii(:  (leiih  ;  U>  him  Did:  were  to  loic.'  jiiywdf 


LOKD  WALTEK'M  WIFE. 

"  Iir;i  why  do  you  go?"  «aid  the  lady,  while  Ujth 

sate  under  the  yew, 
And  her  eye«  were  alive  in  their  depth,  a«  the 

kniken  beneath  the  wa-blue. 

"  lieearwe  I  fear  you,"  he  anHwered  ;  —  "  Ix^eauac 

you  are  far  Utn  fair. 
And  able  U)  Btrangle  my  wjuI  in  a  inesth  of  your 

gold-Cjlor'^l  hair." 

"0  that,"  she  mwl,  "in  no  retiwm  !    Hiieh  knots 

are  fjrjiekly  undone. 
And  too  rnueh  ln.aiity,  I  re/;kon,  in  nothing;  but 

t<jo  mueh  Hun. " 

"Vet  farewell  ivt,"  he  answered; — "the  uun- 
stroke  '»  fat.;d  at  timex, 

1  value  your  hiixlxind.  Lord  Walt^jr,  whose  gal- 
lop ringo  Btill  from  the  limen." 

"O,  that,"  she  Haid,  "in  no  reason.  Vou  >:mell 
a  rotte  through  a  fence  ; 

If  two  should  Hmell  it,  wljat  matter?  who  grum- 
bles, and  where  's  the  j/retenw;  ? " 

"But  I,"  he  replied,  "have  promijc^d  .-mother, 

when  love  was  fr-e<;, 
To  love  lier  alone,  alone,  who  alone  and  afar  loves 

me." 


["But  you,"  he  i.|,ii<'i,    -   ii.ive    :i    oautditcr,  a 
young  little  child,  who  wao  laid 
In  your  lap  to  \x:  pure  ;  Hti    I    hsive  you  :  the 
angels  would  make  me  afraid." 

"O,  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  r<ason.     The  angels 

ki;*;p  out  of  the  way ; 
And  Oora,  the  child,  olwervirs  nothing,  although 

you  should  pleawj  me  and  stay." 

At  which  he  nrnt  up  in  his  anger,  —  "Why,  now, 

you  no  longer  are  fair  ! 
Why,  now,  you  no  longer  are  fatal,  but  ugly  and 

liatiiful,  I  swear." 

At  which  she  laughwl  out  in  her  scorn,  —  "  Tlrese 

men  !  0,  these  men  ovenii'X;, 
Who  are  shoekcl  if  a  wjlor  not  virtuous  is  frankly 

put  on  by  a  vi/;c." 

Her  ey<-s  bhi»!d  ufK^n  hirn  — "And  ;/'/«/     Vou 

bring  us  your  vices  mi  near 
That  we  t>mell  them  !  you  think  in  our  prewn'Mi 

a  thought  't  would  defame  us  to  hear  ! 

"What  ri::mm  ha/l  you,  and  what  right,  I  p- 
[Ksil  to  your  K^iiil  from  my  life,  — 

To  find  nre  t'<o  fair  as  a  wonrarr  ?  Why,  sir,  I  anr 
pure,  and  a  wifir, 

"  Is  the  day-star  tvi  fair  up  aJ/ove  you?    It  biinis 

you  not.      Dare  you  im|ily 
I   brushed   you  more  ch/W:  than    the  star  do<»t, 

when  Walt'ir-  lia/1  w:t  /ne  as  high  ? 

"  If  a  man  fin'ls  a  woman  Uxi  fair,  he  means  sim- 
ply iulapt.'-d  too  nruch 

To  us'js  irnlawful  and  fatal.  The  praise  I  —  shall 
I  thank  you  for  such  ? 

"To<)fair? —  irot  unlesi  you  misrus/;  un  1  and  surely 

if,  once  in  a  whih-, 
You  attain  t/i  it,  straightway  you  call  us  no  longer 

t/Ki  fair,  but  Umj  vile. 

"  A  moment,  —  I  pray  your  att/.-ntion  !  —  I  have 

a  fKtor  word  in  rny  head 
I  must  utter,  though  womanly  custom  would  vt 

it  down  V>f;tt/;r  unsaid, 

"  Vou  grew,  sir,  pale  U>  imfK;rtinence,  one;  when 
I  showwl  you  a  ring. 

You  kissed  my  fan  wh'-rr  I  dropjx;'!  it.  No  mat- 
ter !     I  Ve  Woken  the  thing. 


"Why,  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason.  I^ove '«  "You  did  me  the  honor,  ffcrhaps,  to  be  rnrivA 
always  frc<;,  I  anr  told,  at  my  side  now  and  then 

Will  you  vow  to  h<:  safe  from  the  hea/lache  on  In  the  seriwis,  —  a  vice,  I  have  heard,  which  ix 
Tae«<Iay,  and  think  it  will  hold  ?"  common  to  beajstJi  and  some  men, 

la — 


^ 


IS- 


-Fh 


168 


POEMS  OF  HOME. 


"  Love  's  a  virtue  for  heroes  !  —  as  white  as  the 
snow  on  high  hills, 

And  immortal  as  every  great  soul  is  that  strug- 
gles, endures,  and  fulfills. 

' '  I  love  my  Walter  profoundly,  —  you,  Maude, 

though  you  faltered  a  week, 
For  the  sake  of  .   .   .   what  was  it  ?  an  eyebrow  ? 

or,  less  still,  a  mole  on  a  cheek  ? 

"  And  since,  when  all 's  said,  you  're  too  noble  to 

stoop  to  the  frivolous  cant 
About  crimes  irresistible,  virtues  that  swindle, 

betray,  and  supplant, 

"  I  determined  to  prove  to  yourself  that,  whate'er 

you  might  dream  or  avow 
By  illusion,  you  wanted  precisely  no  more  of  me 

than  you  have  now. 

"There!     Look  me  full  in  the  face!  —  in  the 

face.     Understand,  if  you  can, 
That  the  eyes  of  such  women  as  I  am  are  clean  as 

the  palm  of  a  man. 

"Drop  Ms  hand,  you  insult  him.  Avoid  us  for 
fear  we  should  cost  you  a  scar,  — 

You  take  us  for  harlots,  I  tell  you,  and  not  for 
the  women  we  are. 

"You  wronged  me  :  but  then  I  considered  .  .  . 

there  's  Walter  !     And  so  at  the  end, 
I  vowed  that  he  should  not  be  nmlcted,  by  me, 

in  the  hand  of  a  friend. 

"  Have  I  hurt  you  indeed  ?    We  are  quits  then. 

Nay,  friend  of  my  Walter,  be  mine  ! 
Come,  Dora,  my  darling,  my  angel,  and  help  me 

to  ask  him  to  dine." 

ELiz.\BETH  Barrett  browning. 


C0NKT7BIAL  LITE. 


FROM  •*  THE  SEASONS." 


V,VT  happy  they,  the  happiest  of  their  kind, 
Wliom  gentler  stars  unite,  and  in  one  fate 
Their  hearts,   their  fortunes,    and  their  beings 

blend. 
'T  is  not  the  coarser  tie  of  human  laws, 
Unnatural  oft,  and  foreign  to  the  mind. 
That  binds  their  peace,  but  harmony  itself, 
Attuning  all  their  passions  into  love  ; 
Wliere  friendship  full-exerts  her  softest  power. 
Perfect  esteem  enlivened  by  desire 
Ineffable,  and  sympathy  of  soul ; 
Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will  preventing 


With  boundless  confidence :  for  naught  but  lova 
Can  answer  love,  and  render  bliss  secure. 
Meantime  a  smiling  offspring  rises  round, 
And  mingles  both  their  graces.     By  degrees, 
The  human  blossom  blows  ;  and  every  day, 
Soft  as  it  rolls  along,  shows  some  new  charm, 
The  father's  lustre  and  the  mother's  bloom. 
Then  infant  reason  gi'ows  apace,  and  calls 
For  the  kind  hand  of  an  assiduous  care. 
Delightful  task  !  to  rear  the  tender  thought. 
To  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot, 
To  pour  the  fresh  instruction  o'er  the  mind, 
To  breathe  the  enlivening  spirit,  and  to  fix 
The  generous  purpose  in  the  glowing  breast. 
0,  speak  the  joy  !  ye  whom  the  sudden  tear 
Surprises  often,  while  you  look  around, 
And  nothing  strikes  your  eye  but  sights  of  bliss, 
All  various  Nature  pressing  on  the  heart ; 
An  elegant  sufficiency,  content. 
Retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship,  books, 
Ease  and  alternate  labor,  useful  life, 
Progressive  virtue,  and  approving  Heaven. 
These  are  the  matchless  joys  of  virtuous  love  ; 
And  thus  their  moments  fly.     The  Seasons  thus, 
As  ceaseless  round  a  jarring  world  they  roll, 
Still  find  them  happy ;  and  consenting  Spring 
Sheds  her  own  rosy  garland  on  their  heads  : 
Till  evening  comes  at  last,  serene  and  mild  ; 
When,  after  the  long  vernal  day  of  life, 
Enamored  more,  a.s  more  remembrance  swells 
With  many  a  proof  of  recollected  love, 
Together  down  they  sink  in  social  sleep  ; 
Together  freed,  their  gentle  spirits  fly 
To  scenes  where  love  and  bliss  immortal  reign. 
James  Thomson. 


[&.-.. 


will, 


POSSESSION. 

"  It  was  our  wedding-day 

A  month  ago,"  dear  heart,  I  hear  you  say. 

If  months,  or  years,  or  ages  since  have  passed, 

I  know  not :  I  have  ceased  to  question  Time. 

I  only  know  that  once  there  pealed  a  chime 

Of  joyous  bells,  and  then  I  held  you  fast, 

And  all  stood  back,  and  none  my  right  denied. 

And  forth  we  walked  :  the  world  was  free  and  wide 

Before  us.     Since  that  day 

1  count  my  life  :  the  Past  is  washed  away. 

It  was  no  dream,  that  vow  : 

It  was  the  voice  that  woke  me  from  a  dream, — 

A  happy  dream,  I  think :  but  1  am  waking  now, 

And  drink  the  splendor  of  a  sun  supreme 

That  turns  the  mist  of  former  tears  to  gold. 

Within  these  arms  I  hold 

The  fleeting  promise,  chased  so  long  in  vain  : 

Ah,  weary  bird  !  thou  wilt  not  fly  again  : 


& 


^- 


HOME. 


169 


■^ 


Thy  wings  are  clipped,  thou  canst  no  more  de- 
part, — 
Thy  nest  is  huilded  in  my  heart ! 

I  was  the  crescent ;  thou 

Tlie  silver  phantom  of  the  perfect  sjihere. 

Held  in  its  bosom  :  in  one  glory  now 

Our  lives  united  shine,  and  many  a  year  — 

Not  the  sweet  moon  of  bridal  only  —  we 

One  luster,  ever  at  the  full,  shall  be  : 

One  pure  and  rounded  light,  one  planet  whole. 

One  life  developed,  one  completed  soul  ! 

For  I  in  thee,  and  thou  in  me. 

Unite  our  cloven  halves  of  destiny. 

God  knew  his  chosen  time. 
He  bade  me  slowly  ripen  to  my  prime. 
And  from  my  boughs  withheld  the  promised  fruit. 
Till  storm  and  sun  gave  vigor  to  the  root. 
Secure,  0  Love  !  secure 

Thy  blessing  is  :  1  have  thee  day  and  night  : 
Thou  art  become  my  blood,  my  life,  my  light : 
God's  mercy  thou,  and  therefore  shalt  endure. 
Bayard  Taylor. 


h 


THE  DAY  RETURNS,    MY  BOSOM  BURNS. 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns. 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet ; 
Though  winter  wild  in  tempest  toiled, 

Ne'er  summer  sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 
Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  tlie  tide. 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  line,  — 
Than  kingly  robes,  and  crowns  and  globes. 

Heaven  gave  me  more  ;  it  made  thee  mine. 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give,  — 
"Wliile  joys  above  my  mind  can  move. 

For  thee  and  thee  alone  I  live  ; 
When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part. 
The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band. 

It  breaks  my  bliss,  —  it  lireaks  ray  heart. 
Robert  Burns. 


THE  POET'S  BRIDAL-DAY  SONG. 

0,  MY  love  's  like  the  steadfast  sun. 
Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run  ; 
Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 
Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears. 
Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain, 
Nor  dreams  of  glory  dreamed  in  vain. 
Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  that  tiows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes. 
Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee. 
One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 


Even  while  I  muse,  I  see  thee  sit 

In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit ; 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  1  sued. 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood  ; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 

As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree. 

We  stayed  and  wooed,  and  thought  the  moon 

Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon  ; 

Or  lingered  mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were'  few. 

Though  I  see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons,  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet, 
And  time,  and  care,  and  birthtime  woes 
Have  dimmed  thine  eye  and  touched  thy  ro.se. 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
Whate'er  charms  me  in  tale  or  song. 
When  words  descend  like  dcw.s,  unsought, 
With  gleams  of  deep,  enthusiast  thouglit. 
And  fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free. 
They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

0,  when  more  thought  we  gave,  of  old, 
To  silver,  than  some  give  to  gold, 
'T  was  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o'er 
How  we  should  deck  our  humble  bower  ; 
'T  was  sweet  to  pull,  in  hope,  witli  thee, 
The.  golden  fruit  of  fortune's  tree  ; 
And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A  garland  for  that  brow  of  thine,  — 
A  song-wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 
While  rivers  flow,  and  woods  glow  gieen. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought. 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thouglit. 
When  fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  oiu-  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 
And  hope,  that  decks  the  peasant's  bower, 
Shines  like  a  rainbow  through  the  shower. 
0,  then  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 
A  mother's  heart  shine  in  thine  eye, 
And  proud  resolve,  and  purpose  meek. 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak. 
1  think  this  wedded  wife  of  mine. 
The  best  of  aU  that 's  not  divine. 

Allan  Cunn: 


AN  ANGEL'S  VISIT. 

She  stood  in  the  harvest-field  at  noon. 
And  sang  aloud  for  the  joy  of  living. 

She  said  :   "'T  is  the  sun  that  I  drink  like  wine, 
To  my  heart  this  gladness  giving." 

Rank  upon  rank  the  wheat  fell  slain  ; 

The  reapers  ceased.    "  'T  is  sure  the  splendor 
Of  sloping  sunset  light  that  thrills 

JIv  breast  with  a  bliss  so  tender. " 


-^ 


[& 


170 


POEMS  OF  HOME. 


-^ 


U-- 


Up  and  up  the  blazing  lulls 

Climbed  the  night  from  the  misty  meadows. 
"  Can  they  be  stars,  or  living  eyes 

That  bond  on  me  from  the  shadows  ? " 

"  Greeting  !  "     "  And  may  you  speak,  indeed  ? " 
All  in  the  dark  her  sense  grew  clearer  ; 

Slir  knew  that  she  had,  fur  coiiiiKiiiy, 
All  day  an  angel  near  Iut. 

"  M;iy  you  toll  us  of  the  life  divine, 
To  us  unknown,  to  angels  given  ? " 

"Ciiunt  me  your  earthly  joys,  and  I 
May  teach  you  those  of  heaven. " 

"  They  say  the  pleasures  of  earth  are  vain  ; 

Delusions  all,  to  lure  from  duty  ; 
liut  while  Cod  hangs  his  bow  in  the  rain, 

Can  1  helji  my  joy  in  beauty  ? 

"  .\iid  while  he  (luickens  the  air  with  song. 
My  breaths  witli  aeeiit,  my  fruits  with  Uavor, 

Will  he,  ilear  angel,  count  as  sin 
My  life  in  smmd  and  savor  '! 

"See,  at  our  feet  the  glow-worm  shines, 

Lo  !  in  the  east  a  star  arises  ; 
Aiul  thought  may  climb  fi'oni  worm  to  world 

Forever  through  fresh  surprises  : 

"And  thought  is  joy.  .  .  .  And,  hark!  in  the 
vale 

Music,  and  merry  stc]is  pursuing  ; 
They  leap  in  the  dance,  —  a  suul  in  my  blood 

( 'ricvs  out.  Awake,  bo  doing  ! 

"  Action  is  joy  ;  or  power  at  play. 
Or  power  at  work  in  world  or  emprises  : 

Action  is  life  ;  part  from  the  deed. 
More  from  the  doing  rises." 

"  And  arc  these  all  ? "     She  Hushed  in  the  dark. 

"These  are  not  all.     I  have  a  lover  ; 
At  sound  of  his  voice,  .at  touch  of  his  hand, 

Tlie  cup  of  my  life  runs  over. 

"  Cncc,  unknowing,  we  looked  and  neared. 
And  doubted,  and  noared,  and  rested  never, 

Till  life  seized  life,  as  flame  meets  flame, 
To  escape  no  more  forever. 

"  Lover  and  husband  ;  then  was  love 
The  wine  of  my  life,  all  life  enhancing  : 

Now  't  is  my  bread,  too  needful  and  sweet 
To  be  kept  for  feast-day  chancing. 

"  I  have  a  child."     .She  seemed  to  change  ; 
The  deep  content  of  some  brooding  creature 


Looked  from  her  eyes.     "0,  sweet  and  strange! 
Angel,  be  thou  my  teacher  : 

"  When  He  made  us  one  in  a  babe, 

Was  it  for  joy,  or  sorest  proving? 
For  now  1  fear  no  heaven  could  win 

Our  hearts  from  earthly  loving. 

"  I  have  a  friend.      Ilowso  1  err, 

I  see  her  uplifting  love  bend  o'er  me  ; 

Howso  1  climb  to  my  best,  1  know 
Her  foot  will  be  there  before  mo. 

"Howso  parted,  wo  must  bo  nigh, 
Held  by  old  years  of  every  weather ; 

The  best  new  love  would  be  less  than  ours 
Who  have  lived  our  lives  together. 

' '  Now,  lest  forever  I  fail  to  see 

Right  skies,  through  clouds  so  bright  and  ten- 
der. 
Show  me  true  joy."     The  angel's  smile 

Lit  all  the  night  with  splendor. 

"  Save  that  to  Love  and  Learn  and  Do 
In  wondrous  measure  to  us  is  given  ; 

Save  that  we  see  the  face  of  God, 

You  have  named  the  joys  of  heaven." 

ULI2A  SPROAT  TUK.NER. 


WIFE,   CHILDREN,   AND  FRIENDS. 

WiiKN  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was  pre- 
sented 
(The  list  of  what  fate  for  each  mortal  intends). 
At  the  long  string  of  ills  a  kind  goddess  relented, 
Andslippcdiu  three  blessings, — \vife,  children, 
and  friends. 

In  v.ain  surly  Pluto  maintained  he  was  cheated, 
For  justiae  divine  could  not  compass  its  enils. 

Thosehemcofman'spenanco  he  swore  wasdi'featcil. 
For  earth  becomes  heaven  with — wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

If  the  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands  vested. 
The  fmul,  ill  secured,  oft  in  bankruptcy  ends  ; 

But  the  heart  issues  bills  which  are  lu'vcrprotestcil. 
When  drawn  on  the  firm  of — wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

The  day-springof  youth,  still  unclouded  by  sorrow. 
Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends  ; 

But  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age  if  it  borrow 
No  warmth  from  the  smile  of  —  wife,  children, 
and  friends. 


-^ 


HOME. 


171 


.^ 


THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

ilow  many  summers,  lovi>, 

Have  I  been  tliiiie  < 
How  many  days,  tliou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 
Time,  like  the  winf^eil  wind 

When  't  bends  the  flowers, 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 

To  count  the  hours  ! 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loath. 

On  thee  he  leaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  I'ound  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves  ; 
Some  fears,  —  a  soft  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known  ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget ;  — 

All  else  is  tlown  ! 

Ah  ! —  With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  spring ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low 

Like  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

To  thee  and  time  ! 


& 


IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE,   MY  LOVE. 

If  tliou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love. 
How  fast  would  evening  fail 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove. 
Listening  the  nightingale  ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side. 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 
How  gayly  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea  ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray. 
When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  I  guide, 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  tr)', 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer. 

But  miss  thy  kind,  approving  eye. 
Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 


But  when  at  mom  and  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  !  then  on  !  where  duty  leads. 

My  course  be  onward  still. 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads. 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates 

Nor  mild  Malwah  detain  ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea  ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  ! 

Reginald  IIciiBR. 


TROTH-PUGHT. 

FOR  THE  GOLDEN  WEDDINr,  OF  A  HUSBAND  THIRTY-SEVEN 
YEARS  BLIND. 

I  nnoroilT  her  home,  my  bonny  bride, 

Just  fifty  years  ago  ; 
Her  eyes  were  bright. 
Her  step  was  light, 

Her  voice  was  .sweet  and  low. 

In  April  was  our  wedding-day  — 

The  maiden  month,  you  know. 

Of  tears  and  smiles, 

And  willful  wiles. 

And  flowers  that  spring  from  snow. 

My  love  cast  down  her  dear,  dark  eyes, 
As  if  she  fain  would  hide 

From  my  fond  sight 

Her  own  delight. 

Half  shy,  yet  happy,  bride. 

But  blushes  told  the  tale,  instead, 

As  plain  as  words  could  speak. 

In  dainty  red, 

That  overspread 

My  darling's  dainty  cheek. 

For  twice  six  years  and  more  I  watched 
Her  fairer  grow  each  day  ; 

My  babes  were  blest 

LTpon  her  breast. 

And  she  was  pure  as  they. 


— s 


p:;r 


POEMS   OF  HOME. 


--n 


u 


And  then  an  angel  touched  my  eyes, 
And  turned  my  day  to  night, 

That  fading  charms 

Or  time's  alarms 

Might  never  vex  my  sight. 

Thus  sitting  in  the  dark  1  see 

My  darling  as  of  yore,  — 

AVith  blushing  face 

And  winsome  grace. 

Unchanged,  forevermore. 

Full  fifty  years  of  young  and  fair  ! 

To  her  I  pledge  my  vow 
Whose  spring-time  grace 
And  April  face 

Have  lasted  until  now. 

Louise  Chandler  moulton. 


O,  LAY  THY  HAND  IN  MINE,  DEAR  I 

0,  LAY  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear  ! 

We  're  growing  old  ; 
But  Time  hath  brought  no  sign,  dear, 

That  hearts  gi'ow  cold. 
'T  is  long,  long  since  our  new  love 

JIade  life  divine  ; 
But  age  enricheth  true  love. 

Like  noble  wine. 

And  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine,  dear, 

And  take  thy  rest ; 
Mine  arms  around  thee  twine,  dear. 

And  make  thy  nest. 
A  many  cares  are  pressing 

On  this  dear  head  ; 
But  Sorrow's  hands  in  blessing 

Are  surely  laid. 

0,  lean  thy  life  on  mine,  dear  ! 

'T  will  shelter  thee. 
Thon  wert  a  winsome  vine,  dear. 

On  my  young  tree  : 
And  so,  till  boughs  are  leafless. 

And  songbirds  flown. 
We  '11  twine,  then  lay  us,  griefless. 

Together  down. 

Gerald  massev. 


THE  WORN  WEDDING-RING. 

Your  wedding-ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife  ;  ah, 

summers  not  a  few, 
Since  I  put  it  on  your  finger  first,  have  passed 

o'er  me  and  you  ; 


And,  love,  what  changes  we  have  seen,  —  what 

cares  and  pleasures,  too,  — 
Since  you  became  my  own  dear  wife,  when  this 

old  ring  was  new  ! 

0,  blessings  on  that  happy  day,  the  happiest  of 

my  life. 
When,  thanks  to  God,  your  low,  sweet  "Yes" 

made  you  my  loving  wife  ! 
Your   heart   will  say  the  same,    I    know  ;  that 

day 's  as  dear  to  you,  — 
That  day  that  made  me  yours,  dear  wife,  when 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

How  well  do  I  remember  now  your  yoimg  sweet 

face  that  day  ! 
How   fair   you   were,  how  dear   you   were,   my 

tongue  could  hardly  say  ; 
Nor  how  I  doated  on  you  ;  0,  how  proud  1  was 

of  you  ! 
But  did  I  love  you  more  than  now,  when  this 

old  ring  was  new  ? 

No  —  no  !  no  fairer  were  you  then  than  at  this 

hour  to  me  ; 
And,  dear  as  life  to  me  this  day,  how  could  you 

dearer  be  ? 
As  sweet  your  face  might  be  that  day  as  now  it 

is,  't  is  true  ; 
But  did  I  know  your  heart  as  well  when  this  ol<l 

ring  was  new  ? 

0  partner  of  my  gladness,  wife,  what  care,  what 

grief  is  there 
For  me  you  would  not  bravely  face,  with  me 

you  would  not  share  ? 
0,  what  a  weary  want  had  every  day,  if  wanting 

you. 
Wanting  the   love  that  God   made   mine  when 

this  old  ring  was  new  ! 

Years  bring  fresh  links  to  bind  us,  wife,  —  young 

voices  that  are  here  ; 
Young   faces   round   our   fire   that   make   their 

mother's  yet  more  dear  ; 
Young  loving  hearts  your  care  each  day  makes 

yet  more  like  to  you. 
More  like  the  loving  heart  made  mine  when  this 

old  ring  was  new. 

And,  blessed  be  God  !  all  he  has  given  are  with 

us  yet ;  around 
Our  table  every  precious  life  lent  to  us  still  is 

found. 
Though  cares  we  'vc  known,  with  hopeful  hearts 

the  worst  we  've  struggled  through  ; 
Blessed  be  his  name  for  all  his  lore  since  this 

old  ring  was  new  ! 


^ 


HOME. 


n 


The  past  is  dear,  its  sweetness  still  our  memo- 
ries treasure  yet  ; 

The  griefs  we  've  borne,  together  borne,  we  would 
not  now  forget. 

Whatever,  wife,  the  future  brings,  heart  unto 
heart  stUl  tnie, 

"We  '11  share  as  we  have  shared  all  else  since  this 
old  ring  was  new. 

And  if  God  spare  us  'mongst  our  sons  and  daugh- 
ters to  grow  old. 

We  know  his  goodness  will  not  let  your  heart 
or  mine  gi'ow  cold. 

Your  aged  eyes  will  see  in  mine  all  tliey  've  still 
shown  to  you, 

And  mine  in  yours  all  they  have  seen  since  this 
old  ling  was  new. 

And  0,  when  death  shall  come  at  last  to  bid  me 

to  my  rest, 
Jlay  1  die  looking  in  those  eyes,  and  re.sting  on 

that  breast  ; 
0,  may  my  parting  gaze  be  blessed  with  the  dear 

sight  of  you. 
Of  those  fond  eyes,  —  fond  as  they  were  when 

this  old  ling  was  new  ! 

William  Co.v  Bennett. 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 

John  Ander.son,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acijuent. 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither  ; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We  've  had  wi'  ane  anither. 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  band  in  hand  we  '11  go  : 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

ROIiEKT  I 


FILIAi  LOVE. 

There  is  a  dungeon  in  whose  dim  drear  light 
What  do  I  gaze  on  '    Nothing  :  look  again  ! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadowed  on  my  sight,  — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain  : 
It  is  not  so  ;  I  see  them  full  and  plain,  — 


An  old  man  and  a  female  young  and  fair. 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar  :  but  what  doth  she  there. 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bo.som  white  and 
bare  ? 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  1  itV. 
Where  mi  the  heart  and  from  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife, 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look, 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves  — 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet '     1  know  not  —  I'ain 
w'as  Eve's. 

But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food. 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift  :  it  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Born  with  her  birth.     No !  he  sliall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  lire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises 

higher 
Than  Egypt's  river  ;  —  from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  !   Heaven's  realm 
holds  no  such  tide. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky-way 

Has  not  thy  stoiy's  purity ;  it  is 

A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray. 

And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 

Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 

Where   sparkle  distant   worlds  :  —  0,   holiest 

nurse ! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 
Lord  Byron. 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  0  Time,   in  you 

flight. 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night  ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore. 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore  ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care. 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair  ; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep  :  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  0  tide  of  the  years  ! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears,  — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain,  — 
Take  tliem,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  '. 


U-- 


-ff 


f 


174 


POEMS  OF  HOME. 


-q, 


I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay,  — 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away  ; 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  ;  — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue. 
Mother,  0  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you  ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  gi'own  gi'een. 
Blossomed,  and  faded  our  faces  between, 
Yet  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  lon^  and  so  deep  ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  • —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown. 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures,  — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours  : 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep  ;  — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  \vith  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old  ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night. 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore  ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  ;  — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song  : 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace. 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face. 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep  ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  I'oek  me  to  sleep  ! 

ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN 

(FLOKtNcE  Percy). 
TO  ATTGITSTA. 

HIS  SISTER.  AUGUSTA  LEIGH. 

My  sister  !  my  sweet  sister  !  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 

Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine  : 

Go  where  1  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same,  — 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 

There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny,  — 

A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 

The  first  were  nothing,  —  had  I  still  the  last. 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 

But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast. 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 


A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  past 

Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress  ; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  fate  of  yore,  — 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

If  my  inheritanoe  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 

Of  perils,  overlooked  or  unforeseen, 

I  have  sustained  my  share  of  worldly  shocks. 

The  fault  was  mine  ;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox  ; 

I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow. 

The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward. 

My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being  gave  me  that  which  marred 

The  gift,  —  a  fate,  or  will,  that  walked  astray  : 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard. 

And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay  : 
But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  sui-vivc. 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  aiiive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  1  am  not  old  ; 

And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 

Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  rolled 

Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away  : 
Something  —  I  know  not  what  —  docs  still  up- 
hold 

A  spirit  of  slight  patience  ;  —  not  in  vain, 

Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 

Within  me,  —  or  perhaps  of  cold  despair. 

Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  i-ecur,  — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  pui-er  air, 

(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer. 
And  with  light  ai-mor  we  may  learn  to  bear, ) 

Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 

The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 

In  happy  childhood  ;  trees,   and  flowers,  and 
brooks. 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dw'elt 

Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books. 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 

My  heart  w-ith  recognition  of  their  looks  ; 
And  even  at  moments  1  could  think  1  see 
Some  living  thing  to  love,  —  but  none  like  thee. 


Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation  ;  —  to  admu'e 

Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date  ; 

But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire. 

Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate. 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire. 


■^ 


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HOME. 


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Anil,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

0  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  !  —  but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 

The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 

There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show  ; 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintivi;  mood,  and  yet 

1  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy. 

And  the  tide  rising  in  my  altered  eye. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake, 

By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 

Leman's  is  fair  ?  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore  ; 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make, 
Ere  thai  or  thnu,  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 

Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they 
are 

Resigned  forever,  or  divided  far. 

The  world  is  all  before  me  ;  I  but  ask 

Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply,  — 

It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  the  i|uiet  of  her  sky. 

To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
Ami  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 

She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 

My  sister,  —  till  I  look  again  on  thee. 

1  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one  ; 

.\nd  that  I  woidd  not ;  for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wheri^in  my  life  begun. 

The  earliest,  —  even  the  only  paths  for  me,  — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 

I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  he ; 
The  passions  which  have  toi-n  me  would   have 

slept : 
/  had  not  suffered,  and  </j«ii  hadst  not  wept. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I  to  do  ? 

Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame  ; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew, 

And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make, — aname. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue  ; 

Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over  ;  I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care  ; 

I  h.Tve  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day  : 

Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were  ; 

My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils  ;  for  1  liad  the  share 

Of  life  which  might  Iiave  tilh-d  a  century, 

Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  passed  me  by. 


And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come, 
I  nm  content  ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 

Not  thankleas,  —  for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  straggles,  happine,ss  at  times  would  !steal, 

And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  farther.  —  Nor  shall  I  conceal 

That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around, 

And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

For  tliee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
1  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine  : 

We  were  and  are  —  I  am,  even  as  thou  art  — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign  ; 

It  is  the  .same,  together  or  apart, 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 

We  are  intwined,  —  let  death  come  slow  or  fast. 

The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last ! 


Ci.iN<;  to  thy  home  !  if  there  the  meanest  .shed 
Yield  thee  a  hearth  and  shelter  for  thy  head. 
And  some  poor  plot,  with  vegetables  stored. 
Be  all  that  Heaven  allots  thee  for  thy  board,  — 
I'nsavory  bread,  and  herbs  that  scattered  grow 
Wild  on  the  river  brink  or  mountain  brow, 
Yet  e'en  this  cheerless  mansion  shall  provide 
More  heart's  repose  tlian  all  the  world  beside. 

From  the  (Jrtck  of  I.F.OMUAS. 

by  KoUliRT  ULANO. 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME. 

FROM  THE  OPERA  OF  "  CLAHl,  THE  MAID  OF  MILAN." 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam. 
Be  it  ever  so  humble  there  's  no  place  like  home  ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  .seems  to  hallow  us  thi^re, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with 
elsewhere. 

Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 

There  's  no  place  like  home  ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain  : 
O,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottsige  again  ! 
The  liirds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my  call  ;  — 
Give  me  them,  ^and  the  peace  of  mind  dearer 
than  all ! 
Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  home  ! 

JOHN  Howard  Payne. 


Mine  he  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  beehive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  car  ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 


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176 


POEMS  OF  HOME. 


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The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest  ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch. 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  iyied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew  ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage- vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


THE  QUIET  LIFE. 

Haity  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire  : 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade. 
In  winter,  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind. 
Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixed  ;  sweet  recreation. 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 
Thus  mdamented  let  me  die  ; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Ale.va.nder  Pope. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  HEARTH  AJfD  HOME. 

Dark  is  the  night,  and  fitful  and  drearily 

Rushes  the  wind  like  the  waves  of  the  sea : 
Little  care  I,  as  here  I  sit  cheerily. 

Wife  at  my  side  and  my  baby  on  knee. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  kin^ 

Flashes  the  firelight  upon  the  dear  faces. 
Dearer  and  dearer  as  onward  we  go, 

Forces  the  shadow  behind  us,  and  places 

Brightness  around  us  with  warmth  in  tlie  glov 


King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 

Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  king  ! 

Flashes  the  lovelight,  increasing  the  glory. 
Beaming  from  bright  eyes  with  warmth  of  the 
soul. 
Telling  of  trust  and  content  the  sweet  story, 
Lifting  the  shadows  that  over  us  roll. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  king  ! 

Richer  than  miser  with  perishing  treasure, 

Served  with  a  service  no  conquest  could  bring ; 
Happy  with  fortune  that  words  cannot  measure. 
Light-hearted  I  on  the  liearthstone  can  sing. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  king. 
William  Rankin  Dur^ea. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

What  is  it  fades  and  flickers  in  the  fire. 

Mutters  and  sighs,  and  yields  reluctant  breath, 

As  if  in  the  red  embers  some  desire. 

Some  word  prophetic  burned,  defjing  death  ? 

Lords  of  the  forest,  stalwart  oak  and  pine. 
Lie  down  for  us  in  flames  of  martjTdom  : 

A  human,  household  warmth,  their  death- fires 
shine  ; 
Yet  fragrant  with  high  memories  they  come. 

Bringing  the  mountain-winds  that  in  their  boughs 
Sang  of  the  torrent,  and  the  plashy  edge 

Of  storm-swept  lakes  ;  anil  echoes  that  arouse 
The  eagles  from  a  splintered  eyrie  ledge  ; 

And  breath  of  violets  sweet  about  their  roots  ; 

And  earthy  odors  of  the  moss  and  fern  ; 
And  hum  of  rivulets  ;  smell  of  ripening  fruits  ; 

And  green  leaves  that  to  gold  andcrimson  turn. 

What  clear  Septembers  fade  out  in  a  spark  ! 

^Vhat  rare  Octobers  drop  with  every  coal  ! 
Within  these  costly  ashes,  dumb  and  dark, 

Are  hid  spring's  budding  hope,  and  summer's 
sold. 

Pictures  far  lovelier  smoulder  in  the  fire, 

Visions  of  friends  who  walked  among  these  trees, 

Whose  presence,  like  the  free  air,  could  inspire 
A  winged  life  and  boundless  sympathies. 

Eyes  with  a  glow  like  that  in  the  brown  beech. 
When  sunset  through  its  autumn  beauty  shines ; 

Or  the  blue  gentian's  look  of  silent  speech. 
To  heaven  appealing  as  earth's  light  declines 


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HOME. 


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y-.- 


Voices  and  steps  forever  fled  away 

From  the  familiar  glens,  the  haunted  hills,  — 
Most  pitiful  and  strange  it  is  to  stay 

Without  you  in  a  world  your  lost  love  fills. 

Do  you  forget  us,  —  under  Eden  trees, 
Or  iu  full  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  God,  — 

Who  miss  you  from  the  shadow  and  the  breeze, 
And  tints  and  perfumes  of  the  woodland  sod  ? 

Dear  for  your  sake  the  fireside  where  we  sit 
Watching  these  sad,  bright  pictures  come  and 
go  ; 

That  waning  years  are  with  your  memory  lit, 
Is  the  one  lonely  comfort  that  we  know. 

Is  it  all  memory  ?     Lo,  these  forest-boughs 
Burst  on  the  hearth  into  fresh  leaf  and  liloom  ; 

Wait  a  vague,  far-off  sweetness  through  the  house. 
And  give  close  walls  the  hillside's  breathing- 


A  second  life,  more  spiritual  than  the  first. 
They  fin<l,  —  a  life  won  only  out  of  death. 

0  sainted  souls,  within  you  still  is  nursed 
For  us  a  flame  not  fed  by  mortal  breath  ! 

Unseen,  ye  bring  to  us,  who  love  and  wait, 

Wafts  from  the  heavenly  hills,  immortal  air  ; 
No  flood  can  quench  your  hearts'  wannth,  or 
abate  ; 
Ye  are  our  gladness,  liere  and  everywhere. 

Lccv  larcom. 


A  SHEPHERD'S   LIFE. 

Kixo  Henry.     0  God  !  methinks,  it  were  a 
happy  life. 
To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain  ; 
To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now. 
To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point. 
Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run  ; 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete  ; 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day  ; 
How  many  days  wUl  finish  up  the  year  ; 
How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 
When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times, — 
So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock  ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest  ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself  ; 
So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young  ; 
So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean  ; 
So  many  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece  : 
Sominutes,  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  andyears. 
Passed  over  to  the  end  they  were  created. 
Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 
Ah,  what  a  life  were  this !  how  sweet !  how  lovely  ! 


Gives  not  the  hawthorn-bush  a  sweeter  shade 
To  shepherds,  looking  on  their  silly  sheep. 
Than  doth  a  rich  embroidered  canopy 
To  kings  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery  ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 


THE  MEANS  TO  ATTAIN   HAPPY   LIFE. 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find,  ■ — 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain  ; 
The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind. 

The  equal  friend  ;  no  gnidge,  no  strife  ; 

No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance  ; 
Without  disease,  the  healthful  life  ; 

The  household  of  continuance  ; 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare  ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  sirapleness  ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care. 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress  ; 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate  ; 

Such  .sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night ; 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 

Lord  Surrey. 


THE  FIRESIDE. 

Dear  Chloe,  whUe  the  bu.sy  crowd. 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud. 

In  folly's  maze  advance  ; 
Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  called  our  choice,  we  '11  step  aside. 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

From  the  gay  world  we  '11  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  fire. 

Where  love  our  hours  employs  ; 
No  noisy  neighbor  enters  here. 
No  intermeddling  stranger  near, 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize. 
Within  our  breast  this  jewel  liec, 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam  ; 
The  world  hath  nothing  to  bestow,  — 
From  our  own  selves  our  bliss  must  flow. 

And  that  dear  hut,  our  home. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed  ; 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need. 

For  nature's  calls  are  few  ; 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies, 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

And  make  that  little  do. 


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FUEMS   OF  HUME. 


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We  '11  therefore  relish  with  content 
Whate'er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power  ; 
For,  if  our  stocli  be  very  small, 
'T  is  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all, 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 

To  be  resigned  when  ills  betide. 
Patient  when  favors  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favors  given,  — 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom's  part, 
This  is  that  incense  of  tlie  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

NATHANIEL  COTTON. 


AN   ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE. 

0  GOOD  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw  ? 

Ay  ?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields,  a  little  brown,  — 
Tlie  picture  must  not  be  over-bright,  — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 

Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 

Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn. 

Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 
Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom. 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels,  —  cattle  near. 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass. 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras. 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 
(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound  !)  — 

These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  born. 
Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old. 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide,  — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside. 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush  : 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 

Koses  crowding  the  selfsame  way. 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 

Listen  closer.     When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 
A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 

Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me  ; 

0,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

Tlie  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 

Tlie  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace. 

The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face. 
That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while  !  — 
I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words  : 
Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say,  — 


She  is  my  mother  :  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paiut,  sir  :  one  like  me,  — 
The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 

And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 

Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise  : 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea,  — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now,  — 

He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  Commodore,  — 
Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 

Ah,  't  is  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

Witli  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck  ; 

I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck. 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 

Bright  his  luiir  was,  a  golden  brown. 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee  : 

That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down. 
Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea  ! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 

We  were  together,  half  afraid 

Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 
Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  stillandfar, — 
Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door. 
And  over  the  haystack's  pointed  top. 
All  of  a  tremMe,  and  ready  to  drop. 

The  first  half-hour,  the  great  yellow  star, 

Tliat  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes. 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry-tree. 

Which  close  in  the  edgeof  our  flax-field  grew, — 
I  Dead  at  the  top,  —  just  one  branch  full 
!  Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 
'      From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  handbreadth  of  sliadow,  day  after  day :  — 

Afraid  to  go  home,  sir  ;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs,  — 
The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs. 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat : 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  would  n't  cat. 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill. 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try. 

You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie  ? 

If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 

To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me  : 

I  think  't  was  solely  mine,  indeed  : 


■4 


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HOME. 


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But  that  's  no  matter,  —  paint  it  so  ; 

The  eyes  of  our  mother  —  take  good  heed — 
Looking  not  on  the  nestl'ul  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs. 
But  straight  through  our  faces  down  to  our  lies. 
And  0,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise  ! 
I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  glance  went, 

as  though 
A  shai-p  blade  struck  through  it. 

You,  sir,  know. 
That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  most  sweet,  — 
Woods  and  cornfields  and  mulberry-tree,  — 
The  mother,  —  the  lads,  with  their  bird,  at  her 
kuee  : 
But,  0,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe  ! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I  'II  shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out. 


A  WINTERS   EVENING  HYMN  TO  MY  FIRE. 

0  THOU  of  home  the  guardian  Lar, 

And  when  our  earth  hath  wandered  far 

Into  the  cold,  and  deep  snow  covers 

The  walks  of  our  New  England  lovers. 

Their  sweet  secluded  evening-star  ! 

'T  was  with  thy  rays  the  English  Muse 

Ripened  her  mild  domestic  hues  ; 

'T  was  by  thy  flicker  that  she  conned 

The  fireside  wisdom  that  enrings 

With  light  from  heaven  familiar  things  ; 

By  thee  she  found  the  homely  faith 

In  whose  mild  eyes  thy  comfort  stay'th, 

When  Death,  extinguishing  his  torch, 

('hopes  for  the  latch-string  in  the  porch  ; 

The  love  that  wanders  not  beyond 

His  earliest  nest,  but  sits  and  sings 

While  children  smooth  his  patient  wings. 

Therefore  with  thee  I  love  to  read 

( lur  brave  old  poets  ;  at  thy  touch  how  stirs 

Life  in  the  withered  words  !  how  swdft  recede 

Time's  shadows  !  and  how  glows  again 

Tlirough  its  dead  mass  the  incandescent  verse. 

As  when  upon  the  anvils  of  the  brain 

It  glittering  lay,  cyclopically  wrought 

By   the   fast-throbbing   hammers  of  the   [loet's 

thought ! 
Thou  murmurest,  too,  divinely  stirred, 
The  aspirations  unattained. 
The  rhythms  so  rathe  and  delicate, 
Thej'  bent  and  strained 
And  broke,  beneath  the  sombre  weight 
Of  any  airiest  mortal  word. 

As  who  would  say,  "  'T  is  those,  I  ween, 
Whom  lifelong  armor-chafe  makes  lean 
That  win  the  laurel "  ; 


While  the  gay  snow-storm,  held  aloof. 

To  softest  outline  rounds  the  roof. 

Or  the  rude  North  with  baflled  strain 

Shoulders  the  frost-starred  window-pane  ! 

Now  the  kind  nymph  to  Bacchus  borne 

By  Morpheus'  daughter,  she  that  seems 

Gifted  upon  her  natal  morn 

By  him  with  fire,  by  her  with  dreams, 

Nicotia,  dearer  to  the  Muse 

Thau  all  the  gi'apes'  bewildering  juice, 

We  worship,  unforbid  of  thee  ; 

And,  as  her  incense  floats  and  curls 

In  airy  spires  and  wayward  whirls. 

Or  poises  on  its  tremulous  stalk 

A  flower  of  frailest  revery, 

So  \vinds  and  loiters,  idly  free. 

The  cun'ent  of  unguided  talk. 

Now  laughter-rippled,  and  now  caiight 

In  smooth  dark  pools  of  deeper  thought. 

Meanwhile  thou  mellowest  every  word, 

A  sweetly  unobtrusive  third  : 

For  thou  hast  magic  beyond  wine, 

To  unlock  natures  each  to  each  ; 

The  unspoken  thought  thou  canst  divine  ; 

Thou  fiUesf  the  pauses  of  the  speech 

With  whispers  that  to  dream-land  reach, 

And  frozen  fancy-springs  unchain 

In  Arctic  outskirts  of  the  brain. 

Sun  of  all  inmost  confidences ! 

To  thy  rays  doth  the  heart  unclose 

Its  formal  caly.K  of  pretenses, 

That  close  against  rude  day's  olfenses, 

And  open  its  shy  mitluight  rose. 

jAMIiS  KUSSHLL  LoU'tLL. 


BfT  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below. 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shudd'ring  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own  ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease  : 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line. 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  iialmy  wine. 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave. 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  ga\-p. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  countiy  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  ei[ual  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given. 
To  different  nations  makes  their  bles.sing  even. 

OLIVER  GC' 


-^] 


ifi- 


ISO 


POEMS  OF  HOME. 


'^ 


THE  HOMES   OF  ENGLAND. 

TiiK  stately  Homes  of  Kngland, 

How  Iwixutiful  tliey  stand  ! 

Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  tri'i-s, 

O'lT  all  the  pleasant  land  ; 

Tlie  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 

Tiirough  shade  and  sunny  gleam. 

And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 

I  If  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 

What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light. 

There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 

Or  childish  tale  is  told  ; 

Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 

Is  laid  tlie  holy  iinietuess 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath  hours! 

Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell's  chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn  ; 

All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  cottage  Homes  of  England  ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 

Tlicy  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 

Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Kach  from  its  nook  of  leaves  ; 

And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  biul  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long  in  hut  and  hall, 

Jlay  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared 

To  guanl  each  hallowed  wall  ! 

And  green  forever  be  the  groves, 

.\ud  bright  the  flowery  sod, 

AVhere  lirst  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  countrv  and  its  God. 

t-ELlCIA  HEMANS. 


LOVE  LIGHTENS  LABOR. 

A  r.oon  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn. 

And  thought,  with  a  nervous  dread. 
Of  the  piles  of  clothes  to  bo  washed,  and  more 

Than  a  dozen  mouths  to  be  fed. 
"There 's  the  meals  to  get  for  the  men  in  the  field. 

And  the  children  to  nx  away 
To  school,   and  the   milk   to  be  skimmed  and 
churned  ; 

And  all  to  be  done  this  day." 


It  had  rained  in  the  night,  and  all  the  wood 

Was  wet  as  it  could  be  ; 
There  were  puddings  and  pics  to  hake,  besides 

A  loaf  of  cake  for  tea. 
And  the  day  was  hot,  and  her  aching  head 

Throbbed  wearily  as  slio  said, 
"  If  maidens  but  knew  what  good  teirfs  know, 

They  would  not  be  in  haste  to  iced.'" 

•Mciini.',  vvliat  do  you  think  I  told  Ben  Brown?" 

Called  the  farnu'r  from  the  well  ; 
And  a  flush  crept  up  to  his  bronzed  brow. 

And  his  eyes  half-bashfully  tell  : 
"  It  was  this,"  he  said,  and  coming  near 

He  smiled,  and  stooping  down. 
Kissed  her  cheek  —"'twas  this,  that  you  were 
the  best 

And  the  dearest  wife  in  town  I " 

The  farmer  went  back  to  the  field,  and  the  wife, 

In  a  smiling,  absent  way. 
Sang  snatches  of  tender  little  songs 

She  'd  not  sung  for  many  a  day. 
.\nd  the  pain  in  her  head  was  gone,  and  the 
clothes 

Were  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sc:i  : 
Her  bread  was  light,  and  her  butter  was  sweet. 

And  as  golden  as  it  could  be. 

"Just  think,"  the  children  all  called  in  a  breath, 

"  Tom  Wood  has  run  off  to  sea  I 
He  would  n't,  I  know,  if  he  'd  only  had 

As  happy  a  home  as  we." 
The  night  came  down,  and  the  good  wife  smiled 

To  hei'self,  as  she  softly  said  : 
"'T  is  so  sweet  to  labor  for  those  we  love,  — 

It 's  not  strange  that  maids  tril!  vrd .'" 


THE  TWO  ANCHORS. 

It  was  a  gallant  sailor  man. 

Had  just  come  from  sea. 
And,  as  I  passed  him  in  the  town, 

He  sang  "  Ahoy  ! "  to  me. 
I  stopped,  and  saw  I  knew  the  man, 

Had  known  him  from  a  boy; 
And  so  I  answered,  sailor-like, 

".\vast  !"  to  his  "Ahoyl" 
I  made  a  song  for  him  one  day,  — 

His  ship  was  then  in  sight,  — 
"The  little  anchor  on  the  left. 

The  great  one  on  the  right." 

I  gave  his  hand  a  hearty  grip. 

"  So  you  are  back  again  ' 
They  say  you  have  been  pirating 

T'pon  the  Spanish  Main : 


CB^- 


-^^ 


rS- 


POEMS    OF  HOME. 


LSI 


n 


Or  was  it  some  rich  Iniliaman 

You  robbed  of  all  lier  jicarls  ' 
Of  course  you  have  been  breaking;  hearts 

Of  poor  Kanaka  girls  !  " 
"Wherever  I  have  been,"  he  said, 

"  I  kept  my  ship  in  sight,  — 
'  ITie  little  anchor  on  the  left, 

Tlio  great  one  on  the  right.'  " 

"  I  heard  last  night  that  you  were  in  ; 

1  walked  the  wharves  to-day. 
But  saw  no  ship  that  looked  like  yours. 

Where  does  the  good  shiji  lay? 
I  want  to  go  on  board  of  her." 

"And  so  you  shall,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  there  are  many  things  to  ilo 

When  one  comes  home  from  sea. 
You  know  the  song  you  made  for  ine  ? 

I  sing  it  morn  and  night,  — 
'  The  little  anchor  on  the  left, 

The  great  one  on  the  right.'  " 

"  But  how 's  your  wife  and  little  one  ?" 

"  i-'ome  home  with  me,"  he  said. 
"  Go  on,  go  on  :  I  follow  you." 

I  followed  where  lie  led. 
He  had  a  pleasant  little  house  ; 

The  door  was  open  wide, 
And  at  the  door  the  dearest  face,  — 

A  dearer  one  inside. 
He  hugged  his  wife  and  child ;  he  sang,  — 

His  spirits  were  so  light, — 
"The  little  anchor  on  the  left, 

The  great  one  on  the  right." 

T  was  supper-time,  and  we  sat  down,  — 

The  sailor's  wife  and  child, 
And  he  and  I :  he  looked  at  them. 

And  looked  at  me,  and  .smiled. 
"  I  think  of  this  when  I  am  tossed 

T^pon  the  stormy  foam. 
And,  though  a  thousand  leagues  away. 

Am  anchored  here  at  Iiome." 
Then,  giving  each  a  kiss,  he  said, 

"  I  see,  in  dreams  at  night, 
This  little  anchor  on  my  left, 

This  great  one  on  my  right." 

R.  11.  STODDARD. 


•^- 


THE  CHILDREN. 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended. 
And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 

The  little  ones  gather  around  me. 
To  bid  me  good  night  and  be  kissed  ; 

Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 
My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace  ! 


Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 
Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face  ! 

And  when  they  are  gone  1  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood,  too  lovely  to  last ; 
Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember 

When  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past, 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  nie 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin. 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  a.s  a  woman's, 

And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow, 
Wlien  I  tliink  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony. 

Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go ; 
Of  the  njountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them, 

Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing  wild  ; 
Oh  !  there  's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 

As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child  ! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households ; 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise ; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses. 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes ; 
Those  truants  fiom  home  and  from  heaven,  — 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild ; 
And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 

The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child  ! 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones. 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done. 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun  ; 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil. 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself; 
Ah  !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner. 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod  ; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge. 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God. 
iMy  heait  Is  the  dungeon  of  darkness. 

Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a  rule ; 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction  ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  Autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more  : 
Ah  !  how  shall  I  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 

That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door  ! 
I  shall  miss  the  "  good  nights  "  and  the  ki-sses. 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee. 
The  group  on  its  green,  and  the  flowers 

That  are  brought  every  moniing  to  me. 


^ 


[& 


182 


POEMS   OF  HOME. 


-a 


I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even, 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street  ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tread  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  tlie  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended. 

And  death  says,    "  The  school  is  dismissed  !  " 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good  night  and  be  kissed ! 

CHARLES  M.   DICKINSON. 


FAITH  AND  HOPE. 

0,  don't  be  sorrowful,  darling  ! 

Now,  don't  be  sorrowful,  pray ; 
For,  taking  the  year  together,  my  dear, 

There  is  n't  more  night  than  day. 
It  's  rainy  weather,  my  loved  one  ; 

Time's  wheels  they  heavily  run  ; 
But  taking  the  year  together,  ray  dear. 

There  is  n't  more  cloud  than  sun. 

We  're  old  folks  now,  companion,  — 

Our  heads  they  are  growing  gray  ; 
But  taking  the  year  all  round,  my  dear, 

You  always  will  find  the  May. 
We  've  had  our  May,  my  darling. 

And  our  roses,  long  ago  ; 
And  the  time  of  the  year  is  come,  my  dear. 

For  the  long  dark  nights,  and  tlie  snow. 

But  God  is  God,  my  faithful. 

Of  night  as  well  as  of  day  ; 
And  we  feel  and  know  that  we  can  go 

Wherever  he  leads  the  way. 
Ay,  God  of  night,  my  darling  ! 

Of  the  night  of  death  so  grim  ; 
And  the  gate  that  from  life  leads  out,  good  wife, 

Is  tlie  gate  that  leads  to  Him. 

REMIiKANDT  PEALE. 


THE  FAMILY  MEETING. 

We  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother. 

Sister,  brother, 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled  ;  we  're  all  at  home  ! 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come. 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
(->ur  old  familiar  hearth  we  're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot  ; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  peace  assert  her  power, . 
And  kind  affection  rule  the  hour. 

We  're  all  —  all  here. 

We  're  not  all  here  ! 
Some  are  away,  —  the  dead  ones  dear. 


Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient  hearth. 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guileless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand. 
Looked  in,  and  thinned  our  little  band  ; 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away. 
And  some  sank  lingering  day  by  day  ; 
The  ciuiet  gi-aveyard,  —  some  lie  there,  — 
And  cruel  ocean  has  his  share. 
We  're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 
Even  they, —  the  dead,  —  though  dead,  so  dear, — 
Fond  memory,  to  her  duty  true. 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  lifelike,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remembered  face  appears  ! 
We  see  them,  as  in  times  long  past  ; 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast  ; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smQes  Ijehold  ; 
They  're  round  us,  as  they  were  of  old. 

We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here. 

Father,  mother. 

Sister,  brother. 
You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said  ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead, 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
0,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below  ; 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this. 
May  each  repeat  in  words  of  bliss, 

AVe  're  all  —  all  here  ! 


A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream  ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three,  — 
(One  is  lost,  —  an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead  !) 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  ! 

We  've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings  ; 
Our  ambition,  our  content. 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea. 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ;  — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 

Bryan  waller  Procter 


--^ 


r- 


■a 


POEMS  OF  PARTING  AND  ABSENCE. 


PARTING. 


U-- 


GOOD  BYE. 

"  F,\REWELL  !  farewell  !"  is  often  heard 

From  the  lips  of  those  who  part  : 
'T  is  a  whispered  tone,  —  't  is  a  gentle  word, 

But  it  springs  not  from  the  heart. 
It  may  serve  for  the  lover's  closing  lay, 

To  be  sung  'neath  a  summer  sky ; 
But  give  to  me  the  lips  that  say 

The  honest  words,  "Good  bye  !" 

"Adieu  !  adieu  !  "  may  greet  the  ear. 

In  the  guise  of  courtly  speech  : 
But  when  we  leave  the  kind  and  dear, 

'T  is  not  what  the  soul  would  teach. 
AVliene'er  we  grasp  the  hands  of  those 

We  would  have  forever  nigh. 
The  flame  of  Friendship  bursts  and  glows 

In  the  warm,  frank  words,  "Good  bye." 

The  mother,  sending  forth  her  child 

To  meet  with  cares  and  strife, 
Breathes  through  her  tears  her  doubts  and  fears 

For  the  loved  one's  future  life. 
No  cold  "adieu,"  no  "farewell,"  lives 

Within  her  choking  sigh, 
But  the  deepest  sob  of  anguish  gives, 

"God  bless  thee,  boy  !  Good  bye  ! " 

Go,  watch  the  pale  and  dying  one. 

When  the  glance  has  lost  its  beam  ; 
When  the  brow  is  cold  as  the  marble  stone, 

And  the  world  a  passing  dream  : 
And  the  latest  pressure  of  the  hand, 

The  look  of  the  closing  eye. 
Yield  what  the  heart  must  understand, 

A  long,  a  last  Good  bye. 

ANONVMOUS, 


AS   SHIPS  BECALMED. 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 

Two  towers  of  sail,  at  dawn  of  day, 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried. 


When  fell  the  night,  up  sprang  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied  ; 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged. 

Brief  absence  joined  anew,  to  feel. 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged'? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  ; 

Ah  !  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist  what  firet  with  dawn  appeared. 

To  veer,  how  vain  '.    On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks !  —  in  light,  in  darkness  too  ! 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides  : 
To  that  and  your  own  selves  be  true. 

But  0  blithe  breeze  !  and  0  great  seas  ! 

Though  ne'er  that  earliest  parting  past. 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 

Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought,  — 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare  ; 

0  bounding  breeze,  0  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 


AE  FOND  KISS  BEFORE  WE  PAI. 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever  ! 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  forever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee  ; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  1  '11  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me  ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I  '11  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy  — 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy : 


-^ 


f 


184 


POEMS  OF  PARTING  AND  ABSENCE. 


■a 
1 


But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her, 
Love  but  her,  and  love  forever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure ! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ! 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  forever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-WTUng  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee  ; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  1  '11  wage  thee. 

Robert  Burns. 


In  holy  night  we  made  the  vow  ; 

And  the  same  lamp  which  long  before 
Had  seen  our  early  passion  grow 

Was  witness  to  the  faith  we  swore. 

Did  I  not  swear  to  love  her  ever  ; 

And  have  I  ever  dared  to  rove  ? 
Did  she  not  own  a  rival  never 

Should  shake  her  faith,  or  steal  her  love  ? 

Yet  now  she  says  those  words  were  air. 
Those  vows  were  written  all  in  water, 

And  by  the  lamp  that  saw  her  swear 
Has  yielded  to  the  first  that  sought  her. 

From  the  Greek  of  MELEAGER, 
by  JOHN  Herman  Merivale, 


t— - 


THE  KISS,   DEAR  MAID. 

The  kiss,  dear  maid  !  thy  lip  has  left 

Shall  never  part  from  mine. 
Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams. 

An  equal  love  may  see  : 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone  ; 
Nor  one  memorial  for  a  breast 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write  —  to  tell  the  tale 

My  pen  were  doubly  weak: 
O,  what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  could  speak  ? 


By  day  or  niglit,  in  weal  or  woe, 

That  heart,  no  longer  free. 

Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 

And  silent,  ache  for  thee. 

Lord  Byron. 


MATT)  OF  ATHENS,   ERE  WE  PART. 

Zii>7)  jLLOu  eras  ayaTrui.* 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  0,  give  me  back  my  heart ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast. 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
ZJiTj  IJLOU  (rds  ayairw. 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  iEgean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
TiCjf}  IJ.OV  ads  dyaTTuj. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
ZujTj  [jLou  ads  dyairCi. 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone. 
Think  of  me,  sweet  !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No  ! 
Zwt;  jLioD  ads  dyairCi. 


THE  HEATH  THIS  NIGHT  MUST  BE  MY  BED. 


NG  OF  THE  YOUNG 
SIDE  OF    HIS   BRIDE   BY  THE    "FIERY    CROSS  ~    OF 
ERICK  DHU. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed. 
The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head. 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread. 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary  ; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid. 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 
My  vesper  song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary  ! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 
The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow, 
I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow. 
And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 

•  Zol  tnou,  las  agapo.  —  My  life.  I  love  thee. 


-^ 


p 


PARTING. 


Tsr^ 


t. 


No  foml  regret  must  Nomian  know  ; 

When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe, 

His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot  like  an'ow  free,  Mary. 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught ; 
For,  if  I  fall  in  liattle  fought, 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary. 
And  if  returned  from  conquered  foes, 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repo.se, 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


TO  LUCASTA, 


Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkinde, 

That  from  the  nunnerie 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  minde. 

To  warre  and  amies  1  llee. 

True,  a  new  mistresse  now  I  chase,  — 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  imbrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you,  too,  should  adore  ; 

I  could  not  love  thee,  deare,  so  much. 
Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

Richard  Lovel 


ADIEU,  ADIEU  I  OUR  DREAM  OF  LOVE — 

Adieu,  adieu  !  our  dream  of  love 
Was  far  too  sweet  to  linger  long  ; 

Such  hopes  may  bloom  in  bowers  above, 
But  here  they  mock  the  fond  and  young. 

We  met  in  hope,  we  part  in  tears  ! 

Yet  0,  't  is  sadly  sweet  to  know 
That  life,  in  all  its  future  years, 

Can  reach  us  with  no  heavier  blow  ? 

Tlie  hour  is  come,  the  spell  is  past ; 

Far,  far  from  thee,  my  only  love. 
Youth's  earliest  hope,  and  manhood's  last. 

My  darkened  spirit  turns  to  rove. 

Adieu,  adieu  !  0,  dull  and  dread 
Sinks  on  the  ear  that  parting  knell  ! 

Hope  and  the  dreams  of  love  lie  dead,  — 
To  them  and  thee,  farewell,  farewell ! 

THOMAS  K.   HERVEY. 


BLACK-EYED  SUSAN. 


All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored. 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard  ; 
"  0,  where  shall  1  my  true-love  find  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew." 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro. 

Soon  OS  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 
He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 

The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands. 

And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air. 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  Ijreast 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest  ;  — 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

"  0  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  TOWS  shall  ever  true  remain  ; 
Let  me  kiss  off'  that  falling  tear  ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  ;  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"  Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say, 
Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind  : 

They  '11  tell  thee  sailors,  when  away. 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find  : 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 

For  thou  art  pre.sent  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

"  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail. 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright. 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale. 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  ever}'  beauteous  object  that  I  view 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms. 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly. 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word. 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 

No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  his  head. 

Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land  ; 

"Adieu  !  "  she  cries  ;  and  waved  her  lilv  liand. 


r-v 


rOEMS  OF  PAliTlNO  AND  AHSKNCJi!. 


n 


h 


MV.KO   TO    l.HANHKlv 

O,  no  mil  yi'l,  my  Unc, 

'V\w  iiiglU  is  <lnik  iimi  viisl  ; 
Tin'  wliili'  imiou  is  liiil  in  liov  lioiivou  above. 

Ami  till'  wavos  rliiiili  liijjh  uml  lust, 
0,  kiss  iiu',  kiss  1110,  oiu'i'  ngaiii. 

Lost  lliy  kiss  sliouKl  Iv  Uio  last. 
l>  kiss  nil'  I'lv  wi'  iMi'l  ; 
(!n>\v  cKisoi-  to  my  lituU't ; 
My  lioai'l  is  waiimn'  suivly  than  tlio  Imsoiii  of  tlio 
main, 
(t  joy  !  O  liliss  oriiUs.<ios  ! 

My  lu'ail  of  lioai'ts  art  thou, 
ronu',  l>jitlu>  mo  with  thy  kissos, 

Mv  cyi'liils  ami  my  hi'ow. 
Hark  '  how  tho  wiUl  rain  his,sivs, 

.\ml  Itu'  Uuui  si'«  niai's  holow. 

Thy  lunirl  boats  thniiijjh  thy  msy  limbs, 

Sojshully  iloth  it  stir; 
Thiiio  oyo  in  ilivps  of  jjladnoss  swims. 

IhavobathoiUhoo  with  tho  ploasaiit  myrrh; 
Thy  looks  aro  ilriiniinj;  Kilm  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  wamlor  hoiioo  to-nijjht, 

I  'U  stay  t.hoo  with  my  kisso.s. 
To-night  tho  iMaring  brino 

Will  ivml  thy  gvihlon  tivssos  ; 
Tho  oooan  with  tho  niorivw  light 
Will  bo  both  blnoaml  oalm  ; 
And  tho  billow  will  ombraoo  thoo  with  a  kiss  as 
soft  as  niino. 

No  Woslorn  oiloi's  wandor 

On  tho  blaok  and  moiining  soi\, 
And  whou  thou  art  dead,  l.oaudor, 

My  soul  must  follow  thoo ! 
0,  gvi  not  yot,  my  lovo. 

Thy  voioo  is  swoot  and  low  ; 
Tlio  dwi>  salt  wavo  Invaks  in  alnivo 

Thoso  niarblo  stoiw  bolow.  I 

Tho  tiinvt -stall's  aix>  wot  ] 

That  loa>l  into  tho  soa,  I 

1  .oandor  !  go  not  yot !  | 

Tlio  plivasant  stai-s  havo  sot  : 
l>,  i;o  not.  jjvi  not  yot, 

t.>r  1  will  follow  thoo. 

ALlfRlUl  TUNNN-SON. 


THE  PARTING  LOVERS 

Shk  says,  "  Tho  oook  oixiws,  — hark  ! 
Ho  says,  "  No  !  still  't  is  dark." 

Sho  says,  "Tho  dawn  gmw's  bright," 
Ho  says,  "0  no,  uiy  Light." 

Sho  says,  "Stand  up  and  say, 
Cots  not  the  hoiwoii  gray  t" 


111'  siiys.  "  Tlio  morning  stai' 
Climbs  llio  horizon's  bar." 

Sho.says,   "  Tlioii  .|iii,K  .Iq.art ; 
Alas  !  you  now  iiiusl  start  ; 

"  Ihit  givo  tho  oook  a  blow 
Who  did  bogin  our  woo  !  " 

I'tum  llip  ChliiCM-.  I.y  Will  u 


THE  PARTING  OF  ROMEO  AND   JULIKT. 

.h'l.iicr.    Wilt  Ihoubogiuio  /  it  is  not  vol  iioar 

day  : 
It  was  tho  nightingalo,  and  not  tho  hirk. 
That  pion'od  tho  foarful  hollow  of  thino  oar  ; 
Nightly  .sho  sings  on  yon  iiomogriinato-troo  : 
Holiovo  luo,  lovo,  it  was  tho  nightingalo. 

HoMHo.      It   was  tho  lark,   tho  lioiald  of  tho 

morn. 
No  nightingalo  ;  look,  lovo,  what  oiivioiis  stivaks 
IV  liioo  tho  sovoriiig  oloiids  in  yoiidor  oast  : 
Night's  oaiidlos  aro  biirnt  out,  and  jooiiiul  day 
Stands  tiptoo  on  tho  misty  mountain-tops. 
1  must  bo  gono  and  livo,  or  stay  and  dio. 
.h'l.uu'.     Yon  light  is  not  davliglit.  I  know 

it.  1  : 
It  is  somo  niotoor,  that  tho  sun  oxhalos, 
To  bo  to  thoo  this  night  a  toivh-boaror, 
And  light  thoo  on  thy  way  to  Mantua  : 
Thorofoiv  stay  yot, —  thou  lUHnl'st  not  to  bo  gono. 
KoMFo.     Lot  mo  K'  ta'on,  lot  ino  bo  put  to 

doath  ; 
1  am  oontoiit,  so  thou  wilt  havo  it  so. 
1  '11  say,  yon  gray  is  not  tho  morning's  oyo, 
'T  is  but  tlio  i«lo  ix'tlox  of  t^ynlhia's  bixiw  ; 
Nor  that  is  not  tho  lark,  whoso  iiotos  do  bwit 
Tho  vanity  honvou  so  liigh  abovo  our  hoiids  : 
1  havo  inoiv  oaiv  to  stay  than  will  to  go  ;  — 
Coino.  doath,  and  wolcomo  !    .luliot  wills  it  so. — 
How  is  't,  my  soul  !  lot 's  talk,  it  is  not  day. 

■h'l.iKT.    It  is,  it  is;  hio  honoo,  bo  gono,  away! 
If  is  tho  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tuno, 
Stiiiining  hai-sh  disoonls,  and  nnplonsiiig  sliiujs, 
Somo  say,  tho  lark  makes  swoot  division  ; 
This  doth  not  so,  for  she  dividoth  us  ; 
Some  sjiy,  the   lark  and  loatll^d  toad  ohaiigo 

eyes  : 
0,  now  1  would  thoy  had  oluuigod  voices  too  ! 
Sinoo  arm  fiMiii  arm  that  voioo  doth  ns  alVray, 
Hunting  thoo  honoo,  with  hnnts-up  to  tho  day. 
O,  now  bo  g\ino  ;  nioiv  light  and  light  it  grows, 
RoMKO,     Moni  light  and  light,  —  nioiv  dark 

and  dark  our  woes. 
•Tui.tKT.     Thou,  window,   lot  day  in,  and  lot 

life  out. 


4 


[tr 


I' A IITINO. 


a 

187 


Uo.MKO.     l''(il<!Wi:ll,  fjircwr;!  1  !   OHi;  k iult,  Illl'l  I  'II 
iIi;m<:i;iiiI.  (iMHceiuh.) 

.Ii.'i.ij'.r.     Art  tlioii   gum;  ho  ?   my   lov;  I  my 
lonl  1  my  friciiil  ! 
I  iniiHl,  lii!nr  rioMi  tlici!  cviiry  flay  i'  tin:  li'jiir, 
For  it]  n  mliinti!  tlii;re  iiii:  mimy  iliiyH  ; 
0,  liy  l,lii«  iMjuiil  I  hIiuII  lid  mucli  in  yi;iirH, 
I'^ri-  I  iigiiiii  liuliold  iny  lioiiico. 

I'iOMito,    KarcH'(;ll  !   I  will  omil,  iioo|ij)i>rtiiiiit.y 
'I'lp.il  xmy  w<iiv<;y  my  gidistiiixii,  lovd,  to  tlidi:, 
fi'l.lK)'.     O,  Uiiiik'ot  tlioii  wi!  (tliall  nvcr  mr-^t. 

a;{aiii  ? 
ItOMKO.      \  <loul)t  it  not  ;  aii<i  all   tlniM;  woin 
aljall  Hirrvi; 
Kor  Hwi;<;t  iVw.i>\irivM  iri  our  time  t*!  cokk:. 

HlfAKahf'MAKIC. 


An  cmjity  nky,  a  worM  of  Ijcathor, 
i'liipli!  Ill'  (iiX0()Vi:,  yiillow  of  \>yinim  : 

Wr:  two  among  tlidm  w/uling  togi:tlii!r, 
Hliaking  out  lioiicy,  Irua'ling  |;i;(fiimri. 

'>ow(Ih  of  liijBH  are  giildy  witli  (■.\iivi:i- ; 

Crowds  of  gr<ut(ilio(i|)i;rn  (iki|)  at  one  I'lct  ; 
f.'roW'lH  of  larkn  at  tln.ir  inatino  liang  ovi;r, 

Ttianking  ttic  I,oril  for  a  life  ho  nwi-.nt. 


Kami  in  IikikI,  wliili;  thn  dim  jworwl  ovct, 
VVi!  ))ij>i«<l  till;  gr.omon  tliat  youn;{lin({H|>riiig, 

.Sw<;|it  ]«u;U  itH  ninlici),  Hitiootln;'!  itn  i;lov<ir, 
Ami  naiil,  "  l^;t  iih  follow  it  w<;Hti;ring." 


A  ila|(|il<!<l  nky,  a  world  of  mciwIowH  ; 

Chiding  abovi!  im  tin;  lj|iu:k  rookd  II y, 
Forward,  ljai:kwaril  :  lo,  tlii;ir  dark  »lia/lowPi 

Klit  on  till;  IdoHHoming  t/i|(i;Htry     • 

Klil  on  till;  lx;i:k  -  -  (or  lii;r  long  gnwH  |iarli;tli, 
Ah  liair  from  a  maid'H  liriglit  ly^H  lilown  l/iuk  ; 

And  lo,  tin;  mm  liki;  a  loTi;r  dait^tli 

IIIh  llatti;ring  nmili;  on  Inr  wayward  tr(u:k  ! 

Hing  on  I  wi;  ning  in  tin;  glorioiiH  wiaitlnrr, 
Till  oin;  iiU\iH  over  tlni  tiny  iilrand. 

Ho  narrow,  in  Hootli,  tliat  Htill  N/gi;llii;r 
On  i;itlii;r  lirink  wi;  go  liand  in  liand. 

Till;  l<i;ok  grown  wider,  llie  liandn  iniiHt  Hi;ver. 

On  citlier  margin,  our  HongH  all  done. 
We  move  ajiiirt,  while  nlie  xingetli  ever, 

Taking  tlie  eonrni;  of  tin;  »too|iing  Hiin. 

lie  |)iayH,  "Conn;  over"  -    I  may  not  follow  ; 

I  ery,  *'  liidnrn  "  ■  -  l;iit  lie  eannol  eome  ; 
We  Hjieak,  we  laiigli,  Init  witli  voieen  hollow  ; 

Our  l,ai,d^.  ■.,!,■  l':,uff\uir.  oiii  lieiirlH  are  mind,. 


Fliiiilietli  the  riwj  with  her  |iiir)>le  favor, 
Oloweth  the  eleft  with  her  golden  ring, 

'Twixt  the  two  brown  l)iitt';rilieH  waver, 
Lightly  wjttle,  and  Hleejiily  Hwing. 

We  two  v/alk  till  the  piiriile  dieth. 

And  Hliort  dry  gr;iHB  under  foot  in  brown  ; 

liiit  one  little  Htreak  at  a  dititaniy;  lieth 
Green,  like  a  riblion,  Uj  jirank  the  down. 


Over  the  gra«H  we  hU-.jiju'A  iihUi  it, 

And  Ood  he  knowetli  how  blithe  we  v/cre  ! 

Never  a  voii;*;  to  bid  nit  ewhew  it ; 

lley  the  green  riMxiu  that  itln/wed  mi  fair  ! 

Iley  the  grwjn  ribWi  !  we  knwiled  l»i*ide  it. 
We  (Birte'l  the  gnut(M«  dewy  and  (ihe<;n  ; 

l;ro|i  ovCT  droji  there  MU^ed  and  nlidi;/l 
A  tiny  1/right  l<i«k  that  trickliMl  l<(;twi«;n. 


A  breathing  ;,igli  —  a  nigh  for  annwer  ; 

A  little  talking  of  outward  tliingn  : 
The  eareleHH  Uek  in  a  merry  daiieer, 

Keejiing  Hweet  time  Ui  the  air  nlie  ningn, 

A  little  j»ain  when  the  Wik  grown  wider  — 
"CroHH  Ui  me  wiw,  for  her  waveletH  Hwell  "  ; 

"  I  may  not  i-.rimn"  —■  and  the  voiee  tn-Muh  her 
Faintly  reaeheth,  though  hee-li^-l  well. 

N'o  lui/ikward  [/ath  ;  ah  !  no  returning  ; 
,S'o  Hiniimii  eroitHing  that  ritijde'n  (low  ; 
"Come  U>  me  now,  for  the  weHt  m  biiniing  ; 
I      Come  ere  it  darkenx,"  -  -  "Ah,  no  !  ah,  no  '." 

Then  erie»  of  (>ain,  and  annn  oiitreaehin;/ 
I      The  beek  grows  wider  and  Hwift  and  i|ie|i ; 
I'aanionat/!  word«  an  of  one  lnrw;e/;liiiig 

The   loud    \xj:V.    <lrov/i,».   them  ■    v.e  walk  and 
WM;p. 


^^ 


Tinkle,  tinkle,  Kwwdly  it  Hung  U>  an, 
I.iglit  waH  our  talk  an  of  fVwiry  1x;IIh  — 

yH&ry  w(alding-fK;llH  ffiintly  mug  Vi  an, 
Down  in  their  fortiinat<;  jrarallel*. 


A  yellow  moon  in  Hj/lendor  drooj.ing, 
A  tired  'jui*n  with  her  nUiU  opiireKw;/!, 

t/iw  by  rintheH  and  tmoM-Kr-Mn  «tooj;ing, 
J,i<*  nhe  fif<ft  on  the  wave*  at  re»it. 


^ 


^- 


188 


POEMS  OF  PARTING  AND  ABSENCE. 


-a 


The  desert  heavens  have  felt  her  sadness  ; 

Her  eiirtli  will  weep  her  some  dowy  tears  ; 
The  wild  beck  ends  her  tune  of  gladness, 

And  goeth  stilly  as  soul  that  tears. 

We  two  widk  on  in  our  gi'assy  jilaees, 
On  either  marge  of  the  moonlit  flood, 

With  tlie  moon's  own  sadness  in  our  faces, 
Where  joy  is  withered,  blossom  and  bud. 


A  shady  freshness,  chafers  whirring, 

A  little  piping  of  leaf-hid  binls  ; 
A  llutter  of  wings,  a  fitful  stirring, 

A  cloud  to  the  eastwaitl  snowy  as  curds. 

Bare  grassy  slopes,  where  the  kids  are  tethered  ; 

Kound  valleys  like  nests  all  ferny-lined  ; 
Round  hills,  with  fluttering  tree-tops  feathered. 

Swell  high  in  their  freckled  robes  behind. 

A  rose-flush  tender,  a  thrill,  a  quiver. 
When  golden  gleams  to  the  tree-tops  glide  ; 

A  Hashing  edge  for  the  milk-white  river, 
The  beck,  a  river  —  with  still  sleek  tide. 

Broad  and  white,  and  polished  as  silver. 
On  she  goes  tmder  fruit-laden  trees  ; 

Sunk  in  leafage  cooeth  the  culver. 
And  'plaineth  of  love's  disloyalties. 

Glitters  the  dew,  and  shines  the  river  ; 

Up  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her  bell ; 
But  two  are  walking  apart  forever. 

And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute  farewell. 


A  liraver  swell,  a  swifter  sliding  ; 

The  river  hasteth,  her  banks  recede  ; 
Wing-like  sails  on  her  bosom  gliding 

Bear  down  the  lily,  and  drown  the  reed. 

Stately  prows  are  rising  and  bowing  — 
(Shouts  of  mariner's  winnow  the  air)  — 

And  level  sands  for  banks  endowing 

The  tiny  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  fair. 

While,  0  my  heart !  as  white  sails  shiver. 

And  crowds  are  passing,  and  banks  stre 
wide, 
How  hard  to  follow,  with  lips  that  quiver, 

That  moving  speck  on  the  far-off  side  ! 

Farther,  fartlier  —  I  see  it  —  know  it  — 
My  eyes  brim  over,  it  melts  away  : 

Only  my  heart  to  my  heart  shall  .show  it. 
As  I  walk  desolate  day  by  day. 


And  yet  1  know  past  all  doubting,  truly,  — 
A  knowledge  greater  than  grief  can  ilim  — 

I  know,  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  mo  duly  — 
Yea,  better  —  e'en  better  than  I  love  him  ; 

And  as  I  walk  by  the  vast  calm  river, 

The  awful  river  so  dread  to  see, 
I  say,  "Thy  breadth  and  thy  depth  forever 

Are  bridged  by  his  thoughts  that  cross  to  me. 
Jean  Ingelow, 


PARTING  LOVERS. 


I  LOVE  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio  ! 

Some  call  me  cold,  and  some  demure, 
And  if  thou  hast  ever  guessed  that  so 

I  love  thee  —  well,  —  the  proof  was  poor, 

And  no  one  could  be  sure. 

Before  thy  song  (with  shifted  rliymes 

To  suit  my  name)  did  1  undo 
The  Persian  >     If  it  moved  sometimes, 

Thou  hast  not  seen  a  hand  push  through 

A  foolish  flower  or  two. 

My  mother  listening  to  my  sleep 

Heard  nothing  but  a  sigh  at  night,  — 

The  short  sigh  rippling  on  the  deep. 

When  hearts  run  out  of  breath  and  sight 
Of  men,  to  God's  clear  light. 

When  others  named  thee,  —  thought  thy  brows 
Were  straight,  thy  smile  was  tender,  —  "  Hera 

He  comes  between  the  vineyard-rows  ! "  — 
]  said  not  "Ay,"  —  nor  waited,  dear. 
To  feel  thee  step  too  near. 

I  left  such  things  to  bolder  girls, 

Olivia  or  Clotilda.     Nay, 
When  that  Clotilda  through  her  curls 

Held  both  thine  eyes  in  hers  one  day, 

I  marveled,  let  me  say. 

I  could  not  try  the  woman's  trick  : 
Between  us  straightway  fell  the  blush 

Which  kept  mo  separate,  blind,  and  sick. 
-•V  wind  came  with  thee  in  a  flush. 
As  blown  through  Horeb's  bush. 

But  now  that  Italy  invokes 

Her  young  men  to  go  forth  and  chase 

The  foe  or  perish,  —  nothing  chokes 
I      5Iy  voice,  or  drives  me  from  the  plai-e  : 
I      I  look  thee  in  the  face. 


^5- 


-^ 


C&-- 


PARTING. 


189 


^ 


I  love  thee  !  it  is  understood, 
Confest :  I  do  not  shrink  or  start. 

Xo  blushes  :  all  my  body's  blood 
Has  gone  to  grcaten  this  poor  heart, 
That,  loving,  we  may  pait. 

Oar  Italy  invokes  the  youth 

To  die  if  need  be.     .Still  there  's  room, 
Though  earth  Ls  strained  with  dead,  in  truth : 

Since  twice  the  lilies  were  in  bloom 

They  have  not  grudged  a  tomb. 

And  many  a  plighted  maid  and  wife 
And  mother,  who  can  say  since  then 

"  My  country,"  cannot  say  through  life 
"My  .son,"   "my  spouse,"    "my  flower  of 

men," 
And  not  weep  dumb  again. 

Heroic  males  the  country  bears. 

But  daughters  give  up  more  than  sons. 

Flags  wave,  drums  beat,  and  unawares 
You  flash  your  .souls  out  with  the  guns. 
And  take  your  heaven  at  once  ! 

But  ice,  —  we  empty  heart  and  home 
Of  life's  life,  love  !     We  bear  to  think 

You  're  gone,  —  to  feel  you  may  not  come,  — 
To  hear  the  door-latoh  stir  and  clink 
Yet  no  more  you,  —  nor  sink. 

Dear  God  I  when  Italy  is  one 

And  jjerfected  from  bound  to  bound,  — 
Suppose  (for  my  .share)  earth  's  undone 

By  one  grave  in  t !  as  one  small  wound 

May  kill  a  man,  't  is  found  ! 

WTiat  then  ?     If  love's  delight  must  end, 
At  least  we  '11  clear  its  tiiith  from  flaws. 

I  love  thee,  love  thee,  sweetest  friend  ! 
Xow  take  my  sweetest  without  pause, 
To  help  the  nation's  cause. 

And  thus,  of  noble  Italy 

We  '11  both  be  worthy.     Let  her  show 

The  future  how  we  made  her  free, 
Not  sparing  life,  nor  Giulio, 
Nor  this  —  this  heart-break  !     Go  ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  browning. 


AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 
Against  the  wind  was  clearing, 

Her  trembling  pennant  still  looked  back 
To  that  dear  isle  't  was  leaving. 


So  loath  we  part  from  ail  we  love, 
i'rom  all  the  links  that  bind  us  ; 

So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove. 
To  those  we  've  left  behind  us  ! 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanished  years 

We  talk  with  joyous  seeming,  — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears. 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming  ; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
0,  sweet 's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  tho.se  we  've  left  behind  us  ! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flowerj',  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  naught  but  love  is  wanting  ; 
We  think  how  great  liad  been  our  bliss 

If  Heaven  had  but  a.ssigne<l  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this. 

With  some  we  've  left  behind  us  ! 

As  travelers  oft  look  back  at  eve 

When  eastward  darkly  going. 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing,  — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consigned  us. 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fa/Iiiig  r.\v 

Of  joy  that 's  left  behind  us. 

Thomas  Moork. 


LOCHABER  NO  MORE. 

Farewell  to  Lochaber  !  and  farewell,  my  Jean, 
Where  heartsome  with  thee  I  haemonyadaybecn  ! 
For  Lochaber  no  more,  Lochaber  no  more. 
We  '11  maybe  return  to  Lochaber  no  more  ! 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for  my  dear, 
And  no  for  the  dangers  attending  on  war. 
Though  txime  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  bloody  shore. 
Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 

Though  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every  wind, 
They  'II  ne'er  make  a  tempest  like  that  in  my 

mind; 
Though  loudest  of  thunders  on  louder  waves  roar, 
That's  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on  the  shore. 
To  leave  thee  behind  me  my  heart  is  .sair  pained  ; 
By  ease  that 's  inglorious  no  fame  can  be  gsiined  ; 
And  beauty  and  love  's  the  reward  of  the  brave. 
And  I  maun  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeany,  maun  plead  my  excu.se  ; 
Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  I  refuse  ? 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for  thee. 
And  without  thy  favor  I  'd  better  not  be. 


4=f- 


e- 


r.JO 


POEMS  OF  PARTING  AND  ABSENCE. 


--Qi 


I  gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honor  and  fame, 
And  if  I  should  luck  to  oonie  gloriously  liame, 
1  '11  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  running  o'er, 
And  then  1  '11  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no  more. 
ALLAN  Ramsay. 


ADIEU,   ADIEU  I  MY  NATIVE  SHORE. 

Adiku,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
Tlie  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar. 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Von  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awdiilo  to  him  and  thee. 

My  native  laud  —  Good  Night ! 

A  few  short  hours,  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
Anil  1  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall. 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall  ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

Lord  bvron. 


t. 


MY  OLD  KENTUCKY  HOME. 

The  sun  shines  bright  in  our  old  Kentucky  homo ; 

'T  is  summer,  the  darkies  are  gay  ; 
The  corn  top  's  ripe  and  the  meadow 's  in  the 
bloom, 

While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day  ; 
The  young  folks  roll  on  the  little  cabin  floor. 

All  merry,  all  happy,  all  bright ; 
By'm-by  hard   times   comes   a  knockin'  at  the 
door,  — 

Tlu'n,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  gooil  night ! 


Weep  no  more,  my  lady ;  O,  weep  no  more 

to-day : 
We  '11  sing  one  song  for  my  old  Kentucky 

home, 
For  our  old  Kentucky  honu'  far  away. 

They  liunt  no  more  for  the  possum  and  the  coon. 

On  the  meadow,  the  hill,  and  the  shore  ; 
They  sing  no  more  by  the  glimmer  of  the  moon. 

On  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin-dooi- ; 
The  day  goes  by,  like  a  -shadow  o'er  the  heart. 

With  sorrow  where  all  was  delight  ; 
The  time  h.as  come,  when  the  darkies  have  to  part, 

Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady,  etc. 


The  head  must  bow,  and  the  back  will  have  to 
bend. 
Wherever  the  darky  may  go  ; 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  troubles  all  will  end, 

In  the  field  whei'e  the  sugar-cane  grow; 
A  few  more  days  to  tote  the  weary  load. 

No  matter,  it  will  never  be  light ; 
A  few  more  days  till  we  totter  on  the  road. 
Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady,  etc. 

STEPHF.N  C.  Foster. 


THE  FAREWELL 


Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone. 
To  the  riee-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
W'here  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews. 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Tlirough  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hill  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  ilaughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Scams  tlieir  back  with  many  a  gash. 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them. 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-sw.amp  dank  ami  lone. 
O,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow. 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go. 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  witli  pain. 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them,  ■ 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  thcra. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  lulls  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 


l^- 


PARTING. 


191 


--a 


From  tlie  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  tlicir  i.-liildhood's  phu.'e  of  j.lay,  — 
Fioiii  tlie  rjdol  spring  whi-ie  llioy  drank,  — 
Kofk,  and  liill,  and  rivulet  Ijaiik,  — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swainp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone. 

To  the  rice-swami)  dank  and  lone,  — 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 

{)  that  they  had  earlier  died, 

Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side. 

Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er. 

And  the  fetter  galls  no  more ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

By  the  holy  love  He  beareth,  — 

By  the  bniistd  reed  He  spareth,  — 

O,  may  He  to  whom  alone 

All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known 

Still  their  liojie  and  refuge  ]irovc. 

With  a  more  than  mother's  love  ! 
Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  i.s  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

John  Greeni.eaf  Whittier. 


COME,  LET  US  KJSSE  AND   PARTE. 

Since  there  's  no  helpe,  —  come,  let  us  kisse  and 
parte  ! 

X:iy,  I  have  done,  — you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  —  yea,  glad  with  all  my  hearte, 

That  thus  so  cleaidy  I  myselfe  can  free. 
Shake  hands  forever  !  —  cancel  all  our  vows  ; 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  againe, 
Be  it  not  scene  in  either  of  our  brows. 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retaine. 

Now  —  at  the  last  gaspe  of  Love's  latest  breath  — 
When,   his  pulse  failing.  Passion   speechless 
lies  ; 

When  Faith  Is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death. 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 


Now !  if  thou  wouldst  —  when  all  have  given 
him  over  — 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  re- 
cover. 


FAREWELL!  THOU  ART  TOO  DEAR. 

Farewell  !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing. 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate  : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing  ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee  b\it  by  thy  granting  ? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting. 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav'st,   thy  own  worth   then   not 

knowing. 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking  ; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misjirision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  (latter  ; 
In  sleep  a  king,  but,  waking,  no  such  matter. 

SHAKEEPBAKE. 


AN  EAKNE8T  SUIT 

TO  HIS  U.VKI.ND  MISTRESS  NOT  TO  FORSAKE    HI! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay !  say  nay  !  for  shame  ! 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  1 
Say  nay '.  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  mc  thas. 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long. 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart, 
Never  for  to  depart, 
Neither  for  pain  nor  .smart  ? 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  '! 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  mc  thus. 
And  have  no  more  pity 
Of  him  that  loveth  thee ' 
Ala.s  !  thy  cruelty  ! 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ' 
Say  nay !  say  nay  ! 


(&- 


^ 


[fi- 


!'.): 


PO.SMS  OF  PAHTING  AND  ABSENCE. 


-a 


i:i 


WE  PARTED  IN  SILENCE. 

We  pnvtiHl  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night, 
Oil  till'  blinks  of  that  h>nely  rivt-r  ; 

AVhere  the  fragrant  limes  tlieir  boughs  unite.. 
\\\'  met  —  iuid  we  parted  forever  ! 

The  night-bird  sung,  and  the  stare  above 
Told  many  a  toucliing  story 

Of  friends  long  passed  to  the  kingdom  of  lova, 

Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence,  —  our  cheeks  were  wet 

With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling  ; 
We  vowed  we  would  never,  no,  never  forget, 

And  those  vows  at  the  time  were  consolinj; ; 
But  those  lips  that  echoed  the  sounds  of  mine 

Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river : 
And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit's  shrine, 

Has  shrouded  its  fires  forever. 

And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I  look. 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping  ; 
BJich  star  is  to  me  a  sealed  book, 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 
We  parted  iu  silence,  —  we  jiarted  in  tears, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river  : 
But  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  bygone  yeais 

Shall  hang  o'er  its  waters  forever. 

Mrs.  crawfokd. 


PEACE  I    WHAT  CAN  TEAKS  AVAIL? 

Peace  !  what  can  teai-s  avail  ? 
She  lies  all  dumb  and  pale. 

And  from  her  eye 
The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading,  — 

And  slie  must  die  ! 
Why  looks  the  lover  wroth,  ^  the  friend  upbraid- 
ing ? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 
Midst  iwin,  and  grief,  and  wrong  ? 

Then  why  not  die  > 
Why  sujfer  agaiu  her  doom  of  sorrow, 

.\nd  hopeless  lie  ? 
Why  nui-se  the  trembling  dream  until  to-momiw ! 

Keply,  reply  ! 

Death  !     Take  her  to  thine  arms. 
In  all  her  stainless  charms  ! 

And  with  her  fly 
To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  brightness. 

The  angels  lie  ! 
Wilt  bear  her  there,  0  death !  in  all  her  white- 
ness ? 
Reply,  reply  ? 

\JRVAN  Waller  Procter  (Barry  Cornwalu, 


THE  DYING  GERTRUDE  TO  WALDEGRAVE. 

FRO.M    "GBRTRODB  OF  WVOMlNi;.'* 

Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,  —  0, 

think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  mc  all  tenderness. 
And  friend  to  more  thiui  human  friendship  just. 
0,  by  that  retrospect  of  hapinness, 
.\nd  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
(iod  shall  assuage  thy  pangs,  when  I  am  laid  in 

dust ! 

Go,  Hein-y,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart. 
The  scene  thy  bui'sting  teai-s  too  deep  will  move, 
Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart. 
And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heaven;  for  oui-s  was  not  like  earthly  love. 
And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ? 
No  !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is 
past. 

Half   could   1   bear,    methinks,    to    leave    this 

earth,  — 
And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the 

sun. 
If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 
Of  one  dear  pledge;  —  but  shall  there  then  be- 
none. 
In  future  time,  — no  gentle  little  one. 
To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 
Yet  seems  it,  even  « liile  life's  last  pulses  run, 
A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be. 
Lord  of  my  bosom's  love  1  to  die  beholding  thee  ! 
THOMAS  Campbell. 


THE  MOURNER. 

Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners,  —  I  have  seen 
A  fair  sad  girl,  mild,  sulTering,  and  serene  ; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties  claimed. 
And  to  be  useful  as  resigned  she  aimed  ; 
Neatly  she  drest,  nor  vainly  seemed  t'  expect 
Kty  for  grief,  or  parxlon  for  neglect ; 
But  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep. 
She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep  ; 
Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  displayed. 
That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow's  aid ; 
For  then  she  thought  on  one  rcgi'etted  youth, 
Her  tender  trust,  and  his  unnnestioued  tnith  ; 
In  every  place  she  wandered,  where  they  'd  been, 
And  sadly-sacred  held  the  jiarting  scene. 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave  :  that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace 


-4 


PARTING. 


193 


Happy  be  sailed,  and  great  tlie  care  she  took 
That  lie  sliould  softly  sleep  and  smartly  look  ; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck ; 
And  every  comfort  men  at  si'a  can  know 
Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow  : 
For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she  told, 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate's  cold  ; 
Yet  saw  not  danger ;  dangers  he  M  withstood. 
Nor  could  she  trace  llie  fever  in  liLs  blood. 

His  messmates  smiled  at  flushings  on  his  cheek. 
And  he  too  smiled,  but  seldom  would  he  speak  ; 
I'"or  now  he  found  the  clanger,  felt  the  pain. 
With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain. 
He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a  sigh 
A  lover's  message,  —  "Thomas,  I  must  die  ; 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
.My  throlibing  temples  on  her  faithful  bre;i.st, 
.And  ga/ing  go  !  —  if  not,  this  trille  take. 
And  say,  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake  : 
Yes !  I  must  die  —  blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on  ! 
Give  me  one  look  before  my  life  be  gone  ! 
0,  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair  ! 
iJne  last    fond   look  !  —  and   now    repeat    the 

pr.ayer." 
Ho  liad  his  wish,  had  more  :  I  will  not  paint 
'l"he  lovers'  meeting  ;  she  beheld  him  faint, — 
With  t<Mider  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  teirors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  ; 
Ho  tried  to  smile  ;  and,  half  suci'ceding.  said, 
"Yes  !   I  must  die"  — and  hope  forever  fled. 
.Still,   long   she   nursed    him ;    tender   thoughts 

meantime 
Were  interchanged,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away  ; 
With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  I'ible  read. 
Soothed  the   faint   heart,   and   held   tlie  aching 

head  : 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  [lain  to  cheer, 
.■\part  she  .sighed  ;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear ; 
Tlien,  .as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 
One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  tliey  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot. 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared, 
X  sudden  vigor  in  his  voice  was  heard  ;  — 
•She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 
And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair. 
Lively  he  .seemed,  and  spake  of  .all  he  knew, 
Tlie  friendly  many,  and  tlie  favorite  few  ; 

but  then  his  hand  she  prest. 

And  fondly  wliispered,  "  Thou  must  go  to  rest." 
"  I  gn,  "  he  .said  ;  but  as  he  sjioke,  she  found 
His   hand   more   cold,    and    fluttering  was  the 

sound  ; 
Then  gazed  affrighted  ;  hut  she  caught  a  last, 
A  dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  |iast  ! 


She  placed  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above, 
Neatly  engraved,  —  an  offering  of  her  love  : 
For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  bed, 
Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  ilcail  ; 
She  would  have  grieved,  had  friends  jiresunied  to 

spare 
The  least  assistance,  —  't  was  her  projier  care. 
Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit, 
Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit  : 
rjut  if  observer  pa.ss,  will  take  her  round, 
And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found  ; 
Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hours  employ, 
While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy. 

GEORGIi  CKAlJdh 

FAREWELL  I    BUT  WHENEVER - 

Fakewell  I  —  but  whenever  you  welcome    the 

hour 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your 

bower. 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  weleonnd  it 

too. 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs,  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return  —  not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  hLs  ])athway  of 

pain  — 
But  he  ne'er  can  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him  while  lingering  with 

you! 

And  still  on  that  evening  when  Pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each 

cup, 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright. 
My  soul,  happy  friends  !  will  be  with  you  that 

night ; 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your 

wiles. 
And  return  to  me,  beaming  all  o'er  with  your 

smiles  !  — 
Too  blest  if  it  tell  me  that,  mid  the  gay  cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  has  murmured,  "I  wish  he  were 

here  ! " 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy. 

Bright  dreams  of  the  pa.st,  which  she  canimt 
destroy ; 

Which  come,  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and 
care. 

And  bring  back  the  feature-i  whirli  joy  used  to 
wear. 

Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  filled  ! 

Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  dis- 
tilled — 

You  may  break,  vou  may  ruin  the  vasi',  if  you 
will, 

liut  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 


I&- 


-^ 


[fi-^- 


194 


POEMS  OF  I'Airriyo  and  absence. 


■a 


ABSENCE, 


TO  HER  ABSENT  SAILOR. 


Her  window  opens  to  the  hay. 
On  glistening  liglit  or  misty  gray, 
And  there  at  dawn  and  set  of  day 

In  prayer  she  kneels  : 
"  Dear  Lord  !  "  she  saith,  "to  many  a  home 
From  wind  and  wave  the  wanderers  come  ; 
I  only  see  the  tossing  foam 

Of  stranger  keels. 

"  ISlinvn  out  and  in  by  summer  gales. 
The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails, 
And  sailors  leaning  o'er  their  mils, 

Before  me  glide  ; 
They  come,  they  go,  but  evermore, 
Spice-laden  from  the  hulian  shore, 
I  see  his  swift-winged  Isidore 

The  waves  divide. 

"  0  thou  !  with  whom  the  night  is  day 
And  one  the  near  and  far  away, 
Ijook  out  on  yon  gray  waste,  and  say 

Where  lingers  lie. 
Alive,  perchance,  on  some  lone  beach 
Or  thirsty  isle  beyond  the  reach 
Of  man,  he  hears  the  mocking  speech 

Of  wind  and  sea. 

"  0  dread  and  cruel  deep,  reveal 
The  secret  which  thy  waves  conceal. 
And,  ye  wild  sea-birds,  hither  wheel 

And  tell  your  tale  ! 
Let  winds  that  tossed  his  raven  hair 
A  message  from  my  lost  one  bear,  — 
Some  thought  of  me,  a  last  fond  prayer 

Or  dying  wail  ! 


But,  with  her  heart,  if  not  her  ear. 
The  old  loved  voice  she  seemed  to  hear  : 
"  1  wait  to  meet  thee  :  bo  of  cheer. 
For  all  is  well  !  " 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


TO  HJCASTA. 

If  to  be  absent  wei'e  to  be 
Away  from  thee ; 
Or  that,  wlien  I  am  gone, 
Yo\i  or  I  were  alone  ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind  or  swallowing  wave. 

But  I  '11  not  sigh  one  blast  or  g:Ue 
To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
The  foaming  blue-god's  rage  ; 
For,  whether  he  will  let  me  i)ass 
Or  no,  I  'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  lands  be  'twixt  us  lioth. 
Our  faith  and  troth. 
Like  sejiarated  souls. 
All  time  and  space  controls  : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet. 
Unseen,  unknown  ;  and  greet  as  angels  greet. 

So,  then,  we  do  anticipate 
Our  after-fate. 
And  are  alive  i'  th'  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  heaven,  —  their  earthly  bodies  left  behind. 
Richard  Lovelace 


u 


"Come,  with  your  dreariest  truth  shut  out 
The  fears  that  haunt  me  round  about  ; 
0  God  !  I  cannot  bear  this  doubt 

That  stifles  breath. 
The  worst  is  better  than  the  dread  ; 
Give  me  but  leave  to  mourn  my  dead 
Asleep  in  trust  and  hope,  instead 

Of  life  in  death  !  " 

It  might  have  been  the  evening  breeze 
That  whispered  in  the  garden  trees. 
It  might  have  been  the  sound  of  seas 
That  rose  and  fell ; 


OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN  BLAW 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west ; 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives. 

The  lassie  I  lo'o  best. 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

A  nd  monie  a  hill 's  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 
I  see  her  sweet  and  fair  ; 


■^ 


[&-- 


ABSENCE. 


19 


■ra 


y- 


I  heal'  her  in  the  tuuefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  ; 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green,  — 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  bird  tliat  sings, 

But  minds  me  of  my  Jean. 

0,  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Aniang  the  leafy  trees  ; 
Wi'  gentle  gale,  I'ra  rauir  and  dale 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees  : 
Anil  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That 's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  ; 
Ae  look  at  lic-r  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  lovely  is  my  Jean. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


LOVE'S  MEMORY. 

FROM    "ALL'S  WELL  THAT   ENDS  WELL." 

I  AM  undone  :  there  is  no  living,  none. 

If  Bertram  be  away.     It  were  all  one. 

That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star, 

And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me  : 

In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 

Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 

The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself : 

The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion 

Must  die  for  love.    'T  was  pretty,  though  a  plague. 

To  see  him  ev'ry  hour  ;  to  sit  and  draw 

His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls. 

In  our  heart's  table,  —  heart  too  capal)lc 

Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favor  : 

But  now  he  's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 

Must  sanctify  his  relics. 


O,   SAW  YE  BONNIE  LESLEY? 

0,  s.wv  ye  bonnie  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  ? 

Slie  's  gane,  like  Alexander, 
To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  forever  ; 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither  ! 

Tbuu  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  T)efore  thee  ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Oi"  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  ; 

He  'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 
And  sav  "  I  canna  wrang  thee  !  " 


The  powers  aboou  will  lent  thee  ; 

ilisfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee  ; 
Thou  'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they  '11  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Keturn  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There  's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 


koiiERT  BUR.NS 


JEANIE   MORRISON. 

I  'vE  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way  ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day  ! 
The  fire  that 's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Vide  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  <lear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path. 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

.Vnd  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  lilithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part  ; 
Sweet  time  —  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart  ! 
'T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink. 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear  ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

1  i  cmembered  evermai  v. 

1  wimder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet. 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
(  hi-ek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof. 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  donn  ower  ac  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads. 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans,  laughin',  said 

We  decked  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon.) 
Wlien  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes,  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 


f 


I'JG 


POEMS   OF  PARTING   AND   ABSENCE. 


-^ 


My  head  rina  round  and  round  about,  — 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  aue  the  thochts  rusli  back 

O'  scule-time,  and  o'  thee. 

0  moridn'  life  !  O  inornin'  hive  ! 

0  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hiunied  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang  ! 

0,  mind  ye,  luve,  liow  aft  we  left 

The  deavui'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  '. 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees,  — 
And  we,  with  nature's  heart  in  tune. 

Concerted  harmonies  ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  sileutness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Mon'ison, 

Tears  trickled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time. 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young. 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled  —  unsung  ! 

1  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 

As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me. 
0,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
0,  say  gin  e'er  your  lioart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  ! 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

1  've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 

But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near. 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins. 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

()  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Since  wo  were  siudered  young 

I  've  never  seen  your  face  nor  heard 
The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 


But  1  could  hug  all  wreteheiluess. 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  1  but  ken  j-our  heart  still  dreamed 

0'  bj'gone  days  and  me  ! 

William  motiilkwell. 


■'SHE    TOUCHES    A    SAD    STRING    OF    SOFT 
RECALL." 

Reti'rn,  return  !  all  night  my  lamp  is  burning; 

All  night,  like  it,  my  w-ide  eyes  watch  and 
burn  ; 
Like  it,  1  fade  and  pale,  when  day  returning 

Bears  witness  that  the  absent  can  retuiii. 

Return,  return. 

Like  it,  I  lessen  witli  a  lengthening  sadness  ; 

Like  it,  1  burn  to  waste  and  waste  to  buiii  ; 
Like  it,  I  spend  the  golden  oil  of  gladness 

To  feed  the  sorrowy  signal  for  return. 

Return,  return. 

Like  it,  like  it,  whene'er  the  east  wind-sings, 

I  bend  and  shake ;  like  it,  I  quake  and  yearn. 
When  Hope's  late  butterflies,  with  whispering 
wings. 

Fly  in  out  of  the  dark,  to  fall  and  burn  — 

Burn  in  the  watclifire  of  return, 

Return,  return. 

Like  it,  the  very  flame  whereby  I  pine 
Consumes  me  to  its  nature.     While  I  mourn, 
My  soul  becomes  a  better  soul  than  mine. 
And  from  its  brightening  beacon  I  discern 
My  starry  love  go  forth  from  me,  and  shine 
Across  the  seas  a  path  for  thy  return, 
Return,  return. 

Return,  return  !  all  night  1  see  it  liurn. 

All  night  it  prays  like  me,  and  lifts  a  twin 

Of  palmM  praying  hands  that  meet  and  yearn — 

Yearn  to  the  impleaded  skies  for  thy  return. 

Day,  like  a  golden  fetter,  locks  tliem  in. 

And  wans  the  light  that  withers,  though  it  burn 

.\s  wamily  still  for  thy  return  ; 

Still  through  the  splendid  load  uplifts  the  thin 

Pale,  paler,  palest  patience  that  can  learn 

Naught  but  that  votive  sign  for  thy  return. 

That  single  suppliant  sign  for  tliy  return. 

Return,  return. 

Return,  return  I  lest  haply,  love,  or  e'er 

Thou  touch  the  lamp  the  light  have  ceased  to 

burn. 
And  thou,  who  through  the  window  didst  discern 
The  wonted  flame,  shalt  reach  the  topmost  stair 
To  find  no  wide  eyes  watching  there. 
No  withered  welcome  waiting  th\-  return 


^ 


[& 


ABSENCE. 


197 


rn 


A  passing  ghost,  a  smoke-wreath  in  tlie  air, 

Thu  ilanieless  ashes,  and  the  soulless  urn, 

Wann  with  the  famished  tire  that  lived  to  bum — 

Burn  out  its  lingering  lite  for  thy  return. 

Its  last  of  lingering  life  for  thy  return, 

Its  last  of  lingering  life  to  light  thy  late  return. 

Return,  return. 


.FROM  "THE  TRfUMPn  OF  TIME. 

TiiEiiE  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old 

By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea. 
In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 

Tliere  shone  one  woman,  and  none  but  she. 
And  (inding  life  for  her  love's  .sake  fail, 
Being  fain  to  see  her,  he  bade  set  sail. 
Touched  laud,  and  saw  her  as  life  grew  cold, 
And  praised  God,  seeing  ;  and  so  ilied  he. 

Died,  praising  God  for  liis  gift  and  grace  : 

For  she  bowed  down  to  him  weeping,  and  said, 
"  Live  "  ;  and  her  tears  were  slieil  on  his  face 

Or  ever  the  life  in  his  face  wa.s  shed. 
The  sharp  tears  fell  through  her  hair,  and  stung 
Once,  and  her  close  lips  touched  him  and  clung 
Once,  and  gi'cw  one  with  his  lips  for  a  space  ; 
And  .so  drew  back,  and  the  man  was  dead. 

0  brother,  the  gods  were  good  to  yon. 
Sleep,  and  be  glad  while  the  world  endures. 

r.e  well  content  as  the  years  wear  through  ; 

Givr  th.-iiiks  for  life,  and  the  loves  and  lures  ; 
fiivc  tliaiiks  for  life,  0  brothin-,  and  death. 
For  the  sweet  last  sound  of  her  feet,  her  breath. 
For  gifts  she  gave  you,  gracious  and  few, 

Tears  and  kis.so3,  tliat  l.ady  of  yours. 

liest,  and  be  glad  of  the  gods:  but  I, 

How  shall  I  praise  them,  or  how  take  rest  ? 

Tliirr  is  not  room  under  all  the  .sky 
For  me  tliat  know  not  of  worst  or  best. 

Dream  or  desire  of  tlie  days  before. 

Sweet  things  or  bitterness,  any  more. 

Love  will  not  come  to  me  now  though  I  die. 
As  lov(!  came  close  to  you,  breast  to  breast. 

1  shall  never  be  friends  again  witli  roses  ; 

I  shall  loathe  sweet  tunes,  where  a  note  grown 
strong 
Relents  and  recoils,  and  climbs  and  closes. 

As  a  wave  of  the  sea  turned  back  by  song. 
There  are  sounds  where  the  .soul's  delight  takes 

fire. 
Face  to  face  with  its  own  desire  ; 
A  delight  that  rebels,  a  desire  that  reposes  ; 
I  shall  hate  sweet  music  my  whole  life  long. 


The  pulse  of  war  and  passion  of  wonder. 

The   heavens  that  murmur,  the  sounds  that 
shine, 

The  stars  that  sing  and  the  loves  that  thunder. 
The  music  burning  at  heart  like  wine. 

An  armed  archangel  whose  hands  raise  up 

All  senses  mixed  in  the  spirit's  cup, 

Till  tlesh  and  spirit  are  molten  in  sunder,  — 
These  things  are  over,  and  no  more  mine. 

These  were  a  part  of  the  playing  I  heard 

Once,  ere  my  love  and  my  heart  were  at  strife  ; 
Love  that  sings  and  hath  wings  as  a  bird. 

Balm  of  the  wound  and  heft  of  the  knife. 
Fairer  than  earth  is  the  sea,  ami  sleep 
Than  overwatching  of  eyes  that  wec[i, 
Now  time  has  done  with  his  one  sweet  word. 
The  wine  and  leaven  of  lovely  life. 

I  shall  go  my  ways,  tread  out  my  measure. 

Fill  the  days  of  my  daily  breath 
With  fugitive  things  not  good  to  treasure, 

Do  as  the  world  doth,  say  as  it  saith  ; 
But  if  we  had  loved  each  other  —  O  sweet, 
Had  you  felt,  lying  under  the  palms  of  your  feet. 
The  heart  of  my   heart,   beating  harder  with 
pleiisure 

To  feel  you  tiead  it  to  dust  and  death  — 

Ah,  had  I  not  taken  my  life  up  and  given 
All  that  life  gives  and  the  years  let  go, 

Tin;  wine  and  money,  the  balm  and  leaven. 
The  dreams  reared  high  and  the  hopes  brought 
low, 

Come  life,  come  death,  not  a  word  be  said  ; 

Should  1  lose  you  living,  and  vex  you  deaii  ? 

1  shall  never  tell  you  on  earth  ;  and  in  lieaven. 
If  I  cry  to  you  then,  will  you  hear  or  know  ? 

AI.CF.R.NON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


DAY,  IN  MELTING  PITRPLE  DYING. 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dj-ing  ; 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing  ; 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying  ; 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing ; 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress  ; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness  ! 

Thou  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken  ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  tiiou  'rt  true,  aud  1  '11  believe  thee  ; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent. 
Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 


-^ 


n- 


1>>S 


I'OKMS  ()*'  rAnrisu}  anh  ausksck. 


n 


siii\i>  tliy  toiling,  xiwiv  tliy  tiwwmv  ; 

All  I  iisk  is  tVlouvisliip's  (iIto»\uv  ; 

l.i'l  U\o  slviiiiiift  Hit'  lio  iliu'kliiif;, 

Ui'inx  i\i»  pMn  in  lusltT  !>i«iiklinft ; 

(lilV-t  mwl  gvilil  i\iv  iiimglil  III  1110, 
\  WMuUl  only  look  oil  Uiw ' 

•IVU  to  tlll'O  tllO  llii"!!  WIMIIJilll  I't'oliiiK, 

KoHtnxy  1ml  in  i~ovi'iiliiij» ; 

I'liiiil  tv>  llioo  llio  lUvji  M'lisiitivm, 

Umitmv  in  |vii-tloii>ntiou  s 

Yi-t  Imt  toituiv,  if  iHiHipiVHl 
111  II  loins  nnlVii'inliHl  Iiih'usI. 

AKsoiil  still  !     .Ml  !  oonio  sinl  l>l<>ss  mo  I 

l.ol  llioso  oyos  iij^nin  iiiivss  llioo. 

t»iioo,  ill  >';uilioii,  I  I'oiiM  Hy  lino  , 

Now,  1  iiotliinji  v'onlil  dony  lluv, 
111  II  look  ir>l(><>tli  tlioiv  I'o, 
I'oiiio,  mul  1  will  )puo  on  llioo  I 

MAKI*  IIKOOKSl 


THK  AK8Km'  SOl.lMKK   Sim, 


l,»>iii\  1  lun  wo<>)>iiv»{.      As  Hum  will,  t>  l.oi\l, 
Ho  Willi  liiiu  lis  llion  will  ;  lull  O  my  (!oil, 
l.ol  liini  oomo  Kiok  to  vlio  !     l.ol  not  llio  lowls 
0'  tlu>  nil'  >lolilo  llio  K»1y  of  my  oliikl. 
My  own  I'nii'  oUiKI,  tliivt  wlion  lio  wiis  i\  IniIh*, 
I  lilt  in>  ill  my  iivms  iiinl  jpivo  to  Ilioo  ! 
Lot  not  his  jr.umont,  l,oi\i,  ln>  viloly  ivii'tinl, 
Nor  llio  lino  linon  wliioli  tinvso  Iminls  Imvo  simn 
V:\\\  to  tlio  sti:iiv>,w's  lot  !     ,>*ll»ll  llio  wiUl  l>il\l, 
'I'hut  wonUl  li.iYo  i>ilfoiwl  of  llio  o\.  tliis  ywiv 
IMsvliiin  llio  (vos  «»'l  '*'«""  '    '^'>'>*'  '»'''  •'""*' 

yoMiVkj, 
'IMiiit  on  tlio  Hook  ami  nionlt  of  ln-iitisli  Iwists 
Uinl  Kvn  too  lii\|>i\y,  sloop  in  olotli  of  ,«mKI 
W lioitHif  <viioli  tliwi.l  is  to  lliis  iHiiliiifS  lirtivt 
As  ii  |xvnli:ii-  iliii'linj;  *     l.o,  tlio  lUiw 
Hum  o'ov  liim  '     l.o,  a  fivithoi'  lV>m  tlio  oi\«v 
K:iUs  in  liis  iviitinl  li|vs  I     l.vx.  Iiis  lUinl  oyos 
Siv  not  tlio  \tivon  '     l.vs  tlio  woviii,  tlio  worm 
t'lx^'iw  l\\>m  his  fi>stoviiij;  >vi-so  !     My  t!o>l !  my 

t?vHl  ! 

(>  l.onl,  tlion  vlvHv<t  woll,     I  am  ivntont. 
If  tlii>\i  liavo  inwl  of  liini.  ho  sliall  not  stay, 
r«il  as  ono  oallotli  to  a  sorvant,  sjiyinj; 
•"  At  snoli  ii  timo  K>  witli  m<\"  s-v,  t^  l.oi\l, 
Oill  liim  to  tliiH-  '     t'>,  l>i>l  liiin  not  in  liiisto 
Stmijslit  wlioiiiv  lio  stamlotli.    Lot  liim  lsi,v  asi>lo 
Tho  soiUM  tiHxIs  of  lalH>v,     Lot  liim  wash 
His  liaiivls  of  hlvn>»\,     Lot  liim  avi-tiy  liimsolf 
M(Vt  for  Ills  l,oi\l.  |>«i-o  l\\««  tlio  swoat  ami  l\imo 
Of  .H>n>ouil  travail  !     l.oi\i,  if  U»  ">vist  >Uo, 
l*>t  him  >lio  lioiv,    l\t«ko  him  whotv  tlnw  jp»>-<vst ! 


Ami  ovon  iis  on.'o  I  liol.l  liun  m  in>   «,.ihI. 
Till  all  things  woio  riilliUoa,  aii.l  ho  .iim.'  loilli, 
,So,  0  l.oitl,  lot  1110  hoM  him  in  my  giavo 
Till  llio  timo  oomo.  uiul  tlnm,  who  sot  tost  whoii 
Tho  liimls  ,hIiii11  oalvo,  onliiiii  n  hottoi'  hiilh  ; 
Aiul  11,1  1  looki'il  ami  saw  my  sou,  ami  wopi 
I'oi' joy,  I  hiok  iifjain  ami  soo  my  .mui, 
Ami  WOO)!  again  for  joy  of  him  ami  tlioo  1 

sioNhv  iiomi I 


t'oMit  to  mo,  O  my  Motliov  I  oonio  to  mo, 
I'liino  own  son  slowly  ilying  I'm'  away  ! 
Thiviigh  tlio  iiioisi  ways  of  tho  wiilo  oooaii,  Mown 
liy  gival  invisihlo  wimls,  oonio  statoly  shi|w 
To  (his  oalm  Uiy  lor  uniot  anolioiiigt' ; 
Tlioy  oomo,  llioy  ivst  iiwliilo,  llioy  go  away, 
lint,  t>  my  Molhov,  iiovoi'  oomosi  tlion  I 
I'lio  snow  is  ixmml  thy  ilwoUing,  tho  wliito  snow. 
'I'hat  oohl  sort  ivvolation  (miv  as  light. 
Ami  tho  ivino-siiiix>  is  niystioally  iVingr'il, 
l.aooil  with  inonistoil  silvoi',     lloiv      all  mi' ' 
'I'lio  wiiilor  is  ilooiviiit,  iimloi'lnnn, 
,\  lojioi'  willi  110  nowov  hut  his  ilisoaso. 
Why  mil  I  Ittmi  tlioo,  Motliov,  far  IVmi  tlioo  ! 
Vav  fltmi  tho  iWst  onohantmont,  ami  tho  wooils 
.lowoloil  l\\mi  hough  to  lH>ngli  /    O  homo,   my 

homo  ! 
ti  rivor  in  tho  valloy  of  my  homo. 
With  ina-^v  wimling  molioii  inlrioiito. 
Twisting  thy  ili>iitlihvs.s  nuisio  umlonioalh 
Tho  (Hilislio,!  ioo-work,      must  1  iiovormoiv 
lloliohl  Ilioo  with  familiar  oyos,  ami  waloli 
Thy  Knnity  ohanging  with  tho  i'liang<'l\il  ilay. 
Thy  U-auty  oonstant  to  tho  oonstuiit  oliango  ' 
ivAvio  v;kav 


TllK   Kl'srlO   l..\iv,<   t.AMl'IN'l"  IN    TUK  'l\l\VN 

l\  \v  \i>  that  my  timo  woiv  owiv  Imt, 

\Vi"  this  wintry  slool  ami  snaw. 
That  1  might  soo  onr  Inmso  ag-ain, 

r  tho  Nmnio  hirkoii  sliaw  ! 
Kv»'  this  is  no  my  ain  lifo, 

Anvl  I  (HHik  ami  (miio  away 
Wi"  tho  llnvlits  o'  liamo  ami  tho  young  llowoi-s. 

In  tho  ghul  gixH>n  month  of  May, 

I  nsoil  to  wauk  in  tho  morning 

AVi'  tho  loiul ,««!}!  o"  tho  lark, 
Ami  tho  whistling  o"  tho  plowman  laiUs 

.Vs  thoy  ginil  to  thoir  walk  ; 
I  «s«l  to  woar  tho  hit  young  lamKs 

Krao  tho  tvol  ami  tho  iwiring  stmmi  ; 
I5ut  tho  warhl  is  oli»ng<Hl,  ami  a'  thing  now 

IV  mo  siH-ms  Uko  a  ilrwim. 


-ff 


cP- 


AhHICNCIl. 


I'J'J 


'\'\iKtl:  lltf,  tills:'/  ':r'/W'l?.  :il'illll'l  til':, 

0/1  ilka  Imifi^  <l»ll  otr'ait. ; 
YkI,  l\>iiHfi)i  niv;  iiiniiy  nurrniiwl  iin;, 

I  kmi  iiii  HUH  (  tii'ntl, : 
Aii>\  I  tWdk  '/  kiriil  L'<:nt  (iuti:», 

J\iA  11  \i\Mii:  ail'  chu-.r/  'ln-yti, 
Wli«i)  I  waii/lcnd  out  wi'  our  aln  Wk, 

Out  iiwri;  III/!  niiiiiiiKT  iirufnt, 

Wtu-.n  rill:,  for  my  li/iart  )*  \ifjMiii/, ! 

I  tliifik  <>'  my  \iniUi'.t  miih', 
/\ui\  on  my  ii\»U:r it/iMtUin, 

Wliir/i  f  <;arft  fra/!  Iiamc  ay/a, 
A/i'i  0,  li/zc/  my  iiMn^r  >:iAi\M., 

A»  clu;  atiw/k  m<j  t;y  tli':  liao'l, 
Wliirfi  I  left  ll.<!  <l/c/r  II  imr  auM  li'/iiW;, 

'I'd  limn:  U>  thi«  xlraiigBr  la/i'l. 

Tlicre  '»  ii;»«  hainfc  IIk«  imr  aid  bam<;  — 
O,  J  wiisli  tliat  1  werethwi! 
'I'li<;f>:  V.  )ia/;  ham<;  lik<;  onr  airi  liam<; 

'/'<<  U;  met  wi'  onyv/lmri: ; 
Aii/1  0  tliat  J  w<rr<!  inu.k  aj{alii, 

To  our  fan»(  and  fiol/U  ««:  gr<;';;i  ; 
Ah'I  h<!ar4  th*  UiiiiQUm  u'  my  ai/i  folk, 

Ad'l  W'rre  what  1  ><a<;  l/<*(i  ! 


)!•/   TirK   AJ.MA    UVKH.. 

Vill.uy,,  foM  your  littlft  Unruh; 

f/-t  it  'iroji,      that  "k/iMikt"  Uiy; 
ijnM  vihiiii:  fatli'tr'it  pi/rturi;  utamU,  — 
Kathw,  that  her'!  kiws'!'!  hi»  Ix/y 
.V(/t  a  month  din/*,  —  father  ki/i<l, 
Who  thi»  nij^it  may  <ui:vi:r  iiiiml 
M//th«f'»  Koh,  my  Willi/!  (l/!ar; — 
(^ry  imt  lou/1  that  He  may  htar 
WJi/<  i«  (ii/ii  of  liatthsi,  —  «ay 
"  O'/l  k/!"!/)  (ntUnr  xafe  thi*  <)ay 
IJy  the  Alma  JJiver!" 


Hun'Ire'lK,  thoiiwifi'l ?,     (>rt  u*  v/eeji, 
We  v/ho  n<->:/|  not,      jii*l  I/,  k'«|< 
Mtfuviii  elear  in  th'/ii((lit  an<)  I/rain 
Till  the  morning  (j/z/nen  ajjaln  ; 
Till  th*  thifl  <lr<!«i/J  iiiimiiiiK  tell 
Wli/>they  were  that  foii^jht  and      /W< 
Jjy  the  Alma  Itiyer, 

t'.'iiiii:,       iii:']\  lay  i«  liiiwu,  iny  ehll/1; 

Co'/r  the  i/f/|  ii,      fiitiir  an/1  liard ; 
lliit  thy  father,  f!,r  i:ziiiA, 

MfM\m  u|c/ri  the  oj«n  nwar'l, 
l)ri:timiiiK  111  »H  two  at  home  ; 
Or,  fif.uiMh  the  «fj»rry  'lonie, 
I>i({!t  out  Uniii:Ui9t  ill  till:  'lark. 
Where  he  Utnist  —  Willie,  mark  !  — 
Win:rt!  /«  terfoer  th'/««  who  'licl 
J'ijfliting    '  (i({hti«({  at  hi*  »i'l«  — 
By  the  Alma  Jiiver, 

Willie,  Willie,  ((O  U,  «lee(, ; 

O'W  will  hel(.  ui,  0  my  hz/y! 
/(e  will  make  the  ilull  hour*  ereep 

faiU'r,  an'l  ^'-r.-l  h-»>,  of  ;ov  ; 
Whftn  I  ne/  ; 
Th/zw;  ;(rea^ 
'n«t  for  w- . , 

In  */>me  eye*      i.hilA,  ,,:j  v.,.i.'..  ^.t^ynr 
On/;/:  a({ain,       a  different  one, 
Kay,  "O  O'W  !  thy  will  1*  <|//ne 
J}y  the  Alma  iJiver," 

fyiiiAH  UKijy.n  ';*Aii: 


THB  WIKe  TO  HBR  HVKKKHV, 

l.inhf.k  ri'/*  Ion;'     Ho.'ft'-  !>:  no*  fi'/ri:'-  wisho-i 

It*.;. 

0,  hrt,  . 

Oen'..  , 


Unj/er  n//t  |//n{{,    T>i//Ti({h  i:r'ivh  >.h',a\ii  tuiii  thy 
KiJiyUin, 
lUitMiik  th/!e,  /:««  the  mirth  of  frie»//l»,  iUim^i 
lUiir, 
I  imi^iiaixiM  fur  the  KmflUy  imisi  'Ikhyiiift, 
CoJit*  the  fond  h/5«rtthat«i;(hA  t//  have  th/!<!  Iiere  ? 


Aj»k  no  m//re,  ehil/l  !     X/rcer  hewl 

KithCT  fitu«,  //r  frank,  or  Turk  ; 
liight  of  ftationa,  tr»mf<le/l  erw:/!, 

('AinufA'\ii /,     '  '//Ay  v/hix  ; 

All'/  \\>i.n  i'  ti. 
On  thy  hei(/r  • 

Willi/!,  all  t/.  y-u  ;,..,!  i.v;  .: 

J»  that  *\kA,,  what/:'er  it  f<:. 

Where  he  (itan')«   ~  no //ther  w/rd  ;.; 

HUi/ii/Im — (UA  sure  the  ehlW»  [iinyitn  h*«r'l! —    I      An/J  «>)<!«/*  hnw/ji  mi  aii  tlimu/,  iiKe  a  >s|*)l  ! 
Near  the  Alma  Jiiver, 


^ 


Willie,  lijrt/jn  to  the  UlU 
Hiiij^iiSi^  III  tfie  t//v/n  t/>-'Iay ; 

Tfi/it '»  for  vUHotj.     So  knell  itwel 
Cor  the  many  Kwej/t  away,  — 


Ifov/  ttimU   I  wat/;h  t/r  th/;*,  wh/rn   fear*  jfr'/W 
(ttf'/nger, 

A»  night  gr'/w«  dark  an'l  'Urk<^  '/n  the  hill  ; 
How  ((hall  r  wee-ji,  when  i  imii  wa!/!h  no  long**! 

Ah  !  art  th//u  al/ntertt,  art  th//n  aW^it  vtill  7 


pt; 


DO 


POEMS  OF  J'AUrim}  AM)  AliSIiNCE. 


& 


Yil  1  ^ll.mM  iiiiovo  no(,  tlioiij;li  |]n'  ovo  Uiiit  soi'tli 

1110 

(iii/.ollillnwisliU'iu'stliiilmukoil.ssplouilonliiU; 
Kill-  O,  1  souii'limos  IVai-  wlu'ii  lluni  ait  with  nio. 
My  ouii  ol' liaiipiuoss  is  all  too  lull. 

Haslo,  liasto  llioi'hoiuo  unto  tliy  nioiiiilaiii  ihvoll- 
ing. 
Ilasto,  as  a  liinl  \mto  its  |)oiioi'fiil  lu'sl  ! 
llasto,   as  a  skill',  tluMUjih  ti'iiiiicst-s  \\iiU>  ami 
swolliuj., 
Klios  to  its  liaviMi  ol'  scouivsl  i-osl ! 

Anonymous. 


WiiAi-  sliall  1  .lo  with  all  llu>  days  ami  hours 
That  must  1h>  oomitod  oiv  1  s.-o  thy  I'aoo  !" 

How  shall  1  I'liann  tho  iutorval  that  lowoi's 
lli'lwcoii  this  limoaml  that  swoot  tiiiio  ol'giiico* 

Shall  1  ill  slmiihor  sloo]!  i-ju'h  wwiiy  soiiso,  — 
\\'oaiy  with  loiigiivj; !    Shall  1  lloo  away 

Into  iKist  (lays,  ami  with  soiuo  foiul  piMtousc 
rlu'al  mysoU'to  roi'gi>t  the  luvsi'ut  Jay? 

Shall  lovo  for  thco  lay  on  my  soul  tho  sin 
01'  casting  fixim  mo  tnui's  givat  gift  of  tiuio  .' 

Shall  1,  thoso  mists  of  momory  lookoil  within, 
l.oavo  ami  forgot  lifo's  luirposos  snhUmo  ? 

0,  how  or  by  what  moans  may  1  oontrivo 
To  liriug  tho  hour  that  hrings  tlioo  hiok  inoiv 
noar  1 

TIow  may  1  tonoli  my  drooping  hopo  to  liw 
I'ntil  that  hlossoil  timo,  ami  thou  art  hoiv  ? 

1  '11  toll  thou :  for  thy  sako  1  will  lay  hold 
llf  all  gxiod  aims,  and  oonsoomto  to  tlioo. 

In  worthy  doods,  oaoh  inomont  that  is  told 
Whilo  thou,  holovid  oiio  !  art  far  fivm  mo. 

For  thoo  I  will  aivuso  my  thoughts  to  try 
Alllioavonw!ii\lllights.  all  high  and  holy  strains; 

For  thy  doar  sako,  I  will  walk  iwtiontly 
Thiwigh  thoso  loiij5  honrs,  nor  oall  tlioir  iiiiii- 
utos  imiiis, 

I  will  this  di'i'ary  Wank  of  aKsonoo  mako 
A  uohlo  task-timo  ;  and  will  thoiviu  stri\i< 

To  follow  oxoollonoo,  and  to  o'ortako 

Moiv  gxxHl  than  1  liavo  won  sinoo  yot  I  livo. 

So  may  this  dooim^d  timo  hnild  np  in  ino 

A  tliovisiuul  gi-aoos,  whioh  shall  thus  Ih<  thiiio ; 

So  may  my  lovo  and  Uuiging  liallowod  K\ 
And  thy  divir  thought  an  inlluonoo  vlivino. 

FKANCSS  ANMt  KUMm.r,.       1 


MY    I'l.AVMATB. 

Tins  jiinos  woi'o  dark  on  Kamotli  hill, 
Tlioir  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

Tho  hlossoms  in  tho  swoot  May  wind 
Woro  falling  liko  tho  snow. 

Tho  blossoms  drifted  at  our  foot, 
Tho  oivliani  binls  sang  oloar  ; 

Tho  swootost  and  tho  saddost  day 
It  soomod  of  all  tho  yoar. 

For,  moiv  to  mo  than  binls  or  llowors, 

My  iilaymato  loft  lior  homo. 
And  took  with  hor  llio  laughing  spriug, 

Tho  iiiiisio  and  tho  bloom. 

Sho  ki.ssod  tho  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

Slio  laid  hor  liiiud  in  miiio  ; 
What  nioiv  oould  ask  tho  Imshfnl  bov 

Who  tod  hor  fathor's  kino  t 

Sho  loft  ns  in  tho  bloom  of  Jlny ; 

Tho  oonstant  yoars  told  o'or 
Tlioir  soasons  with  as  swoot  May  morns, 

Hut  sho  oamo  hiok  no  inoiv. 

1  walk  with  iioisoloss  foot  tho  round 

Of  nnovontful  yoars ; 
Still  o'or  and  o'or  1  sow  tho  sluing. 

And  tvap  tho  autumn  oai-s. 

Slio  livos  whori>  all  tho  goldoii  yoar 

llor  summor  rosos  blow  : 
Tho  dusky  ohildivn  of  tlio  sun 

Hoforo  hor  oomo  and  go. 

Thoro  haply  with  hor  jowolod  hands 
Sho  smooths  hor  silkoii  gown,  — 

Ko  moiv  tho  hoiiiospnn  lap  whoix'iii 
1  shook  tho  walnuts  down. 

Tho  wild  grajH-s  wait  ns  by  tho  brook, 

Tho  bivwn  nnts  on  tho  hill, 
And  still  tho  May-day  llowors  mako  swoot 

Tho  woods  of  Folly  mill. 

Tlio  lilios  blo.s.som  in  tho  pond, 

Tho  biiil  builds  in  tho  tivo, 
Tho  dark  pinos  sing  on  liamoth  lull 

Tho  slow  song  of  tho  soa. 

I  wonder  if  .sho  thinks  of  tliom, 
And  how  tho  old  timo  sooms,  — 

If  o\Tr  tlio  pinos  of  Hainoth  wood 
Aiv  sounding  in  hor  divams. 

I  soo  hor  faoo,  1  hoar  hor  voice : 
Pot's  sho  ivmomWr  mino  > 


-S 


AliHENaii. 


"^l^ 


&.- 


And  wir.-it,  t(.  Ui-y  \h  now  \\w  lK)y 
Who  UA  her  fatlicr'ii  kin<:  ? 

What  car(;»  ohft  that  the  uniAi-M  1/iiil'l 

For  other  <:y<;H  than  oiini,  — 
That  other  hands  with  riiitfi  arc  filled, 

And  </th<;r  \;i\n  with  flow<;r>i ! 

O  playmat/;  in  the  j(i>\iU:u  time  ! 

Our  (noHHy  fieat  id  (freen, 
IlJ)  fringing  vuAnUt  iAmiujui  yet, 

The  old  treen  o'er  it  l«in. 

The  winds  wj  sweet  with  hireh  and  feni 

A  sweet<;r  memory  blow  ; 
And  therein  sfiring  the  veerics  sing 

The  S'jng  of  long  ago. 

And  -itill  the  jiinen  of  liamoth  wood 

An;  mi^aning  like  the  f«;a,  -^ 
The  nj'/aning  of  the  sea  of  ehange 

iJe-tween  inyself  and  thee  ! 

loMM  f>.  WKir-nep 


ON  A   KICroilK. 

Whbk  summer  o'er  her  native  hills 

A  veil  of  fx;anty  spretcl, 
She  sat  and  wat>;hwi  her  gentle  (locks 

And  twined  her  flaxen  threfwl. 

The  inonntain  daisies  kisswl  her  fi*t ; 

The  m'jss  sprung  greenest  there  ; 
The  >/r'»ith  of  summer  fiinn'yl  her  eheck 

And  to»!«:d  her  wavy  hair. 

TJie  heather  and  the  yellow  gorsc 

lilofjrnwl  over  hill  and  wold, 
And  elothwl  them  in  a  royal  rol* 

Of  purine  anrl  of  gold. 

ThCTC  T(iiv:  till:  skylark's  gushing  song, 
There  hiimmwl  the  latxvring  t/«e  ; 

And  merrily  the  mountain  •itr'sirn 
lian  singing  to  the  s<;a. 

But  while  she  mirnvA  from  thrrt*;  sweet  s'junds 

Tlie  voi(«  she  sighed  U)  hear, 
TJie  w»ng  of  f>ee  and  bird  and  stream 

"Was  disw>rd  t/j  her  isir, 

Kor  eonld  the  V/right  green  world  around 

A  joy  Ui  her  imfiart. 
For  still  she  miiwA  the  eyes  that  ma/le 

The  summer  of  her  heart. 


THBRE  '8  NAB  LUCK  ABOUT  THK  HOUHB. 

A  M<  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  tnie  ' 

And  are  ye  sure  he  'h  weel  '! 
I^  this  a  time  t/»  think  o'  wark  f 

Ve  j!i/|(a,  lay  f/y  your  wheel; 
Is  this  the  time  to  s(iin  a  threa/l, 

When  ','olin  's  at  the  dfK/r ; 
li<:a<;h  down  my  cl'jak,  1  'II  ^/i  the  'juay. 
And  we  him  cjniii;  ashore, 

Kor  the-re  's  nae  luek  alxiut  the  hoiw;, 

'/'here  's  n/i»;  luek  at  a'; 
There  's  nae  luek  alxirit  the  house 
When  our  gudeman  s  awa'. 

And  gie  t/i  me  rny  higonet, 

.\(y  hishop's-satin  gown  ; 
for  I  maun  t,ell  the  Uillie's  wife 

'I'liat  Colin  '»  in  the  t/iwrr. 
,\Iy  Turkey  slipjiers  rnaun  gae  on, 

.My  st/»ekins  [p«.-arly  blue  ; 
It 's  a'  t/»  plejtsiire  our  gudeman, 

For  he  's  With  leal  and  tnie. 

I:is<;,  l;i.i«(,  and  rnak  a  el'^in  fireside, 

I'ut  on  the  rnuekle  Ji'jt  ; 
f/ie  little  Kate  her  eott/jn  gown, 

And  .foek  his  .Sunday  ewit ; 
And  mak  their  sliwm  as  Ha/ik  as  sla«s. 

Their  h'lS*;  as  white  ta  snaw  ; 
It  'ft  a'  to  p|i*iw;  my  ain  gtidcman. 

For  he  's  Ix^jn  long  awa'. 

Tliere  's  twa  fat  liens  ujoi'  the  J>ank, 

'Riey  've  fed  this  month  and  mair  ; 
Alak  h.-iste  and  thraw  their  neeks  aV;ut, 

That  Colin  W(y:)  rnay  fare  ; 
And  MfiTKa/l  the  table  nefit  and  el'»in. 

Oar  ilka  thing  lo^jk  Vn-aw, 
For  wha  ean  t^rll  how  Colin  f:ired 

When  he  was  far  awa'  ! 

.%!/!  tnie  his  heart,  sa/;  smfXJtb  his  sjieerih, 

His  fir<*ith  like  ealler  air  ; 
His  very  fw/t  has  musie  in  't 

As  he  r/ntiifi  up  the  stair,  — 
And  will  I  w.':  Jits  fa/*  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  hirn  sjK^ak  ? 
I  'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I  'rn  like  i/i  siT>-jd  '. 

'nil;  ejinld  hlast^i  '>'  the  vrinU:T  wind, 

'Hiat  thirlwl  through  my  heart, 
TViey  're  a'  blown  by,  I  ha/:  him  riafe. 

Till  death  we'll  never  [;art ; 
JJut  what  puts  j^rting  in  my  hea/l  ? 

It  may  be  far  awa'  ; 
Tlie  present  moment  is  our  ain , 

TJie  neist  we  never  saw. 


-Oi 


'^    JUJ 


POEMS  OF  PAliTINO  AND  ABSENCE. 


-Ft- 


If  Colin  's  weol,  and  woel  ooiitout, 

1  hiiti  imo  umir  to  i-riivo  : 
Ami  j;iii  1  livii  to  koi'i)  him  siui 

I  'm  lilnst  atiooii  tho  liivi>  : 
Ami  will  1  st'o  his  (nee  agiiiu  ? 
Aiul  will  1  lieiir  him  spoiik  ? 
1  'mi  ilowiiiight  dizzy  wi'  tho  Uiought, 
In  tivlh  1  'm  like  to  giwt. 
For  tlioiv  "s  imo  hu'k  iibout  tho  housp, 

Tliei-o  's  niiu  liu-k  iit  a'  ; 
Theiv  's  little  pleasui*  in  the  houso 
When  ouv  g\uloman  's  awa". 

W'lLl.lAM  J.  MlCKLK. 


ABSENCE. 

When  1  think  on  the  hapjiy  days 

I  spoilt  wi'  you,  my  denrio  ; 
And  now  what  hmds  Ixitweoii  us  lie, 

How  can  1  Iw  but  eerie  ! 

How  slow  yo  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 

As  ye  woni  wae  and  weary  ! 
1 1  was  iia  sac  ye  glinted  by 

'When  I  was  \\i'  my  dearie. 

Anonymous. 


THK  TERRACE  AT  BERNE. 

Ten  years  !  —  and  to  my  waking  eye 
Ouee  mon'  the  ixxifs  of  Berne  appear ; 

The  iwky  Imnks,  tlie  terraee  high, 
The  stivam,  —  and  do  1  lingi-r  here  ? 

The  elouds  are  on  tJie  Oberland, 
The  .luiigfrau  snows  look  faint  and  far  ; 

l)«t  bright  are  tJioso  gi'eeii  fields  at  hand, 
And  through  those  fields  comes  down  tlio  Aar, 

.\nd  fixim  the  blue  twin  lakes  it  comes. 
Flows  by  the  town,  the  eluiirliyanl  lair, 

.\nd  'neatli  the  gnixlen-walk  it  hums. 
The  house,  —  and  is  my  Mai-guerite  there  ? 

All.  shall  1  see  thets  while  n  flush 
l">f  startled  pleasure  floods  thy  brow, 

l^uiek  tlirongli  the  oleanders  brush, 

.-Viid  clap  thy  hands,  and  cry,  '  T  is  thoii  ? 

Or  hast  thou  long  since  wandeiitKl  back. 
Daughter  of  France  !  to  Fiimce,  thy  home  ; 

And  rtitteil  down  the  flowery  track 

Where  feet  like  thine  too  lightly  come  ? 

Poth  riotons  laughter  now  r«>i>laco 
Thy  smile,  and  rouge,  with  stony  glare. 

Thy  cheek's  soft  hue,  and  fluttering  lace 
The  kerehief  that  euwound  thv  hair  » 


Or  is  it  over  /  —  art  thou  dead  ?  — 
Head  '  —  and  no  warning  shiver  ran 

Across  my  heart,  to  say  thy  thread 
Of  life  was  cut,  and  closeil  thy  si^m  ! 

Could  from  earth's  ways  that  figure  slight 
Be  lost,  and  1  not  fed  't  was' so  ? 

Of  that  iVesh  voice  flic  gay  delight 

Fail  from  earth's  ail,  and  1  not  know  ! 

Or  shall  1  find  tluc  still,  but  changed. 
But  not  the  Jlargiieritc  of  thy  prime  ? 

With  nil  thy  being  rearniugcd, 

I'assed  through  the  crucible  of  time  ; 

With  spirit  vanished,  beauty  wiined, 
And  hardly  yet  a  glance,  a  tone, 

A  gesture,  —  anything,  —  retained 
Of  all  that  was  my  Mai-gucrite's  own  ? 

I  will  n«>t  know  !  —  for  wherefori'  try. 
To  things  by  mortal  eoui-se  that  live, 

A  shadowy  durability 

For  which  they  were  not  meant,  to  give  ! 

Like  driftwood  spars  which  meet  and  pass 
Upon  the  boundless  ocean-plain. 

So  oil  the  sea  of  life,  alas  ! 

Man  Hears  man,  meets,  and  leaves  again. 

I  knew  it  when  my  life  was  young, 
1  feel  it  still,  now  youth  is  o'er  ! 

The  mists  aiv  on  the  mountain  hung. 
And  Marguerite  1  shall  see  no  more. 


©-- 


THE   BEAVTIFUT,  RIVER. 

Like  a  foundling  in  slumber,  the  summer-day 
lay 
On  the  crimsoning  tliresliold  of  even. 
And  1  thought  that  the  glow  through  the  azure- 
aivlied  way 
Was  a  glinnise  of  the  coming  of  Heaven. 
There  together  we  sat  by  the  beautiful  stream  ; 
We  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  love  and  to  dream. 

In  the  days  that  have  gvme  on  before. 
These  are  not  the  same  days,  though  they  War 
the  same  name. 
With  the  ones  1  shall  welcome  no  more. 

But  it  may  bo  that  angxds  are  calling  thom  o'er, 

For  a  Sablxith  and  summer  forever, 
When  the  veal's  shall  forgvt  the  Decembers  they 
I  wore. 

And  the  shroud  shall  Ih'  woven,  no  never  ! 
;  In  a  twilight  like  that,  Jennie  .Tune  for  a  bride. 


^ 


ABUKN'UE. 


203 


.ra 


O,  wliat  iiioie  of  the  world  couM  oin;  wish  lor 
Ijesiili-, 

As  we  gazeil  ou  tlio  river  unrolleil, 
Till  we  heard,  or  we  fancied,  its  musical  tide, 

When  it  Mowed  through  the  gateway  of  gold  ! 

"Jennie  June,"  then  I  said,    "let  us  linger  no 
more 
On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river  ; 
Let  the  boat  be  unmoored,  and   U:  niullled  the 
oar. 
And  we  '11  steal  into  heaven  togi;ther. 
If  the  angel  on  duty  our  coming  descries. 
You  have  nothing  to  do  but  throw  olf  the  dis- 
guise 
'Dial  you  wore  while  you  wandered  with  me. 
And  the  sentry  shall  say,  '  Welcome  ba<;k  to  the 
skies. 
We  long  have  been  waiting  for  th(;e.'  " 

Oil  !    how  sweetly  she  spoke,  er<:  she  uttered  a 
word, 

With  that  blush,  partly  hers,  partly  even's. 
And  a  tone,  like  the  dream  of  a  song  we  once 
heard. 

As  she  whispered,  "  77ms  way  is  not  lieaven's  : 
For  the  Uiverthat  iiins  by  the  realm  of  the  blest 
lias  no  song  on  its  lipjile,  no  star  on  its  breast ; 

Oh  !  thai  nver  is  nothing  like  this, 
Kor  it  gli<les  on  in  shadow  beyon<l  the  world's 

west, 

Till  it  breaks  into  beauty  and  Ijliss. " 

1  am  lingering  yet,  but  I  linger  alone, 
On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river  ; 
'T  is  the  twin  of  that  day,  but  the  wave  where  it 
shone 
Bears  the  willow-tree's  shadow  forever. 

rjHNjAMiN  I-.  Taylor. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  WISH. 

I  WISH  wo  were  bamc  to  our  ain  folk, 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  Iblk, 
Where  thesimple  arc  weal,  and  the  gentleare  leal. 
And  the  hames  arc  the  hamcs  o'  our  ain  folk. 
We've  been  wi'  the   gay,  and  the  gude  where 

we  've  come, 
We  're  courtly  wi'  many,  we  're  coulhy  wi'  some  ; 
Hut  something 's  still  wantin'  we  never  can  lind 
Sin'  the  day  that  we  left  our  auld  ueelwrs  behimi 

0,  1  wish  we  were  haine  to  our  ain  folk. 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk. 
Where  dalfin  and  glee  wi'  the  friendly  and  free 
Made  our  hearts  aye  sae  foinl  o'  our  ain  folk. 
Though  Syriwj  had  its  moils,  and  Hmnmcr  its 

toiU, 
And  AvXwmn  craved  jiith  i;re  we  gathered   its 

spoils, 
Yet  Winter  repaid  a'  the  toil  that  we  took, 
When  ilk  ane  crawed  crouse  by  his  ain  ingle  nook. 

O,  I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk, 
Our  kind  and  our  trac-hcartcd  ain  folk, 
Where  maidens  and  men  in  hall  and  in  glen 
Still  welcome  us  aye  as  their  ain  folk. 
They  told  us  in  gowjxjns  we  'd  gather  the  gear, 
Sae  sune  as  we  cam'  to  the  rich  .Mailins  here, 
IJut  what  are  the  Mailins,  or  what  arc  they  worth. 
If  they  be  not  enjoyed  in  the  land  o'  our  birth  ! 

Then  1  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk, 

Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk. 

Hut  deep  are  the  howes  and  high  are  the  knowes, 

That  keep  us  awa'  frac  our  ain  folk. 

The  seat  by  the  door  where  our  auld  faithers  sat. 

To  tell  a'  the  news,  their  views,  and  a'  that. 

While  down  by  the  kailyard  the  Imrnie  rowed 

clear, 
'T  was  mair  to  my  liking  than  aught  that  is  here. 


t 


FnoM  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  Ajiril,  dressed  in  all  his  trim. 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  Youth  in  everything, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  diderent  llowers  in  odor  and  in  hue. 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell. 
Or  fiom  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  wheie  they 

grew  : 
N'or  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white. 
Nor  piai.se  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose  ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

SHAKESPRABP. 


Then  I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk, 

Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk, 

Where  the  wild  thistles  wave  o'er  th'  alwde  o'  the 

brave. 
And  the  graves  are  the  graves  o'  our  ain  folk 
But  happy,  gey  lucky,  we  '11  trudge  on  our  way, 
Till  our  ann  waxes  weak  and  our  liaifets  grow 

gray  ; 
And,  tho'  in  this  world  our  ain  still  we  miss. 
We  '11  meet  them  at  last  in  a  world  o'  bliss. 

Anil  Ih^n  we  '11  I)e  liame  to  our  ain  folk, 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk. 
Where  far  'yont  the  moon  in  the  heavens  aboon 
The  hames  are  the  hames  o'  our  ain  f.Ik. 


-ff 


^' 


204 


FOJiMS  OF  rAKTINO  AXl)  ABSENCE. 


fb 


(.X>MK  TO  MK,  DKARKST. 

t'oMK  to  iiu>,  (Iwu-^vst,  1  "m  loiu-ly  witho\it  theo. 
l^nvtimo  imd  iiight-tinio,    I  in   tliinkiug  aKiiit 

tluv  ; 
Night-timo  and  di>ytin>t>,  in   ihwiins   1   1h>1>oU1 

thoo  ; 
rnwoloonu'  tlio  wsikins;  wliioli  otwses  to  fo\il  tlioo. 
Oo\no  to  ino,  ilailinj;.  n>y  sorixiws  to  ligliti-n, 
IVmo  ill  tJiy  Ivanty  to  hlivss  ami  to  hiigliton  ; 
I'oiiio  in  thy  womaiiluxnl,  nnvkly  niui  lowly, 
Conio  in  tliy  loviiigness,  ijuooiily  and  holy. 

S\v:d\o\vs  will  Ilit  ivimd  tlu>  dosoliito  niiu, 
Ti'lUiii;  of  spviuj;  and  its  joyous  iviunviiig  ; 
.Viulthoiijthtsollhylovo.anditsinanifoldtitMismts 
Ai\<  oiivlinj;  my  lu\>vt  with  a  juvniiso  of  j>K\isuro. 
O  S)>ring  of  my  sjYiiit,  0  May  of  my  Kisimh, 
81iiiuH>ntonmysonl,  till  itKnii^^^nand  blossom; 
Tho  wasto  of  my  lifo  has  a  iwso-iwt  witliin  it. 
And  thy  fondness  alono  to  tho  snnsliiiio  oan  win  it, 

Kis;mv  that  movos  liki<  a  song  through  tho  ovon  ; 
Fwitiii\>s  lit  up  by  a  ivllox  of  hoavoii  ; 
Eyi's  lik(>  tho  skios  of  jhwv  Eiin,  our  mothor, 
Whoiv  shadow  iuid  sun&hiiio  an>  chasing  eadi 
other ; 


Smilos  coming  seldom,  but  childlike  and  single, 
Planting  in  each  i\wy  cheek  a  sweet  dimple  ;  — 
i.\  thiuiks  to  the  Saviour,  that  even  thy  .seeming 
Is  left  to  the  e.xile  to  brighten  his  divaming. 

You  have  Khhi  glad  when  yon  knew  1  was  glad- 

deiitnl  : 
0«ir,  au<  you  sad  now  to  hear  1  am  .saddened  ! 
Onr  lusirts  over  luiswer  in  tune  and  in  time,  love. 
As  octave  tooctjive,  and  rhyme  unto  rhyme,  love  : 
1  cannot  weep  but  your  teai-s  will  be  llowing. 
You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheek  will  be  glowing  ; 
1  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side,  love. 
You  will  not  liiigi<r  when  1  sliall  have  diisl,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  eiv  1  die  of  my  sorivw, 
Kise  on  my  ghHun  like  the  sun  of  to-morivw  ; 
StTOUg,  swift,  and  fond  as  the  wonls  which    1 

.<lHvi}v,  love, 
AVith  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on  your 

cheek,  love. 
Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  al>senco  is  weary,  — 
Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sickcnwl  and  dix'ary,  — 
Come  to  the  arms  which  alone  should  caivss  tluv. 
Come  to  the  lieai't  that  is  thivbbing  to  pix'ss  thee  ! 
Jostiru  Bkennan. 


u 


-^ 


e-- 


■a 


^ 


m^ 


'^^^^5^ 


POI-.MS    OF    SORROW   A\D   ADVHRSITY 


f^.  <3eL 


& 


e-- 


-i^ 


€ 

\ 


^- 


-4? 


r 


■-n 


POEMS   OF   DISAPPOINTMENT   AND 
ESTRANGEMENT. 


[&- 


THE  BANKS  O'  DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  Ixjmiie  Dooii, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresli  ami  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  Ijirds, 

And  I  sae  weaiy,  fu'  o'  care  ? 
Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  through  the  flowering  thorn  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 

Departed  —  never  to  return. 

Ah  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine  ; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And,  fondly,  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  ti'ee  ; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

koLERT   BL'RNS. 


AITLD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

Whe.n  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  's 

come  hame. 
And  a'  the  wear}'  warld  to  rest  are  gane  ; 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ce, 
Unkeut  by  my  gudeman  wha  sleefw  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  socht  me  for  hLs 
bride ; 

But,  saving  a  crown  piece,  he  had  naething  be- 
side. 

To  make  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gaed  to 
sea  ; 

And  the  crown  and  the  pound  they  were  Vjaith 
for  me  ! 

He  hadna  been  gane  awa  a  twelvemouth  and  a 

day, 
\Vhen  my  father  brake  his  arm,  and  the  cow  was 

stown  awa  ; 


My  mither  she  fell  sick,  my  young  Jamie  was  at 

sea,  — 
And  auld  Kobin  Gray  cam'  a  courting  me. 

My  father  cou'dna  wark,  —  my  mither  cou'dna 

spin,  — 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  cou'dna 

win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi'  t«ars 

in  his  ee, 
Said,  "Jenny,   0,   for  their  sakes,   will  ye   no 

marry  me  !" 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  looked  for  Jamie  back ; 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a 

wTack  ; 
His  ship  was  a  wrack  !     Why  didna  Jamie  die  ? 
Or  why  am  I  spared  to  cry,  Wae  's  me  ? 

My  father  urged  me  sair,  —  my  mither  didna 

speak, 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like 

to  break  ; 
They  gied  him  my  hand,  my  heart  was  in  the 

sea  ; 
And  so  Kobin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife,  a  week  but  only  four. 
When,  mounifuUy  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my 

door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist,  for  I  cou'dna  think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,   "  I  'm  come  hame,  love,  to  marry 

thee  ! " 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a', 

1  gied  him  ae  kiss,  and  bade  him  gang  awa', 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I  'm  na  like  to  die  ; 
For  though  my  heart  is  broken,  I  'm  but  young, 

wae  's  me  ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin  ; 
I  darena  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ; 
But  1  '11  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be. 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 


^^ 


[^ 


206 


POEMS  OF  DISAPPOINTMENT 


-a 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE. 


NIGHT'S  ORE 


For  aught  that  ever  1  couki  reiui, 

L'oukl  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history. 

The  coui-se  of  true  love  never  diil  run  smooth  : 

liut,  either  it  was  dillereiit  in  blood, 

Or  else  misgratl'ed  in  respect  of  yoai-s ; 

t>r  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends  ; 

Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 

War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it, 

Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound, 

Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream  ; 

Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  eoUied  night. 

That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth. 

And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  siiy,  —  Behold  1 

The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 

So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 


IIAKBSPEARE 


«-- 


BYRON'S  LATEST  VERSES. 


'T  IS  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved. 
Since  others  it  has  ceased  to  move  ; 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved. 
Still  let  me  love. 

My  days  ai-o  in  the  yellow  leaf. 
The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone. 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone. 

The  fire  that  in  my  bosom  preys 
Is  like  to  some  volcanic  isle. 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze, 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care. 
The  exalted  portion  of  the  jmin 
And  power  of  love,  1  cannot  share, 
r>ut  wear  the  chain. 

But  't  is  not  here,  —  it  is  not  here, 
Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  seals  the  hero's  bier. 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
lilory  and  Greece  about  us  see  ; 
The  Spartan  l)orne  upon  his  shield 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  !  not  Greece,  —  she  is  awake  ! 
Aw:ike,  my  spirit  !  think  through  whom 
My  life-blood  tastes  its  paient  lake. 
And  then  strike  home  ! 


Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood  !  unto  thee, 
Indillerent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  tliy  youth,  —  why  live? 
The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here,  —  up  to  the  field,  and  give 
.'\way  thy  brcutli  I 

Seek  out  —  less  often  sought  than  found  — 
.\  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best  ; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground. 
And  take  thy  rest  ! 

LuKU  Byron. 


CLAUDE    MELNOTTE'S     APOLOGY    AND    DE- 
FENSE. 

rAVUSE,  by  pride 
.-Vngels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time  ;  by  pride,  — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mold,  — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love 
And  a  ifveugeful  heart  had  power  upon  thee. 
Krom  my  first  years  my  soul  was  tilled  with  thee  ; 
1  saw  thee  midst  the  tlowers  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmarked  by  thee,  —  a  spirit  of  bloom. 
And  joy  and  freshness,  as  spring  itself 
Were  nnide  a  living  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape ! 
1  Siiw  thee,  and  the  pa.ssionate  heart  of  man 
Entered  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy ; 
.\nd  from  that  hour  1  grew  —  what  to  tlui  la.st 
1  shall  be  —  thine  adorer  !     Well,  this  love. 
Vain,  frantic,  —  guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  Iwcame 
A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope  ; 
1  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 
Old  gossips  tell,  —  how  maidens  sprung  from 

kings 
Have  stooped  from  their  high  sphere ;  how  Love, 

like  Death, 
Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 
Beside  the  scepter.     Thus  I  nnide  my  home 
In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  Future  ! 
My  father  died  ;  and  I,  the  ]ieasant-l)orn, 
Was  nry  own  lord.     Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 
Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate  : 
And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 
Brings  from  the  caves  of   Knowledge,   buy  my 

ransom 
From  those  twin  jailers  of  the  daong  heart. 
Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.     Thy  bright  inntge. 
Glassed  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory. 
And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 
By  which  man  nuisters  men  !     For  thee,  1  grew 
A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages  ! 
For  thee,  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  Grace 
And  every  Muse  such  attributes  as  lend 
Ideal  charms  to  Love.     1  thought  of  thee, 


^ 


AXD  ESTRANGEMENT. 


207 


n 


B-«- 


And  passion  tauglit  nie  j(oesy,  —  of  tlu;<;, 

And  on  llic  |)aintei's  canvas  grew  the  life 

ijf  beauty !  —  Art  tecame  the  slia»low 

Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  liaunting  eyes  ! 

Men  called  ine  vain,  —  some,  mad,  —  I  heeded 

not ; 
But  still  toiled  on,  hoped  on,  —  for  it  was  sweet, 
If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy,  thee  I 

At  laiit,  in  one  mad  hour,  1  dared  U>  pour 
The  thoughts  that  buret  their  channels  into  song. 
And  scut  them  to  thee,  — such  a  tribute,  lady. 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name  —  apjwnded  by  the  burning  heart 
That  longed  to  show  its  idol  wluit  bright  things 
It  ha<l  created  —  yea,  the  enthusiast's  name. 
That  should  have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy 

scom  ! 
That  very  hour  —  when  passion,  turned  t»  wrath. 
Resembled  hatred  most ;  when  thy  diwiain 
ilade  my  wliole  soul  a  chaos  —  in  that  hour 
The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  U>o\ 
For  their  revenge  !   Thou  hadst  trampled  on  the 

wonn,  — 
It  turned,  and  stung  thee  ! 

EDV-'AkD  BULWER  (1-OKD  LYTTON). 


LEFT  BEHIND. 

It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year  ; 
The  strawberry,  leaves  were  re<l  and  sear  ; 
October's  airs  were  fresh  and  chill. 
When,  j>auslng  on  the  windy  hill. 
The  hill  that  overlooks  the  sea, 
"you  talkol  confidingly  to  me,  — 
Me  whom  your  keen,  artistic  sight 
Has  not  yet  learned  to  read  aright, 
Since  I  have  veiled  my  heart  from  you. 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  told  me  of  your  toilsome  past ; 
The  tardy  honors  won  at  last, 
The  trials  borne,  the  conquests  gaine<l. 
The  longed-for  boon  of  Fame  attained  ; 
I  knew  that  every  Wctory 
But  lifted  you  away  from  me, 
That  every  step  of  high  emprise 
But  left  me  lowlier  in  your  eyes  ; 
1  watched  the  distance  as  it  grew, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  did  not  see  the  bitter  trace 
Of  anguish  sweep  across  my  face  ; 
You  did  not  hear  my  proud  heart  beat, 
Heav)"  and  slow,  beneath  your  feet ; 
You  thought  of  triumph  still  unwon. 
Of  glorious  deeds  as  yet  undone  ; 


And  1,  the  while  you  talkwl  to  me, 
1  watched  the  gulLs  Hoat  lonesomely, 
Till  lost  amid  the  hungry  blue, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  walk  the  sunny  side  of  fate  ; 
The  wise  world  smiles,  and  calls  you  great  ; 
The  golden  fruitage  of  success 
Drops  at  your  feet  in  plcnteousness  ; 
And  you  have  blessings  manifold  ; 
Kenown  and  jwwer  and  friends  and  gold, 
They  build  a  wall  l)ctween  us  twain, 
Which  may  not  \x:  thrown  down  again, 
Alas  !  for  I,  the  long  years  through, 
Have  loved  you  l;etter  than  you  knew. 

Your  life's  proud  aim,  your  art's  Iiigh  truth. 
Have  kept  the  promise  of  your  youth  ; 
And  while  you  won  the  crown,  which  now 
Breaks  into  bloom  u|K)n  your  brow, 
ily  soul  cried  strongly  out  to  you 
Across  the  ocean's  yearning  blue, 
While,  unrememlwred  and  afar, 
1  watched  you,  as  1  wat<;h  a  star 
Through  darkness  struggling  into  view, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

I  used  to  dream  in  all  these  years 

Of  [Kitient  faith  and  silent  tears, 

That  iMve's  strong  hand  would  put  aside 

The  barriers  of  place  and  pride, 

Would  reach  the  pathless  darkness  through. 

And  draw  me  softly  up  to  you  ; 

But  that  is  past.     If  you  should  stray 

Beside  my  grave,  some  future  day, 

Percliance  the  violets  o'er  my  dust 

Will  half  l>etray  their  buried  trust, 

And  say,  their  blue  eyes  full  of  dew, 

"She  loved  you  letter  tlian  you  knew." 

Elizabeth  akers  Allen  (Florence  Percy). 


LINDA  TO  HAFED. 

FROM  "THE  FIRE-WORSHIPERS." 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 
Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid. 
So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood, 
Ixioking  ujKin  that  moonlight  flood,  — 
"  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 
To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle  ! 
Oft  in  my  fancy's  wanderings, 
I  've  wished  that  little  isle  had  wings, 
And  we,  within  its  fairy  >x)wers, 

Were  wafte<l  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  pulse  should  beat  but  ours, 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone  ! 


■^ 


a-^. 


208 


POKMS  OF  DISAPPOlNTAtS:iT 


n 


©- 


WluMV  tl>o  Wijjitt  i>v«>s  of  uuftvls  only 
Sl\>>\iKI  lOiuo  aiw\n>l  lis,  to  Ix-lioUl 

A  ivkraiUsw  so  piuv  «iul  \oiiol_v  ' 
WouKl  t)>is  I*  woiUl  I'lion^nh  lor  thw  ! "  — 
riii_Yl\il  she  tuvuwl,  that  ho  lui^ht  s»>e 

Tho  (wssiii^s;  s\»Uo  hoi-  ohook  l>vit  im  ; 
l$Ht  whoii  sho  lUiuktHl  hv>\v  i>i>>urul'ull,Y 

His  oy«w  un't  hoi~s,  that  smilo  was  j^vwo  ; 
,\\nl,  btu'stivj;  into  h<'aitl'olt  tears, 
"  Yiv-i,  yos,"  sho  ovuhI,  ■•my  hourly  fesu's, 
My  (li-v^tuus,  have  Knlisl  all  to<>  rij;lit,  — 
Wo  jwrt  —  foivvor  \>«rt  —  tv>-nij;ht ! 
I  know,  1  know  it  i\'m/i<  not  last,  — 
"r  was  hiij;l»t,  't  was  Uivavouly,  Imt  't  is  |>«st ! 
(.\  over  thus,  fivm  ihiKlhiWs  ho\»v, 

I  "vo  s«m«  my  I'oiulost  hojHvs  dw-ay  ; 
1  itoYor  lovwl  a  t«H>  or  tlowor 

U«t  't  was  Uie  first  to  faUe  away. 
I  uovor  intrsed  a  »l<vu'  gaioUo. 

To  jjlail  me  with  its  soft  Waok  ey«s 
l>ut  whou  it  oame  to  know  me  well, 

.\i>vl  love  tue,  it  was  s»\iv  to  die  ! 
Now,  tvHv,  the  joy  tmxst  like  vliviue 

V^tall  1  ever  ili\«mt  or  knew. 
To  s<v  th«\  hear  thiv,  oall  thw  mine,  — 

0  Hvisevy  !  must  I  K»se  tAat  t>H>  ? 

ri40M.XS  M0<.>Ktl 


RKKTHA    IN   THK    UANK. 

Pf  r  the  ^^^>^v^el'y-t^•ame  away, 
Kor  my  sewing  is  all  iloiie  ! 

The  last  thiwul  is  usevl  to-vlay. 
Ami  I  iietnl  not  join  it  on, 
Thotigh  the  ohvk  stsuuls  at  the  uooM, 
1  am  weary  !    1  have  s<>wh, 
Sweet,  I'w  thee,  a  w  wUUng-gvwu. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  K^l, 

And  stanvl  neai-  me,  di^aivst -sweet  ! 
VV  not  shrink  nor  he  afftud, 

lUusliinjj  with  a  smUlen  heat  ! 

No  luie  standeth  in  the  street  I  — 

By  Owl's  love  1  g\^  to  nnvt. 

Love  1  thee  with  h>ve  evm\\Jete. 

Lean  thy  faee  down  '.  divj>  it  in 
These  two  httnds,  that  I  may  hold 

Twixt  their  jvdms  thy  cheek  and  ehiu, 
Sttwkiug  haok  the  exnls  of  j^ild, 
"T  is  a  fair,  fair  I'aiv,  in  s^x»th,  — 
l^arjp^r  eyes  and  reildev  month 
Th;u»  mine  werv  in  my  first  youth  ! 

Thou  art  younger  by  seven  years  — 
Ah  !  so  hasht\tl  at  my  guze 


That  the  laslies,  hung  with  twirs, 
l)row  too  heavy  to  ujuiiise  ; 
1  wviuld  wound  th<H>  by  no  tonoh 
Wliieh  thy  shyness  feels  as  s\U'h,  — 
Oosi  thou  luiiul  me,  dwir,  so  mueh  t 

Have  I  not  lieen  nigh  a  tnother 

To  thy  sweetnivss,  —  tell  m<\  dear  ! 

Have  we  i>ot  lovtxl  oue  another 
Tenderly,  fwm  year  to  ytvar, 
Sinee  onr  dying  mother  mild 
Said,  with  aeeeuts  nndeliliHl, 
"  I'hild,  K'  itiother  to  this  ehild  !  " 

Mother,  mother,  vip  in  h«»ven. 
Stand  ui>  on  the  jasjH'r  stvi, 

A>\d  Ih>  witness  I  have  given 
All  the  gifts  iv>iv>i»V\l  of  nu-  ;  — 
Uo|Hi  that  W<>ss<hI  me,  hliss  that  eivwuinl. 
Love  tliat  left  me  with  n  wound, 
Ijfe  itself,  that  turueth  ivund  ! 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind. 

Thou  art  standing  in  the  twnr. 
In  a  molten  glory  shriued. 

That  rays  oil"  into  the  gloom  ! 

Hut  thy  smile  is  Ixright  and  Weak, 

lake  eold  wav<>s,  —  1  eannot  sii<\>k  ; 

1  sob  in  it,  and  gi\>w  weak. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 

One  hour  lo\ig»'r  fivm  n\y  sv>ul, 
Kor  I  still  am  thinking  of 

Karth's  w!U'm-lH\»ting  joy  and  dole  ! 

0\i  my  linger  is  a  ring 

Whieh  1  still  se«  glittering. 

When  the  night  hides  everything. 

little  sister,  thou  art  jwle  ! 

Ah,  1  have  a  wandering  laniu  ; 
But  I  lose  that  fever-Kile, 

A\>d  my  thoughts  g>vw  ealm  Kgaiu. 

Lean  down  closer,  closer  still ! 

1  have  woi\ls  thine  ear  to  fill. 

And  would  kiss  thet>  at  my  will. 

l">eai\  1  heiH\l  thee  in  the  spring, 
The<>  and  Kv^Wrt,  thivngh  the  trees, 

AVheu  we  all  went  gathering 

Boughs  of  May-WvHm\  for  the  bees. 
1\>  not  start  so  !  tlrink  instead 
lU«v  the  snnslune  overhead 
Se<'med  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 

What  a  day  it  was,  that  day  ! 

Hills  and  vales  did  oiH'nly 
Seem  to  ht\«ve  and  thivb  away. 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky  ; 


-^ 


[& 


AND  mriiANOEMKST. 


-^-f^ 

200  r 


An/I  th«  Marvj;,  a*  it  i!Vx>] 
Aw\My  dill,  l/u/l,  —  mul  iiiul '. 

Thr'^ugh  thft  winding  fuvlge-rows  i^-mu, 
How  v/i;  vfun/Utrf/i,  I  ami  yon,  — 

With  tin;  (y/wery  t/>j»»  (shut  in, 
An'l  th/;  gat*Ji  tliat  nhowfA  ttw;  vi<;w  ; 
H'yw  w<;  Uith-A  tiitm  !  thninltm  y/i'.\ 
Bang  <jur  imiiw*  out,  or  oft 
filiiatings  t/>'<k  Ui«rn  fro/n  th/;  «r'/('.. 

Till  the  plea«rir*,  gtowit  too  istrong, 

I>!ft  Hi*  mullet  i^vuniifif:  ; 
An/1,  tjw;  win'iing  f/a/l  U;i/jg  h/r<g, 

I  viiiWuA  out  of  tight,  i/zifori; ; 

An/1  BO,  wraj/t  in  mii>;ings  fon'i, 

lnHUfA  (irmt  t)</;  v/aysi/i*  (<'//i<l; 

On  tlift  m«a/l//w-lan'l*  t/eyon/l. 

I  gat  d//wn  V»en/:ath  the  hee/jh 
W'hi/;h  l/:an«  ov';r  to  tlw;  Ian';, 

An/1  tii/;  fiir  soun/1  of  your  isj'>ee/;h 
Di/1  riT/t  firoiiiim  any  \mii  ; 
An/1  I  hl/assfl  you,  full  an/l  fr/;/;, 
With  a  Kmil/;  nUj'/ii^i  t«n<l/;rly 
O'er  tlifc  May-flz/weru  on  my  kn*<;. 

But  tlj*  (iz/un/l  gr'rtv  iaUi  word 
A«  tl//;  isj/zrakers  <irew  «i//r<;  n*ar  — 

Bweet,  forgive  nj*  titat  I  h<;ar'l 
\S^lat  you  vf'us\ifA  rn*  not  to  hear. 
Do  rj//t  weep  <•/>,  dr/  n/>t  (shak/;  — 
0,  1  hear/1  tl/ee,  Bertlia,  make 
Ooo'l  true  an»wer«  f//r  rny  hake, 

Ve«,  an/1  lie  t/f, '.  let  hir/i  etand 

In  thy  tfi//ugl<t«,  aiiUjwAifA  by  Warne. 

CouI/1  he  help  it,  if  n<y  lian'l 

He  ha4  elainie/l  with  liasty  '.laim  ' 
TiiHt  wa»  wr//ng  f/erliapii,  1/ut  th/;n 
8ii/;h  thir/gji  1/;  —  an/i  will,  again  I 
W//men  cann/>t  jadge  for  rnen, 

Ha/1  lift  seam  thee,  when  he  (swore 
He  wouU  love  but  rrie  al//ne  ? 

Th/ju  wert  absent,  —  isent  Mon 
To  'KIT  kin  in  Kidnrwuth  town. 
Wlien  he  saw  th/;/;,  who  art  h*st 
Pa*t  /sornpare,  and  loveli/:«t. 
He  but  ju4ge<l  thee  a*  the  re*t, 

CV/tjH  we  blame  him  with  grave  woidit, 
Thou  and  I,  dear,  if  we  miglit  ? 

Thy  br//WB  eye»  have  l'<ok»  like  bird* 
Klying  straightway  to  the  light : 
Mine  are  oWer,  —  Hu«h  ;  —  look  <rat  — 
Cp  tl<e  istreet !     f*  n'/ne  withf/ot  ? 
How  the  popUr  Kwing*  aJ/oat ; 


Aii/1  that  hwir  —  Sihin^uMi  u  ••  ■/•;)/  ii 

Wl(«n  I  VuiUiiifl  ill  a  drean;, 
An/1  lie  ual/l,  in  hix  'le^rp  tjx->:' h, 

'I  i,a'.  IjI;  OW'/J  ;/,.:  ail  ««te«w<  — 

1-j!/ ;,  w'/c'  >.■/..!//,  i.'j  '//I  my  brain 

Vi'it.J,  a  'iu/i,  'Uimiir/_  j/ain, 

Till  it  t/iinit  with  that  la«t  istraln- 

(  (ell  Il/y/.le.l  with  a  .lark, 
I  n  the  mhii/n:  </f  a  tw/x/n  ; 

■'■  herj  f  fo^-e.  fr^Tf,'!.  '-o!'!  ;?:;'}  ^"•^.v-V, 


.>>eii»e/i  t//  ViOit*k*ii  w/jal  J  rt;sw:, 

An/1  1  walked  a*  if  a|/art 

Fr'/m  wymlf  when  I  'y/uld  stand. 
And  I  ;;;';e<!  :r;v  owr:  heart, 

.- i,an/l 

'.  a  i»en»; 

Ai^i  a  "  !'<>//  li.,/,(j  "  negligence, 

Arj/1  1  answered  'y/l/lly  t/y/, 

When  voij  rind  me  at  tf/e  door  ; 


A(»  ujy  tiie. 

iiKifxlunii,  lor  mi:. 

1)0  not  V 

\imt%-iiAnii 

It  v/a. 

If    I       .:  ,      . 

iiunjs  VI  laint  in  wonti.'. 


i;*  -',-,;  iiu>^,   ■ 
I  Wl  died,  ')■ 

IJfe'i!  h/ng,  jo.  . .        -   y  ,;ime 

Is  t/A  lotid  for  mv  n/eek  6lia,'(ie, 


Thou  art  row  //W, 

And  r/jeant,  vi;. .. .,    

Life'ii  pure  pUa«iire«  manifold. 

I  am  pale  ass  'ct'/c^v.  '^if'ivi 
(Vli/tf:  \iisguiii  a  roee-tree'i  root  f 


/  •(  >  k.\/kS  of  D2iHi*iH)L\r.\t  ^  .V  /• 


^ 


Twvxls  t.lu>  OIVOUS  HIldlT  IvWt  i 

1,  likp  M!>y-1\Uh>ih  >>u  lluMivlivo, 
Tliou,  liko  moiTV  sv<muu'i-ln><>,' 
Kil  t\\M  1  l><>  uliiok.sl  r»i  lluH', 

Yot  \\1\>>  i>l>i>'ks  n\o  '      uvi  >\in>  m>>i\i'iis  ; 
1  l\avo  livrtl  ii>_\  s<vt>s>>i>  out, 

Auvl  now  \lio  v>f  ii\,v  own  thoins, 
Whioh  1  >-ouM  not  Uv*  wiUionl. 
Sw.vl,  tv  mony  !     Mow  tho  li^lK 
i\>u\(vs  anil  s^Hv»  I     ir  it  Iv  nvjjlit, 
Kivi>  tlio  »>i»t»ll<>s  in  m^v'  si^^shl-, 

Aiv  t.l\piv  (\H>tst<<i^  at  tln>  >UH>r  ■ 
l,>»ok  out  ii«\ok\v,     Yim,  oi'  u*,v  f 

SoH\<>  ono  tni^itUt  Ih>  waitin^j;  for 
Svnno  last  woi\i  that  I  n\ij;l>t  s;>_v. 
Nay  '    So  lx>st  I       So  anjjx'ls  woulvi 
Stand  olV  oU>iU'  IVni  >i««t.lil,v  i\w4 
Not  to  oi\«s  t.lu>  sijjht  of  lirxl. 

l\\l.t<'i-  j!r\>\v  tivj-  luu\ils  ai\vi  f«H<t,  — 
WUon  I  w<>ar  tlio  sliivmd  I  luatK 

l«M  tlio  folds  U<>  stj-ai^isht  and  Hoat, 
A\ul  t.ht<  wvirtuavv  Ih>  s|m<ad, 
TUat  if  ai\v  tVi<M»l  shoviUl  tvn>tv, 
(.To  s»H>  t^,  sw«H>t  !>  all  tho  >\Hm» 
May  Iv  lil'linl  out  of  jtUnxin, 

Ah>1,  vl«>r  Uortlia,  li>t  ino  ktvp 
^^u  luy  hanvl  this  littlo  liiij;, 

Whiv-h  at  nijjhts,  wlu'n  othocs  sUh'JS 
I  oat»  still  stv  glittoiiu^i;, 
l^t  nu>  wMr  it  out  of  sijjht, 
lu  th<>  gravis  —  whiuv  it  will  li^ht 
All  th*  vlsu'k  »iis  >Uv  ajul  uijjht, 

Oi\  that  j;>t»vv>  >h\>j>  not  a  t«M- ! 

Klso,  tUoujth  fathon>-il<v|i  tho  )xlai"\\ 

Thivuj;h  tho  w\wlo»\  shivuvi  I  wxvu- 
I  shall  IWI  it  o\>  my  faiv, 
Rathor  smilo  thov\\  WinssihI  v»n<>, 
'riiinkiu^i;  of  luo  iu  tho  suii,  — 
Or  fo\>!:»'t  m<s  siuilinjt  v>n  ! 

Art  thou  n<\tr  n\o  ■  (uwvr  '  sv> ! 
Kiss  mo  oUv!^<  uiv>»  tho  oyos. 

That  tho  iv^rthly  li^jht  may  J^> 
Swwtlv  as  it  \>s«\i  to  ris»\ 
Whou  I  w;>toh<\l  tho  <m\nunjv  jji'sy 
Strike  K'twixt  tho  hills,  tho  way 
Uo  was  sur<>  tv>  ivuw  that  day. 

S\<  —  uo  mow  vain  wotxls  ho  said  ! 

Tho  hivsauuas  uoaivr  roll 
Mothor.  sniilo  now  ou  thy  dtN^d,  — 

1  am  d<>»th-«H\xuj;  in  i\>y  s<»«l  ' 


Mystio  Dovo  alit  on  owws, 
Ouido  tho  jKHir  l\i(\l  of  tho  tnowst 
'n»vnsl>  tho  anow-wind  «K>vo  lius  I 

.losns,  viotiui,  ooiujux'hondinj; 

l.ovo's  divino  solt'-<»hni>){alion, 
Olwrnso  uiy  lovo  iu  its  solf-snoudiug, 

And  aKsorb  tho  i>oor  liK'ition  ! 

\Viu>l  u\y  thiwid  of  lifo  u\\  hi^hor, 

l'j>  thiMU^h  auj»»>ls"  hands  of  liiv  !  ■ 

1  aspiiv  wliilo  1  oxjuiv  !  •  - 

tUljAUlun  lUKKI'ir  llKOWMNv;, 


UNRK^lHTKn  LOVK 


fROM  "  nviii.i'rH  Niv-.itv ' 


Vioi_\.    Ay,  l>«t  I  know  - 

UvKK.    Wltat  d<vit  thou  know  f 

Yloi.,v.    TiH>  woU  what  lovo  womon  to  m«ii 
tnay  owo  ; 
In  faith,  thoy  aiv  as  trno  of  lnvirt  as  w*. 
My  fathov  had  a  daujslilor  lov«d  a  iua«. 
As  it  mi^itht  Iv.  jH-rhaivs.  wow  I  a  wvMutui, 
\  should  Yoiu'  lowlship- 

Ot'KK,    Auvl  what  's  hor  history  > 

Yiv>i.,\,    .\  Wank,  nty  Uml.     Sho  tiovw  told 
hor  lov»\ 
l^ut  lot  >vuiH\>l\uont,  liko  a  worm  i"  tho  bud. 
Fo«kI  v>n  hor  dau\ask  oluvk  ;  sho  piuivl  in  thoti^ht ; 
.\«d.  with  a  j!ixv\>  an>i  voUow  luolanolioly, 
Sho  Silt  liko  l^^tionoo  ou  a  \uouu\uont, 
SiuiUn)»  at  ,»;riot'.     Was  not  this  lovo,  indtVHl  > 
Wo  u>on  \u;»y  sj>y  moiv.  sw<>ar  n>oix>  ;  hut,  indotnl, 
t^ur  shows  aw  mo>x<  than  will ;  fvw  still  wo  \>imt» 
Much  iu  our  vows,  hut  littlo  iu  our  lovo. 

SHAKKSrKARK. 


nOROTHY  IN  THK  0.\KRKT, 

In  tho  low-ml^oixxl  j!?irix>t,  stwinng 

Cajvfully  ovor  tho  onwkiiij;  K>a»\ls, 
Old  Maid  IXuvthy  J^HVi  a-};>x»l>iu.it 

.Vmonjt  its  dusty  and  wlvwvhly>d  hosuxls  ; 
SiHvkiuj;  somo  hnuvUo  of  n*toh»\<.  hid 

Far  uudor  tho  <>av<>s.  or  Imuoh  of  s;vjn\ 
Or  s;>tohol  huivjt  ou  its  nail,  amid 

Tho  hoirhnuns  of  a  hygvMio  .'«)^\ 

Thow  is  tho  aj\oiout  family  v-host. 

Tl\or<>  tho  auiH>st«il  oarvls  .■u\d  hatohd  ; 
lX>rv<thy,  si^hi\\sj.  siuks  down  tx>  r<xst. 

For)^'tl\>l  of  jvatv-hos.  s.'^-.  and  satohol. 
Ohosts  of  fa>\>s  jwr  IVmu  tho  );h>»>u» 

Of  tho  ohimuoy.  who>x\  with  swills  imd reel. 
Aud  tho  lou^^^disusovl.  dismantl^l  Uhmu. 

Stsuids  tho  old-fashiomsl  spinuiuji-wlxisl. 


4> 


■e 


G- 


AND  JCHTRANGEMEST. 


211 


^ 


m 


She  sewi  it  t«i/;k  in  tlje  cUan-»wept  kiU-liKU, 

A  i<art  <jf  iter  girll»'>o'l'i>  little  worW  ; 
Her  mutimr  i*  tlierc  by  tiic  «fi«ilow,  stil<;liiijg  ; 

Sj(in<lie  buzzeti,  awl  reel  ix  wiiirl":-! 
With  iiiany  a  i;li';k  ;  on  her  litth;  jsUxjI 

She  »sit«,  a  ehiW,  l/y  tli*  ojjen  <hx)r, 
Wal/jliing,  and  <laljUing  her  feet  in  the  i>o<jl 

Of  sunshine  Hpilled  on  the  gihled  fto</r. 

Her  8ist<:r»  are  spinning  all  'lay  long  ; 

To  l»";r  wakening  seiuse  the  fiiist  swe«t  warning 
Of  daylight  com*  is  the  <:Uv:tiiil  wng 

To  tlie  hurn  of  the  wheel  in  the  early  murning. 
Benjie,  the  gentle,  fA-cliKtikiA  iioy. 

On  his  way  to  school,  i*(;i«  in  at  tlie  gate  ; 
In  n<ait  white  pinafore,  plea«*l  and  <x<y, 

Sli*  r<;a/;hjes  a  band  to  her  l^ashful  njaV: ; 

And  un'ler  the  elms,  a  prattling  i«ir, 

Togeth/;r     they    go,    through    glinu/ier    and 
gloom :  — 
It  all  comes  W;k  to  lier,  dr'aming  tl/ere 

In  the  low-raftere'l  garret- r'xwn  ; 
The  hum  of  tli«  wh/*l,  an*!  the  summer  w'aither, 

The  luart'*  first  trouble,  an/1  love's  Ijeginning, 
Are  all  in  her  mem/yry  link'^l  Vignher  ; 

And  n'/w  it  is  she  lte;'self  that  is  spinning. 

With  the  bloom  of  youth  on  eheek  and  lip, 

Tuniing  the  sjx^kes  with  th<;  flashing  pin, 
Twhiting  the  threa/1  from  the  spindk-tip. 

Stretching  it  out  and  windirjg  it  in. 
To  and  fro,  with  a  blithesome  trea4. 

Singing  she  g'>es,  and  her  heart  i»  full. 
And  many  a  long-<lrawn  gohien  thread 

Of  fancy  is  spun  with  the  shining  wooL 

Her  father  sit*  in  his  favorite  pla/*. 

Puffing  his  pijje  by  the  ehimneynBi'le  ; 
Through  curling  clou'ls  hi»  kindly  face 

Glows  ujwn  her  with  hyve  an<l  f/ride. 
Lalle<l  by  the  wheel,  in  tfje  oU  arm-eliair 

Her  motlier  is  musing,  cat  in  lap. 
With  beautiful  droof/ing  liirad,  and  Iiair 

Whitening  under  her  snow-whit/;  cap. 

One  1^  one,  to  the  grave,  to  the  bri'lal. 

They  Ijave  folkiwe'l  her  sist/rrs  from  the  door : 
^ow  they  are  ol'l,  and  she  is  their  i<iol  :  — 

It  all  comes  Ijack  on  her  heart  once  more. 
In  the  autumn  dusk  the  hearth  glearuK  brightly. 

The  wh«el  is  set  by  the  (ha/lowy  wall,  — 
A  liand  at  the  UtcU,  —  't  is  lift*/l  lightly. 

And  in  walks  Benjie,  manly  and  talL 

His  cJiair  is  placed  ;  the  old  rnan  tij/s 
The  pitcher,  and  bringx  his  choi'jwst  fruit ; 

Benjie  basks  in  the  hLaze,  and  sij/s. 
And  tells  hi«  Btoty,  and  joints  his  flute  ; 


O,  sweet  the  tunes,  the  talk,  the  laugljter  ! 

They  fill  the  hour  with  a  glowing  ti'le  ; 
liut  sweeter  the  still,  di^ep  moments  after. 

When  sh<;  i»  alone  by  ISenjie's  side. 

liut  once  with  angry  wor'hs  they  ]<ajt  : 

O,  then  the  weary,  weary  days  : 
Kver  with  restless,  wrebclje'l  heart, 

I'lying  her  task,  she  turns  to  gaze 
Far  up  the  roa<l ;  and  early  and  late 

fthe  liarks  for  a  f'X^tetep  at  tlie  d'wr. 
And  starts  at  the  gujst  tliat  swings  tV;  gate, 

And  prays  for  IJenjie,  who  wwes  no  more. 

Her  fault  <    0  Benji*;,  and  ' 

Your  thoughts  toward  out  • 
H'/ia/.'i  she  »<:eki!  in  tlie  whiiii;.^ 

In  duty  and  love  tliat  ligliten  y-'j--  ; 
Striving  with  ]«'/'..■■,  r.'/-  ::.  v: ::.. 

To  drive  aw^ 
IJlessing  the  • 

OfadeeiXf),;  .,•■.. 

I'roud  and  jjetted  and  ispoile'l  was  she  : 

A  word,  and  all  her  life  is  ehanged  '. 
His  wavering  love  U/ij  easily 

In  the  gr'ait,  ^ay  <■!••.'  «■"•»-  "~*rar!«ed  : 
Ojie  year  ;  sii' 

A  rustle,  a  : 
Your  fW;*  an  •  •■  '■ 

"V  is  Benjie  naniu.g  a  Aj.it^-.-  it*.'i  .M^.ie  ! 

Xow  father  and  mother  i.»v.;  >/;.l'  vr-ru  dea/1. 

And  the  bride  sleej  yard  hVim, 

And  a  bent  old  mau  id 

Walks  up  the  long  'ua,  ai   ,■;  a.Mie. 
Years  blur  to  a  mist  ;  and  iJorotby 
1      ftits  doubting  Ijetwixt  the  gli'wt  she  secHiS 
i  And  the  phantom  of  youth,  more  real  titan  she, 
I      That  meets  her  there  in  that  Ijaunt  of  drear/is. 

Bright  young  Dorothy,  idolized  daughter, 

Sought  by  many  a  youthful  a/iorer, 
Life,  like  a  new-risen  dawn  on  tlje  water, 

Shining  an  endless  vista  l>:fore  Iter ! 
Old  Maid  fJorothy,  wrinkled  and  gray. 

Groping  under  the  fann-house  eaves,  — 
And  life  is  a  brief  Novem5>;r  'lay 

That  set*  'yn  a  world  of  withered  leaves  ! 

Yet  fjaithfulness  in  the  humblest  j/art 
Is  better  at  last  than  proud  su'^^/rss. 
And  patience  and  love  in  a  chas-ten<^  heart 


Are  j)ear!«  rry; 
And  ■■ 

To- 
AUt! 

And  iiie,Ji/iig  j 


^■sppinew ; 
:  wake 
-th  again. 


■^  ',u  tlie  }>ane. 

KB  T    Tk 


:.-r3 


a-: 


212 


roEMS  OF  DISAPPOIXTMKyr 


-^ 


MAKK  BKUKVK 

Kiss  m>',  thoujih  you  \ni\ko  l*lieve  ; 

Kiss  me,  though  1  iilim>si  know 
You  int>  kissing  to  (lovoivo  : 

Lot  till'  tiilo  ouii  moiuiMit  How 
l>iukw!U\l  ore  it  viso  ami  l>n>«k, 
Ouly  I'oi'  jioor  pity's  sjiko  ! 

Oivti  uie  of  your  Mowers  one  le-!«f, 
tiive  me  of  your  sutiles  one  smile, 

Ivukwtiul  roJl  this  tide  of  grief 
Just  a  moment,  though,  the  while, 

1  shouKl  feel  and  almost  know 

You  are  trilling  with  my  woe. 

Whisper  to  rae  sweet  aiul  low  ; 

Toll  mo  how  you  sit  ami  weave 
l>i\ams  about  mo,  though  I  know 

It  is  only  make  iH'lieve  ! 
Just  a  miunent,  though  't  is  plain 
You  are  jesting  with  my  jwin. 


ALICB  Carv. 


AN  KXPERIKNOK  AND  A  MORAL. 

I  i.KX  r  my  love  a  Kx>k  one  ilay  ; 

She  hreught  it  baok  ;  1  laid  it  by  ; 
"r  was  little  either  had  to  say,  — 

She  W!>s  so  strange,  and  1  so  slty. 

But  yet  we  loved  indilfereiit  things,  — 
The  spreuting  buds,  the  l>ii\ls  in  tune,  — 

And  Time  stow!  still  and  wreathed  his  wings 
With  i\>sy  links  from  June  to  June. 

For  her,  what  task  to  dare  or  do  • 
What  iH<ril  tempt  >  what  hai\lship  bear  ? 

But  witli  her  —  ah  !  she  never  knew 
My  hoiUt,  and  what  was  hidden  there  ! 

And  she,  with  me,  so  cold  and  eoy, 
S<'emsHl  a  little  maid  liereft  of  sense  ; 

lUit  in  the  erewd,  tUl  life  and  joy, 
And  full  of  blushful  impudemt.'. 

She  marrieil,  —  well,  —  a  woiuan  needs 
A  mate,  her  life  and  love  to  sliare,  — 

And  little  oaiws  sprang  up  like  woihIs 
And  played  iux>uud  her  elliow-ohair. 

And  yeai-s  relUnl  by,  —  but  I,  content, 
'IViiumod  my  own  lamjs  and  kept  it  blight, 

TUl  agt>"s  tiHuh  my  hair  Wspivnt 
With  rays  and  gleams  of  silver  light. 

.\ud  then  it  ehance^l  1  tiH>k  the  Kx>k 
Whioh  she  jieruseil  in  days  gvuio  by  ; 

And  Sis  1  r<»ad,  such  jwssion  sluwk 
>lv  soul,  —  1  netnls  luust  ouise  or  crv. 


For,  here  and  tJiere,  her  love  was  writ. 
In  old,  half-faded  iieneil-signs. 

As  if  slie  yielded  —  hit  by  bit  — 
Her  heart  in  dots  and  \inderlines. 

Ah,  silvered  fool,  too  late  you  look  I 
1  know  it ;  let  me  here  reeonl 

This  ma.\ira  :  Zuitii  ito  ffirl  a  book 
L'nleis  i)ou  read  i<<»y?ei"MY«rt/.' 

I'KBUtiKlCK  S.  COZ2BN& 


OxLv  a  woman's  right-hand  glove. 

Five  and  three  tiuarters,  Courvoisior's  n\nke,  — 
For  all  eouimou  puriH>ses  useless  enough. 

Yet  dwuvr  for  her  sweet  ssike. 

Dearer  to  me  for  her  who  tilled 

Its  empty  place  witii  a  warm  white  hand,  — 
The  hand  I  held  ere  her  voice  was  stilled 

In  the  slwp  trf  the  silent  land. 

Only  a  glove  !  yet  sivaking  to  me 

Of  the  dear  dead  days  now  vanishes!  and  ttovl, 
And  the  face  that  1  never  again  sliall  see 

Till  the  grave  give  Ixick  its  dead. 

An  empty  glove  !  yet  to  me  how  full 

Of  the  fragiiuu'e  of  days  that  come  no  more. 

Of  memories  that  make  us,  and  thoughts  that 
rule 
Man's  life  in  its  inmost  core  ! 

The  tone  of  her  voice,  the  jKiise  of  her  head,  — 
All,  all  come  liaek  at  the  will's  liehest  : 

The  music  she  lovtnl,  the  Kwks  tlnit  she  read,  — 
Nay,  the  colors  that  suitinl  her  Ivst. 

And  0,  that  night  by  the  wild  sea-sliore. 
With  it*  tears,  and  kisses,  and  vows  of  love. 

When,  as  phslge  of  the  jwrting  premise  we  swore, 
Kach  gave  a  glove  for  a  glove  ! 

You  langh  .'  but  remeniKir  though  only  a  glove. 
Which  to  you  may  no  deciier  meaning  express. 

To  me  it  is  changed  by  the  light  of  that  love 
To  Jhe  one  swtwt  thing  I  jkvssoss. 

Our  souls  vlraw  their  nurture  from  many  a  giwiiid. 
And  faiths  that  are  different  in  their  ivots. 

Where  the  will  is  right,  and  the  heart  is  sound. 
Are  much  the  siune  in  their  fruits. 

Men  gi>t  at  the  truth  by  ililVerent  roads. 
And  must  live  the  jvart  of  it  each  one  sees  : 

You  gather  your  guides  out  of  ovthwlox  cinles, 
I  miuo  out  of  tritUs  like  those. 


^ 


tr 


Fh 


AXD  ESTRANGEMENT. 


^^ 


A  triHe,  no  doubt,  but,  in  such  a  case. 
So  l^th'5'1  in  the  light  of  a  love  gone  by, 

It  lias  enUrred  the  region  and  takes  its  place 
With  the  things  that  cannot  die, 

ThLs  trifle  to  uie  is  of  heavenly  birth  ; 

No  chance,  as  I  take  it,  but  purjx>sely  given 
To  help  me  to  sit  soinewliat  looser  to  earth. 

And  closer  a  little  to  heaven. 

For  it  seems  to  bring  me  so  near,  O,  so  near 
To  the  face  of  an  angel  wat<.hiug  above,  — 

That  fa<;«  of  all  othere  I  held  m  dear. 
With  its  yearning  eyes  of  love  I 


U^ 


IKTBOSFBCnON. 

Have  you  sent  her  bai;k  her  letters  ?  have  you 

given  her  Ijack  her  ring  ? 
Have  you  tried  to  forget  the  haunting  songs  that 

you  loved  to  hear  her  sing  ? 
Have  youcuj-soltheilay  you  met  her  first,  thank  c  I 

Go<i  that  you  were  free. 
And  said,  in  your  inmost  heart,  as  you  though;, 

" She  never  was  dear  to  me"  t 
You  have  <.aist  her  off;  your  j^ride  is  touched  ;  you 

fancy  that  all  is  done  ; 
That  for  you  the  world  is  brightagain,  and  bravely 

shines  the  sun  : 
Vou  have  w^ished  your  hands  of  passion  ;  you 

have  whistled  her  down  the  wind,  — 
0  Tom,  old  friend,  this  goes  before,  the  sharjwst 

comes  l>;hind  ! 
Yes,  the  sliar]»es-t  is  yet  to  corne,  for  love  is  a  plant 

that  never  dies  ; 
Its  roots  are  deep  as  the  earth  itself,  its  branches 

wide  as  the  skies  ; 
And  whenever  once  it  has  taken  hold,  it  flourish'js 

everujore, 
Biiaring  a  fruit  that  is  fair  outside,  but  bitter  ashes 

at  core. 

You  will  learn  this,  Tom,  hereafter ;  when  anger 

lias  cooled,  and  you 
Have  time  for  introspection,  you  will  find  my 

wor'ls  are  true  : 
You  will  sit  and  gaze  in  your  fire  alone,  and  fancy 

that  you  can  see 
Her  fa<?*,  with  its  classic  oval,  her  ringlets  flut- 
tering free, 
Her  Sfjft  blue  eyes  wide  opened,  her  sweet  red 

lijw  apart, 
As  she  used  to  look,  in  the  golden  days  when 

you  fancied  she  ha^l  a  heart  : 
Whatever  you  do,  wherever  you  turn,  you  will 

see  that  glorious  face 
Coming  with  shadowy  Ijeauty,  to  haunt  all  time 

and  Bjjace  ; 


I  Those  songs  you  wrote  for  her  singing  will  sing 
I  themselves  into  youj-  biaiii. 

Till  your  life  seems  set  to  their  rhythm,  and  your 

thoughts  to  their  refi-4in; 
Their  old,  old  burden  of  love  and  grief, —  the  jias- 

sion  you  have  foresworn  : 
I  tell  you,  Tom,  it  is  not  thiowu  off  so  well  a.s 
',         you  think,  this  moi-n. 

But  the  worst,  perhaps  the  worst  of  all,  will  1* 
,         when  the  day  has  flowii. 
When  liarkness  tavore  reflection,  and  your  coni- 

raxies  l<-ave  you  alone  ; 
You  will  try  to  sleep,  but  the  memories  of  unfor- 

gotten  yeare 
Will  come  with  a  storm  of  wild  regret,  —  mayliap 

with  a  storm  of  ti:sirs  ; 
Kach  li><.ik,   eaf.h  wor'i,  ea/.h  jdaj-ful  tijim,  each 
I  timid  little  '^ress. 

The  golden  gleam  of  her  ringlets,  the  rustling  of 

her  dress. 
The  deli'jate  touch  of  her  ungloved  hand,  that 

woke  such  an  exquisite  thrill. 
The  flowers  she  gave  you  the  night  of  the  1 :.;;.  — 

I  think  you  treasuie  them  still,  — 
All  these  will  come,  till  you  slumljer,  v.oni  ■  ,t 

by  sheer  desi/aii, 
And  then  you  will  hear  %'ague  echoes  of  son;;  on 

the  darkened  air,  — 
I  Vague  echoes  rising  and  falling,  of  the  Voice  you 

know  so  well. 
Like  the  songs  that  were  sung  by  the  Lurlei  maids, 
I         sweet  with  a  deadly  sjxill ! 
i 
In  dreams  her  heart  will  ever  again  be  yours,  and 

you  will  see 
Fair  glimpses  of  what  might  have  been,  —  what 

now  can  never  be  ; 
A  nd  as  she  comes  to  meet  you,  with  a  sudden,  wild 
I         unrest 
You  will  stretch  your  arms  forth  lovingly  to  fold 

her  to  your  bi-east  : 
But  the  I,urlei  song  will  fade  and  die,  and  with 

its  fading  tone 
You  will  wake  to  find  you  clasp  the  thin  and 

emjrty  aii  alone, 
■While  the  fire-bells'  clanging  dissonance,  on  the 

gusty  night-wind  Ixjme, 
AVill  S(=em  an  iron-tougued  demon's  voice,  laugh- 
ing your  grief  to  scorn. 
0  Tom,  you  say  it  is  over,  —  you  talk  of  letters 

and  rings,  — 
Do  you  think  that  Love's  mightj'  spirit,  then,  is 

held  by  such  trifling  things  ? 
No  !  if  you  on<ic  have  truly  loved,  you  will  still 

love  on,  I  know, 
Till  the  churchyanl  myrtles  blossom  alxive,  and 

vou  lie  mute  Ijelow, 


• — i — »-i 


ip-.Tr 


POEMS  OF  DISAPPOINTMENT 


--a 


How  is  it,  1  wonder,  hei-e«ltt'r  ?    Kaith  touches 

us  littlo,  here. 
Of  tho  Olios  wo  have  loved  and  lost  on  enitli,  — 

do  you  think  they  will  still  ho  dear  ! 
SliiUl  wo  live  the  lives  we  iiiij;ht  have  lead  ? — 

will  those  who  ar*  seveitxl  now 
lu'iiuniticv  the  [iledgoof a  lower  sjihere, and  renew 

the  hivkou  vow  ! 
It  almost  drives  nie  wild  to  think  of  the  gifts 

we  throw  away, 
Uiithinkinj;  whether  or  no  wo  lose  Life's  honey 

and  wine  for  aye  ! 
liut  then,  agiiin,  't  is  a  mighty  joy  —  groater  tlian 

I  can  tell  — 
To  trust  that  the  ^wrted  may  some  time  meet,  — 

that  all  may  again  he  well. 
However  it  he,  1  hold,  that  all  tho  evil  we  know- 
on  earth 
Finds  in  this  violeiuo  done  to  I.ove  its  true  and 

legitimate  hirth  ; 
And  the  agtuiies  wo  sullor,  when  the  heart  is  left 

alone. 
For  even-  sin  of  Humanity  should  fully  and  well 

attuio, 

1  see  tliut  yon  marvel  givatly,  Tom,  to  hoar  siieli 

wonls  fixuu  me, 
But,  if  you  knew  my  inmost  heart,  't  would  he  no 

mystery. 
Exiierioiiee  is  bitter,  hut  its  teaohings  w-o  retain  : 
It  has  tjuight  mo  this,  —  who  onee  has  loveil, 

loves  never  on  earth  again  ! 
And  1  too  have  my  closet,  with  a  ghastly  form 

inside,  — 
The  skeleton  of  a  perislRxi  love,  killed  by  a  cruel 

jnide  : 
1  sit  Vy  the  fire  at  evening  —  as  yon  will  some 

time  sit. 
And  watch,  in  the  nvseato  halfdight,  the  ghosts  of 

happiness  Hit  ; 
I  too  awaken  at  midnight,  and  stretch  mv  arms 

to  enfold 
A  vague  and  shadowy  image,  w-ith  t  resses  of  brown 

and  gidd  ; 
Kxperieiice  is  bitter  indeed,  —  I  have  learned  at 

a  heavy  cost 
The  secret  of  Love's  ixn-sistency  :  1  too  have  loved 

and  lost  ! 

GljOKOB  AKN0U\ 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

CoMKAPES,  leave  me  lieiv  a  little,  while  as  yet 

't  is  early  morn,  — 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  mc,  sound 

upon  the  bugle  horn. 


"T  is  the  place,  and  all  aivuiul  it,  as  of  old,  the 

curlews  call. 
Dreary  gleams  about  tho  mooiliuid,  living  over 

Loi'ksley  Hall  : 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  tho 
sandy  tracts. 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cata- 
racts. 

Many  a  night  frem  yonder  ivied  casement,  ore  I 

went  to  ivst, 
Uid  1  look  on  great  i->rion  sloping  slowly  to  tlio 

west. 

Many  a  night  1  saw  tho  I'lciads,  rising  through 

tho  mellow  sliade, 
lilittor  like  a  swarm  of  lire-llios  tangled  in  a  silver 

braid. 

Here  ahoul  tho  bench  I  wandered,  nourishing  a 

youth  suhlime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and    the  long 

result  of  time  ; 

When  the  lonturics  behind    me  like  a  fruitful 

land  reposed  ; 
When  I  oluug  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise 

that  it  closed  ; 

When  1  dipt  into  the  future  far  a.s  luinuui  eye 

could  see,  — 
S)>w-  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be. 

In  tlie  Spring  a  fuller  orimsou  comes  in>oii  the 

robin's  breast  ; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself 

another  crest  ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  hur- 

iiishod  dove  ; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns 

to  tlioughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  w-as  pale  and  thinner  than  should 

bo  for  one  so  young. 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  iiiut* 

ol>servance  hung. 

And  1  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  siieak 

the  truth  to  me  ; 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being 

sets  to  thee. " 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color 

and  n  light, 
j\s  1  have  seen  the  rosy  red  Hushing  in  tho  north 

ern  night. 


&- 


-^ 


a--- 


AND  ESTRANGEMENT. 


2K 


-a 


AdJ  she  turned,  —  her  bosom  shaken  witli  a  sud- 
den storm  of  sighs  ;  ! 

AJl  the  siiiiit  dc-cply  dawning  in  tlie  dark  of  liazel 
,-yn,  -^ 

Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,   fearing  tliey 

should  do  nic  wrong  "  ; 
Saying,  "  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  I "  weeping, 

"  1  have  loved  thee  long." 

Ijove  took  uji  the  glass  of  time,  and  turned  it  in 

his  glowing  hands  ; 
Eveiy  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden 

sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all 

the  chords  with  might  ; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  tliat,  trembling,  passed 

in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the 

copses  ring. 
And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses  with  the 

fullness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the 

stately  3hip.s, 
And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching 

of  the  lips. 

0  my    cousin,   shallow-hearted  !     0  my   Amy, 

mine  no  more  ! 
0,  the  drear}',  dreary  moorland  !     O,  the  barren, 

barren  shore  ! 


What  is  thLs?  his  eyes  are  heavy,  —  think  not 

they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him  ;  it  is  thy  duty,  —  kiss  him  ;  take  his 

liand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  Is 

overwrought,  — 
Soothe  him  with   thy  finer  fancies,   toudi  him 

with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to 

understand,  — 
Better  thou  wcrt  dead  before  me,  though  I  slew 

thee  with  my  hand  ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the 

heart's  disgrace. 
Rolled  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last 

embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the 

strength  of  youth  1 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  waq)  us  from  the 

living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  fonus  that  err  from  honest 
nature's  rule ! 

Cursed  Ije  the  gold  that  gilds  tlie  straitened  fore- 
head of  tlie  fool ! 

Well  —  't  is  well  that  I  should  bluster  !  —  Ha<lst 

tliou  less  unwoithy  proved, 
Would  to  Cod  —  for  I  had  loved  thee  more  tliau 

ever  wile  was  loved. 


&. 


Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs 

have  sung,  — 
Puppet  to  a  father's   threat,   and   servile   to  a 

shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wisli  thee  happy  ?  —  having  known 

me  —  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart 

than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shall  lower  to  his  level  day 
by  day. 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sym- 
pathize with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  ;  thou  art  mated 

with  a  clown. 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight 

to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have 

spent  its  novel  force. 
Something  better  than  his  dog,   a  littlo  dearer 

than  his  horse. 


Am  I  iriad,  that  1  sliouhl  cherish  that  which  l>ears 

Iml  bitter  fruit  ? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my  heart 

be  at  the  root. 

Never !  though  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length 
of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-wintered  crow  tliat  leads  the  clang- 
ing rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  records  of 

the  mind  ? 
Can  1  jjart  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I 

knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perished  ;  sweetly  did  she 

speak  and  move  ; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was 

to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the 

love  she  bore  ? 
No,  —  she  never  loved  me  tnily ;  love  is  love  for- 

evemiore. 


--& 


a- 


ne 


POEMS  OF  DISAPPOINTMENT 


■^ 


Comfort  ?  comfort  scorned  of  devils  !  this  is  truth 

the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering 

happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  leam  it,  lest  thy 

heart  be  put  to  proof. 
In  the  dead,  unhappy  night,   and  when  the  rain 

is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams  ;  and  thou  art 

staring  at  the  wall, 
^Vliere  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the 

shadows  rise  and  fall. 


What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  ligliting 

upon  days  like  these  ? 
Everj-  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens  but 

to  goldtin  keys. 

Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors,  all  the  mar- 
kets overflow. 

I  have  but  an  angry  fancy ;  what  is  that  which 
I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foe- 
man's  gi'ound. 

When  the  ranks  are  rolled  in  vapor,  and  the 
winds  are  laid  with  sound. 


Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  :  But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 


his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widowed  marriage-pillows,   to  the  tears 
that  thou  wilt  weep. 


that  honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  munnur,  snarling  at  each 
other's  heels. 


Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never,"  whispered    Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?     I  will  turn  that 

by  the  phantom  years,  i  earlier  page. 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing   Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  0  thou  won- 


of  thine  ears  ; 

And  an  eye  shall  ve.x  thee,  looking  ancient  Icind- 

ness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow  ;  get  thee  to 

thy  rest  again. 


drous  mother-age  ! 

Make    me    feel   the  wild    pulsation    tliat  I    felt 

before  the  strife, 
When  I   heard   my  days   before  me,  and   the 

tumidt  of  my  life  ; 


Nay,  but  nature  brings  thee  solace  ;  for  a  tender  1  Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  com- 
voice  will  cry ;  I  ing  years  would  yield, 

'T  is  a  purer  life  than  thine,  a  lip  to  drain  thy  Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his 
trouble  dry.  i  father's  field. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  ;  my  latest  rival    And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and 

brings  thee  rest,  —  ]  nearer  drawn. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  j  Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like 

mother's  breast.  I  a  dreary  dawn ; 

0,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dear-  j  And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  he  gone  be- 

ness  not  his  due.  |  fore  him  then, 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be  worthy  :  Underneath  the  light  lie  looks  at,  in  among  the 

of  the  two.  throngs  of  men  ; 

0,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  j  Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reap- 


part. 
With  a  little  horde  of  maxims  preaching  down  a 
daughter's  heart. 


ing  something  new  : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 
things  that  they  shall  do  : 


t 


"  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings  —  she    For  I  dipt  into  the  future,   far  as  human  eye 

lierself  was  not  exempt  —  ,         could  see. 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffered  —  "     Perish  in  !  Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  nil  tlie  wonder 

thy  self-contempt !  {  that  would  be  ; 

Overlive  it  —  lower  yet  —  be  happy!  wherefore  ,  Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of 

should  I  care  ?  i         magic  sails, 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by    Pilots  of  the    purple    twilight,  dropping   down 

despair.  I         with  costly  bales ; 


^ 


AND  ESTEANGEMEXr. 


■1\\ 


'-^ 


Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there    Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  sueh  a 

rained  a  ghastly  dew  I  mouldered  string  ? 

From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the    I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to  have  loved 


central  blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south- 
wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging 
through  the  thunder-stonn  ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  longer,  and  the 

battle-flags  were  furled 
In  the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation  of  the 

world. 

Tiicre  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 
fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slimiher,  lapt  in  uni- 
versal law. 


so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  woman's 

pleasure,  woman's  pain  — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a 

shallower  brain  ; 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions, 

matched  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 

unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.    Ah 

for  .some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life 

began  to  beat  ; 


So  I  triumphed  ere  my  passion  sweeping  tlirough    Where  in  -irild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  fatlier, 
me  left  me  dry,  '  evil-staiTed ; 


Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with 
the  jaundiced  eye  ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are 

out  of  joint. 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping  on 

from  point  to  point  : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creep- 
ing niglier. 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly 
dying  lire. 

Yet  I  doulit  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing 
purpose  runs 


I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's 
ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit,  —  there  to  wander 

far  away. 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the 

day,  — 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and 

happy  skies. 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster, 

knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  Eumpcan 
H^ig.  — 


And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the    Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the 


U 


process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his 

youthful  joys. 
Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever 

like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge   comes,   but  wisdom  lingers  ;  and  I 

linger  on  the  shore. 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more 

and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he 
liears  a  laden  breast. 

Full  of  sad  experience  moving  toward  the  still- 
ness of  his  rest. 

Hark  !  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on 

the  bugle  horn,  — 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target 

for  their  scom  ; 


trailer  from  the  crag,  — 

Droops  the   heavy-blossomed  bower,   hangs  the 

heavy-fruited  tree,  — 
Sunimerisles  of  Eden  lyingin  dark-purple  spheres 

of  sea. 

There,  methinks,  would  be  enjojTnent  more  than 

in  this  march  of  mind  — 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts 

that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer,  shall  have 

scope  and  breathing-space  ; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my 

dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they  shall  dive,  and 

tliey  shall  run. 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  huil  tlirir 

lances  in  the  sun. 


-t^ 


^218 


POEMS   OF  DISAPPOIXTMENT 


u 


Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rain- 
bows of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable 
books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I  know  my 

words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the 

Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our 

glorious  gains. 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast 

with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage,  —  what  to  me  were 

sun  or  clime  ? 
I,  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of 

time,  — 

1,  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

one  by  one. 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's 

moon  in  Ajalon  ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward,  for- 
ward let  us  range  ; 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ring- 
ing grooves  of  change. 

Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into 

the  younger  day  : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than   a  cycle   of 

Cathay. 

Mother-age  (for  mine  I  knew  not),  help  me  as 
when  life  begun,  — 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  light- 
nings, weigh  the  sun,  — 

0,  I  see  the  orescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath 

not  set ; 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through  all  my 

fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,    a  long  farewell  to 

Locksley  Hall  ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the 

roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over 

heath  and  holt. 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a 

thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or 

fire  or  snow  ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and 

I  go. 

Alfred  tennvson. 


ONLY  A  WOMAlf. 

■■  she  loves  with  love  that  cannot  tire : 
And  if.  ah,  woe  :  she  loves  alone. 
Through  passionate  duty  love  flames  higher. 
As  grass  grows  taller  round  a  stone  " 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 

So,  the  truth 's  out.    I  'U  grasp  it  like  a  snake, — 
It  will  not  slay  me.     My  heart  shall  not  break 
Awhile,  if  only  for  the  children's  sake. 

For  his,  too,  somewhat.    Let  him  stand  unblamed ; 
None  say,  he  gave  me  less  than  honor  claimed. 
Except — one  trifle  scarcely  worth  being  named— 

The   heart.     That  's   gone.     The   corrupt   dead 

might  be 
As  easily  raised  up,  breathing,  fair  to  see. 
As  he  could  bring  his  whole  heait  back  to  me. 

1  never  sought  him  in  coquettish  sport, 
Or  courted  him  as  silly  maidens  court, 
And  wonder  when  the  longed-for  prize  falls  short. 

1  only  loved  him,  —  any  woman  would  : 
But  shut  my  love  up  till  he  came  and  sued, 
Then  poured  it  o'er  his  dry  life  like  a  flood. 

I  was  so  happy  I  could  make  him  blest  !  — 

So  happy  that  I  was  his  first  and  best. 

As  he  mine,  —  when  he  took  me  to  his  breast. 

Ah  me  !  if  only  then  he  had  been  true ! 

If,  for  one  little  year,  a  month  or  two. 

He  had  given  me  love  for  love,  as  was  my  due  ! 

Or  had  he  told  me,  ere  the  deed  was  done, 
He  only  raised  me  to  his  heart's  dear  throne  — 
Poor  substitute  —  because  the  queen  was  gone  ! 

0,  had  he  whispered,  when  his  sweetest  kiss 
Was  wann  upon  my  mouth  in  fancied  bliss. 
He  had  kissed  another  woman  even  as  this,  — 

It  were  less  bitter  !     Sometimes  I  could  weep 
To  be  thus  cheated,  like  a  child  asleep,  — 
Were  not  my  anguish  far  too  dry  and  deep. 

So  I  built  my  house  upon  another's  ground  ; 
Mocked  with  a  heart  just  caughtat  the  rebound,— 
A  cankered  thing  that  looked  so  firm  and  sound. 

And  when  that  heart  grew  colder,  —  colder  still, 

1,  ignorant,  tried  all  (luties  to  fulfil. 
Blaming  my  foolish  pain,  exacting  will, 

All,  —  anything  but  him.     It  was  to  be 
The  full  draught  others  drink  up  carelessly 
Was  made  this  bitter  Tantalus-cup  for  me. 


-^ 


e- 


AJW  ESTRANGEMLi^T. 


-.^ 


1  say  again,  —  he  gives  me  all  I  claimed, 
I  and  iny  cliildreu  never  shall  be  shamed  : 
He  is  a  just  man,  — he  will  live  unblaraed- 

Only  —  0  God,  0  God,  to  cry  for  bread, 
And  get  a  stone  !  Daily  to  lay  my  head 
Upon  a  bosom  where  the  old  love  's  dead  ! 

Dead  ?  —  Fool  !  It  never  lived.  It  only  stirred 
Galvanic,  like  an  hour-cold  corpse.  None  heard  : 
So  let  me  bury  it  without  a  word. 

He  '11  keep  that  other  woman  from  my  sight. 
I  know  not  if  her  face  be  foul  or  bright ; 
1  only  know  that  it  was  his  delight  — 

As  his  was  mine  ;  I  only  know  he  stands 
I'ale,  at  the  touch  of  their  long-severed  hands. 
Then  to  a  flickering  smile  his  lips  commands. 

Lest  I  should  grieve,  or  jealous  anger  show. 
He  need  not.  When  the  ship 's  gone  down,  I  trow', 
We  little  reck  whatever  wind  may  blow. 

And  so  my  silent  moan  begins  and  ends  : 

No  world's  laugh  or  worhl's  taunt,   no  pity  of 

friends 
Or  sneer  of  foes,  with  this  my  torment  blends. 

None  knows,  —  none  heeds.    1  have  a  little  pride ; 
Enough  to  stand  up,  wifelike,  by  his  side. 
With  the  same  smile  as  when  I  was  his  bride. 

And  I  shall  take  his  children  to  my  arms  ; 
They  will  not  miss  these  fading,  worthless  charms ; 
Their  kiss  —  ah  !  unlike  his  —  all  pain  disarms. 

And  haply  as  the  solemn  years  go  by. 

He  will  think  sometimes,  with  regretful  sigh, 

The  other  woman  was  less  true  than  I. 

DINAH  MULOCK  CRAIK- 


& 


HOME,  WOUNDED. 

Wheel  me  into  the  sunshine, 

^\^leel  me  into  the  shadow, 

There  must  be  leaves  on  the  woodliine, 

Is  the  king-cup  crowned  in  the  meadow  ' 

^^Tieel  me  down  to  the  meadow, 

Down  to  the  little  river, 

In  sun  or  in  shadow 

I  shall  not  dazzle  or  shiver, 

I  shall  be  happy  anywhere, 

Everv'  breath  of  the  morning  air 

Makes  me  throb  and  quiver. 

Stay  wherever  you  will. 

By  the  mount  or  under  the  hill. 


Or  down  by  the  little  river  : 
Stay  as  long  as  you  please. 
Give  me  only  a  bud  from  the  trees, 
Or  a  blade  of  grass  in  moming  dew, 
Or  a  cloudy  violet  clearing  to  blue, 
I  could  look  on  it  forever. 

Wheel,  wheel  through  the  sunshine. 
Wheel,  wheel  through  the  shadow ; 
There  must  be  odors  round  the  pine. 
There  must  be  balm  of  breathing  kine. 
Somewhere  down  in  the  meadow. 
Must  I  choose  ?     Then  anchor  me  there 
Beyond  the  beckoning  poplars,  where 
The  larch  is  snooding  her  floweiy  hair 
With  wreaths  of  morning  shadow. 

Among  the  thickest  hazels  of  the  brake 

Perchance  some  nightingale  doth  shake 

His  feathers,  and  the  air  is  full  of  song  ; 

In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young  and  strong, 

He  used  to  sing  on  yonder  garden  tree, 

Beside  the  nursery. 

Ah,  I  remember  how  I  loved  to  wake. 

And  find  him  singing  on  the  selfsame  bough 

(I  know  it  even  now) 

Where,  since  the  flit  of  bat. 

In  ceaseless  voice  he  sat, 

Tiying  the  spring  night  over,  like  a  tune. 

Beneath  the  vernal  moon  ; 

And  while  I  listed  long. 

Day  rose,  and  still  he  sang, 

And  all  his  stanchless  song, 

.\s  something  falling  unaware. 

Fell  out  of  the  tall  trees  lie  sang  among. 

Fell  ringingdown  the  ringingmorn,  and  rang,  — 

Bang  like  a  golden  jewel  down  a  goldi-ii  stair. 

My  soul  lies  out  like  a  basking  hound,  — 

A  hound  that  dreams  and  dozes  ; 

Along  my  life  my  length  I  lay, 

I  fill  to-morrow  and  yesterday, 

I  am  warm  with  the  sunsthat  have  longsinceset, 

I  am  warm  with  the  summers  that  are  not  yet. 

And  like  one  who  dreams  and  dozes 

Softly  afloat  on  a  sunny  sea. 

Two  worlds  are  whispering  over  me, 

And  there  blows  a  %vind  of  roses 

From  the  backward  shore  to  the  .sliorc  before. 

From  the  shore  before  to  the  backward  shore, 

And  like  two  clouds  that  meet  and  pour 

Each  through  each,  till  core  in  core 

A  single  self  reposes. 

The  nevermore  with  the  evermore 

Above  me  mingles  and  closes  ; 

As  my  soul  lies  out  like  the  basking  hound, 

And  wherever  it  lies  seems  happy  ground. 


-3 


a^ 


220 


POEMS  OF  DISAPPUiy'TMENT 


•^ 


fB-- 


Ami  whoii,  nwukciiwl  liy  soiiu'  swot't  souuii, 

A  ilroainy  oyo  uudosos, 

1  soc  a  liliiomin};  woi'lii  around, 

Aiul  1  lie  amid  luimrosos,  — 

Voai-s  of  sweot  jirimrosos, 

Spriiii^s  of  fresh  pi'iinnisos, 

Sin-iiisp  to  lu>,  ami  s|>riiigs  for  me 

or  distant  lUiii  lU'iuuosi'S. 

O,  to  li.'  a-divam,  a-.livam, 

'I'll  fci'l  1  may  divam  ami  to  Umnv  you  doem 

My  woi'k  is  done  forovoi', 

And  the  iialintatiuj;  lover, 

That  gains  and  loses,  loses  and  gsiiiis. 
And  heats  the  hurrying  blood  on  the  hrunt  of  a 
thousand  pains, 

(.'ooled  at  om'e  hy  that  Mood-let 

Upon  the  parapet  ; 
And  all  the  tedious  taski^'d  toil  of  the  dillicult  long 
endeavor 

Solved  and  ipiit  hy  no  nioiv  line 

Thai!  these  limbs  of  unne. 

Spanned  and  measured  onee  for  all 

Hy  that  right-hand  1  lost, 

liought  up  at  so  light  a  eost 

As  one  bloody  fall' 

On  the  soldier's  bed, 

.And  thnui  days  on  the  ruined  wall 

Among  the  thirstless  dead. 

0,  to  think  my  name  is  erost 

From  duty's  nuister-roll  ; 

That  1  may  slumber  though  the  clarion  call, 

.And  live  the  joy  of  an  embodied  soul 

l''ree  as  a  liberated  ghost. 

t  >.  to  feel  a  life  of  deed 

Was  emptied  out  to  feed 

That  liiY  of  |vuii  that  burned  so  brief  awhile,  — 

That  lire  fivni  which  1  eonie,  as  the  dead  eomo 

Forth  from  the  irreparable  tondi. 

Or  as  a  martyr  on  his  funeral  pile 

Heaps  up  the  burdens  other  men  do  bear 

Thi-ongh  yeai's  of  segregjitetl  eaiv. 

Ami  takes  the  totalload 

I'pon  his  shouldei-s  broad, 

.And  steps  from  earth  to  God. 

And  she, 

Ferhaps,  0  even  she 

May  look  as  she  looked  when  1  knew  her 

In  those  old  days  of  childish  sooth. 

Ere  my  boyhood  darod  to  woo  her. 

I  will  not  seek  nor  sue  her, 

For  1  'm  neither  fonder  nor  truer 

Thau  when  she  slighted  my  lovelorn  youth, 

Mv  giftless,  graceless,  guinetdess  truth. 

And  1  only  lived  to  rue  her. 

Hut  I  '11  never  lov»  another. 


And,  in  spite  of  her  lovei-s  and  lands, 
She  shall  love  me  yet,  uiy  brother  ! 

As  a  child  that  holds  by  his  mother, 

White  his  mother  speaks  his  pitiises, 

Holds  with  eager  hands, 

And  ruddy  and  silent  stands 

In  the  ruddy  and  silent  daisies. 

And  hears  her  bless  her  boy. 

And  lifts  a  wondering  joy, 

So  1  '11  not  seek  nor  sue  her. 

But  I  U  leave  mv  glorv  to  woo  her, 

And  I  '11  stand  like  a  chihl  beside. 

And  fnim  behind  the  purple  pride 

1  'U  lift  my  eyes  unto  her. 

Ami  I  shall  not  be  denied. 

And  you  will  love  her,  brother  ihnv. 

And  perhaps  next  year  you  '11  bring  me  here 

All  through  the  balmy  April  tide. 

And  she  will  trip  like  spring  by  my  side, 

And  be  all  the  biixis  to  my  ear. 

And  here  all  three  we  'II  sit  in  the  sun, 

And  see  the  Aprils  one  by  one, 

Frimrosed  Aprils  on  and  on, 

Till  the  lloating  prospect  closes 

'In  golden  glimmei-s  that  rise  and  rise. 

And  perhaps  nro  gleams  of  r.iradise. 

And  perhaps  too  far  for  mortal  eyes, 

New  springs  of  fresh  primroses, 

Springs  of  earth's  primroses. 

Springs  to  be  and  springs  for  me 

Of  distant  dim  primroses. 

SIDNCV  DOUKM.. 


PERISHED. 

CATSKILL  MOU.NTAIX  HOUSE. 

Wave  after  wave  of  greenness  rolling  down 
From  mountain  top  to  base,  a  whispering  sea 
Of  atlluent  leaves  through  which  the  viewless 
bit^eze 
Murmui-s  mvsteriously. 

And  towering  up  amid  the  lesser  throng, 
A  giant  oak,  so  desolately  gi-iuul, 
Stixitohcs  its  gray  imploring  arms  to  heaven 
In  agonized  demand. 

Smitten  by  liglitaiing  from  a  summer  sky, 
Or  bearing  in  its  heart  a  slow  decay, 

j  'WlMt  matter,  since  inexorable  fate 

I  Is  pitiless  to  slay. 

Ah,  waywaril  sonl,  hedged  in  and  clothed  about. 
Doth  not  thy  life's  lost  hope  lift  np  its  head. 
And,  dwarting  present  joys,  proclaim  aloud,  — 

"  Look  on  me,  I  am  dead  !" 
"  Marv  Louise  Ritter. 


^4 


AND  ESTRANGEMENT. 


221 


-a 


DEATH  OF  THE  WHITE  FAWN. 

TiiK  wanton  tro<>i>trB,  riding  by, 

Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 

L'ngentlr;  men  I  tliey  cannot  thrive 

Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst,  alive, 

Tliem  any  harm  ;  ala-s  ;  nor  could 

Thy  death  yet  do  them  any  gwxl. 

I  'm  sure  I  never  wished  them  ill,  — 

Xor  do  I  for  all  this,  nor  will ; 

But  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 

Prevail  with  H<siven  to  forget 

Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears, 

Katlier  than  fail,     iiut,  O  my  fears  ! 

It  cannot  die  so.     Heaven's  king 

Ke^ijis  register  of  everything  ; 

And  nothing  may  we  ase  in  vain  ; 

Even  l*asts  must  >x;  with  justice  slain, — 

Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 

Though  they  should  wa.sh  their  guilty  hand-s 

In  this  warm  life-blood,  which  doth  jtart 

From  thine  and  wound  me  to  the  heart. 

Yet  could  they  not  >><;  clean,  —  their  gtain 

Is  dyed  in  such  a  purjJe  grain  ; 

There  is  not  such  anothCT  in 

The  world  to  offer  for  th«r  sin. 

Inwnstant  .Sylvio,  when  )'ct 
I  had  not  found  hirn  wjunt'rtfeit. 
One  moniing  (I  remeinlier  well), 
Tie<l  in  this  silver  diain  and  V;!l, 
CJave  it  to  me  ;  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then,  —  I  'm  sure  I  do  : 
Said  he,  "  I^ook  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  fawn  tf)  hunt  his  dear  !  " 
But  .Sylvio  soon  ha<]  rne  Tieguiled  ; 
This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild  ; 
And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 
Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  h'airt. 

Tlienr^iforth  I  wX  myself  Ui  jilay 
My  solitary  time  away 
AVith  this  ;  and,  very  well  content. 
Could  so  mine  idle  life  have  sjient. 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  fiKA  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  garrie.     It  seeme'l  fi  bless 
Itsfdf  in  rne  ;  how  could  I  less 
Than  love  it  ?     0,  I  cannot  >je 
Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth  me  ' 

Had  it  lived  long,  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it,  too,  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did,  — his  gifts  might  be 
Perhaj/s  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 
For  I  am  STire,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  esjiy. 
Thy  love  was  far  more  bett*r  than 
The  love  offals'-  and  cni'l  man. 

With  smeetest  milk  and  sugar,  first 
I  it  at  mine  ova  fingen  nursed  ; 


And  as  it  giew,  so  every  day 

It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 

It  ha<l  at)  sweet  a  breath  !  and  oft 

I  blushe/l  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 

And  white-  —  sliaU  I  say  than  my  hand? 

Nay,  any  la<ly's  of  the  land. 

It  i-i  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'T  was  on  thosf!  little  silver  feet. 
With  what  a  pretty,  skijjping  gr.ice 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race  ; 
And  when  't  ha/1  left  me  far  away, 
'T  would  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay  : 
For  it  w.-is  nimbler  much  than  hind.-,, 
And  troil  as  if  on  the  four  winils. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own,  — 
But  >vi  with  roses  overgrown, 
Anil  lilies,  tliat  you  would  it  guess 
To  Ix;  a  little  wilderness  ; 
And  all  the  Bi>ringtime  of  the  year 
It  only  love/l  to  1*  there. 
Among  the  Wis  of  lilies  I 
Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie  ; 
Yet  could  not,  till  its/df  would  rise, 
Find  it,  although  lx;fore  mine  eyes  ; 
?'or  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shaile 
It  like  a  Wik  of  lilies  laid. 
Vym  tlie  roses  it  would  fec<I, 
Until  its  lij«  even  seeme'l  to  blce/l  ; 
And  then  to  rne  't  would  Vddly  trip, 
And  print  th'«e  roses  on  my  lip. 
But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  T'lHisn  thus  itself  to  fill  ; 
Ami  its  pure  virgin  lirnljs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lili'si  coU. 
Had  it  live'l  long,  it  w'juld  have  b<;en 
Lili'rs  without,  r'jses  within. 

0,  help  !  O,  help  !  I  see  it  faint, 
And  die  as  failrnly  as  a  saint ! 
.See  how  it  w«;jrs  !  the  Uars  do  come, 
HaA,  slowly,  dropping  like  a  gum. 
.So  weeps  the  wfjundcl  l<al.sam  ;  so 
llie  h'dy  frankin'*n»e  doth  flow  ; 
The  brotherless  Helia'lisi 
Melt  in  such  amber  tears  as  th':Sie. 

I  in  a  golden  phial  will 
Keep  tht-se  two  (rystal  tears,  an'l  fill 
It,  till  it  do  o''!rflr(W  with  mine ; 
Tlien  pla<«i  it  in  Diana's  shrine. 

Xow  my  sweet  fawn  is  vanishcl  V, 
Whither  the  swans  and  turtles  go. 
In  fair  Elysium  to  endure. 
With  rnilk-white  laml>s,  and  ennines  pure. 
0,  do  not  run  too  fast  !  for  I 
Will  but  l*8jieak  thy  grave  —  and  'lie. 

First,  my  unhappy  statue  shall 
Be  fmt  in  marble  ;  and  witlial, 
I>et  it  \ii:  weeping  Xiin.     But  there 
The  engraver  sure  Ids  art  may  s]<are  ; 


-4 


a^. 


222 


POEMS  OB'  DISAPPOINTMENT 


-^ 


^- 


For  I  so  truly  thee  bemoiui 

That  I  shall  weep,  though  I  be  stone, 

Until  my  tears,  still  dropping,  wear 

My  breast,  themselves  engraving  there. 

There  at  my  feet  shalt  thou  be  laid. 

Of  purest  alabaster  made  ; 

For  I  would  have  thine  image  be 

White  as  I  can,  though  not  as  thee. 

ANLtREW  MAKVii 


IN  A  YEAR. 

Never  any  more 

While  1  live. 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill. 

Mine  may  strive,  — 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace. 

Single  still. 

Was  it  something  said. 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand. 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange  !  that  very  way 

Love  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sang 

—  Sweetly  too. 
If  1  spoke  a  word. 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang. 

Then  he  heard. 

Sitting  by  my  side. 

At  my  feet. 
So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet : 
I  would  die  if  death  bei|ueathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

"  Speak,  —  I  love  thee  best  !  " 

He  exclaimed. 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell,  — 

I  confessed  ; 
"  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed. 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine  ! " 


Was  it  wrong  to  own. 

Being  truth  ? 
Wliy  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  '! 
I  had  wealth  and  ease. 

Beauty,  youth,  — 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  tliese. 

That  was  all  I  meant, 

—  To  be  just, 

And  the  passion  I  had  raised 

To  content. 
Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust. 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised, 

Was  it  strange  ? 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed, 

—  Paid  my  debt  ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more. 

Till,  all  gone. 
He  should  smile,  "  She  never  seemed 
Mine  before. 

"  What  —  she  felt  the  while. 

Must  1  think  ? 
Love  's  so  different  with  us  men," 

He  should  smile. 
' '  Dying  for  my  sake  — 

White  and  pink  ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  ? " 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part. 
Have  thy  pleasure.     How  perplext 

Grows  belief  ! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart. 
Cnimble  it,  — and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God  ? 

Robert  Browning. 


BLIGHTED  LOVE. 

Flowers  are  fresh,  and  bushes  green, 

Cheerily  the  linnets  sing  ; 
Winils  are  soft,  and  skies  serene  ; 

Time,  however,  soon  shall  throw 
Winter's  snow 
O'er  the  buxom  breast  of  Spring  ! 

Hope,  that  buds  in  lover's  heart. 

Lives  not  through  the  scorn  of  years  ; 


-4 


e^- 


.-1,Y7;  ESTRANGEMENT. 


220 


— ^ 


4^- 


Time  makes  love  itself  ilepait  ; 

Time  and  scorn  congeal  the  mind,  — 
Looks  unkind 
Freeze  affection's  wannest  tears. 

Time  shall  make  the  bushes  green  ; 

Time  dissolve  the  winter  snow  ; 
Winds  be  soft,  and  skies  serene  ; 

Linnets  sing  their  wonted  strain  : 
But  again 
Blighted  love  shall  never  blow  ! 

From  the  Portuguese  of  Luis  DE  CAMOBNS, 

by  LORD  STRANGFORD. 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

FROM  •'  ZOPHIEL,  OR  THE  BRIDE  OF  SEVEN." 

The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed  a  .soul 
Without  its  own  peculiar  mate,  to  meet 

Its  wandering  half,  when  ripe  to  crown  the  whole 
Bright  plan  of  bliss  most  heavenly,  most  com- 
plete. 

But  thousand  evil  things  there  are  that  hate 
To  look  on  hapi>iness  :  these  hurt,  im[)cde, 
And  leagued  with  time,  space,  circumstance  and 
fate, 
Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to  ])ine,  and 
pant,  and  bleed. 

And  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam, 

Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  tlie  desert's  bitter  stream  ; 

So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring. 
Love's  pure   congenial    spring    unfound,    un- 
quaflfed, 
Suffeis  —  1  ecoils  —  then  thirsty  and  despairing 
Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest 
draught  1 


SHIPS  AT  SEA. 

I  HAVK  ships  that  went  to  sea 

More  than  fifty  years  ago  ; 
None  have  yet  come  home  to  me, 

But  are  sailing  to  and  fro. 
I  have  seen  them  in  my  sleep. 
Plunging  through  the  shoreless  deep, 
With  tattered  sails  and  battered  hulls. 
While  around  them  screamed  the  gulls, 
Flying  low,  flying  low. 

1  have  wondered  why  they  strayed 
From  me,  sailing  round  the  world  ; 


And  1  've  said,  "1  'm  half  afrai.l 

That  their  sails  will  ne'er  be  furled." 
Great  the  treasures  that  they  hold. 
Silks,  and  plumes,  and  bars  of  gold  ; 
While  the  spices  that  they  bear 
Fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air. 
As  they  sail,  as  they  sail. 

Ah  !  each  sailor  in  the  port 

Knows  that  I  have  ships  at  sea, 
Of  the  waves  and  winds  the  sport, 

And  the  sailors  pity  me. 
Oft  they  come  and  with  me  walk, 
Cheering  me  with  hopeful  talk, 
Till  I  put  my  fears  aside. 
And,  contented,  watch  the  tide 
Rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall. 

I  have  waited  fin  the  piers. 

Gazing  for  them  down  the  bay. 
Days  and  nights  for  many  years, 
Till  1  turned  heart-sick  away. 
But  the  pilots,  when  they  land. 
Stop  and  take  me  by  the  hand. 
Saying,  ' '  You  will  live  to  see 
Your  proud  vessels  come  from  sea, 
One  and  all,  one  and  all." 

So  I  never  quite  despair. 

Nor  let  hope  or  courage  fail  ; 
And  some  <lay,  when  skies  are  fair, 

Up  the  bay  my  ships  will  sail. 
I  shall  buy  then  all  1  need,  — 
Prints  to  look  at,  books  to  read. 
Horses,  wines,  and  works  of  art, 
Everything  —  except  a  heart 
That  is  lost,  that  is  lost. 

Once,  when  1  was  pure  and  young, 

Kicher,  too,  than  1  am  now, 
Ere  a  cloud  was  o'er  me  flung. 

Or  a  wrinkle  creased  my  brow, 
There  was  one  whose  heart  was  mine  ; 
But  she 's  something  now  divine. 
And  though  come  my  ships  from  sea, 
They  can  bring  no  heart  to  me 
Evermore,  evermore. 

ROBERT  B.  COFF 


ENOCH  ARDEN  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Bt-T  Enoch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again  ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  hapjiy."     So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harassed  him,  and  drove  him  forth 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below 


^^ 


V^- 


224 


POEMS   OF  DISAPPOINTMENT 


-^ 


&•- 


There  did  a  thousand  nieinoiii'S  loU  u[ioii  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.      By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street. 
The  latest  house  to  landward  ;  but  behind. 
With  one  small  gate  that  opened  on  the  waste, 
Flourisheil  a  little  garden  square  and  walled  : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yew-tree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunned  the  middle  walk  and  stole 
rp  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew  ;  and  thence 
That  which   he  better  might  have  shunned,  if 

giiefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnished  board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth  ; 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees  ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-haired  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  reared  his  creasy  arms. 
Caught  at  and  ever  missed  it,  and  they  laughed  ; 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe. 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong. 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  lieheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee, 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happiness. 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful. 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place. 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love,  — 
Then  he,  though  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all. 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Staggered  and  shook,   holding  the  branch,  and 

feared 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  bla.st  of  doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  tlie  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  under  foot. 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall. 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found. 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  opened  it,  and  closed. 


As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that  his 
knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  prayed. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


10VE'.S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

0,  THE  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove  ! 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night. 
Was  love,  still  love  ! 
New  hope  may  bloom. 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam. 
But  there  's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream  ! 
0,  there  's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream  ! 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar. 

When  wild  youth  's  past  ; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frowned  before, 

To  smile  at  last ; 

He  '11  never  meet 

A  joy  so  sweet 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame 
As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  liame. 
And,  at  every  close,  she  blushed  to  hear 

The  one  loved  name  ! 

0,  that  hallowed  foi-m  is  ne'er  forgot. 

Which  first  love  traced  ; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
On  memory's  waste  ! 
'T  was  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed  ; 
'T  was  morning's  wingkl  dream  ; 
'T  was  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ! 
0,  't  was  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 
On  life's  dull  stream  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


WHEN  THE  LAMP  IS  SHATTERED. 

WiiEX  the  lamp  is  shattered. 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  ; 
When  the  cloud  is  scattered. 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 
When  the  lute  Is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not ; 
A\1ien  the  lips  have  spoken. 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 


■^ 


& 


AND  ESTRANGEMENT. 


225 


-a 


As  music  and  s[)lendor 

Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute,  — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled. 

Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest ; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 

To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 

0  Love  !  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  liier  ? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  ; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee. 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter. 

When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

Percy  B^sshe  Shelley. 


TAKE,   O,   TAKE  THOSE   LIPS  AWAY. 

FROM   "  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.' 

Take,  0,  take  those  lips  away, 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  ; 

But  my  kisses  bring  again. 

Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain. 

Hide,  0,  hide  those  hills  of  snow 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears. 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears  ! 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free. 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

SHAKESPEARE  and  JOHN  FLETCHER. 


I  LOVED  A  LASS,    A  FAIR  ONE. 

I  LOVED  a  lass,  a  fair  one, 

As  fair  as  e'er  was  seen  ; 
She  was  indeed  a  rare  one, 

Another  Sheba  Queen  ; 
But  fool  as  then  I  was, 

1  thought  she  loved  me  too. 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 


Her  hair  like  gold  did  glister. 

Each  eye  was  like  a  star, 
She  did  surpass  her  sister 

Which  past  all  others  far  ; 
She  would  me  honey  call. 

She  'd,  0,  she  'd  kiss  me  too, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

In  summer  time  to  Sledley, 

lly  love  and  I  would  go,  — 
The  boatmen  there  stood  ready 

lly  leva  and  I  to  row  ; 
For  cream  there  would  we  call. 

For  cakes,  and  for  prunes  too. 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

Many  a  merry  meeting 

My  love  and  I  have  had  ; 
She  was  my  only  sweeting. 

She  made  my  heart  full  glad  : 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

Like  to  the  morning  <lew, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  nie, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

And  as  abroad  we  walked. 

As  lovers'  fashion  is. 
Oft  as  we  sweetly  talkeil. 

The  sun  wouUl  steal  a  kiss  ; 
The  wind  upon  her  lips 

Likewise  most  sweetly  blew. 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  mc, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

Her  cheeks  were  like  the  cherry. 

Her  skin  as  white  as  snow. 
When  she  was  blithe  and  merry. 

She  angel-like  di<l  show  ; 
Her  waist  exceeding  small, 

The  fives  did  fit  her  shoe. 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

In  summer  time  or  winter. 

She  had  her  heart's  desire  ; 
I  still  did  scom  to  stint  her. 

From  sugar,  sack,  or  fire  ; 
The  world  went  round  about, 

No  cares  we  ever  knew. 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

As  we  walked  home  together 

At  midnight  through  the  town, 

To  keep  away  the  weather, 

O'er  her  1  'd  cast  my  gown  ; 


-^ 


[& 


226 


POEMS  OF  niSAPPOINTMEXT 


~Qi 


^2^ 


No  colli  my  lovo  should  foul, 

Whate'er  tho  hcavons  ooulil  ilo, 

But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  loft  inc, 
Faloro,  lero,  loo. 

Like  (loves  wo  would  bo  billing, 

Anil  clip  and  kiss  so  fast. 
Yet  slio  would  bo  unwilling 

That  I  should  kiss  the  lust ; 
They  'ro  Judas  kisses  now, 

Since  that  they  proved  untrue  ; 
For  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

To  maiden's  vows  and  swearing, 

Henceforth  no  credit  give. 
You  may  give  them  the  hearing,  — 

Hut  never  them  believe  ; 
Tliey  are  as  false  as  fair, 

Unconstant,  frail,  untrue  ; 
For  mine,  alas  I  hath  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

'T  was  I  that  paid  for  all  things, 

'T  was  other  dnink  the  wine  ; 
I  cannot  now  i-ecall  things, 

Live  but  a  fool  to  pine  : 
'Twas  I  that  beat  the  Imsh, 

The  biiils  to  othei's  Hew, 
For  she,  alas  !  hath  loft  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

I  f  ever  that  Dame  Nature, 

For  this  false  lover's  sake. 
Another  pleasing  creature 

Like  unto  her  would  make  ; 
Let  her  remember  this. 

To  make  the  other  true. 
For  this,  alas  I  hath  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

No  riches  now  can  raise  me. 

No  want  make  me  despair. 
No  misery  amaze  me. 

Nor  yet  for  want  I  caix)  ; 
I  have  lost  a  world  itself. 

My  earthly  heaven,  adieu  ! 
Since  she,  alas  !  hath  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 


VTHY  SO  PALE  AND  WAN? 

Why  so  pala  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  jwle  ?  — 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her. 

Looking  ill  provail  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 


Wliy  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner ! 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ■ 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her. 

Saying  nothing  do  't  > 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  .' 

Quit,  ipiit,  for  .shame  !  this  will  not  move. 

This  cannot  take  her  ; 
If  of  hei-self  she  will  not  love. 

Nothing  can  make  her  : 

The  devil  take  her  ! 

SIK  JOH.-J  SUCKLING. 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  LOVER. 

I  wii.i,  go  tiack  to  the  great  sweet  mother. 

Mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea. 
I  will  go  down  to  her,  I  and  none  other. 

Close  with  her,  kiss  her,  and  mix  her'w  ith  mo  ; 
Cling  to  her,  strive  with  her,  hold  her  fast. 
0  fair  white  mother,  in  days  long  past 
Born  without  sister,  born  without  brother, 

Set  free  my  soul  as  thy  soul  is  free. 

0  fair  green-girdled  mother  of  mine, 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  rain, 
Thy  sweet  hanl  kisses  are  strong  like  wine, 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain  ! 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  waves. 
Find  mo  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves. 
Those  pure  cold  popnlous  graves  of  thine, 

Wroughtwithout  haiul  in  a  world  without  stnin. 

1  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships. 
Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the  tide  ; 

My  lips  will  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lijKs, 

I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  subside ; 
Sleep,  and  not  know  if  she  be,  if  slie  were, 
Filled  full  with  life  to  the  eyes  and  hair. 
As  a  rose  is  fultilled  to  the  rose-leaf  tips 

With  splendid  summer  and  perfume  and  pride. 

This  woven  raiment  of  nights  and  days. 

Were  it  once  cast  off  and  unwound  from  me, 
Naked  and  glad  would  I  walk  in  thy  ways. 
Alive  and  aware  of  thy  waves  and  thee  ; 
Clear  of  the  whole  world,  hidden  at  home. 
Clothed  with  thegreen,  and  crowned  with  the  foanr, 
A  pnlse  of  the  life  of  thy  straits  and  bays, 
A  vein  in  the  heart  of  the  streams  of  the  sea, 

ALC.EKNO.N  CH.VKLES  SWLNBURNE. 


OUTGROWN. 

Nay,  you  wrong  her,  my  friend,  she  "s  not  fickle  ; 

her  love  she  has  simply  outgrown  : 
One  can  read  the  whole  matter,  translating  her 

heart  by  the  light  of  one's  own. 


^ 


^&- 


AND  ESTRANGEMENT. 


227 


.r^ 


Can  you  bear  me  to  talk  with  you  fiankly  ?  There 
is  much  that  my  heart  wouKl  say  ; 

And  you  know  we  were  children  together,  liave 
quarreled  and  "  made  up  "  in  play. 

And  so,  for  the  sake  of  old  frii-ndslnji,  I  venture 

to  tell  you  the  truth,  — 
As  plainly,  perhajis,  and  as  bluntly,  as  1   might 

in  our  earlier  youth. 

Five   summers  ago,  when  you  wooed  her,  you 

stood  on  the  selfsame  plane. 
Face  to  face,  heart  to  heart,  never  dreaming  your 

souls  could  be  parted  again. 

She  loved  you  at  that  time  entirely,  in  the  bloom 

of  lier  life's  early  May  ; 
And  it  is  not  her  fault,  1  repeat  it,  that  she  does 

not  love  you  to-day. 

Nature  never  stands  still,  nor  souls  either  :  they 

ever  go  up  or  go  down  ; 
.\nd  hers  has  been  steadily  soaring,  —  but  Iiow 

has  it  been  with  your  own  ? 

She  has  struggled  and  yearned  and  aspired,  — 
grown  purer  and  wiser  each  year  ; 

The  stars  are  not  farther  above  you  in  yon  lumi- 
nous atmosphere  ! 

For  she  whom  you  (Towned  with  fresh  roses, 
down  yonder,   tive  summers  ago. 

Has  learned  that  the  first  of  our  duties  to  God 
and  ourselves  is  to  grow. 

Her  eyes  they  are  .sweeter  and  calmer  ;  but  their 

vision  is  clearer  as  well  : 
Her  voice  has  a  tenderer  cadence,  but  is  jjure  as 

a  silver  IjcII. 

Her  face  has  the  look  worn  by  those  who  with 
God  and  his  angels  have  talked  : 

The  white  robes  she  wears  are  less  white  than 
the  spirits  with  whom  .she  has  walked. 

And  you  '   Have  you  aimed  at  the  highest  ?   Have 

you,  too,  as]iired  and  prayed  ? 
Have  you  looki'd  upon  evil  unsullied  ?    Have  you 

eon<|uercd  it  iindismayed  ? 

Have  you,  too,  giown  purer  and  wiser,  as  the 
months  and  the  years  have  rolled  on  ? 

Did  you  meet  her  this  morning  rejoicing  in  the 
triumiih  of  victory  won  ? 

Nay,   hear  me  I     The   truth  cannot  harm  you. 

When  to-day  in  her  presence  you  stood. 
Was  the  hand  that  you  gave  her  as  white  ami 

clean  as  that  of  her  womanhood  ? 


B-^- 


Go  measure  youi'self  by  her  standard.    Look  back 

on  the  years  that  have  fled  ; 
Then  ask,  if  you  need,  why  she  tells  you  that  tlie 

love  of  her  girlhood  is  dead  ! 

Slie  cannot  look  down  to  her  lover  :  her  love  like 

her  soul,  aspires  ; 
lie  nuist  stand  by  her  .side,   or  above  her,  who 

would  kindle  its  holy  fires. 

Now  farewell  !  For  the  sake  of  old  friendship  I 
have  ventured  to  tell  you  the  truth, 

As  plainly,  perhaps,  and  as  bluntly,  as  1  miglit 
in  our  earlier  youth. 


ALAS  I   HOW  LIGHT  A  CAUSE  MAY  MOVE- 

FRO.M   "THE  LIGHT  OF  lllli   tIAkllM." 

Alas  !  how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  that  love  !  — 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  has  tried. 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 

That  stood  the  storm  when  waves  wore  rough. 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off. 

Like  sliips  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  heaven  was  all  tran<iuillity  ! 

A  something  light  as  air,  —  a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken,  — 
0,  love  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  has  .shaken  ! 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin  ; 
And  eyes  foi-get  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  .said  ; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone. 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like  broken  rdouds,  —  or  like  the  stream. 
That  snuling  left  the  mountain's  brow. 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  .sever, 
Yet,  ei-e  it  reach  the  plain  below, 

Ureaks  into  floods  that  part  forever. 

O  you,  that  have  the  charge  of  Love, 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound, 
As  in  the  Fields  of  Bliss  above 

lie  sits,  with  flowerets  fettered  round  ;  — 
Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  him  clings. 
Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings  ; 
For  even  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  their  light. 
I^iki'  that  celestial  bird,  — whose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  Eastern  skies,  — 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when  at  rest, 

Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies  ! 

THOIIAS  Moore 


-3 


e-:- 


228 


POEMS  OF  DISAPPOINTMENT 


-a 


AUX  ITALIEKS. 

At  Paris  it  was,  at  tlie  opera  tlioro  ; 

And  slip  looked  like  n  queeu  iu  a  book  that 
night. 
With  tho  wreath  of  pearl  in  her  raven  hair, 

And  the  brooch  on  her  breast  so  bright. 

Of  all  tho  operas  that  Verdi  wrote. 

The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Trovatore  ; 

And  JIario  can  soothe,  with  a  tenor  note, 
Tho  souls  iu  purgatory. 

Tho  moon  on  tlio  tower  slept  soft  as  snow  ; 

And  who  was  not  thrilled  in  tho  sti-.ingest  way, 
As  we  hcanl  him  sing,  whilo  tho  gius  burned  low, 

"  Non  H  scordar  di  me  "  ? 

The  emperor  there,  iu  his  box  of  state. 

Looked  grave  ;  as  if  he  had  just  then  seen 

The  red  llag  wave  from  tho  city  gate. 
Whore  Ids  onglos  in  bronie  had  been. 

The  empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her  eye  : 

You  'd  have  said  that  her  fancy  had  gone  hick 
again. 

For  one  nunneut,  under  the  old  blue  sky. 
To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 

Well !  there  in  our  front-row  box  we  sat 
Together,  my  bride  betrothed  and  I ; 

My  giize  was  fixed  on  my  opera  hat. 
And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 

And  both  were  silent,  and  botJi  were  .sad  ;  — 
Like  a  queen  she  leaned  on  her  full  white  anu, 

With  that  regnl,  indolent  air  .she  had  ; 
So  confident  of  her  charm  ! 

1  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking  then 
Of  her  former  lord,  good  sou!  that  ho  was, 

Who  died  the  richest  and  roundest  of  men. 
The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

I  hope  that,  to  get  to  the  kingilom  of  heaven. 
Through  a  nceiUc's  eye  he  had  not  to  pass  ; 

1  wish  him  well  for  the  jointure  given 
To  mv  ladv  of  t.'nrabas. 


Of  that  muslin  dress  (for  the  eve  was  hot) ; 

And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its  golden  chain  ; 
And  her  full  solt  hair,  just  tied  in  a  knot. 

And  falling  loose  again  ; 

And  the  jasmine  tlowor  in  hor  fair  young  breast ; 

(0  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that  jasmine  flower  I) 
And  the  one  bird  singing  alone  to  his  nest  ; 

And  tho  one  star  over  the  tower. 

I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and  strife. 
And  the  letter  that  brought  nio  back  my  ring  ; 

And  it  all  seemed  then,  iu  tho  waste  of  life. 
Such  a  very  little  thing  ! 

For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the  hill. 
Which  the  .sentinel  cypress-tree  stands  over  : 

And  1  thought,  "  Were  she  only  living  still. 
How  1  could  forgive  her  and  love  her  I" 

And  I  swear,  as  1  thonghtof  her  thus,  in  tliat  hour. 
And  of  how,  after  all,  old  tilings  are  best, 

That  1  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmine  flower 
Which  slie  used  to  wear  in  her  breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so  sweet, 
It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  mo  cold  ! 

Likcthe  scent  tliat  stCiUs  from  the  crumbling  sheet 
Where  a  nuiinmy  is  half  unrolled. 

And  1  turned  and  looked  :  she  was  sitting  there. 
In  a  dim  box  over  the  stage  ;  and  drest 

In  that  muslin  dress,  with  that  full  soft  hair. 
And  that  jasmine  iu  her  breast  ! 

I  was  here,  and  she  was  there  ; 

And  tho  glittering  horseshoe  curved  bet  ween  !  — 
From  my  bride  betrothed,  with  her  raven  hair 

And  her  sumptuous  scornful  mien. 

To  my  early  love  with  her  eyes  downcast. 
And  over  hor  primrose  face  tlie  shade, 

(In  short,  from  the  future  back  to  the  past,) 
There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future  bride 
j      One  moment  1  looked.    Then  1  stole  to  the  door, 
I  travei-sed  the  passage  :  and  down  at  her  side 
I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 


Meanwhile,  1  was  thinking  of  my  fii'st  love  My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music's  strain. 

As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught  for  yeai-s ;  Or  something  which  never  will  be  exjirest. 

Till  over  my  eyes  tliere  began  to  move  Had  brought  her  liack  from  the  grave  again. 

Something  that  felt  like  tears.  With  tlie  jasmine  in  hor  breast. 


I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  wore  last  time. 
When  westood  'neath  the  cypress-trees  together. 

In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  cliiue. 
In  the  crimson  evening  weather  ; 


She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed  ! 

But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  loved  me  then  ! 
And  the  very  first  word  that  her  sweet  lips  said, 

JIv  heart  grew  vonthful  again. 

— ^ ff 


[& 


AND  ESTRANGEMENT. 


229 


■a 


u- 


The  marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 

Slie  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and  handsome  still ; 
And  but  for  her —  well,  we  '11  let  that  pass  ; 

.She  may  marry  whomever  she  will. 

But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love, 

With  her  primrose  face,  for  old  things  are  best ; 
And  the  llower  in  her  bosom,  I  prize  it  above 

The  brooch  in  my  lady's  breast. 

The  world  is  filled  with  folly  and  sin. 
And  love  must  cling  whore  it  can,  1  say  : 

For  beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win  ; 
But  one  is  n't  loved  every  day. 

And  1  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  women  andmen. 
There  's  a  moment  when  all  would  go  smooth 
and  even, 

If  only  the  deail  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back  and  bo  forgiven. 

But  0,  the  smell  of  that  jasmine  flower  ! 

And  0,  that  nnisic  !  and  0,  the  way 
That  voice  rang  out  from  the  donjon  tower, 
A'o'i  ti  scordar  di  me, 
Non  ti  scordar  di  me  I 

Robert  Bulwek  lvtton. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

Yeaks,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty,  — 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly,  — 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  the  county  ball  : 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle. 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

f  If  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing  : 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 

Andthenshedanced,  —  OHeaven  !  herdancing! 

Dark  was  her  hair  ;  her  hand  was  white, 

Her  voice  was  exfjuisitely  tender  ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender  ; 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile. 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows  ; 
I  thought 't  was  Venus  from  her  isle, 

And  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  sparrows. 


She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers, 

Of  Southey's  prose  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets, 
Of  danglers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles  or  the  last  new  bonnets  ; 
By  candlelight,  at  twelve  o'clock  — 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle  — 
if  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  .loumal. 
My  mother  laughed  ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling  : 
My  father  frowned  ;  but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean,  — 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic  ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic  ; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year. 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty  ; 
Her  second-cousin  was  a  peer. 

And  lord -lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three-per-cents. 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

0,  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks,  — 

Such  wealth,  such  honors  Cupid  chooses  ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks 

As  Baron  Kothschild  for  the  muses. 

She  sketched  ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading  : 
She  Vmtanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  lx)udoir  fading  : 
She  warbled  Handel  ;  it  was  grand,  — 

She  made  tlie  Catalina  jealous  : 
She  touched  the  organ  ;  I  couhl  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album  too,  at  home. 

Well  filled  witli  all  an  album's  glories,  — 
Paintings  of  butteiflies  and  Kome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories. 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter, 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Lceboo, 

And  recipes  for  elder-water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshiped,  bored  ; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was  noted  ; 
Her  poodle-dog  was  quite  adored  ; 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 


-^ 


0-: 


230 


POEMS  OF  mSAPPOINTMENT 


^ 


Slu>  liuifihod,  —  tmd  ovory  hfiirt  wus  glad, 

As  ir  llu'  taxes  woro  iibolislioil  ; 
She  IVmviU'd,       iiiid  I'ViTy  look  wus  sad, 

As  it  till'  opiTii  Hi'iv  doiuoUsluHi. 

Slu'  siuilwl  on  mimy  just  I'oi'  I'un,  — 

I  know  that  tlipiv  was  iiotliiiij;  in  it  ; 
1  was  llio  til'st,  tlu>  only  ono 

lli'i'  lu'art  had  thonjjht  of  fov  a  miniito. 
1  know  it,  lor  sho  told  mo  so, 

In  iihraso  wluili  was  diviiu'ly  nioldi'd  ; 
Shii  wroti'  a  elianninj»  hand,       and  O, 

I  low  swoi'lly  all  her  notes  wore  I'oUU'd  ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  oilier  loves,  — 

A  lillle  -low,  a  little  sliivel-, 
A  ros,'l,na  and  a  pair  of  .gloves, 

And  "  lly   Not  Vet."  upon  llie  river; 
.■^onu'  jealousy  of  sonn'  one's  heir, 

.Sonu'  hopes  of  dyinj;  luvken-hearted  ; 
A  uiiniatniv,  a  look  of  hair. 

The  usual  vows,  — and  then  we  parli'd. 

We  parted  ;  months  and  years  rolled  hy  ; 

We  nu't  ajp\in  four  suumu>i's  after. 
Onr  imrtinj;  was  all  soli  and  si{;h, 

(l\ir  uu'etiiij;  was  all  mirth  and  laughter  ! 
l''ov  in  my  heart's  most  seerot  eoU 

Theiv  luul  1)0011  many  olhor  lodgers  ; 
And  sho  was  not  the  Imll-niom's  bello, 

Uut  only  Mi's.  — Somothinj;—  1{oj^m's  ! 

\Vl\ntKOt'  MACKWOKVH  I'KAUlX 


\\'iioM  lirst  Hi'  love,  you  know,  wo  seldom  wed. 
'I'imo  rules  us  all.     .\ud  life,  indeed,  is  not 
'["he  thinj;  we  planned  it  out  oiv  hope  was  dead. 
.\nd  then,  we  women  eannot  elioose  our  lot. 

Mneh  must  bo  borne  whieh  it  is  liaixl  to  liear ; 
Mueh  j;iven  away  whieh  it  were  sweet  to  keep. 
Ood  help  us  all  !  who  need,  indeed,  his  eau'  : 
.\nd  yet,  1  know  the  Shepheni  loves  his  slieop. 

My  little  boy  begins  to  hibblo  now 
Tpon  my  knee  his  earlie.st  infant  prayer, 
lie  has  his  father's  eager  eyes.  I  know  ; 
.\nd.  they  say,  too,  his  mother's  sunny  hair. 

lint  when  he  .sleeps  and  smiles  upon  my  knee. 
And  1  ean  feel  his  light  bivath  eome  and  go, 
I  think  of  one  (Heaven  help  and  pity  me  !) 
Wlio  loved  me,  and  whom  I  loved,  long  ago  ; 

Who  might  have  been  — ah,  what  1  dai\<not  think ! 
We  aiv  all  ehanginl.     (>od  judges  for  us  best. 
Cod  help  us  do  our  duty,  and  not  shrink, 
.■\nd  trust  in  Heaven  humblv  for  the  i-est. 


Hut  hlaine  ns  women  not,  if  some  aiipear 
Too  cold  at  limes  ;  and  some  too  gay  and  light. 
Somegriel'sgnawdoop.   Some  woesareharil  to  bear. 
W'ho  knows  the  past  (  and  who  eanjudge  us  right ! 

Ah,  were  wo  judged  by  what  we  might  have  been. 
And  not  by  what  we  are  —  too  apt  to  fall  I 
My  little  ehild  ■     he  sleeps  and  smiles  between 
These  thoughts  aniline,     hi  heaven  we  shall  know 
all! 


"COME  NOT,  'WHEN  I  AM  DEAD." 

CoMK  not,  when  I  am  dead. 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  luy  grave, 
To  trample  limnd  my  fallen  lead. 

.\nd  vex  the  unhappy  dust  llum  wouKlst   not 

There  lei  llie  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  ery  ; 
liul  thou,  go  liy  1 

(."hild,  if  it  wem  thine  error  or  thy  erime 
I  eare  no  longer,  being  all  nnblest  ; 

Wed  whom  tlion  will,  but  I  am  siek  of  Time, 
And  1  desiiv  to  rest. 

Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  lue  where  I  lie  : 
t1o  bv,  go  bv  ! 


TRANSIENT  BEAUTY. 

As,  rising  on  its  purple  wing, 
The  iiiseet-queon  of  Kasteru  spring. 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kushmeer, 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near. 
And  leads  him  on  fixim  Mower  to  lUnver, 
A  weary  eliaso  and  wasted  hour. 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soul's  on  high. 
With  iwiiting  heart  and  tearful  eye  ; 
So  Ueauty  luivs  the  fuU-gitiwii  child. 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild  ; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  Teal's, 
Hegnii  in  folly,  closed  in  teal's. 
If  won,  to  eipial  ills  betrayed, 
AVoe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid  ; 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
Fiinn  infant's  play  and  man's  I'aprice  ; 
The  lovely  toy,  so  tieiwly  sought. 
Hath  last  its  charm  by  being  caught ; 
For  every  touch  that  wooed  its  stay 
Hath  brushed  its  brighest  hues  away, 
Till,  ehariu  and  hue  and  beauty  gone, 
"r  is  left  to  lly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing  ov  bleeding  bivast. 
Ah  !  wlieiY  shall  either  victim  ix>st  • 


tg. 


-^ 


A  XJJ  EHTllA  KGEMENT. 


2:u 


-a 


Can  tills  with  fiidwl  iiiiiioii  mM 
rrom  rose  to  tiilii)  an  belore  ( 
(Jr  Huauty,  l)lif{liti:(l  in  an  hour, 
Find  joy  witliin  her  broken  Ijowcr  ? 
No  ;  gayer  inscctH  ilutteriiig  l>y 
Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'ei-  llioMe  tliat  die, 
Ami  lovelier  things  have  nierey  shown 
To  every  failing  Ijut  their  own, 
And  every  woe  a  tear  can  elaiin, 
Except  an  erring  «i»ter's  Bhanie. 

LOKD  UVKOH. 


WOMAN'S  INCONHTANX'Y. 

I  l-oVKii  thee  once,  I  '11  love  no  more, 
Thine  he  the  grief  hb  in  tlie  hlaine  ; 
Thou  art  not  what  tlioii  WiUit  before, 
What  reaHon  I  should  be  the  sjinie  ( 
Me  that  can  love  unloved  again. 
Hath  better  store  of  love  than  l)rain  ; 
Ooil  Ben<l  nie  love  my  debts  to  ])ay. 
While  unthrifts  fool  their  love  away. 

Nothing  could  have  my  love  o'crthrown. 

If  thou  hadst  still  continued  mine  ; 
Yea,  if  tliou  ha<lst  remained  thy  own, 
I  might  perchance  have  yet  been  thine. 
l!ul  thou  thy  freedom  did  recall. 
That  if  thou  might  elsewhere  inthrall  ; 
And  then  how  could  I  but  disilain 
A  captive's  captive  to  remain  f 

When  new  desires  had  coii<|uered  thee. 
And  changed  the  object  of  thy  will. 
It  had  been  lethargy  in  me, 

Not  constancy,  to  love  thee  still. 

Yea,  it  had  Vjeen  a  sin  to  go 

And  jirostitute  affection  so. 

Since  we  are  taught  no  prayers  to  say 

To  such  as  must  to  others  pray. 

Yet  do  thou  glory  in  tliy  dioice. 

Thy  choice  of  his  good  fortune  boast ; 
I  '11  neither  grieve  nor  yet  rejoice. 
To  see  him  gain  what  I  have  lost ; 
The  height  of  my  di«<Iain  shall  be. 
To  laugh  at  him,  to  blush  for  thee  ; 
To  love  thee  still,  but  go  no  more 
A  lagging  to  a  beggar's  door. 

SIK  R0I;I:IIT  AVTO.N, 


THE  TRUE  AND  THE  FALSE. 

Wuri'.K  shall  the  lover  rest 
Whom  the  fates  sever 

From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 
Parted  forever  ? 


Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

.Sound.s  the  far  billow. 
Where  early  violets  die 

Under  the  willow. 
Kleu  loro 

Soft  shall  be  hi.',  pillow. 

There,  thiough  the  summer  day, 

<.'ool  streams  are  laving  : 
There,  while  the  tcm]iests  sway. 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving  ; 
There  thy  ir;st  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  forever. 
Never  again  to  wake 

Never,  0  never  ! 
Kleu  loro 

Never,  0  never  ! 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver. 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Iiuin,  and  leavi;  her  '. 
In  the  lost  Imttle, 

Dome  down  by  the  Hying, 
Where,  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying  ; 
Kleu  loro 

There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  (lap 

O'er  the  false-hearted  ; 
His  wann  blood  the  wolf  shall  lajj 

Krc  life  V;  parted  : 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

liy  his  grave  ever  ; 
Blessing  shall  h.-dlow  it 

Never,  O  never  ! 
Kleu  loro 

Never,  0  never  I 

SIK  waltek  sc/r 


LADY  ANN  BOTHWELL'S  LAMENT. 

A  S'.O'ITIsn  SfjtiO. 

Bai.ow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleifKi  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe  ; 
If  thou  'st  be  silent,  I  'sc  be  glad. 
Thy  maining  maks  my  h(«irt  ful  sad. 
lialow,  my  Ixjy,  thy  mither'sjoy  I 
Thy  father  breides  me  great  annoy. 

lliilov;,  my  hafte,  ly  slil  and  alcipc  I 
It  fjricvr,H  me  mir  lo  sec  Uicc  v'cipe. 

When  he  began  to  court  my  luvc. 
And  with  his  sugred  words  to  muve. 
His  faynings  fals,  and  flatt/^riiig  cheire. 
To  me  tliat  time  did  not  appeire  : 


-^ 


fl- 


232 


POEMS  OF  DISAPPOINTMENT 


n 


u 


But  now  I  soe,  most  cruell  hee, 
Cares  neither  for  ray  babo  nor  moo. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  I 
It  grieves  me  aair  to  see  thee  weipc. 

Ly  stil,  my  darlingo,  sleipe  awhile, 
And  when  thou  wakost  sweitly  smile  : 
But  smile  not,  as  thy  father  did, 
To  cozen  maids  ;  nay,  God  forbid  ! 
But  yette  I  fciro,  thou  wilt  gao  iieire, 
Thy  fatheris  hart  and  face  to  beire. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  I 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  tlie  weipe. 

I  cannao  chuse,  but  ever  will 
Be  hiving  to  thy  father  stil  : 
Whair-eir  he  gae,  whair-eir  he  ryde, 
My  luvo  with  him  maun  stil  abyde  : 
In  Weil  or  wae,  whair-eir  he  gae. 
Mine  hart  can  neir  depart  him  frao. 

JSalow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  I 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  sec  thee  wtipc. 

But  doo  not,  doe  not,  prettie  mine, 
To  faynings  fals  thine  hart  incline  ; 
Bo  loyal  to  thy  luver  trew, 
And  novir  change  liir  for  a  new  ; 
I  f  gude  or  faire,  of  hir  have  care, 
For  women's  banning  's  wonderous  sair. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  toeipe. 

Bairno,  sin  thy  cruel  father  's  gane, 

Thy  winsome  smiles  maun  eiso  my  paino  ; 

lly  babe  and  1  '11  together  live, 

Ho  '11  comfort  me  when  cares  doe  grieve  ; 

My  babo  and  I  right  saft  will  ly. 

And  ijiiite  forget  man's  cruelty. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleii>e  I 
It  grieves  vie  sair  to  sec  Hue  weipe. 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  falsest  youth 
That  over  Icist  a  woman's  mouth  ! 
I  wish  all  maids  be  warned  by  niee, 
Nevir  to  trust  man's  curtesy  ; 
For  if  wo  doe  but  ch.ance  to  bow, 
Thoy  '11  use  us  than  they  care  not  how. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  I 
li  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

ANONVMOt 


MY  HEID  IS  UKK  TO  REND,   'WILLIE. 

My  held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 
My  heart  is  like  to  break  ; 

I  'm  wearin'  alf  my  feet,  Willie, 
I  'm  dyin'  for  your  sake  1 


O,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 
Your  hand  on  my  brieet-bane,  — 

0,  say  ye  'U  think  on  me,  Willie, 
When  I  am  deid  and  gane  ! 

It  's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  will  ; 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
I.et  nie  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair. 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair  ! 

1  'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life,  — 
.\  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

.\  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart. 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair. 
Or  it  will  hur.st  the  silken  t%vine. 

Sac  Strang  is  its  despair. 

0,  wae  's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  we  thegithcr  met,  — 
0,  wae  's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set  ! 
0,  wae  's  mo  for  the  loanin'  green 

Whore  we  were  wont  to  gao,  — 
And  wae  's  me  for  the  destinie 

That  gart  mo  luvo  thee  sae  ! 

0,  diuna  niinil  my  words,  Willin, 

I  downa  seek  to  blamo  ; 
But  0,  it  's  hard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  .shame  I 
Het  tears  are  hailin'  ower  your  cheek. 

And  liailin'  ower  your  chin  : 
Why  wcop  ye  sae  for  worthlcssnoss, 

For  sorrow,  ami  for  sin  ? 

I  'm  weary  o'  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi'  a'  1  see, 
1  canna  live  as  1  ha'o  lived. 

Or  he  as.  I  should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine. 
And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white  cheek 

Ye  said  was  rod  langsyne. 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  h6i<l,  Willie, 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart  ; 
0,  hand  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 

Tliy  brow  ore  we  twa  pairt. 
Anitlier,  and  anither  yet !  — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break  !  — 
Fareweel  !  fareweel  !  through  you  kirk-yard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake  ! 


^- 


AND  ESTRANGEMENT. 


233^ 


The  lav'rock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid, 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  mcmlie 

Abuno  the  clay-oauUl  deid  ; 
And  this  green  turf  we  're  sittin'  on, 

Wi'  dew-draps  shimmcrin'  sheen, 
Will  hap  the  heart  tliat  luvit  thee 

As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  0,  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be  ; 
And  0,  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart. 

That  ne'er  luvit  ane  but  thee  ! 
And  O,  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mool; 

That  file  my  yellow  hair. 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair  ! 

William  Moth 


43-^- 


WiEii  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all, 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  and  strange, 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch, 
Weeded  and  worn  the  antdent  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary  ; 
I  would  tliat  I  were  dead  ! " 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried  ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  mom  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats. 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky. 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by. 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow  ; 
Thi^  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her  :  without  hope  of  change. 

In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn. 

Till  cold  winds  woke  the  fip-ay-eyod  mom 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 


She  only  said,  "The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary. 

And  I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! " 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blackened  waters  slept. 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small. 

The  clustered  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway. 
All  silver  green  with  gnarled  bark, 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  dark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low. 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
lu  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro. 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low. 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell. 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "1  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creaked. 
The  blue  fly  sung  i'  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  moldering  wainscot  shrieked, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  aliout. 

Old  faces  glimmered  through  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  awcan', 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  1 " 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense  ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbe.am  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then,  .said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  .she  said  ; 

She  wept,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

0  God,  that  I  were  daad  !  " 

ALFKKn  TKNNVsr>N 


^ 


rR- 


234 


POEMS  OF  DISAPPOIXTMEXT. 


-a 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

A  SKNTiNEL  uugel,  Sitting  high  in  glory, 
Heiuil  this  sluill  wjiil  ling  out  I'unu  l^^^■g!lto^y ;, 
'■  llttvo  meivy,  mighty  angel,  hoar  my  story  ! 

"  1  lovixl,  ■ — and,  blind  with  jwssioiiato  love,  I 

fell. 
Love  bixiught  me  down  to  death,  and  death  to 

Hell ; 
For  God  is  just,  and  death  for  sin  is  well. 

"  1  do  not  rage  against  his  high  decree, 
>i  or  for  myself  do  ask  that  grace  shall  be  ; 
But  for  my  love  ou  eartli  who  mourus  for  me. 

"  Great  Spirit !  Let  me  see  my  love  again 
And  comfort  him  one  hour,  and  I  were  lain 
To  pay  a  thousand  yeai-s  of  tiiv  and  paiu." 

Then  sjiid  the  pitying  angil,  "  Nay,  repent 
That  wild  vow  I     Look,  the  dial-tiuger  "s  bent 
Down  to  the  last  hour  of  thy  punishment  !  " 

But  still  she  wailed,  "  1  pray  thee,  let  me  go  ! 
1  cannot  rise  to  jwace  and  leave  him  so. 
0,  let  me  soothe  him  in  his  bitter  woo  !  " 

The  bi-azen  gates  ground  sullenly  ajar. 
And  upwanl,  joyous,  like  a  rising  star. 
She  rose  and  vanished  in  the  ether  far. 


But  soon  adown  the  dying  sunset  sailing. 
And  like  a  wounded  bii\l  her  pinions  trailing, 
She  llutteivd  Ixiek,  witJi  bi-oken-hearted  wailing. 

She  sobbed,  ' '  I  foimd  him  by  the  summer  sea 
Keelined,  his  head  upon  a  maiden's  knee,  — 
She  curleil  lus  hair  and  kissed  hun.    AVoe  is  inc ! " 

She  wept,  "Now  let  my  punishment  begin  ! 
1  have  K'en  fond  and  foolisli.     Let  me  in 
To  e.\piate  my  sorrow  and  my  sin." 

The  angel  answered,  "Nay,  sad  soul,  go  higher  1 
To  be  deceived  in  your  true  heart's  desire 
Was  bitterer  than  a  thousand  yeai-s  of  lire  ! " 

John  hav. 


DEATH  AND  THE   YOFTH 

"Nor  yet,  the  llowei-s  are  in  my  jiath. 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky  ; 
Not  yet,  my  heart  is  fidl  of  hope, 

1  cannot  bear  to  die. 

"  Not  yet,  I  never  knew  till  now 
How  pre>cious  life  could  be  ; 

My  heart  is  full  of  love,  0  Death  ! 
I  cannot  come  with  thee  !  " 

But  Love  and  Hope,  enchanted  twain, 
Passed  in  their  falsehood  by  ; 

Death  came  ngsiin,  and  then  he  sjiid, 
"I  'm  re'ady  now  to  die  !  " 

LETITIA  E.   LANU 


U^ 


-^ 


[f^- 


n 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


SORROW     AND     ADVERSITY. 


EETKOSPECTION. 

FROM    ■'  THE    PRINCESS." 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  desjmr 
liise  in  the  heait,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  hapjiy  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  fii-st  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  u))  from  the  under  world  ; 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge,  — 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  ca.sement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  sfiuare  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  dceji  a-s  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret,  — 
0  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

ALFRED  TEN.\ySO,V 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gi-ay  .stones,  0  sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 
0  well  for  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on. 
To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  rani-shed  hand. 
And  the  .sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 


Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

AVill  never  come  back  to  me. 


MOAN,  MOAK,  YE  DYIKG  GALES. 

Moan,  moan,  ye  dying  gales  ! 
The  saddest  of  your  tales 

Is  not  .so  sad  as  life  ; 
Nor  have  you  e'er  tjegan 
A  theme  so  wild  as  man, 

Or  with  such  sorrow  rife. 

Fall,  fall,  thou  withered  leaf ! 
Autumn  sears  not  like  grief, 

Xor  kills  such  lovely  flowers  ; 
More  tcnible  the  storai, 
More  mouniful  the  deform. 

When  dark  misfortune  lowers. 

Hush  !  hush  !  thou  trembling  lyre, 
Silence,  ye  vocal  choir. 

And  thou,  mellifluous  lute, 
For  man  .soon  breathes  his  last, 
And  all  his  hope  is  pa.st, 

And  all  his  music  mute. 

Then,  when  the  gale  is  sighing, 
And  when  the  leaves  are  dying. 

And  when  the  song  Ls  o'er, 
0,  let  us  think  of  those 
Whose  lives  are  lost  in  woes, 

W^hose  cup  of  grief  mns  o'er. 

IIE.NRV  neele. 


HENCE,  Ali  TE  VAIN  DELIGHTS. 

Hexce,  all  ye  vain  delights. 

As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  ! 

There  's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 

I  f  man  were  wise  to  .see  't 
But  only  melancholy, 
0,  sweetest  melancholy  I 


-& 


fl-. 


'2St5 


roHMS  ()>'  SOliliOfV  AND  DEATH. 


43- 


WVIwmo,  I'i.ia.Ml  nnim,  ,ui.l  IK,V1  ov.«. 
A  ai^ll  Mint  pioiviun  mortilU^, 
A  look  Hint  '»  liiMtoiioil  U.  tlio  ^•i'..\iml, 
A  timgiiti  olmiimil  »|>  willioul  ii  soiiml  ! 

Kouiituiii-liiimU  mill  luilliloiu  grovtM, 

IM«oiM  wliioli  |uiU'  |iHSftiim  liivoa  I 

MiK.iiliKlit  vvalk.H,  wlioii  nil  tlio  Ibwla 

All-  wuiiiily  IiohmihI  kiivo  li«b  uiiil  I'wl.i ! 

A  mi.liu^lil  lioll.  II  piiiiiiiKK'i"«"  1 

'I'litiMK  1110  till!  MKIIiiils  WO  I'lunl  iiimii  ; 

Tlioii  stinti'ti  oiir  lioiiiw  in  ii  still  gluoiiiy  viilloy  ; 

Nolliiiij; '»  no  ilninly  »\viuit  ii-i  lovoly  mi'iiiiu'lioij'. 


Ul.UW.    lIlllW,     I'llOll    WINTICU    WlNll 

llMiw.  Mow.  Hum  ttiiiloi'  wliul, 
Tlum  »il  not  ao  imkiiul 

Aa  mini's  iiijji'ntitiiilo  ; 
Tliy  tootli  in  iiol  ao  koon, 
Huomiao  llioii  Hit  not  soon, 

Altlioviffli  tliy  ImvhHi  Iw  nulo. 
llnijili-lio  I  aiiij;  lioigli  lio  !  nulo  tlio  git<ou  holly 
Moal  lViiiiiilalii)ii,Hl'iiif;iiiii^.  moat  loving  nunwl'olly 
Tlion.  lioigli  ho,  thu  holly  ! 
'I'hia  lil'o  ia  moat  jolly  ! 

Kttwjo,  Ih'oBp,  Ihon  hiltiM'  aky, 
'I'hon  iloat  not  hito  ao  nigh 

Aa  himolita  loigol  : 
Though  thou  tho  wiitoi-a  wi\ri>. 
Thy  ating  ia  not  ao  ahiup 

A»  tVioml  itinu'ml'i'ivil  not. 
lUighho  !  aing  lu'igh-ho  !  nnto  tliogivon  holly 
Mont  lVionilahi|>i»  I'liigniiig,  moat  lovingmoiv folly  : 
Thun,  lipigh-ho.  tht>  holly  ! 
Thia  lifp  ia  moat  joUy  ! 

SHAKVapUAHll. 


ODK  TO  A  NIOHTINOALK, 

INVf^ten  III  III*  «)M[hl|E  |4  itliv,  whvn  tiilt»iUv£  hvMU  |itlysU-«l  iWi-io* 
*Ki».  Ih»  |vi*<viikiM  i»f  hU  ilMlh.  wliiwh  h*l'l>eueil  *vM-n  Artui  ] 

Mv  htwrt  ivohos,  nuil  h  ilwway  numlmoas  jv^ina 

My  aenao,  «a  though  of  humlook  I  ln\»l  iln\uk, 
Ov  en>i>t  it'll  aomo  ilnll  o(>irttti  to  {Xw  iliixina 

One  minnto  )><iat,  tinil  l.<^th^l\^al■^\  h*il  aunk. 
'T  i»  not  thr\>ngh  onvy  of  thy  happy  hit, 

lint  boing  too  hftppy  in  thy  happiinwia, 
Thnt  (hou,  light-\vi\>g^(l  Ovvail  of  tho  titnw, 
Tn  aomo  molwliovia  plot 

Of  VxHvhon  giVK-n,  mul  ah«ilowa  nunilwildaa, 
Singtwt  of  Swinwuir  in  f\\llthriMit>Hl  «>««i, 


O  for  ft  ilrnnglit  of  vinliig.' 

Coolwl  »  Umg  Hgo  in  llio  iloup  .U'lvi-.l  .«rtli, 
Tiiating  of  Flora  iiiul  llm  country  gn'i'ii, 

liaiu'iMiiiill'iovi-nvaUong.omUiiiil'iu ill  Mill  111' 

0  for  a  himknr  lull  of  llm  wiiriii  South, 

Knll  of  Iho  Iruo,  Hio  Muahllil  llipponimi'. 
With  hoailoil  liiihliloa  winking  at  Iho  hiiiii, 
Ami  purplo-ataiuiNil  monlh, 

That  1  niiglililrink.anilloavothoworl.l  luiiii'ii. 
Ami  with  thi'K  faihi  away  into  tlio  foiral  .luiv  . 

Kaihi  far  iiwiiy,  iliaaolvo,  ami  iiiiite  forgil 

What  lliou  among  llio  loavoa  haat  uovit  known, 
Tho  wnariuoaa,  tlm  IVvnr,  anil  tlio  fi'ot, 

lloiv,  wluMo  nii'U  sit  ami  hoar  naoh  othnr  groan  ; 
Whoio  palay  alinkua  a  low  ami,  la.at  gray  hail's  ; 

Wlu'io  youth  growa  palo,  anil  apivlor  lliiu,  ami 
M«»  ; 
\Mio«>  hut  to  think  ia  to  ho  full  of  aorrow 
Ami  loailon-oyoil  iloapaira  ; 

Whoro  liiianty  oanuol  kooii  hor  UiHlrouH  oyoa, 
l>r  now  l.ovo  pino  at  llioiii  hoxouil  to  moiiow. 

Away  !  away  !  loi  1  will  ll>  to  llioo. 

Not  I'hari'otoil  hy  Uaoi'lina  ami  hia  panU. 
lint  on  tho  viowloaa  wiuga  of  I'ooay, 

Though  tho  ilnll  brain  porploxoa  ami  lolanla  : 
Alivaily  with  thoo  !  tomlor  ia  tho  night, 

Ami  haply  tho  nuoon-inoon  ia  on  hor  Ihioiio, 
iTuatolt'il  anmml  hy  all  Inr  atariy  taya  ; 
Hut  hoio  Ihoiv  la  no  light, 

Snvpwhul  from  lioavon  iawilhtho  hrooroa  hlown 
ThlHiugh  voiiluious  glooms  aiul  wiiuling  nuvaay 
waya, 

1  oannot  ao«i  what  lloweiii  aiv  at  my  foot, 

Norwiiat  aolt  inoonao  hanga  upon  Iho  Knigha  ; 
Itut,  in  oinlwlmM  ilarkuoas  guoaa  oai'h  swoot 

Whoivwith  tho  soaaonahlo  month  onilowa 
'l"ho  giaaa,  tho  thiokot,  ami  tho  fruit-tioo  wilil, 

Wliito  hawthorn  aiul  tho  jvastonil  oglnntiuo  ; 
Kaat- failing  violots,  i-ovoiwl  up  in  hvivoa  ; 
Anil  miil-May'a  ohloal  child, 

Tho  I'oiniug  muak-ivao,  t\ill  of  ilowy  wiiui, 
Tho  munnuroua  haunt  of  lUoa  on  auuimor  ovoa. 

Darkling  1  liaton  ;  ami  for  many  a  tinu> 

1  havo  IwMi  liiUf  in  lovo  with  oaaoful  Poath, 
("alloil  him  aoft  namos  in  many  a  muaM  iliymo. 

To  tako  into  tho  air  my  uniot  hivath  ; 
Now,  moiv  than  ovor,  aeoma  it  vioh  to  ilio, 

To  ooaao  uiwn  tho  miilnight,  with  no  (viin. 
Whilo  thou  art  \XMiring  forth  thy  aoul  ahixwil 
In  suoli  an  ooataay  ' 

Still  wouhlat  thou  aing,  ami  1  havo  o«ra  in  vain. 
To  thy  high  i'»n«iem  Kvome  »  soil. 

Thou  wast  not  Iwn  for  doath,  in>mort»l  Wnl ! 
No  liun|;vy  g»ner*fions  tixwd  tho*  down  ; 


^ 


Hninioiy  A. 


Mil'EllHirV^ 


^^ 


TIio  voico  I  bear  lliin  jMuming  iii^lil  waa  hoard 
III  aiicioiit  (luyn  by  oiii|)iiior  miil  iJuwn  : 

I'lii'tjapH  t)ii:  Wilftiiimi!  riijii){  lljiit  louiiil  ii  puUi 
'I'IiixukIi  Uic  null  Ijiiai-l  of  llutli,  wliuii,  hU-M  for 

Hill-  utooil  ill  tuum  uiiiiil  till-  ulimi  colli  ; 

'I'lii;  HiiiiKi  that  ofttiiiiiiH  hiith 
I  liiiniiud  iiiu^ii;  caiKinieiitii  o|ii:iiiiig  on  Ihii  foam 
Of  jyt'iilouii  BcuB,  In  faery  lundii  forlorn. 

l''oi|./rii  !  thi)  very  wonl  in  liko  a  hull, 

To  toll  iiic  back  from  then  U>  my  Hole  self ! 
AilnMi  !  till!  I'micy  cannot  chcicl  no  witll 

All  shii  in  faiiicil  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adiwi  !  lulicii  I   thy  plaintive  untlieni  fadeu 

I'ii.sl  tlie  near  meudowB,  over  t)ie  uliil  ulieuni, 
Up  the  liillitiili:  ;  ami  now  't  in  buried  dceji 
In  the  next  vallcygliuliw  ; 

Wb«  it  a  vijiion  or  a  waking  dream  f 
Fled  in  that  niuaic,  —  do  I  wake  or  ii\fi;\i  f 

)OMl(  KHATS, 


0,  poun  upon  my  soul  nfjain 

'I'hat  Huil,  uneurthly  utrain 
'I'hut  heeiiiii  from  oilier  worldn  to  'jdiiin  I 
'I'hUH  falling,  UiWuifi^  fn/in  afar. 
An  if  dome  nieliincholy  Btar 
iliui  mingled  with  her  light  her  iiighii, 

And  droppi;d  tliem  from  tin;  nklcK, 

No,  never  came  from  aught  In  low 

Thin  melody  of  woe, 
Tliiil  makcH  my  heart  to  overlhiw. 
Ax  from  a  tlioii«aiid  gunhing  Hpriiigit 
I'nknowii  before  ;  that  with  it  liriiign 
'I'hin  nanielens  light—  if  light  it  be    - 

That  veilB  the  world  I  see. 

For  nil  I  iir;e  around  me  weam 

Tint  hue  of  other  spheres  ; 
And  Bomelhing  blent  of  BmileH  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I  breathe. 
0,  nothing,  sure,  tlie  stars  beneatli, 
Can  mould  a  siwlness  like  \j)  this,  — 

80  like  angelic  bliss  ! 

80,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  'lay. 
When  the  last  lingering  ray 

Wl/jps  on  the  highest  cloud  t'l  play,  — 

80  thought  the  gentle  Uor-alie 

As  on  her  m.'iiden  revery 

first  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  sti.le 
In  music  to  her  soul. 

washihgtow  ai.ijtom. 


on'  IN  THIS  HTIIJ-Y  NIOHT, 

Opt  in  th«  stilly  night, 

KiB  ulumhei's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  : 
The  smiles,  the  tears. 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  tlien  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimmed  an<l  gone. 
The  rheerful  hearts  now  broken. 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

K,ie  slumber's  chain  has  Iwund  me, 
8ad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  linked  together 
I  've  seen  around  me  fall, 

liike  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  han'|uet-hall  descrtwl, 
Whose  lights  arc  (led, 
Whose  garlands  dea«l, 
An.l  all  but  he  rieparted. 
Thus  ill  thr^  stilly  night, 

y.n;  slumber's  chain  has  bound  mn. 
Had  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  mo. 

THOUAS   MOOI 


THOHB  EVENINO  HELLil. 

TiioHK  evening  bells  !  those  evening  hells 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  t'dls 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  thai  swet  time 
When  hist  I  heard  their  soothing  chiim:  '. 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away  ; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwidls. 
And  lieais  no  more  those  evening  hells. 

And  ivi  't  will  be  when  I  am  gone,  — 
Th.'it  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on  ; 
While  other  l)«rdfl  shall  walk  these  dells. 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells 


THK  KIJN  IS  WARM,  THE  BKY  Vi  C'l.KAIt. 

STANZAS  WKITTEM  IM  OEJEATIOW  WKAH  WAPI.eS 

TllK  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  ia  clear. 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  Wght, 
Dine  Isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
Tlie  purplij  iwon's  transparent  light  ; 


-^ 


ilas 


roKm  OK  aoKHiW  ano  luiArn, 


'ri\t>  iSl^v's  \\>ivv  itswlf  U  !n\lt  Uki>  vSk»I\|>hIo'», 
\Vitl>  jji\Hv>\  rtinl  |>v»nU>  «>>«  wwvls  ShMWU  i 

I  !«>(>  t\w  WI>\<V(  m>.\«  ll\<>  sIlvMV 

l.\k<>  Hjilvl  ili!is\>\\rtl  ill  M«i^!il»n\\\vw  tln\>\M\ ; 

Alas  !  I  U«v<>  «i>v  Uo|v  luxf  Uts^\llv, 

'fhi'  *,-«sv  >«  (uisUt.'UikVW  l\>\>uvl, 
A>\>1  walktHl  \v>lt»  \«>\\«i\l  _>i\>\vv  \'>\»\v\(rtl. 
Ni\>'  l\»»h>,  «w  \s>\v«M\  u>M'  U>v<s  >vm-  l<>isH»v 
Oth<\wi  \  Mv  \\\\\\\\\  Ovi>*>  s«n\«\uv< ; 
5<»\vU\«V}5  <>><\v  >>v\s  «>\\l  »\»U  UtV  ndsisiiw  ; 
"IV  «v>>  \\\M  oy\\\  U*»  l«H>«  »Uv*l«  iu  tM»KtUi>f  (Wivswvu'xv 

Wt  MOW  vlt«HV>U'  >ts<>lf  is  \HiM 
K\»>H  OS  tUi>  wilwls  OUk)  wauvw  »«x> ! 

\  vvv>Ul  \v>'  vU>\\«v  liKo  *  uu>l  oluUI, 
A»vl  \\«>i»  i«\vt»\  (Ui<  \itV  vv|\\'«>v 
WUioU  I  li*V(>  K\t\\<s  *«>l  \A't  <H«s(  Wv«\ 
'IMl  vU\«iU  \ik<<  sliH'j*  \Hvs''>'  "'•^■♦l  *^»  >«<>> 
A<vvl  \  >«is'>'  •>'«'*  >"  ''«*  «*vu\  aiv 
My  oh<vk  j;''*>^v  »vUI,  w\vl  Ut\«>-  ih«>  s<n* 


MV  SHIP, 

IV»\V\  t\x  tl»i«  \vl\*vvxvi.  *»  th*  Sim  »!>vs  >U»\v>v, 
A»vl  (l\<>  vl,\vlvsU«'s  tuiitnli  *H»I  vlrtst  »uti  vlh» 

\VUi>»v  »I«\NS,  \iV.<>  liUt^S»  U<>  l»<MU|ui%, 

Au.i  •,' 


4v. 


O,  ii\ii)o  wiw  n  vtwsiil  \<f  sl\vuj;lli  mill  Initli, 

IIpi'  suits  winv  whito  twt  it  ,vi>«»j;  lim\li's  ll(i»i><i, 
Sl>iv  sHilmi  Kvivj}  siooo  t\\»»  ttiii  l>mi  mI"  \\«ill\, 

llov  IHHStot' \V«a  I.OVC,  «H\l  l\<'l- IIIMHO  Wtts  ISnUHV 

Auil  Uki>  «U  K'IomhI  iti\il  Ihvi>\iioi«»s  tlitiv^, 

Sllli  ft>>li'il  ill  vlislnUi'o  lU\vl  lliUlllt  «W«y,     - 
Wttll  UMly-  U  l\VH\l\ll>  >\|'s\n\\V_V  wiiv^ij* 
Kltl>  lltVI(<Hl,  S\VAU'l(kt>,  HvloWtl  ll)l>  Uv,V, 

»\>l'l'\i»,»;  with  l\o>'  i>  l»wi»\is  l\\vtj;|it. 
All  I  Utul  ){ttt IikixhI  I>y  y«>i^  nl'  jviiii ; 

A  l\'i>\|>li\>js  )v»t«<>  tv>  \iw  y\\mU\  I'Vh', 
Ami  still  I  \v«t»>U  IW  ln>>-  l«ok  t»j{t\i» ;  - 

\Y«tv'l\  ft\\\>i  tUo  <v«vliiwt  \«v>minj;  lijjUt 
'rill  tU<>  |v«lo  siiXN  j;(i<>vi>  >i'<>i'  iKo  vlyin,i;  My, 

'IV  ».mv'l>  (\w  ,>;K>»m  W  Ucc  i'<iuv»»  wloio 
A>«»\>j;  (III'  isltuitls  whioli  >{«'«>  iIik  Iv»j'. 

UhI  »I«'  \>Mntvs  H>>t  yot.      slio  will  >\<>vo>'  >'>m«<< 
IV  )<litiUlo»  Hvy  <\Viw  i«iul  uvv  sniHt  )«>>»> ; 

A«>1  >»>  li««'l  s>\>ws  I>v\|>.>l<v4s  and  l\>i»l  Hud  tlH(«l\ 
As  I  woit  s>\vl  wait  >»«  (ho  l>v\»wv»\»o  s|ux»v, 

Ku»wi«>js  that  ^^^^^^^H\st  »«vl  tii\»o  a«il  stv\n» 
llnvvwtwkiHl  aHvl  sl\:»ttv>>xxl  \«y  K><\>u<s>«slv\\-k; 

MauK  «\>>\v«hIs  v>>v<>v  Hov  wastin^i;  I'wim, 
A»vt  Uo»~ sails a>v  ^att^>^^^l  awvl  slaiH^l  iu»l  ilaik, 

Uwt  thi>  tW<>  »H«H(vs  H)\  au>\  tUi>  tuW  svwt  viowiv. 

A>»1  t\\f  »laylvj{U«  l\xlU»\vsth<invj!l>t's  tvlijvsts— 
Au^l  still  wilK  tl»>  sailvM-s,  taiwinl  »u\l  lv>\>\n\, 

I  wail  vxn  tl><>  wl>an<^a  auvl  watvh  llu-  sUi|>s, 

A«vl  still  with  a  ^^ati^^H^v  that  is  )n>t  h»|x\ 
Kvvf  v»iu  »\\\\  <'>«i<ly  it  Umij;  l>atl<  Iw^Mv 

I  sit  »\«  the  «\ntj»h  sh»\(vV  twky  »^^>^^v 
Ami  \v»toh  tv>  siH>  ir  «\y  *hi)>  kvtutvs  itt. 


AfWK   IN    t-MK  tXKSiKKW 

A>\VK  i«  tl\(>  >Uv\wt  I  lo>0  tv>  vi>l<\ 

\Vitl>  tl»<>  siWt  l^iishlvv  sUmu'  I\v  n\y  sivW  ; 

\VI\.M»  tho  SVMWWS  wflilV  tW  Svx«l  o"w^*st. 

Auvl>  si>-k  ixf  tlvt>  )M\vs<>nt,  \  oUtvj;  tv>  th«>  iv»st ; 
WUon  tU<<  <*yx>  is  s»tll\)stsl  with  t\'^<vtt\U  txxsis, 
Kv\\>»  tlu>  r>«ul  \\s\vll<s'tivv«s  \\t"  tWw<-»-  yiv<»«» , 
A«vl  Al\a»U>ws  >\t'  thiiv,tfi  that  l>aw  Uuvjt  *i»«v  tl«l 
KUl  »>YW  th«>  h)>«ht.  Ivk<>  th<>  j;h>vsts  \Mf the  vWil.  — 
l^'Vsht  \i!iiv\»ks  v>«' j«U\)v  that  vaoishisl  tv><x  S\>>\t>  ; 
IVaj -klivaws.  that  vlo\v«-t<sl  <<iv  uianhvHxrs  «i>>\\»  j 
Attaoh\H«\ts  hy  t!»to  vw  titls^)lvyHl  >vt>  ; 
VV\v>\v«»u\«>s  vvt"  (Nat-ly  vlays  Uxst  >«  m  ; 
A<»>l  uvy  tvstivv  U»vl,  wh>w  nva^Hk)  »»*»«<' 


4< 


IV  ' 


HOUUOIV  AND  A/jy/aiH/'/y. 


2'.'/.)  'r 


b- 


'Ctiir  Imiiif  lit  iity  iMIiIUihA  ;  t)i«  iiuiiitlM  of  (/ly 

All  l.)(«  fnumiiiiis  mill  tUAWM  iil  (Jiat  (nij/tM/oHK  ti/<i/r 
Wli«(i  U«!  fwili/igs  WW*  yomii^  «//'!  (.)/<:  w<//l'l 

(yik<!  t,(i<!  f»<!i*)i  Iwy/wm  'yf  I^Mii  iiiiMiiUin  l/>  view  ; 
All,  all  now  formkitii,  (nrnntU-.n,  (nn-^'iiii; '. 

A/I'l  J,  a  \llllt;  i:Xi\i:  IHIIIlrllltilUiA  1)1  I II II II',, 

A)y  liif(l)  «!((«  hImiiiUiiiijI,    my  ii;iiA   «/;(*  ii;»- 

<l(/;<'!, 
Aw««/7  "Cttll  f.l(at  is  H/i'li;)'  lli':  sun,   - 
VVilJi  Dial  w<4;ii!*«  of  l««;t   y/t)i/;J)  ii/i  »irniiiii;r 

limy  m'Mi, 
1  (ly  l/j  U)<!  i\t:tvtl1.  nfiil  fliilii  liiii.li. 

Mar  i/j  i\ii:  i^fMiX  I  \i,'/i:  Uj  (i/l«, 
Wit!)  lie:  »il<!/il  I'/iJsli-Uy  al///i<:  t/y  Hiy  «i/l<;f 
VVIiKii  itift  wi|/l  lurdioil  (/f  tl)i)i  wiiaris/zH//;  l)f<;, 
Willi  its  >i<«i«*  of  munissiAiiii,  li'imifiiiiiii,  aii/l 

st/ifft, 
'l'i»«   (/r<(ii/l  man's   frown,  mul   tli/j   Iwk;  i/iao'a 

f«ar, 
'I'll/!  ni'/iriwyti  hits')!,  K-iiif  t'"'  aufffif'tr'e  t<«r, 
An'i  iii'AW:,  mill  iinMiinitnti,  umi  fAnf.ii'i'A,  ao/l 

MIy, 
iJinjc/wi  i(i<!  l/<  friii8iiij({  ad'l  'lack  iiiAuiirinAy  ; 
WtiKii  my  SDmnii  ia  foil,  ai/'l  iny  tli>/iiglit«  <trft 

Awl  iny  w/iil  is  »il/:k  wit.li  t.li<:  ifniitmnn'H  xij/li,— 
O,  tli/:H  ).)i<:f<!  in  fi-JH-Aiiiii,  mill  j'/y,  a/i')  j/ii/l/:, 
Afar  id  tt«!  •l/jWfrt  al'/fi<!  t/(  »i*l/; ! 
'I'll';)'-  i»  r!«|;l.iir<:  f/i  y'aillt  oo  tlo;  ';liaf()J;l(ij(irt/!'-yl, 
Ali/I  t/;  l«;ri)|i|  av/ay  with  tli/i  <'a((Ii;'s  aju-i/l, 
Witt)  t)i«  lU-sttU-fmis/Ui  fSn-.Wk  Ui  i/iy  iiad'l,  - 
'I'lx;  '/nly  law  of  tlift  Mirtmtt  fMni  '. 

Afar  i»  t.fi<!  <I«w;rt  I  lovft  to  ri<l/;, 

Willi  liift  «il(;nt  hiitshiioy  niow  fiy  my  Mn, 

Away,  a.way  from  tin;  'Iwftllinj^i  <i(  iinrii, 

l',y  llii;  wll'l  <lw;f's  fiaiiril,  l/y  tli<:  (/iiffalo's  fipiii  ; 

liy  vall/;ya  iKinniM  wficru  thft  oriW  fiUyv, 

Wli<rr<!  till!  ({Till,  til';  fpiwill'i,  a«/l  Ukj  hmiJ-in-Mnt. 

Vf-ii'm, 
Aw!  tJie  k'i'lii  ari'I  ftUn'l  iinhiinteJ  rwilin/; 
I5y  Dili  f)ki(t«  of  (fray  f/;r'»!l  o'eriimiK  with  wlW 

ylH<! ; 
Wliirm  th/!  i:li<fi\iitii1.  iirowm^n  al  f««i/*  in  hi»  wccl, 
An'l  iUi:rhi:rAinrt!):  i^uiiinU  iiiiiv.hh-A  in  tin-.  HikA, 
And  Itift  niighly  riiSuiii'Mon  wallows  at  will 
In  till;  f>;n  wSii'.Tit  t\ii:  wil'l  axti  ix  'irinkin;^  litis 

till. 

Afar  in  thu  <l/«»rrt  (  l//V«  ro  »i/!*, 
Willi  ili/j  sil/rnt  (Jiusli-lxiy  al//n«  t/y  my  tsiil/;, 
0'i;f  tde  l/rown  karr'yv,  wlntr*  tin;  l»l«atin({ 'rry 
Of  III/;  BidinfflKik'ii  fawn  Hfiumlx  i<lalntiy';ly  ; 
An'l  till!  tiniofOH»')iiaj(i^'»  sliiill  wli)?,llin({ n«ij{li 
I*  liirar'l  liy  l)i«  fountain  at  twilijjjit  (jray  ; 


W)ii;ri;  till!  ii«li)«  wanUmly  t/rtwflt  (lit  /nam-. 
Wild  wil'l  lioof  lujiHriiijt  til*  'l<:«<ilat<-,  |/)«in  ; 
Ami  Id/-,  ))<-*lf','/l/->l  mUiih  oiki  tin;  wmtf*: 
iifn-j'/lit  liki!  a  doiwman  wd//  t(av<:l»  in  daAt<;, 
IliMiin  away  1/;  tl/<;  li//;/ii;  </f  li/tr  /'ml, 
Vliuiif,  kIi/s  anil  d«r  niaUj  day*;  vvnumi  ld/;ii  n«»t, 
Ka*  )ii/l  f/'im  lli«  (/itil««)  f,luiiili:ii;i'it  t'lKw 
ill  till;  jwtdliflw  '(/;(/ld*  of  Idi!  \Mi:iifA  iintrifi. 

A  fill  ill  tilt;  'll«/;rt   (   )oV<;  t/i  /j/|/;. 

Wild  Id'-.  iiil/!«l  IJiisd-lioy  aloni!  t;y  my  Mi;, 

Away,  away,  in  td/j  wil'l/rin'iws  ya*l 

Vi'iii;ii;  Id'!  wliit/i  man'i!  f'M  dalli  n';Vir(  J'tt«e'-'l, 

All')  id': 'jniyifC'-/)  < 'irniiiin.  oi  li<r'di)an 

(laid  raf'-ly  ''r'/ws"-/)  wild  din  rovinff  <lan,  - 

A  ii;{/)iiii  '/f  'rnijiliii'^M!,  dowlinj/  an'l  'Icar, 

Wlii/:l)   man   dald  ninmiioinA  from  fmiiiiii'  uiiii 

t-tir  ; 
Wiiii'ii  Id'!  snak':  an'l  td«  lizar'l  inlialiil  alon" 
Wild  Id':  Iwilixlil  liat  fcmi  id':  yuwiiiiiii  >.u,u' 
Wd'-r'!  nmm,  nor  li';rii,  nor  ednid  tak'fl*  fc/)., 
Hay:  {niMinoiiit  iiioriiK  idal  (/i'-*':/-  tl":  f'y/l  ; 
An')  III/:  iiHU;i-iiif\oir  for  f'yl  an'l  '(rink, 
l«  ill':  |'il{{(ini  t  ■,M(ik  ; 

A  liffioll  'if 'Ic  I' :, 

.'i"l  /i('J'lin<{  l/r 

Wd/:r':  w/l(fy  /"'ol,  noi  it"i,i,Ui4ii,  )/,i.«l, 

Nor  Ir'-A,  n'/r  ':Iopi'),  nor  mi<ty  /nonnl, 

A)'|K««r>i,  t/i  r';f»'«d  tin:  »/:diii((  ':y<! ; 

l/iil  til':  li«r«:n  isiftd  an')  tin:  imniiiiK  nicy. 

Am)  til':  ('lank  iioii'//iii,  roiiii'l  am)  foiiwi, 

HfiiifMi,       io\ii  '/f  livinj(  iiij^dl  '/I  viHini, 

l\wi  d'-i<:,  wdil':  id'!  ni;{dtwin'l»  /'inn')  m«  uijffi, 

Am)  llii:  etarB  durn  l/rit/dl  in  tti<:  mi>)ni((lit  leky. 

As  )  «il  ajiart  dy  tde  linntrX  iiUiiii;, 

),ik':  KJijad  at  )('/r<;)''»  ':ay';,  al/in/:, 

"A  utill  >:nial)  vnim"  •■jiHn»  tiinmi/fi  tli»;  wid) 

II/&.I;  a  tatd'rr  'y/nicili»i<{  diit  fr'Afn)  ';di)')/, 

W)ii':d  daniiilK!*  intU^numi,  wratd,  am)  t'«r, 

HayiiiH,  -   Man  in  ')i»t«»t,  init  Oo*)  i>,  n/:af  ! 

'/«//M*5  ('*)ll',(,fc 


MA.iifi'nv  in  Mii'.y.ir/ , 

fim/.A'l  Uoimri-ii  oftiu;  Worl/),  from  wdow:  C'/wm 

Hfirings 
'I'd/!  i'lAM.ni-y  am)  ('ow':r  i/f  Kin{f«, 
llwwl  till!  )£/iyal  Wo*  my  Hiilti;rinir  »ift((*  ; 

Am)  t/!!</:h  my  t/injfiU!,  tdat  <;y<;r  ')i/)  '/inlini; 

It*  fa/fiiltl**  In  Tmld't  Ki^/ajidi/:  J,in<!, 

To  tra/;k  td'j  TnauKms  of  tdy  f'/ias  an')  mi/i/-. 


N'at'ir";  ami  law,  i/y  Idy  Uivin*  I,>'!/,'r<',« 
'Tdc  '/nly  )!/i"l  of  )Sij^it*//«»  ll//ya)li/:; 
Wild  tdi8  'lim  lhMi':iii  invftty/l  im:  : 


.-li 


a- 


240 


IVUMS  OK  SORSOir  AND  DEATH. 


■^ 


■\Vitii  it  tlio  saciinl  Sceptor,  riujilo  Uobo, 
Tho  Holy  Uuotiou,  luul  tho  UoyhI  tilolv: 
Y»t  oiu  I  U'voUod  with  tho  lifo  olMoli. 

Tho  fioiTost  Furies,  that  do  ilivily  troiul 
Upon  my  Oi'iof,  my  Gray  Pis-crowiuVl  Head, 
Aro  thoao  that  owo  my  Bounty  for  thoir  Uitvul. 

Thoy  raisp  a  War,  and  Christon  it  TVii'  (^iiii,«, 
Whilst  sacrilegious  hands  havo  host  applause, 
riuudor  and  llunlor  ait>  tho  Kinjjvloni's  l^aws  ; 

Tyranny  Iwii-s  tho  Title  of  'J'tiMition, 
l!ovonj?>  and  Kohbory  ai\<  J{i-f\>riniilwn, 
l^ppit'ssion  gains  tlio  nanio  of  Ai/Mioi/rd/iim. 

My  loyal  Siibjoi'ts,  who  in  this  Imd  season 
Attend  mo  (by  tho  law  of  Ood  and  Uoason), 
They  dari>  imiioaoh  and  punish  for  High  Tivason. 

Next  at  tlio  Clergy  do  their  Kurios  fivwu  ; 

Pious  Kpisooiwey  must  go  down  ; 

They  will  dostiMy  tdie  Ci\)sier  and  tho  Civwn. 

t'hun'hmen  arp  chained  and  Schisniatieks  are 

freed, 
Mochanicks  pivaoh,  and  Holy  Fathei's  bleed. 
The  Civwn  is  crucified  with  tlio  Civod. 

Tho  fhuivh  of  F.ngland  doth  all  factions  foster. 
The  pulpit  is  usurped  by  each  impi.>ster, 
Extfmivre  excludes  the  rater  Xostrr. 

Tho  I'lYffiiitfr  and  rmif/itnJt-nt  siMxi 
Springswithbi-oiid  blades  ;  to  make  Keligiou  bleed, 
Heixid  and  Pontius  Pilate  ai^o  agiiHHl. 

Tho  corner-stone 's  misplaced  by  eveiy  Pavier  : 
With  such  a  blotxly  method  and  In^liavionr 
Their  Ancostoi-s  did  crucify  our  Sjiviour. 

JMy  Koyal  Consort,  fivm  whose  fruitful  Womb 
So  many  Princes  logsUly  have  oome. 
Is  foired  in  Pilgrimage  to  seek  a  Tomb. 

Oivat  l>ritain's  lioir  is  foTOKi  into  France, 
Whilst  on  his  father's  head  his  foes  advmice  : 
Poor  child  !     Ho  weeps  at  his  Inhoribuice- 

With  my  own  Power  my  Miyesty  thoy  wound 
lu  tho  King's  nametho  Kinghimself'suncrowne^l: 
So  dotli  the  Dust  destivy  the  l")iau\oud. 

With  Propositions  daily  they  onchiuit 
My  People's  oai-s,  such  as  do  reason  daunt. 
And  the  Almighty  will  not  lot  me  grant. 

They  prvMuiso  to  er»ct  my  Kojiil  Stem. 
To  n\iikc  Mo  givat,  t'  ad\i»nce  my  Diadem, 
If  1  will  tii-st  fall  down,  and  worship  thom. 


Uut,  for  refusiU,  they  devour  my  Throiu's, 
IMstivss  my  Children,  and  destroy  my  bones  ; 
1  tear  they  '11  fcrcc  im-  to  make  broad  of  stones. 

My  Lite  they  pri/.e  al  such  a  slender  rirto 
That  in  my  absence  they  draw  liills  of  hate, 
'I'o  prove  the  King  a  Traytor  to  the  State. 

Felons  obtiiin  more  priviledge  than  1  : 
They  are  allowed  to  answer  ere  thoy  die  ; 
'Tis  deatli  for  me  to  nsk  tho  reason  Why. 

Uut,  Sacred  Siiviour.  with  thy  wonls  1  woo 

Thee  to  forgive,  and  not  be  bitter  to 

Such  as  thou  know'st  ilo  not  know  what  thoy  ilo. 

For  since  they  fixun  their  l.onl  are  so  disjointed 
As  to  contonni  those  Kdicls  he  appointed. 
How  can  they  prize  the  Power  of  his  .\uoiuted  t 

.Vuguu'Tit  my  Patience,  nullitie  my  Hate, 
Pit'sorve  my  l.ssue,  aaid  inspire  my  Mate  : 
Yet,  though  We  perish,   bless  this  Clunvh  and 
Stale. 

CHAKLBS    niK    FIRST. 


lTNr>EK  THE  CROSS. 

1  CANNOT,  cannot  say. 
Out  of  my  bruised  and  bnaking  heart. 
Storm-driven  along  a  thorn-sot  way. 

While  blooti-drejvs  stnrt 
From  every  pore,  as  1  drag  on, 

"  Thy  will,  0  God,  bo  done  ! " 

I  thought,  but  yestei\iay. 
My  will  was  one  with  God's  deai-  will  ; 
.•\ud  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  say. 

Whatever  ill 
My  happy  sl:itc  should  smito  upon, 

"  I'hy  will,  my  God,  bo  done  !  " 

Hut  I  was  weak  and  wrong, 
Hotli  weak  of  sonl  and  wrong  of  heart ; 
.Viul  Pride  alone  in  me  was  strong. 

With  cunning  art 
To  cheat  nu'  in  the  golden  sun. 

To  say  "  God's  will  be  done  ! " 

O  shadow  dresu"  and  cold. 
That  t'right.s  mc  out  of  foolish  pride  ; 

0  llootl,  that  through  my  basom  rolled 

Its  billowy  tide  ; 

1  said,  till  ye  your  ]iower  made  known, 

"Go<Vs  will,  not  mine,  bo  done  ! 


durio);  his  captivity  .tt  Carisbrook  castle.  Anno  CVmh. 


©-.- 


-EP 


[£}-■ 


HDHIWIV  AND  ADVERSITY. 


241 


■a 


6 


Now,  faint  niid  Kore  adaiil, 
Under  my  croHn,  heavy  ami  nule, 
My  yiolH  in  the  asijeH  laid, 

Like  aHliex  «tiv;wed, 
Tin;  holy  v/imh  my  jiali;  lips  hhuii, 

"0  God,  thy  will  he  done  I" 

Pity  my  woes,  0  God, 
And  toueh  my  will  with  thy  warm  breath  ; 
I'lit  in  my  tn-mhlinf;  hand  thy  rod, 

'I'liat  iiuieketiH  death  ; 
'i'liat  my  dead  faith  may  feel  thy  sun, 

And  Hiiy,  "Tliy  will  he  ilone  !  " 

WII.I.IAM  CARIiV  KJCIIAKIJ 


LOVE  NOT. 

\,u\v.  not,  love  not,  ye  hajilens  sonH  of  eluy  ! 
Hope's  gayent  wreaths  are  maxle  of  eartlily  flow- 
ers, — 
Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 
Ere  tliey  have  hlossomed  foi'  a  few  short  hours. 
Ijove  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thirig  ye  love  may  change  ; 
'J'he  losy  lij)  may  eease  to  smile  on  you. 
Tin;  kindly-heaming  eye  grow  coM  and  strange, 
'J'hi!  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  lj<;  true. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  you  love  may  die,  - 
May  jjeiish  from  the  gay  and  glaiJsome  earth  ; 
The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky. 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  Vjirth. 

LoVr;  not  ! 

Jjove  not !  0  warning  vainry  said 
In  pn  M  ril  hours  !is  in  yeais  gone  by  ! 
l.oM-  lliii;/-:  a  halo  round  the  dear  ones'  head, 
Faidlli-;'!,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 
Love  not ! 

CaKOLISU  li,  NOkTCS. 


SAMSON  AGONISTEH. 

A  i.rrii.K  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
'I'o  these  dark  steps,  a  little  fartlier  on  ; 
For  yoniler  bank  hath  choice  of  sun  or  shade  : 
There  I  am  wont  to  sit,  when  any  chance 
Relieves  me  from  my  task  of  servile  U)W, 
Daily  in  the  common  prison  else  enjoined  me, 
Where  I  a  pris')ner,  chained,  scarce  freely  draw 
The  air  imprisoned  also,  close  and  damp. 
Unwholesome  draught ;  hut  here  I  feel  amends. 
The  breath  of  heaven  fresh  blowing,  pure  and 

sweet, 
With  day-spring  bom  :  here  leave  inc  to  respire. 


This  day  a  solemn  feast  the  pwple  hold 

To  iJagon,  their  sea-idol,  and  forbid 

Laborious  works  :  unwillingly  this  rest 

'i'heir  superstition  yields  me  ;  henee  with  leave 

lietiring  from  the  pojjular  noise,  I  seek 

This  un)rei|uente<l  place  U>  find  sf>nie  ease,  — 

i'jtse  to  the  Viody  some,  none  t«  the  mind 

l''rorn  restless  thoughts,  that,  like  a  ileailly  swann 

Of  hornets  armed,  no  sooner  found  alone, 

iJut  rush  upon  me  thronging,  and  jiresent 

Times  p.'ist,  what  once  I  w;is,  and  what  am  now. 

O,  wherefore  was  my  birth  from  lleavin  foretold 

Twice  by  an  angel,  who  at  last  in  sight 

Of  both  my  parents  all  in  (lames  asieuded 

From  od'the  altar,  where  an  olleriug  burned. 

As  in  a  fiery  column,  chari'iting 

His  gwllike  prewMice,  and  from  some  great  iu;t 

Or  benefit  revealed  to  .Miraham's  race? 

Whj'  was  my  breeding  ordered  and  prescribed 

As  of  a  ]>erson  separate  to  (Jrjd, 

Designc'l  for  great  ex|iloits,  if  I  must  die 

Ijetrayed,  captivcd,  ami  both  my  eyes  put  out. 

Made  of  my  enemies  the  scoiti  and  gaze  ; 

To  grind  in  brazen  fetters  uinler  task 

With  this  Ileaveii-giftcd  strength  ?     O  glorioui 

strength, 
Put  to  the  labor  of  a  Ixjast,  rietiased 
Lower  than  Isindslavc  !     Promise  was  that  I 
Should  Israel  from  I'hilistian  yoke  deliver  ; 
Ask  for  this  great  deliverer  now,  and  find  him 
P^yeless  in  fJaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves. 
Himself  in  Is^nds  umler  I'hilistian  yoke  ! 

0  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  1  most  comjilain  I 
liliii'l  among  enemies,  O,  worse  than  chains, 
iJiingeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrejiit  age  I 
Light,  the  prime  work  of  flod,  to  me  is  extinct. 
And  all  her  various  obj<;cts  of  delight 
Annulled,  which  might  in  iKirt  my  grief  have  cased. 
Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  Ixicome 
Of  man  or  wonn ;  tlie  vilest  here  excel  me  ; 
They  creep,  yet  see  ;  I,  (lark  in  light,  ex[i08<;<l 
To  ilaily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  anrl  wrong. 
Within  doors  or  without,  still  as  a  fool. 
In  [wiwei'  of  others,  never  in  my  own  ; 
Sirarcc  half  1  seem  to  live,  flciid  more  than  half. 
0  dark,  dark,  ikrk,  amid  the  bkze  of  noon. 
Irrecoverably  dark,  tfHal  eclipse. 
Without  all  hoiie  of  day  ! 


HELECTIONH   FROM    "  I'ARADLSK  LOST," 

KVI'.'.S  I.A.MK.ST. 

0  UNKXi'Kcri'.l)  stroke,  worse  than  of  death  I 

Must  I  thus  leave  thee.  Paradise  ?  thus  leave 

Thei-,  native  soil  !  these  happy  walks  and  shades. 

Fit  haunt  of  gods  ;  where  I  had  hope  to  speml. 


& 


fl- 


242 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


-a 


tl- 


Quiet,  though  sad,  tho  rusiiite  of  that  day 
Tlmt  must  be  mortal  to  us  botli  ?    O  llowers. 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 
My  early  visitation,  and  my  last 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  the  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  ye  names  ! 
Who  now  shall  rear  ye  to  the  sun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrosial  fount  ? 
Thee,  lastly,  imptial  bower  !  by  me  adorned 
Witli  wluit  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet,  from  tliee 
llow  shall  I  part,  and  whither  wander  down 
Into  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 
And  wild  ?  how  sliall  we  breathe  in  other  air 
Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortiil  fruits  ? 

THE  EXILE    PUOM   PARADISE. 

ADAM   TO   MICHAEL. 

Gently  hast  tlu)U  told 
Thy  message,  which  might  else  in  telling  wound, 
And  in  performing  end  us.     Wliat  liesides 
Of  sorrow,  and  dejection,  and  despair 
Our  frailty  can  sustain,  thy  tidings  bring  ; 
Departure  from  this  happy  place,  our  sweet 
Recess,  and  only  consolation  left. 
Familiar  to  our  eyes,  all  places  else 
Inhospitable  appear  and  desolate. 
Nor  knowing  us  nor  known  ;  and  if  by  prayer 
Incessant  I  could  hope  to  change  the  will 
Of  Him  who  all  things  can,  I  would  not  cease 
To  weary  him  with  my  assiduous  cries. 
But  ju-ayer  against  his  abs.iliitr  decree 
No  more  avails  than  lncatb  :ii;.iin^l  the  wind. 
Blown  stifling  back  on  him  lli:il  I'lcalhes  it  forth; 
Tliereforo  to  his  great  bidiliug  1  submit. 
This  nu)st  afllicts  me,  that,  de])arting  hence, 
As  from  his  face  I  shall  be  hid,  deprived 
His  blessM  countenance,  here  I  could  freipient 
With  worship  place  by  place  where  ho  vouclisafed 
Presence  divine,  and  to  my  sons  relate, 
On  this  mount  he  appeared  ;  under  this  tree 
Stooil  visilile  ;  among  tliese  pines  his  voice 
I  hoard  ;  here  with  him  at  this  fountain  talked  ; 
So  many  grateful  altars  1  wouhl  roar 
Of  grassy  turf,  and  pile  up  every  stone 
Of  luster  from  the  brook,  in  memory 
Or  monument  to  ages,  and  thereon 
Olfcr  sweet- smelling  gums,  and  fruits,  nndtlowers. 
In  yonilcr  nether  worhl  wliero  shall  1  seek 
His  liriglit  appearances,  or  footstep  trace  ? 
For  tliough  I  rted  him  angry,  yet,  recallcil 
To  life  prolonged  and  promised  race,  I  now 
(Madly  behold  though  but  his  ntmost  skirts 
Of  gliiry,  and  far  otf  Ins  steps  adore. 

Henceforth  1  learn  that  to  obey  is  best. 
And  love  with  fear  tlie  only  Ood,  to  walk 
As  in  liis  presence,  ever  to  observe 


His  providence,  and  on  him  sole  depend, 
Merciful  over  all  his  works,  with  good 
Still  overcoming  evil,  and  by  small 
Accomplishing  great  things,  by  things  deemed 

weak 
Subverting  worldly  strong,  and  worldly  wise 
By  simply  meek  ;  that  suffering  for  truth's  sake 
Is  fortitude  to  highest  victory, 
And  to  the  faitliful  death  the  gate  of  life  : 
Taught  this  by  his  example,  whom  1  now 
Acknowledge  my  Redeemer  ever  blest. 

EVE  TO   ADAM. 

With  sorrow  and  heart's  distress 
Wearied,  I  fell  asleep.     But  now  lead  on  ; 
In  nie  is  no  ilelay  ;  with  thee  to  go. 
Is  to  stay  here  ;  without  thee  here  to  stay. 
Is  to  go  hence  unwilling  ;  thou  to  me 
Art  all  things  under  heaven,  all  places  thou. 
Who  for  my  wilful  crime  art  banished  hence. 
This  further  consolation,  yet  secui-e, 
1  carry  hence  ;  though  all  by  me  is  lost. 
Such  favor  I  imworthy  am  vouchsafed. 
By  me  the  promised  Seed  shall  all  restore. 

THE   DEPARTURE. 

I N  either  hand  the  hastening  angel  caught 
Our  lingering  parents,  and  to  tlie  eastern  gate 
I,ed  them  direct,  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  sulijc(^tod  plain  ;  then  disappeared. 
They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastern  side  beheld 
Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 
Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand  ;  the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms. 
Some  natural  tears  they  dropt,  but  wiped  them 

soon  ; 
The  world  was  all  before  them,  wdiere  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 
They,  hand  in  hand,  witli  wandering  steps  and 

slow. 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way. 


WOLSEY'S  FALL. 

FROM   '■  HENRY  VHI." 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  to-day  he  puts  furtli 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope  ;  to-morrow  blossoms, 
Aw\  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And  —  when  lie  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening  —  nips  his  ront. 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventured. 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders. 
Tins  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory  ; 


But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  pride 


-^ 


c& 


HOURiJir  AND  ADVERHITY. 


243 


^ 


At  Ifiigth  l)roke  under  me  ;  and  now  lias  left  me, 
Weaiy  and  old  with  service,  to  tlie  mercy 
<  M'  a  rude  stream,  that  must  forever  liide  me. 
Vain  pomi)  and  glory  of  this  world,  1  hate  ye  : 
I  Icel  my  heart  new  opened.     0,  how  wi-etched 
Is  I  hat  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors  ! 
There  is,  betwi.xt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruiu. 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have  : 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. 

SlIAKESI'EAKE. 


CARDINAL  WOLSEY'S  SPEECH  TO  CROMWELL. 


CiiciMWELL,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries  ;  l)Ut  thou  hast  forced  me, 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  tlie  woman. 
Let 's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Crom- 
well ; 
Ami  —  when  1  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be. 
Anil  sleep  in  dull,  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
( )f  mc  more  iimst  lie  heard  of —  say,  I  taught  thee. 
Say,  Wolsey  —  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory. 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor  — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wieck,  to  rise  in  ; 
A  .s\n-e  and  .safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 
Cromwell,  1  charge  thee,  fling  away  amljition  ; 
By  that  sin  fell  tlie  angels  ;  how  can  nuui,  then. 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't  '. 
Love  thyself  last  :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate 

thee  : 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace. 
To  .silence  envious  tongues.    Heju.st,  and  fear  not : 
Let  .-dl  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  (;od'.s,  and  trutli's  ;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  0 

Cromwell  ! 
Thou  fall'.st  a  blessed  martyr. 
S{'rvc  the  king  ;  and  —  pr'ythee,  lead  mc  in  : 
TlicTc  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
To  the  last  penny  ;  'tis  the  king's  :   my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 
1  dare  now  call  mine  own.   0  Cromwell,  Cromwell ! 
Ibid  1  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
1  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies  ! 

SHAKESPEAKH. 

THE    LATE   SPKIXd. 

She  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields, — 

Brown,  sodden  fields,  all  desolate  and  bare. 
"The  spring  is  late,"  she  said,  "the  faithless 
si)ring, 
That  should  have  come  to  make  the  meadows 
fair. 


y-^- 


' '  Their  sweet  South  left  too  soon,  among  the  trees 
The  birds,  bewildered,  flutter  to  and  fro  ; 

For  them  no  green  boughs  wait,  —  their  memories 
Of  last  year's  April  had  deceived  them  so." 

She  watched  tlie  homeless  birds,  the  slow,  sad 
spring. 

The  barren  fields,  and  shivering,  naked  tn-es. 
"  Thus  God  has  dealt  with  me,  his  child,  "she  said; 

' '  I  wait  my  spring-time,  and  am  cold  like  these. 

"To  them  will  come  the  fullness  of  their  time  ; 
Their  spring,  though  late,  will  make  the  mead- 
ows fair  ; 
Shall  I,  who  wait  like  them,  like  them  be  blessed  ? 
I  am  his  own,  —  doth  not  my  Father  care  ?" 
Louise  CHANDi-t-k  moulton. 


A  LAMENT. 

O  WORLD  !  O  Life  !  O  Time  ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb. 

Trembling  at  that  where  1  had  stood  before  ; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  moi'e,  —  O  neverntoi'c  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight : 

Fre.sh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  moie,  —  O  nevemiore  ! 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLKV. 


"WHAT  CAN  AN  OLD  MAN  DO  BUT  DIE?" 

Si'iiiNO  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary. 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  nmst  fly  ; 

When  he 's  forsaken. 

Withered  and  .shaken, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Love  will  not  clip  him, 

Maids  will  not  li])  him, 
Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by  ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny. 

Age  has  no  honey,  — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

.June  it  was  jolly, 

0  for  its  folly  ! 
A  dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  ! 

Youth  may  be  silly, 

Wisdom  is  chilly,  — 
Wliat  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 


--& 


e- 


244 


POKMS  OF  SORHOiF  AND  UKATH. 


b'riomls  th<>Y  mv  »o«nty, 

Hi>jjjju>!>  (n't'  i>lfnty, 
ir  lio  lins  followoi's,  I  know  wliy  i 

U»lil  ".I  ill  his  oUitvhos 

(,Ui>y>i>,»C  liii"  i'r«lvlit>s  !  )^ 
\Yl\i<t  i>im  nM  oM  nmii  do  buliUnl 

THOMAS  IKXlft 


WIIKN  MUAl.l.  \VK  Al.l.  MKKT  AOAIN? 

WilKN  sliiill  \v<i  nil  tuwt  »j;uii>  ! 
Wlion  sli!»U  wo  all  mcot  iijisiiiv  f 
0(X  shull  jtlowini;  I>»|h>  <>\|>>i~<s 
Oft  sUall  wouiiHl  U>v<'  (viiiA 
Ort  sUnll  >l«»tli  Hwil  sonvw  ivijjii, 
K>v  wo  M  shivll  moot  )»jp\iu. 

'riu>ii,i;li  hi  ilistiiut  liiuils  wo  si^lt, 
r«>vlioii  K>iu'<itl>  ti  hiwtilo  sky  ; 
'riimi^h  tho  vlw)!  IvtwtH'it  us  mils, 
bVio>ulsU>|>  shall  imito  our  souls. 
Still  in  Kanoy's  vioh  >Uunaiu 
Oft  shall  wo  all  uuvl  it^iiu. 

Whou  tho  (Iftsuus  ofUlo  aiv  llo«l. 
Whou  its  wasloil  latu^s  aiv  ilwul  ; 
W'hou  in  I'ohl  ohliviou's  sliaihs 
l><>aulY.  innvov,  aiul  I'aiuo  aiv  laid  i 
Wlioiv  iunuoital  siviiits  ivi^nu, 
Tlunv  shall  wo  all  uuvt  a^uu. 

ANvXNVSIOl'S. 


THK  LAST  l.KAF. 

1  SAW  liiui  oiiiv  ly-l'vMV, 
As  ho  jv>sstHl  by  tho  (low  ; 
Auil  n^ip\i« 

Tho  IviVYOIUOUl-StOUCkS  IXVSvMUld 

As  ho  tot  tot's  o'ov  tho  i;iv>ui\vl 
AVith  his  oaito. 

Thoy  sj>y  that  in  his  juimo, 
Kiv  tho  n^■«uiuJ^kl\i^o  of  thno 

Out  h\u>  >lowu. 
Not  a  l^ttor  uiau  was  fouuil 
Uy  tho  ovior  ou  his  ivutul 

Thivu^h  tho  town, 

\>\it  now  ho  walks  tho  sti>?ots, 
.\ud  ho  looks  at  all  ho  mo«<ls 

So  t'oi'lon\  ; 
.\u>l  ho  shakos  his  iVvWo  hoavl. 
That  it  stw\is  as  if  ho  said. 
"Thoy  a>v  j!\>iio." 

Tho  tnossy  tnacMos  ivst 

On  tho  lins  that  ho  has  jhvsspvI 


lu  thoii'  klooni  ; 
And  tho  nanuw  ho  lovwl  to  hww 
llavo  Ih>ou  oavvod  I'oi'  many  a  y<>ar 

t>n  tho  tonili. 

My  (iinndmaumia  has  said  — 
1\hu'  old  lady  I  .sho  is  dwid 

l.onjj  a>^>  — 
That  ho  had  a  Kontnn  noso, 
,\nd  his  ol»H>k  was  liko  a  i\>a« 

In  tho  snow. 

Hut  now  his  mvso  is  thin, 
And  it  iiwts  \HH>u  his  ohin 

l.iko  a  stall' ; 
Ai\d  a  oi\H>k  is  in  his  Ivaok, 
And  a  luolauoholy  o^iok 

lu  his  lati^h. 

1  know  it  is  a  siu 
Kor  \no  to  sit  and  );i'iu 

At  hiu>  hoiv, 
liut  tho  old  thivo-oornoivd  hat. 
And  tho  hl-otH'ho-s     -and  all  that, 

.\|V  so  ((UlH't'  ! 

And  if  1  should  livo  to  l>o 
Tho  last  loaf  U(x>n  tho  tivo 

In  tho  si>rinjr, 
l.ol  thon\  .suiilo,  as  1  do  now. 
At  tho  ohi  I'oi'sakon  Kuijjh 

Whoiv  I  oliiijj. 

OllMlK  WllNOiai.  IICU.MVS 


■niK   Al'»M;OAOtl   Ob'   AlJK, 

KKIWI  •'  lAl-BS  l>l'  TItK  lUl.l,," 

Six  ywtfs  had  j>assotl,  and  tovty  oit<  tho  six, 
Whou  Tinu>  Ih\sp>»  to  j>lay  his  usual  trioks  : 
Tho  hvks  luuv  oonu-ly  in  a  virj;iu's  sij;ht. 
Locks  of  i>ui\>  htvwu,  disjdaywl  tho  onoivsxohinj; 

whito  ; 
Tho  hUnvl,  ouoo  I'orvid,  now  to  wol  K^jpxu, 
Atul  I'into's  stivn^ij  (vit'ssuix"  to  suKluo  tho  luau. 
I  ivdo  or  walkod  as  I  was  wont  K't'oiv, 
liut  now  tho  lH>undinjj  spirit  was  \io  uuuv  ; 
A  luvHloKito  ivut>  would  now  iny  Knly  h<>at, 
A  walk  of  nnxlorato  loujtth  distftvss  tuy  tW>t, 
I  showisl  n\y  stmu^swr  j^\>>st  tluvw  hills  sul>linio, 
\5«t  siiid.  "Tho  viow  is  iH>or,  wo  «o<>l  not  oHuiK" 
At  a  iViond's  \na\ision  1  K'jpiu  to  dnvul 
Tho  ivUl  uistt  (vnlor  and  tho  jray  glaAnl  KhI  ; 
.\t  hoiuo  I  folt  a  tnoiv  d<vid<Hl  tasto. 
And  must  havo  all  thiujts  iu  luy  onlor  |\h»iHHl, 
1  o«>stHl  to  hunt  ;  my  hoi'siw  |>h>as«l  nu>  Uvss,  — 
My  diunor  tnoiv  ;  I  loivrnod  to  ^>lt>y  at  ohoss, 
^l  t>vk  my  dv>jj  and  jtun,  hut  ,<«»•  tho  lu'Uto 


1^- 


HOnUOW  AND  ADVERHITY. 


Wax  <li»»jyj>oiiiM  tliaf,  1  'll"l  unl  »\i<M. 

My  iiKirniuK  walks  I  ivm  (>;ul<)  Ixsir  Uj  I'^j, 

A  i/'l  MifflWJ'J  tlii!!(li</w<rrthat  ({ay<!  i/k;  not  t/<  •■Motmt. 

Ill  (;w;t,  I  felt  a  huntniit  «ti»»liii({  on  ; 

'I'Ikj  a/;tiy<;  ano,  th<!  aj^il"!  )i:i()<l,  wi;r<!  ({one  ; 

Hmal)  iliiily  iu:tUili»  lulu  ha);ils  K'';Vi 

Ai)il  ;i'.-w  <li«llki;  1/1  (iiriiix  and  liwliioi)*  ixm. 

I  Iovim)  Hiy  triM!*  in  iminr  Ui  i|i»|K/W! ; 

1  iiiiiiitxiiwl  \ii:!itMi:>i,  Itxiki-A  li'jw  !il/x;kj!  ar'/w: ; 

7'oW  til/:  (sajijft  Btory  oil,  —  in  »))';it,  Uijian  t//  j/r'^;. 


y^ 


IJy  tin;  v/aysi/l'!,  on  a  iiimiisy  sUitio, 
Kat  a  liwiry  i/ilgrini,  /sadly  nmtiing  ; 

Oft  I  iitiirh-A  )iiii>  (sitting  t)i(;r<;  al</n<!, 

All  tlw;  lai)'l,v:a|)'!,  lik/;  a  I<a({<;,  [mriixinii  ; 
yifir,  unknown, 

J{y  tli«  wayxi/lf,  on  a  tiiittmy  hUiW!, 

I'li/.kl'!/]  kiK^jaii'l  stiW!,  and  \iriitulhi\iiiiii'-A  luit  ; 

',oat  ax  «jw;i*nl  a»  tli«  form  't  wa»  folding  ; 
Kilv<;r  l/utt/^rus,  nw.ui;,  mid  •■Aiut\i>-A  i;iavat ; 

Oak<;n  istalf  liiss  ('(j/jI/Ib  hand  uplioMing  ; 
'I'txjr'!  III!  xat ! 
JJij'jkl's'l  km*  and  (slu/c,  and  lir<wM;(i hi niiyl  lial. 

Vx-MUiiA  it  ]/iti(ul  he  xhonld  xit  th';r';, 
No  on<;  (synij/athi/ing,  no  oni;  li<x-yling, 

None  Uj  Iovi;  liiin  for  liiji  thin  t^'iy  hair, 
And  til/:  furrowx  all  m  niMUsly  [ihsxling 
Ag";  and  <«ir<; ; 

Hfj;iii>A  it  pitiful  111;  (should  (sit  tlj/;r<;. 

It  Willi  »umni<;r,  and  wn  W",-nt  Vi  vhinA, 
l;ap|i<;r  'iijuntry  I;i/1»  and  litth;  niai/l<!n>s ; 

Taught  tin:  niott/;  of  tlie  "  Duiuv-.'k  HUhA,"  — 

Itjs  giavi!  iw\K)rt  (Still  my  fanfjy  laihuos,  — 

"ll<;r<;'»  a  fo*^!  !" 

It  W(os  timiiwur,  and  w<;  w';nt  tr;  wiho*)!. 

When  th<s  «trang';r  <i«<;rne<l  t'l  mark  our  play, 
Bonn;  of  uis  were  joyom,  S'lnie  Jsa/l-lieart/;'!, 

I  remenil«<r  well,  t^^  well,  that  <hiy  ! 
OtWitimefi  the  t/^ars  iinhi'M<;n  HtHtUA, 
Would  not  (Stay 

When  the  (stranger  aiMiiitA  U>  mark  our  pUy, 

f)ne  tsweift  (spirit  hroke  the  (silent  <ii><;ll, 
0,  to  rne  her  name  wa»  alwayis  H'«iven  ! 

Bhe  Vr(S';nght  him  all  hi«  grief  t'l  tell, 
rl  wa»  then  thirt/^n,  an4  (sli/s  eUven,) 
Iisalcil  ■ 

One  Kweet  (sjiirit  hroke  tins  siknt  lijiell, 

"Angel,"  isaW  Ik;  (sa/lly,  "  I  arn  old  ; 
Earthly  Iwpe  no  longer  I' <••■  ■<  ir.'/rrov/  ■ 


Yet,  why  I  (sit  here  thou  (shalt  lie  l/ihl." 
'i'hen  hi(s  eye  lietray<!<l  a  |K:arl  of  w/rrow, 
iJown  it  rolle'l  ! 
"Angel,"  (sal/l  he  isa/Jly,  "  I  am  ohL 

"  I  liave  UitU-.nA  Iwsre  to  I'lok  own:  iiuitk 
Oil  the  phsi.'sanl  ss'ajnx  where  I  deligliUjil 

In  the  'arelessis,  Iwippy  days  of  yore, 
Kre  tin;  ganhm  of  my  li/;art  wax  hlighl/!/! 
To  tlw;  ez/re ; 

1  have  t/;tt<!re'l  lx;re  Uj  hx<k  on<»  moie. 

"  All  the  pieture  now  tfi  m/s  how  d/sir  ! 

KVn  thhs  gray  old  r'xrk  where  I  am  ttimttA, 
Id  a  jewel  worth  my  journey  here  ; 

Ah  tliat  (sij/:h  a  (s/i/ine  niusst  In:  •■.iiui\>\>:UA 
1  With  a  t/sir  ! 

All  tlw:  pi/:ture  now  t/j  rn<;  how  d'sir  ! 
I 

"Old  (st/;ne  »<:lir)Ol-hoiUie!  —  it  i)i  (still  tlw;  (sanw:; 

'      There '»  the  very  (st/;p  I  so  oft  tinmuUA  j 

Tlj<:re  '(4  the  window  ermking  in  its  frame. 

And  tlu!  U'jU:\ii:f,  that  I  eut  and  t/niiiUA 

Vi)i  the  game. 

Old  (stf/ne  (s'lho'il -hou»:,  it  i>s  (still  the  mii:'  , 

"In  the  e»/ttage  yoii<lt;r  I  was  )/;rn  ; 

l/ong  my  liapj/y  home,  that  hunihle  dwelling; 
There  the  field*  of  elover,  wli/at,  and  w/m  ; 

There  the  (spring  with  limpi'l  n/y.-fcur  iswi-lling  ; 
Ah,  tiitUirii  ', 
In  tlw:  <Mtage  yowiiir  I  was  l«ni. 

"'/'hots';  two  gat/;way  isyeamores  y</u  (sc; 

Then  were  \ihuiitA  just  (so  far  asunder 
Th;rt  long  well-()ole  from  the  )>ath  to  fr'«, 

Aiwl  the  wagon  t/<  i>a*is  safely  un'h:r ; 
Nin'dy-thr'K  ! 
'lllrtS':  two  gateway  syainwyres  you  ««'>:, 

"There  's  the  orehard  where  we  iwseyl  t/i  elimh 
When  my  uinX/^>i  and  I  were  Ic/ys  t/ig<;tlM.'r, 

Thinking  nothing  of  the  flight  of  time, 

K'siring  iimis^it  hut  work  and  rainy  weather  ; 
I'ast  its  prim*  ! 

There  '»  the  oreliard  where  we  lused  t«  elimb, 

"There  the  nid*;,  three-':/>rnered  ehestnut-rails, 
li</und  the  pasture  where  the  flwksweregrazing. 

Where,  so  sly,  I  u*eil  to  wat/:h  for  <)ua.ils 
In  tb*  croj/s  of  \iiuskwiuM  w-.  were  raising ; 
Tra((»  arwl  trails ! 

There  tb«  rude,  tbre':-'»mere<l  elieirtnut-ralh). 

"  Tlwsre  's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow  groin  ; 
I'ond  and  rivei  still  w:i'rije!v  flowing; 


^ 


Gz 


246 


POJSMS  OF  SOSKOir  AND  DEATH. 


■a 


l\it  lUoiv  ut'slliuj;  ill  tlio  slmdwl  liuu', 

Whoiv  tlu'  lilv  of  \i>y  lirart  wiis  Wowing, — 
Man'  J  alio  ; 
'I'lioiv  '»  tho  mill  that  jiiviiiul  our  yollow  j;iiiiii, 

'•'riit>iv'»  tJio  jpi't*  1^11  whioli  I  tisod  to  swiiij;, 
liiMok,  iMul  ^>lul}^^  luui  Uiiii,  iiiul  old  iv»l  stuMo  ; 

r>Ht  iiliis  !  no  iiioiv  tho  moiii  slinU  hiiiii; 
'I'hiit  Uoju'  j;ivup  uivviiul  my  t'lU hoi's  tal>U> ; 
Takoii  wiiij; ! 

Thoiv  's  tho  jpito  oil  whioh  I  iiswl  to  swiiij;. 

"  I  am  Ih'oiii^,  — all  1  lovod  liiivo  Ihnl, 
You  jsiYoii  moailow  \v«s  our  i>huo  for  playinj; ; 

That  oKl  tivo  oim  toll  of  swoot  thiiijps  .-aiid 
NVhoii  rtivuiul  it  Jauo  and  I  woiv  straying  ; 
Sli<>  is  doad  I 

I  am  llooiujj.       all  I  lovod  havo  Hod. 

"  Voii  whito  s(>iiv,  a  (HMioil  on  tho  sky, 
'IVaoiiig  siloiitly  lifo's  ohaiij«t>ful  stvry, 

So  familial'  to  my  vlim  old  oyo, 

Toiuts  mo  to  sovoii  that  aiv  now  in  glory 
'riioiv  oil  high  ! 

Yon  whitti  sj«rt>,  «  \Hnu-il  on  tho  sky. 

"Oft  tho  aislo  of  that  oUi  oluuvh  wo  tiwl, 
t.>uid<Hi  thithor  by  an  iuig\>l  niothov  ; 

Now  sho  sl<H>j>s  Ixniwith  its  .sjioixhI  sod  ; 
Silt'  tuul  sistoi's,  iuid  my  littlo  bivthor, 
Gono  to  IuhI  ! 

iM't  tho  aislo  of  that  ohl  oluuvh  wo  tivd. 

"  riioiv  I  lu>«i\l  of  Wisdom's  (tltvasiint  ways  ; 

Uh>8s  tho  holy  lostiim!  —  hut,  all,  novor 
Shall  1  hoar  agsiin  tlioso  songs  of  jvmiso, 

Tlu>so  swwt  vvvioos  silont  now  forovor  ! 

roiiooful  days  ! 

Thoiv  1  ho!U\l  of  Wisdom's  ph'sisjiiit  ways. 

•'Thoiv  my  Mary  hlost  mo  with  hor  hand 
Whon  our  souls  drsiiik  in  tho  nuptial  Mossing, 

Krx'  .slio  )ia.<ton<sl  to  tho  spirit-laud, 
Youdor  turf  hor  gv-iitlo  Kwom  pivssiiig  ; 
Uivkoij  hmd  ! 

'I'hoiv  my  Mary  hlost  mo  with  hov  hand. 

•■  I  havo  K-omo  to  s<v  that  gt«vo  omv  moro, 
.Vnd  tho  sjionxl  placo  whoiv  wo  dolightwl, 

Whoiv  wo  woi'shiiHsl,  in  tho  days  of  yoiv, 
Kiv  tho  gai\lou  of  luy  li<>art  was  liligliti\l 
To  tho  .-("in"  ! 

1  havo  oomo  to  s<h>  that  gravo  onoo  moiv. 


Mow,  why  I  sit  horo  thou  hiist  boon  told," 
In  his  oyo  nuotlior  poiirl  of  -sorivw, 
Uowii  it  ixdlod  ! 
'"  .\iigi>l,"  snid  ho  sKidly,  "  I  am  old," 

Ity  tho  waysido,  on  u  nuvisy  stouo. 
Sat  tho  luvary  pilgrim,  .iiully  uuising  : 

Still  1  iiiarkod  him  sitting  thoiv  aloiio. 
All  tho  landsoapo,  liko  a  p<igo,  porusiiig  ; 
I'oor,  unknown  .' 

Uv  tlu'  wavsido,  on  a  mossy  stoiio. 


I'llK   WlUOWS   MIVK. 

A  winow  —  sho  had  only  ono  ! 
A  puny  and  dooivpit  son  ; 

Uut,  day  and  night. 
Though  fix-tfiil  oft,  and  woak  and  small, 
A  loving  oliihl,  ho  was  hor  all  — 

Tho  Widow's  Mito. 

Tho  Widow's  Mito  —  ay.  so  siistainod, 
Sho  bt»ttl«l  onward,  nor  oomplaiiiod. 

Though  flionds  woiv  fowor  ; 
And  whilo  sho  toihvl  for  daily  faiv, 
A  littlo  orutoh  upon  tho  stair 

Was  musio  to  hor. 

1  s)»w  hor  thon,  —  and  now  I  sw 

That,  thongh  iivsignod  and  ohoorful,  sho 

Has  sori\>wo<l  muoh  ; 
Sho  has,  Uo  gavo  it  tondorly, 
Muoh  faith  ;  and  oai'ol\illy  laid  by, 

Tho  littlo  orutoh. 

KRlll>RKlCK  U'CkUR. 


&^- 


"  Ang«>l,"  Sivid  ho  sadly,  "  I  am  old  ; 
Earthly  hojH<  no  loug«>r  h«th  a  morrxiw. 


THK  DRKAMER. 

FROM  "IX^KMS  PV  A  SPAMSTRBSS." 

Not  in  the  h\«ghii\g  Iwwvi-s, 
A\'horp  by  green  swinging  elms  a  ploasjuit  sliado 
.Vt  snmraor's  noon  is  made. 

And  whoiv  swif^-t"oot<Hl  horn's 
Stoal  tho  rioh  bivath  of  onamorixl  llowoi^, 
Proiun  I.     Nor  whoiv  tho  goldoti  glorios  W, 
I  .\t  sunsot,  laving  o'or  tho  llowing  .soa  : 
I  .\iid  to  puiv  oyos  tho  faculty  is  given 
To  trai"e  a  snuH^th  asi-ont  from  Earth  to  }loawn  ! 

Xot  on  a  wuoh  of  ease, 
I  With  all  tho  appliaiioi<s  of  joy  at  hand,  — 
I  S<>t1  light,  swtH't  fniirrsiiu'o,  tvanty  at  oommand  ; 

Y  lands  that  might  a  gvHllike  (vilato  please, 
I         And  mnsio's  soul-o«\»tivo  oi'stasios, 

l">iv,ini  I,     Nor  ghviting  o'or  a  wide  tvstato, 
I  Till  the  fnll.  self-ivinplaoont  ho<\r»  elate. 


^ 


& 


HORROW  AND  ADVERSITY. 


247 


n 


Well  KatusficiJ  Willi  \iUm  of  iiKiital  Wrtli, 
Sigliii  for  ail  immortality  on  Kaitli ! 

I'lit  wlit-rc-  tlift  iiii;e»((arit  <liii 
Of  iioii  liaii'lx,  and  r'Kjr  of  hraw.-n  throatu, 
Join  tlic-ir  unrniii^^Jiid  not^rit, 

Wliilr;  tli'r  loH({  mmtiuir  <lay  !«  |>oiiiiii;(  in, 
Till  day  in  gone,  an<l  <Iarkn<;(iii  ilolli  Uigin, 
iJri.-am  I,  — as  in  tli<;  mrw-r  wliirn;  I  li<;. 
On  wintry  nights,  juiit  wverwl  from  tin;  sky  !^ 
Sucli  is  my  fat<:,  —  and,  Ijarrcn  though  it  s(;/;ni, 
Yet,  thou  hiind,  soulkss  niMniKr,  yet  1  drfKim  ! 

And  yet  I  dream,  — 
Dream  wliat,  were  men  more  jiist,  I  might  have 

W-n ; 
How  strong,  how  fair,  how  kindly  and  serene, 
Glowing  of  heart,  and  glorious  of  mien  ; 
The  e/jns':ious  erown  V)  Nature's  blissful  Hinaia, 
In  just  and  e<|u;il  hrotlierhvxl  V>  ghain. 
With  all  mankind,  ezhaustLess  jileasure  keen,  — 

Kueh  i«  my  dream  ! 

And  yet  I  dream,  — 
I,  the  despise*]  of  fortuw!,  lift  mini2  eysi, 

liright  with  the  lustJjr  of  integrity, 
In  una|)[;<;aling  wreV.h'^lin^ss,  on  high. 
And  the  last  mge  of  Destiny  defy  ; 
lies<jlved  alone  t/t  live,  —alone  U>  die. 

Nor  swell  the  tide  of  human  misery  ! 

Awl  yet  I  dr<«jm,  — 
Dream  of  a  sle<-p  wh'-re  d  reams  no  more  shall  eome. 
My  last,  my  first,  my  only  w(de'>nie  home  ! 
lU^st,  unl;<held  sin'-e  Life's  U-ginning  stage. 
Sole  remnant  of  my  glorioius  heritage, 
Unalienable,  I  shall  find  thee  y<rt. 
And  in  thy  wjft  embrat*  the  Jrast  forget ! 

Thus  do  I  dr'sim  ! 


A  EOT/OH  RHYME    ON  A  EOUOH   MATfKK. 

TUP  I;K01.ISH  GAME  J.*v/j 

Thk  merry  brown  hares  came  l<sii|<ing 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
Where  the  clover  and  com  lay  sleeping. 

Under  the  moonlight  still. 

Leaping  late  and  early. 

Til!  under  their  bite  and  their  trea/i. 
The  sweiles,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  tiarley 

I^y  eankere'I,  and  trarnplcl,  and  d<;a<l. 

A  poacher's  widow  sat  sighing 

On  the  side  of  the  whiUr  chalk  )>ank. 

Where,  under  the  gloomy  fir-ww^ls. 
One  spot  in  tlie  lea  throve  rank. 


Hiu:  wat/;he<l  a  long  tuft  of  elovei, 

Wluire  rabbit  or  liare  never  ran. 
For  its  blaek  sour  haulm  c;vi.-r<.-<l  over 

The  bloo<l  of  a  mur'lercl  m;in. 

She  tiuiught  of  tlje  dark  plantation, 

And  the  hares,  and  her  husl^nd's  bhwl, 

And  the  voi'^e  of  lier  indignatiijn 
l{/<se  up  u>  the  throne  of  Go<l : 

"  1  am  h«)g  j;a«t  wailing  and  whining, 

I  have  wept  tuo  much  in  i/iy  life  : 
I  've  luKJ  twenty  years  of  pining 

As  an  Kngllsh  Ulx/rer's  wife. 

"A  lalxyrer  in  Christian  Kngland, 
Where  they  eant  of  a  Saviour's  name. 

And  yet  wa«tx;  men's  lives,  like  the  vennin's. 
For  a  few  more  hra'x-  of  game. 

' '  Tliere  's  blood  on  your  new  foreign  sh  rul«,  s")  ui  re, 
Tliere  's  bliiO<l  on  your  j/i/intei's  f<*t  ; 

There  's  bhjod  on  tlu:  game  you  sell,  »<(uire. 
And  there  '»  Uo<jil  on  the  game  you  eat. 

"You  liave  w>U  the  lab<>ring  man,  Sijuirc, 

Hoth  Ixnly  and  mn\  Ut  shame. 
To  [lay  for  your  wait  in  tlu;  House,  S'juire, 

And  Ui  j«y  for  the  fe<;<l  of  your  game. 

"  You  ma<h;  him  a  f>oacl»er  yourself,  s'juire. 
When  you  'd  give  neitlier  work  nor  nusit, 

And  your  t/arley-f<j<l  Iiarcs  t»)i))fA  the  garden 
At  our  st;irving  children's  fi«t ; 

"  When,  j/aeke<l  in  one  poking  chaml/<;r, 
JIan,  mai'I,  mother,  and  little  ones  lay  ; 

While  the  rain  i«itt';re/l  in  on  the  rott/;n  bri>Je-(j<;il, 
And  the  walls  Jet  in  the  day  ; 

"  When  we  lay  in  the  burning  fever. 

On  the  mud  of  the  wld  clay  fhwr. 
Till  you  imrU-A  us  all  for  thre<;  months,  S'juire, 

At  the  cursed  workhouw;  door. 

"We  rjuarr<;li;<l  like  brutes,  and  who  wond<;rs  f 

What  s';lfr';Si>i;ct  could  we  keep, 
Worw;  hoiis'd  than  your  ha/jks an'l  your icyintz-iis. 

Worse  fi;'l  tlian  your  h'jgs  and  your  sh'j<;p  ? 

"  Our  daught/frs,  with  base-I«n)  I>abifrs, 
Have  wan<lercd  away  in  their  shame  ; 

If  your  misses  had  slej/t,  S'juire,  where  they  did, 
Your  misses  might  do  the  same. 

"Can  your  lady  patch  hearts  that  are  bieakinj?. 

With  han'lfuU  of  ';oal»  and  ri/;e. 
Or  by  d(^ling  out  flannel  an<l  slieeting 

A  little  below  <»Kt  price  ? 


--& 


[& 


248 


POEMS   OF  SORROW  AND   DEATH. 


-a 


h 


"You  may  tire  of  the  jail  and  tlie  workhouse, 
And  take  to  allotments  and  schools, 

But  you  've  run  up  a  debt  that  will  never 
Be  repaid  us  by  penny-club  rules. 

"In  the  season  of  shame  and  sadness, 

In  the  dark  and  dreary  day, 
When  scrofula,  gout,  and  madness 

Are  eating  your  race  away  ; 

' '  AVhen  to  kennels  and  liveried  varlets 
You  have  cast  your  daughters'  bread, 

And,  worn  out  with  liquor  and  harlots, 
Your  heir  at  your  feet  lies  dead  ; 

"When    your    youngest,    the    mealy-mouthed 
rector. 

Lets  your  soul  rot  asleep  to  the  grave, 
You  will  find  in  your  God  the  protector 

Of  the  freeman  you  fancied  your  slave." 

She  looked  at  the  tuft  of  clover, 
And  wept  till  her  heart  grew  light ; 

And  at  last,  when  her  passion  was  over. 
Went  wandering  into  the  night. 

But  the  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  uplands  still. 
Where  the  clover  and  com  lay  sleeping 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  hill. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


LOUIS  XV. 

The  king  with  all  the  kingly  train  had  left  his 
Pompadour  behind. 

And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart's  wood  the  royal 
beasts  of  chase  to  find. 

That  day  by  chance  the  monarch  mused,  and  turn- 
ing suddenly  away. 

He  struck  alone  into  a  path  that  far  from  crowds 
and  courtiers  lay. 

He  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play  upon  the 

brown  untrodden  earth  ; 
He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit  as  if  he  were  of 

peasant  birth  ; 
He  saw  the  trees  that  know  no  king  but  him  that 

bears  a  woodland  ax  ; 
He  thought  not,  but  he  lookeil  .about  like  one 

who  still  in  thinking  lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  fell,  and  glad  of 

human  sound  was  he. 
For,  truth  to  say,  he  found  himself  but  melancholy 

company  ; 


But  that  whichhe  would  ne'er  have  guessed  beforo 

him  now  most  plainly  came  ; 
The  man  upon  his  weaiy  back  a  coffin  bore  of 

modest  frame. 

' '  Why,  who  art  thou  ? "  exclaimed  the  king,  "and 

what  is  that  I  see  thee  bear  / ' ' 
"I  am  a  laborer  in  the  wood,  and  't  is  a  coffin 

for  Pierre. 
Close  by  the  royal  hunting-lodge  you  may  have 

often  seen  him  toil  ; 
But  he  will  never  work  again,  and  I  for  him  must 

dig  the  soU." 

The  laborer  ne'er  had  seen  the  king,  and  this  ho 

thought  was  but  a  man. 
Who  made  at  first  a  moment's  pause,  and  then 

anew  his  talk  began  ; 
' '  I  think  I  do  remember  now,  —  he  had  a  dark 

and  glancing  eye, 
And  I  have  seen  his  sturdy  arm  with  wondrous 

strokes  the  pickax  ply. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  friend,  what  accident  can  thus  have 

killed  our  good  Pierre  ?" 
"0,   nothing  more  than  usual,   sir,  he  died  of 

living  upon  air ! 
'T  was  hunger  killed  the  poor  good  man,  who  long 

on  empty  hopes  relied  ; 
He  could  not  pay  Gabcllc  and  tax,  and  feed  his 

children,  so  he  died." 

The  man  stopped  short,  and  then  went  on,  —  "It 
is,  you  know,  a  conunon  story, 

Our  children's  food    is  eaten  up   by   courtiers, 
mistresses,  and  glory." 

The  king  looked  hard  upon  the  man,  and  after- 
wards the  coffin  eyed, 

Then  spurred  to  ask  of  Pompadour,  how  came  it 
that  the  peasants  died. 

JOHN  Wilson 
(Christopher  North). 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY'S  TALE. 

St.\y,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale  ; 
Ah,  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake,  — 

'T  is  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale 
Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride, 

And  my  brave  father's  hope  and  joy  ; 
But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died. 

And  1  am  now  an  orphan  boy  ! 

Poor,  foolish  child  !  how  pleased  was  I, 
When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came, 

Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly. 
To  see  the  lighted  windows  flame  ! 


-^ 


SORROW  AND  ADVERSITY. 


2411 


To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought,  — 
She  could  not  bear  to  hear  my  joy  ; 

For  with  my  father's  life  't  was  bought,  — 
And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy  ! 

The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud  ; 

i[y  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears  ; 
"  Itejoice  I  REJOICE  !"  still  cried  the  crowd,  - 

My  mother  answered  with  her  tears  ! 
"  0,  why  do  tears  steal  down  your  cheek," 

Cried  I,  "  whUe  others  shout  for  joy .'" 
She  kissed  me  ;  and  in  accents  weak. 

She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy  ! 

"  What  is  an  orphan  boy  ? "  I  said  ; 

When  suddenly  she  gasped  for  breath. 
And  her  eyes  closed  !  I  shrieked  for  aid. 

But  ah  I  her  eyes  were  closed  in  death. 
My  hardships  since  I  ivill  not  tell ; 

But  now,  no  more  a  parent's  joy. 
All !  lady,  I  have  learned  loo  well 

What  't  is  to  be  an  orphan  boy  ! 

0,  wore  1  by  your  bounty  fed  ! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide  ; 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread,  — 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep ;  what  is  't  you  say  ? 

You  '11  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ  ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents  !  look  and  see 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  ! 

Amelia  Opie. 


THE  ORPHANS. 

My  chaise  the  village  inn  did  gain, 
Just  as  the  setting  sun's  last  ray 

Tipped  with  refulgent  gold  the  vane 
Of  the  old  church  across  the  way. 

Across  the  way  I  silent  sped. 

The  time  till  supper  to  beguile, 
In  moralizing  o'er  the  dead 

Tli.it  moldercd  round  the  ancient  jiile. 

There  many  a  humble  green  grave  showed 
Where  want  and  pain  and  toil  did  rest ; 

And  many  a  flattering  stone  I  viewed 
O'er  those  who  once  had  wealth  possest. 

A  faded  beech  its  shadow  brown 

Tlirew  o'er  a  grave  where  son'ow  slept, 

On  which,  though  scarce  witli  grass  o'ergrown. 
Two  ragged  children  sat  and  wept. 

A  piece  of  bread  between  them  lay, 

Which  neither  seemed  inclined  to  take, 

And  yet  they  looked  so  much  a  prey 
To  want,  it  made  my  heart  to  ache. 


"My  little  children,  let  me  know 
Why  you  in  such  distress  appear, 

And  why  you  wasteful  from  you  throw 
That  bread  which  many  a  one  might  cheer  ? ' 

The  little  boy,  in  accents  sweet. 

Replied,  while  tears  each  other  chased,  — 
"  Lady  !  we  'vo  not  enough  to  eat, 

Ah  !  if  we  had,  we  should  not  waste. 

"  But  Sister  Mary 's  naughty  grown, 

And  wQl  not  eat,  whate'er  1  say. 
Though  sure  I  am  the  bread 's  her  own. 

For  she  has  tasted  none  to-day." 

"Indeed,"  the  wan,  starved  Mary  said, 
' '  Till  Henry  eats,  1  '11  eat  no  more, 

For  yesterday  I  got  some  bread. 
He's  had  none  since  the  day  before. " 

My  heart  did  swell,  my  bosom  heave, 
I  felt  as  thougli  depriveil  of  speech  ; 

Sdent  I  sat  upon  the  gi'ave, 

And  clasped  the  clay-cold  hand  of  each. 

With  lOoks  of  woe  too  sadly  true. 

With  looks  that  spoke  a  grateful  heart, 

The  shivering  boy  then  nearer  drew. 
And  did  his  simple  tale  impart  : 

"  Before  my  father  went  away. 

Enticed  by  bad  men  o'er  the  sea, 
Sister  and  I  did  naught  but  play,  — 

We  lived  beside  yon  great  ash-tree. 

"  But  then  poor  mother  did  so  cry. 
And  looked  so  changed,  I  cannot  tell ; 

She  told  us  that  she  soon  should  die. 
And  bade  us  love  each  other  well. 

"She  said  that  when  the  war  was  o'er. 
Perhaps  we  might  our  father  see  ; 

But  if  we  never  saw  him  more. 
That  God  our  father  then  would  be  ! 

"She  kissed  us  both,  and  then  she  died. 

And  we  no  more  a  mother  have  ; 
Here  many  a  day  we  've  sat  and  cried 

Together  at  poor  mother's  grave. 

"  But  when  my  father  came  not  here, 
1  thought  if  we  could  find  the  sea. 

We  should  be  sure  to  meet  him  there. 
And  once  again  might  happy  be. 

"We  hand  in  hand  went  many  a  mile. 
And  asked  our  way  of  all  we  met ; 

And  some  did  sigh,  and  some  did  sraUe, 
.\nd  we  of  some  did  victuals  get. 


4 


f;^ 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


■^ 


!B- 


"  liiil  nlu'ii  we  riiiiolunl  tlic  wii  mid  rouiul 
"!'  H  as  mil'  grout  wiitor  nmnil  us  spiviul, 

Wr  lluni^lil  timt  liillmr  must  In'  drownoil, 
Ami  iiinl,  iiiui  wisliwl  wd  Imth  were  doad. 

"S,i  wii  ri'tunicil  to  mother's  griivo, 
Ami  only  longod  with  \wx  to  lio  ; 

Kor  (Jniuly,  when  this  liri'iul  sho  gave, 
Siiiil  rnlliiT  dii'il  lii'vuml  llui  sua. 

"'I'lii'ii  siiu'e  nil  imrcint  wu  Imvc  lioro, 
W'l'  '11  go  and  .soivrch  I'or  Clod  ai-ounil ; 

l.^idv,  (iriiy,  nm  you  ti'U  us  wlu'rn 
'I'ii.it  l!od,  ovU'"l''ialiiT,  nmy  ho  round? 

"  111'  lives  III  heaven,  our  mother  said, 
And  tioody  says  that  mother's  there  ; 

So,  it  she  knows  wo  want  his  aid, 

1  lliiiik  perhaps  she'll  send  him  hero." 

1  elaspid  the  pratllers  lo  my  hreast. 

And  erieil,  "Come,  liolli,  ami  live  with  mo  ; 

I  'II  elullie  you,  I'eed  you,  give  you  rest, 
And  will  a  se.eond  motlier  he. 

".\iid  tJoil  shall  he  yonr  Kiilher  still, 
"r  was  he  ill  luerey  sent  me  here, 

Ti.  liiuh  you  to  ol.e'v  his  will, 

Vour  sleps  lo  guide,  your  hearts  to  eheer." 


LONDON  CHURCHES. 

1  .STOOII,  one  Sunday  morning. 
Before  a  large  ehureh  door. 
The  eoiigregation  gathered 
Aiul  earriages  a  seore,  — 
From  one  out  stepped  a  lady 
1  oil  had  seen  hetore. 

Her  hand  was  on  a  prnyer-luiok, 
And  held  a  vinaigrette  ; 
Tlie  sign  of  man's  redemption 
t'lear  on  the  hook  was  set,  — 
Hut  iihove  the  Citisa  thoro  glistened 
A  golden  t\)i'ouet. 

For  her  tho  obsonuious  headlo 
The  inner  door  Hung  wide  ; 
Lightly,  as  uj>  a  IwU-room, 
Her  footsteps  seemed  to  glide,  — 
There  might  he  good  thoughts  in  her. 
For  all  her  evil  piide. 

But  alter  her  a  woman 
Teeped  wistfully  within. 
On  whoso  wan  faee  was  graven 
Life's  Imnlest  diseipline,  — 
Tho  tiiiee  of  the  sad  trinity 
Of  weakness,  pain,  tuul  sin. 


Tho  low  frco-seats  wore  urowded 
\V  hero  sho  could  rest  and  pray  ; 
With  her  worn  garb  contrasted 
Eai'li  side  in  fair  array,  — 
"  Clod's  house  holds  no  poor  sinners," 
She  sighed,  and  crept  away. 

KlCHARLl  MONCKTON  MILNES. 


TWO  WOMEN. 

TiiK  shadows  lay  along  liroadway, 

"r  was  near  the  twilight-tide. 
Anil  slowly  llieie  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walked  sho  ;  hut,  viewlossly, 

Walked  spirits  at  hor  siile. 

IVaie  rharmed  the  street  heneath  her  foot, 

.\iid  Honor  eharmod  the  air  ; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  fair,  — 
For  all  Cloil  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  raro 

From  lovers  warm  and  true. 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  lait  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo.  — 
lUit  honored  well  are  charms  to  soil 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair,  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  nnike  the  spirit  i[uail,  — 
"I'wixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn. 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray  ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  !  — 

Rut  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway  ! 

NAril.VNlt-L   I'AKKIK   WiLLISL 


BEAUTIFUI,  SNOW. 

O  TUK  snow,  the  beautiful  snow. 
Filling  the  sky  and  tho  earth  bolow  ! 
C>ver  the  honse-tops.  over  the  street, 
C^ver  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet 
Dancing, 
Flirting. 

Skimming  along. 


-^ 


a- 


SOKROIV  AND  ADVEHHITY. 


liT^ 


&-- 


r.i  aiilil'iil  Hiiow  !  it  can  ilo  nothing  wrong. 
I'lj'ing  to  kisB  n  fair  lady's  fheok  ; 
(-'linging  to  lips  in  a  rrolicsoino  freak  ; 
liuantiful  .snow,  from  the  heavens  above, 
I'lU'c;  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love  I 

II  llif  snow,  tlie  heautifill  snow  ! 
liuw  tlio  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go  I 
Whirling  aliont  in  its  maddening  fun, 
1 1  Jilays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

i lurrying  hy, 
ll  li^dils  ii|i  the  face  and  it  siiarkh^s  tin'  eye  ; 
And  I'Ven  the  dogs,  with  a  hark  and  a  Ijoiuid, 
.Sua]!  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heai't  in  a  glow. 
To  welcome  tlu;  condng  of  beautiful  snow. 

ll.Av  the  wild  .r-.w.l  go  swaying  along, 
Hailing  eaidi  olher  with  humor  and  song  I 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by,  — 
liright  for  a  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye  ! 
Kinging, 

Swinging, 

Dasliing  tliey  go 
Over  the  crost  of  the  Iteautiful  snow  : 
Know  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky. 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by  ; 
To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousandsof  feet 
'fill  it  blends  with  the  horrible  lilth  in  the  .street. 

ihicf  I  was  pure  as  the  snow,  -    Imt  I  IVll  : 
Fell,  like  the  snow-flakes,  from  lieavcn       to  hell ; 
I'VII,  to  he  tramped  as  the  fdth  of  the  street  : 
I'Vll,  to  bo  seofTed,  to  be  spit  on,  and  beat. 
Pleading, 
Cur.Hing, 

Urcriding  Iodic, 
Selling  my  soul  to  wdiocver  would  buy, 
|tc;ding  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread. 
Hating  the  living  ancl  fi-aring  the  dead. 
Meri.dful  God  !  liave  1  fallen  so  low  ? 
And  y<'t  I  was  once  like  this  beautiful  snow  ! 

I  hicc  [  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
Willi  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like  its  glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace,  — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  ehann  of  my  face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 
(iod,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too  nigh  ; 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know 
There  is  nothing  that 's  pure  but  the  beautiful 
snow. 


How  strange  it  should  bo  tliat  this  beautiful 

snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go! 
How  strange  it  would  bo,  when  the  night  comes 

again, 
If  the  snow  and   the   ice  struck   my   ilespcrale 

brain ! 

Fainting, 

F'reezing, 

Oying  .'done, 
Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan 
'I'o  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
'ione  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming  down  ; 
To  lie  anil  to  die  in  my  teirible  woe, 
With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful  snow  I 

JAMI.S   W.    WAISON. 


THE   liKIUGE   OK  H10H8. 

"  Drowned  I  flrowncd  I "  —  IlAMLa  r. 

Onk  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
liashly  im[iortunato, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

'i'ake  her  up  tenderly, 
lift  her  with  care  ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly. 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

1,00k  at  her  garments 
t/linging  like  i-en^nents, 
Whilst  the  wave  imnslantly 
Drijis  from  her  clothing; 
I'ake  her  uji  instantly, 
l>oving,  not  loathing  ! 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  I 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
(icntly  and  humanly,  — 
Not  of  tJie  stains  of  her  ; 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 
liash  and  undutiful  ; 
P.ast  all  dishonor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers,  — 
One  of  Kve's  fandly,  — 
Wipe  those  poor  li]is  of  Iicrs, 
Oozing  so  clammily. 


£h: 


252 


FOEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


-f|. 


:B-- 


Ksciiiu'il  rrciin  llid  cdiiiI), — 
llor  I'liir  aiiburii  Ii'uhhiih,  — 
Wliilat  woudiMiiiunt  f^uiiasos 
■Whom  WIIH  ll,T  liuiuo  f 

Who  WIW  llrl    liillicr? 
AVlio  was  licr  iniillior  ( 
llii,l  «li.i  II  sister  ( 
lln.l  sliiMV  Iii'dUioi'? 
Oi'  was  IIku'ii  a  iloaior  oiio 
Klill,  anil  a  iiounir  oni) 
Yet,  tli.tii  all  iiili.'i'y 

Alus!  liir  llio  laiily 
Ol'Clirisliaii  .■liaiily 
Undo.'  III.'  HMii  I 
(),  it  was  pilil'ul  ! 
Niiai-  a  wliulii  c'ity  lull, 
Homo  slui  luni  iKiiii'. 

Sisterly,  lnollnTly, 
Fntlioi-ly,  iiKillii'ily 
Kw>liiij!s  lia.l  uliMiii,'.',!,   - 
1,()V0,  Uy  linrsh  i.vidc^ni'n, 
'riii-owii  I'l-Diii  its  imiiiKiiU'ii  ; 
Kvon  (iml's  iiioviileiu'o 
Hiwming  ostmiif^wl. 

WliiTo  Iho  111. lips  iiuivm- 

S..  Iiir  ill  llh'  nvrr. 

With  many  a  liglil 

Kriini  wimliiw  ami  ciisiimont, 

Kl'oni  jjiinvl  to  liasniiu'nl, 

Slu)  stood,  Willi  iuiia/.ii|iu'iit, 

llouaoloss  liy  iiiy;lil. 

The  bleak  wind  of  Miirc^h 
Mado  lior  ti'unililii  and  sliivor 
Hut  not  tho  dark  iindi, 
Or  till'  Mark  llowiuf;  rivor  j 
Mad  IVoni  lil'ii's  history, 
Glad  to  dwvth's  uiyatory, 
Swil't  toholmrlod  — 
Anvwlii'iv,  anywhoro 
(Hit  olllo-  wnlui  ! 

In  slio  iilun^jod  liohlly,  — 
No  niattor  how  coldly 
The  ronf^h  rivor  ran  — 
Over  the  brink  of  it  I 
Vioture  it  —  think  ol'  it, 
Dissolute  man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  yon  ean  ! 

Take  her  up  tondorly, 
Lift  hor  with  care  ! 


Fashionud  »o  slenderly, 
Voun^!,  and  so  fair  ! 

ICre  her  linili.s,  trixidly, 
Stillon  too  rigidly, 
Deeeiilly,  kindly, 
Smooth  ami  eomiiose  them  | 
And  her  eyes,  elose  them, 
Stariii),'  so  blindly  ! 
DreaiUully  stiirin;,' 
Tlirouj{h  niuildy  iniiMirity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  des]iairin^' 
Fixed  i.ii  liiluiily. 

I'orisliin-  ;,dooniily, 
Spniiod  by  eoiilniiiely. 
Cold  iiihnmanity, 
lUuning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest  I 
t'ross  her  hands  humbly. 
As  if  pniyiiiK  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast  I 

(hMiiii','  her  weakness. 
Her  evil  behavior. 
And  leaving,  with  nu'cknoss, 
Hor  sins  to  lior  Savioui' ! 

THOMAS  iioou 


THE  LITTLE  MATOII-GIRL. 

TjIPTLIC  Oretchen,  little  C.retohen  wanders  u]> mid 

down  the  street  ; 
The  snow  is  on  her  yoUow  hair,  the  frost  is  on 

her  foet. 
The  rows  of  long,  ilark  liousos  without  hu.k  ould 

aiul  damji, 
Uy  the  struggling  of  the  nuxinbeani,  by  tin'  llieker 

of  the  lamp, 
The  elouds  ride  fast  as  horses,  the  wind  is  iVoiii 

the  north. 
But  no  ouo  oares  for  (Sieteheii,  and  no  one  lookotli 

forth. 
Within  those  dark,  damp  hoiisi's  are  merry  fares 

bright, 
And  happy  hearts  are  walehing  out  the  old  year's 

latest  night. 

AVith  the  little  box  of  matrhossh.Tunbl  not  sell 

all  day, 
And  the  thin,  tattered  nnuitio  the  wind  blows 

every  way. 
She  elingoth  to  the  Iiuling,   she  shivers  in   the 

gloom,  — 
There  are  parents  sitting  .snugly  by  thi'  lireliglil 

in  the  room ; 


[i 


p 


SOllROJF  AND  ADVKESITY. 


25:? 


■a 


And  fliililren  with  grave  facoa  are  whispering  one 

luiotlior 
or  pirsciitrt  for  the  New  Yc-iii,  C.r  fiitluT  nr  liii- 

iiiit,  no  oik;  talks  to  Uretoheii,  anil  no  one  hoars 

lii;r  speak  ; 
No  hri-ath  of  little  whisperers  eoines  wainily  to 

her  ehe,;k. 

Her  home  is  eol.l  aiel  desolate  ;  no  sniil.-,  no  fond, 

no  lire, 
But  ehildren  elaniorous  for  )/n;ail,  unil  an  impa- 

ti(rnt  sire. 
.So  she  sits  ilown   in  an  an{,de  where  two  great 

housc;s  nieet, 
And  she  eurletli  up  heneuth  her  for  warmth  her 

little  feet ; 
And  she  looketh  on  the  eold  wall,  and  on  the 

e.,ld.-r  sky. 
And  wrjnilirs  if  the  little  stais  are  bright  lires  up 

on  high. 
She  hcairs  the  eloc;k  striki!  slowly,  uji  high  in  a 

ehureh-tower, 
With  sueh  a  sad  and  solemn  tone,  telling  tfe; 

njidnight  hour. 

.Slie  remeinhorcd  her  of  stories  her  mother  used 

to  tell, 
And  of  the  cradle-songs  slie  sang,  when  summei^'s 

twilight  fell. 
Of  good  men  and   of  angels,   and  of  tie;  Holy 

f'hild, 
Who  was  eradhtd  in  a  manger  when  wintej-  w.is 

njost  wild  ; 
Who  was  poor,  and  eold,  and  hungry,  and  deso-  '  .,  .   ".  '' 

l.'itc  and  lonit ; 
And  she  thought  the  song  had  told  her  he  was  ever 

with  his  own, 
And  all  the  |ioor  and  hungry  and  fojsaken  onc^s 

were  his, 
"How  good  of  him  to  look  on  me  in  sueh  a  placi' 

as  this ! " 


And  kindred  there  were  gathered  rouml  the  table 

richly  sprearl, 
With  heajw  of  goodly  viands,  red  wine,  and  pleas- 
ant bread. 
.She  eould  smell  the  fragrant  odor  ;  she  could  hear 

them  talk  and  jilay  ; 
Then  all  was  darkness  once  again—  the  nuilch 

hacl  burned  away. 
.Shc!  struck  another  hastily,  and  now  she  scculc.! 

to  Bi-e, 
Willi  in  Ihi!  same  warm  chamber  a  gloi'ious  Chrisl- 

lii.istrei,'. 
The  branches  all  were  laden  down  with  tilings 

that  ehildren  prize  ; 
liright  gifts  for  hoy  and  maiden  they  showed  br- 

fore  her  eyes. 
And  she  almost  seemed  to  tomli  tlniii,  and  li. 

join  the  welcome  shout  ; 
Thin  darkness  fell  aii.und  her,  for  the  Ijltic  malrh 

was  out. 
Another,  yet  another,  she  has  tried,  —  they  will 

not  light; 
Then  all   her  little  store  she   took,   and   strmk 

with  all  her  might. 
And  the  whole  place  around  her  was  ligli led  willi 

the  glare  : 
And  lo  !  there  hung  a  little  Child  before  hei>  in 

the  air  ! 
There  were  blood-drops  on  his  for'ehead,  a  spear- 
wound  in  his  side. 
And  cnu'l  nail-prints  in  his  feet,  and  in  his  hands 

Sliread  wide. 
,\nd  he  looked  upon  her  gentlv,  and  she  felt  lli.it 

111-  had  known 

nger,  eold,  and  sorrow,  —  ay,  eipial   lo 
r  own. 


t3- 


Colder  it  grows  and  colder,  hut  she  does  not  feel 

it  now. 
For  the  pressure  on  her  bosom,  and  the  weight 

upon  lior  brow  ; 
But  slie  struck  one  little  match  on  tlie  wall  so 

cold  and  bare. 
That  she  might  look  aiound   her,  and  see  if  lie 

was  there. 
The  single  match  was  kindled  ;  and,  by  the  light 

it  threw. 
It  seemed  to  little  Maggie  that  the  wall  was  rent 

in  two. 
And  she  could  see  the  room  within,  the  room  all 

warm  and  light, 
With  the  lire-glow  red  and  blazing,  and  the  ta[iers 

burning  bright. 


And   he  pointed   lo  the  laden  board  and  to  the 

Christmas-tree, 
Then  up  to  the  eold  sky,  and  said,  "WillGretchen 

come  with  me  ?" 
The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail,  she  fell  her 

eyeballs  swim. 
And  a  ringing  sound  was  in  her  ears,  like  her 

dead  mother's  hymn  : 
And  she  folded   both  her  thin  while  hands  and 

turned  from  that  bright  board. 
And  from  the  golden  gifts,  and  said,  "With  tln-e, 

with  thee,  O  Jxjrd  !  " 

The  cliilly  winter  morning  breaks  up  in  tin-  dull 

skies 
On  the  eity  wrapt  in  vapor,  on  the  spot  wlicm 

Oretehen  lies. 
In  her  scant  and  tattered  guniients,  with  her  back 

against  the  wall. 
She  sitteth  eold  ani-l   ligid,  she  answers  to    no 

call. 


4 


a- 


254 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


-a 


They  lifted  her  up  fcarruUy,  and  shuddered  as 
they  said, 

"  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night  !  the  child  is  frozen 
dead." 

The  angels  sang  their  greeting  for  one  more  re- 
deemed from  sin ; 

Men  said,  "  It  was  a  bitter  night  ;  would  no  one 
let  her  in?" 

And  they  shivered  as  they  spoke  of  her,  and  sighed : 
they  could  not  see 

How  much  of  happiness  there  was  after  that 
misery. 

From  the  Danish  of  HANS  CHRISTIAN  AN: 


fr- 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt !" 

"Work  !  work  !  work 

WhOe  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It 's,  0,  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

"Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ! 
Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam,  — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 

"  0  men  with  sisters  dear  ! 

0  men  with  mothers  and  wives  ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out. 

But  human  creatui'es'  lives  ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,  — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt  ! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death,  — 
That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 
It  seems  so  like  my  own,  — 
It  seems  so  like  luv  own 


Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
0  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear. 
Anil  Hesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  tliigs  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags, 
That  shattered  roof — -and  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table — a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ! 
Work  —  work  —  work 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band,  — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

In  the  dull  December  light ! 
And  work  —  work — work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ! 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs. 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

' '  0,  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet,  — 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 

For  only  one  short  horn- 
To  feel  as  1  used  to  feel. 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"0,  but  for  one  short  hour,  — 

A  respite,  however  brief ! 
No  blessM  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

B\it  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart  ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread ! " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavj'  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags. 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch  — 
Woidd  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich !  — 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt !" 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


4 


SORROW  AND  ADVERSITY. 


-:;Ta 


[&-. 


GIVE  ME  THREE  GRAINS  OF  CORN,  MOTHER. 

THE  IRISH  FAMINE. 

Give  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother,  — 

Only  three  grains  of  corn  ; 
It  will  keep  the  little  life  I  have 

Till  the  coming  of  the  morn. 
1  am  dying  of  hunger  and  cold,  mother,  — 

Dying  of  hunger  and  cold  ; 
And  half  the  agony  of  such  a  death 

Jly  lijjs  have  never  told. 

It  has  gnawed  like  a  wolf,  at  my  heart,  mother, — 

A  wolf  that  is  fierce  for  blood  ; 
All  the  livelong  day,  and  the  night  beside. 

Gnawing  for  lack  of  food. 
I  dreamed  of  bread  in  my  sleep,  mother. 

And  the  sight  was  heaven  to  see  ; 
I  awoke  with  an  eager,  famishing  lip. 

But  you  had  no  bread  for  me. 

How  could  1  look  to  you,  mother,  — 

How  could  I  look  to  you 
For  bread  to  give  to  your  .starving  boy, 

When  you  were  starving  too  ? 
For  I  read  the  famine  in  your  cheek. 

And  in  your  eyes  so  wild. 
And  I  felt  it  in  your  bony  hand. 

As  you  laid  it  on  your  child. 

The  Queen  has  lands  and  gold,  mother,  — 

The  Queen  has  lands  and  gold, 
While  you  are  forced  to  your  empty  breast 

A  skeleton  babe  to  hold,  — 
A  babe  that  is  dying  of  want,  mother. 

As  I  am  dying  now. 
With  a  ghastly  look  in  its  sunken  eye. 

And  famine  upon  its  brow. 

Wliat  has  poor  Ireland  done,  mother,  — 

What  has  poor  Ireland  done. 
That  the  world  looks  on,  and  sees  us  starve. 

Perishing  one  by  one  ? 
Do  the  men  of  England  care  not,  mother,  — 

The  great  men  and  the  high,  — 
For  the  suffering  sons  of  Erin's  isle. 

Whether  they  live  or  die  ? 

There  is  many  a  brave  heart  here,  mother. 

Dying  of  want  and  cold. 
While  only  across  the  Channel,  mother, 

Are  many  that  roll  in  gold  ; 
There  are  rich  and  proud  men  there,  mother. 

With  wondrous  wealth  to  view. 
And  the  bread  they  fling  to  their  dogs  to-night 

Would  give  life  to  me  and  you. 

Come  nearer  to  my  side,  mother. 
Come  nearer  to  my  side. 


And  hold  me  fondly,  as  you  held 

Jly  father  when  lie  died  ; 
Quick,  i'or  1  cannot  see  you,  mother. 

My  breath  is  almost  gone  ; 
Mother  !  dear  mother  !  ere  I  die. 

Give  me  three  grains  of  corn. 

Miss  Edwa 


THE  IDIOT  BOY. 

It  had  pleased  God  to  form  jioor  Ned 

.V  thing  of  idiot  mind  ; 
■^'i-t  to  the  poor,  unreasoning  boy 

God  had  not  been  unkind. 

Old  Sarah  loved  her  helpless  child. 
Whom  helplessness  made  dear. 

And  life  was  everything  to  him  \ 

Who  knew  no  hope  or  fear. 

She  knew  his  wants,  she  umlcrstood 

Each  half-articulate  call. 
For  he  was  everything  to  her, 

And  she  to  him  was  all. 

And  so  for  many  a  year  they  lived, 

Nor  knew  a  wish  beside  ; 
But  age  at  length  on  Sarah  came. 

And  she  fell  sick  and  died. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  waken  her. 

He  called  her  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
They  told  him  she  was  dead,  —  the  word 

To  him  no  import  bore. 

They  closed  her  eyes  and  shrouded  her, 
Whilst  he  stood  wondering  by, 

And  when  they  bore  her  to  the  grave 
He  followed  silently. 

They  laid  her  in  the  narrow  house. 

And  sung  the  funeral  stave. 
And  when  the  mournful  train  dispersed 

He  loitered  by  the  grave. 

The  rabble  boys  that  used  to  jeer 
Whene'er  they  saw  poor  Ned, 

Now  stood  and  watched  him  at  the  grave. 
And  not  a  word  was  said. 

They  came  and  went  and  came  again. 

And  night  at  last  drew  on  , 
Yet  still  he  lingered  at  the  place 

Till  eveiy  one  had  gone. 

And  when  he  found  himself  alone 
He  quick  removed  the  clay, 


^ 


f 


FOE  MS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


^ 


h 


And  raised  the  coffin  in  liis  arms 
And  Ixjre  it  quick  awiiy. 

Stniiglit  went  be  to  liis  mother's  cot 

iVnd  liiid  it  on  the  lloor. 
And  with  the  eagerness  of  joy 

He  liarred  the  cottage  door. 

At  once  he  placed  liis  mother's  corpse 

I'pright  within  her  chair, 
And  tlien  he  heaped  the  hearth  and  blew 

The  kindling  fire  with  care. 

She  now  was  in  her  wonted  chair, 

It  was  her  wonted  place. 
And  bright  the  tire  blazed  and  Hashed, 

Ketlccted  from  her  face. 

Then,  bending  down,  he  'd  feel  her  hands, 

.Vnon  her  face  beliold  ; 
"Why,  mother,  do  you  look  so  pale. 

And  why  arc  you  so  cold  ? " 

And  when  the  neighboi's  on  next  morn 

Had  forced  tlie  cottage  door, 
Old  Sarah's  corpse  was  in  the  chair, 

.Vnd  Ned's  was  on  tlie  Hoor. 

It  had  pleased  God  from  tliis  poor  boy 

His  only  friend  to  call  ; 
Yet  God  was  not  inikind  to  him. 

For  death  restored  him  all. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


THE  MANI.\C. 

St.\y,  jailer,  stay,  and  liear  ray  woe  ! 

Site  is  not  mad  who  kneels  to  thee  ; 
For  what  I  'm  now  too  well  1  know, 

And  what  I  was,  and  what  should  be. 
1  11  rave  no  more  in  proud  despair  ; 

My  language  shall  be  mild,  thougli  sad  ; 
But  yet  1  firmly,  truly  swear, 

f  am  not  mad,  I  am  not  mad! 

My  tyrant  husband  forged  the  tale 

Which  chains  me  in  this  dismal  cell ; 
My  fate  unknown  my  friends  bewail,  — 

0  jailer,  haste  that  fate  to  tell  I 
0.  haste  my  father's  heart  to  cheer  ! 

His  heart  at  once  't  will  grieve  and  glad 
To  know,  though  kept  a  captive  here, 

/  am  not  mad,  I  am  not  mad  ! 

He  smiles  in  scorn,  and  turns  the  key  ; 

He  quits  the  grate  ;  1  knelt  in  vain  ; 
His  glimmering  lamp  still,  still  I  see,  — 

T  is  gone  !  and  all  is  gloom  amiin. 


Cold,  bitter  cold  !  —  No  warmth  !  no  light  1 

Life,  all  thy  comforts  once  1  had  ; 
Yet  here  1  'm  chained,  this  freezing  night. 

Although  not  nwd ;  no,  no, —  not  mad/ 

'T  is  sure  some  di'eam,  some  vision  vain  ; 

What !  /,  the  child  of  rank  and  wealth, — 
Am  /  the  wretch  who  clanks  this  chain. 

Bereft  of  freedom,  friemls,  and  health  ? 
Ah  !  wliile  1  dwell  on  blessings  Hed, 

Which  nevermore  my  heart  must  glad, 
How  aches  my  heart,  how'  burns  my  1h\uI  ; 

But  't  is  not  mad ;  no,  't  is  not  mad ! 

Hast  thou,  my  child,  forgot,  ere  this, 

A  mother's  face,  a  mother's  tongue  ? 
She  '11  ne'er  forget  your  jiarting  kiss. 

Nor  rouml  her  neck  how  fast  you  clung  ; 
Nor  how  with  her  you  sued  to  stay  ; 

Nor  how  that  suit  your  siix;  forbade  ; 
Nor  how  —  1  '11  drive  such  thoughts  away  ! 

They'll  make  me  mad,  they  '11  make  me  nuui! 

His  i-osy  lii>s,  how  sweet  they  smiled  ! 

His  mild  blue  eyes,  how  bright  they  shone  ! 
None  ever  bore  a  lovelier  child. 

And  art  thou  now  forever  gone  ? 
And  must  I  never  see  thee  more. 

My  pretty,  pretty,  pretty  lad  >. 
I  will  be  free  1  unbar  the  door  ! 

/  n  )rt  not  mad ;  /  am  not  mad .' 

0,  hark  !  what  mean  those  yells  and  cries  ? 

His  chain  some  furious  madman  breaks  ; 
He  comes,  —  I  see  his  glaring  eyes  ; 

Now,  now,  my  dungeon-grate  he  shakes. 
Help .'  Help  !  —  He  "s  gone  !  — O,  fearful  woe, 

Such  screams  to  hear,  such  sights  to  see  ! 
My  bmu,  my  brain,  —  I  know,  I  know 

I  am  not  mad,  but  soon  shall  be. 

Yes,  soon  ;  —  for,  lo  you  !  while  I  speak,  — 

Mark  how  yon  demon's  eyeballs  glare  ! 
He  sees  me  ;  now,  with  dreadful  .shriek, 

He  whirls  a  serpent  high  in  air. 
Horror  !  —  the  reptile  strikes  his  tooth 

Deep  in  my  heart,  so  crushed  and  sad  : 
Ay,  laugh,  ye  fiends  ;  —  I  feel  the  truth  ; 

Y'our  task  is  done,  —  I  'm  m.\d  !  I  '.M  M.\n  ! 
Matthew  Gregory  Lewis 


THE  PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED. 

Tread  softly,  —  bow  the  head, 
In  reverent  silence  bow,  — 

No  passing-bell  doth  toll. 
Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 


& 


[& 


aOliliUlV  AND  ADVERSITY. 


257 


•^ 


e-^ 


Stranger  !  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow ; 
There  's  one  in  that  poor  shed  — 
One  by  that  paltry  bed  — 

Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 
Lo  !  Death  doth  keep  his  state. 

Enter,  no  crowds  attend  ; 

Enter,  no  guarils  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 

No  smiling  courtiei's  tread  ; 
One  silent  woman  .stands. 
Lilting  with  meager  hands 

A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound,  — 

An  infant  wail  alone  ; 
A  sob  suppre.s.sed,  —  again 
That  short  deep  gasp,  and  then  — 

The  parting  groan. 

0  change  !  0  wondrou.s  change  ! 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars,  — 
This  moment,  there,  so  low. 
So  agonized,  and  now,  — 

Beyond  the  stars. 

0  change !  stupendous  change  ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod  ; 
The  sun  eternal  breaks. 
The  new  immortal  wakes,  — 

Wakes  with  his  liod  ! 

Caroline  Anne  Bowles 

(Mrs.   SOUTHEYl. 

THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE. 

TnEP.E  's  a  gi-im  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round 
trot,  — 

To  the  churchyard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot  ; 

The  road  itis  rougli,  and  thehears<'  liasno  springs ; 

And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  mad  driversings  : 
RaltU  his  bones  over  the  stones  I 
He 's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  oitnis  I 

0,  where  are  the  mourners  ?   Alas !  there  are  none ; 

Hehas  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world,  nowhe  's  gone,  — 

Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  oi'  man  ; 

To  the  gi'ave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can  ; 
llnltle  his  hones  over  the  stones  I 
He  's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  I 

What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splashing,  and 

din  ! 
Thewhip.howit  cracks  !  and  the  wheels,  how  they 

spin  ! 


How  tlie  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is 
hurled  !  — 

The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world  ! 
Ilattle  his  bones  over  llie  stones  I 
He  's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  oiais/ 

Poor  pauper  defunct !  he  has  made  some  apjiroarl] 
'I'o  gentility,  now  that  he  's  stretched  in  a  coach  ' 
He  's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 
I'.ut  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast : 
Riiltle  his  bones  over  the  stones  J 
He  's  only  a  paujier  whom  nobody  owns  I 

You  bumpkins!  who  stare  at  your  brother  con- 
veyed. 
Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid  ! 
And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you  're 

laid  low. 
You  've  a  chance  to  the  giave  like  a  geiurnan  to  go ! 
Itattle  his  bones  over  th:  stones  ! 
He  's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  o'lmst 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain  ;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad. 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brute,  such  a  desolate  end. 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend  ! 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones/ 

Tlumyh  a  pauper,  lie  's  one  w/wm  his  Maker  yet 
oimis  I 


FOR  A'  THAT  AND   A'  TILA.T. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by ; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toil's  obscure,  and  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp,  — 

The  man  's  the  gowd  for  a'  tliat. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that  ? 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wi»e, 

A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a  that,  — 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He  's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that  ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that ; 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  aiul  laughs  at  a'  that. 


-^ 


e-r 


I '0  KM  Si  i>y  SOKROiy  AND  DJiATH. 


n 


A  jminco  oan  inak  a  bolttnl  ki\is;lit, 

A  luaniwis,  tluko,  ami  a'  that  ; 
l>ut  an  hoHnst  man  'a  almou  his  inislit,  — 

Onid  faith,  ht>  luaunna  fa"  tlmt  ! 
Fm-  a"  tliat,  aiul  a"  that ; 

'rhuir  ilij'iiititis,  ami  a'  that, 
Thf  i>ith  o'  si'uso,  ami  priiU"  o'  worth, 

Aiv  hi^hw  ronks  than  a'  that. 

Thwi  U>t  ns  pray  that  cwne  it  may,  — 

As  rome  it  will  tW  a"  that,  — 
That  s<>ns<>  and  worth,  o'w  a'  the  oarth. 

May  Iwu'  the  gi'ee,  ami  a'  that. 
Fw  a"  that,  and  a'  tliat. 

It 's  coming  yet,  tor  a'  that,  — 
AVhon  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'or, 

Sltall  ltt-oth(H'S  Ih>  tW  a'  that  ! 

KOBKKT   Bl'KNS. 


THE  BUND  BOY. 

O,  s,\Y,  what  is  that  thiiij;  valUd  laght, 

Whioh  1  must  ne'er  eiyov  ' 
Whtit  an^  the  Wessinjis  of  the  sijjht, 

0,  tell  your  jnior  blind  imy  ! 

Yell  talk  of  woudivus  thiu^  you  see. 
You  sjiy  the  sun  sl>im<s  bright ; 

1  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 
Or  n\ake  it  day  or  night  ' 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  nuake 

Whene'er  1  sJeep  ov  jJay  ; 
And  I'vniKl  1  ever  keep  awake 

With  me  "t  were  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  1  often  ht^ar 

You  njouru  my  hapless  woe  ; 
Uut  s>ire  with  jxatienee  I  ean  bear 

A  loss  1  ne'er  ean  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 

My  eheer  ot  mind  destivy  : 
Whilst  thus  1  sing,  1  an\  a  king. 

Although  a  ikhxt  Wind  l>oy. 

COttBV  CIBBBR. 


DIVKRSITIKS  OF  FORTUNE. 

fKO-M  "MISS  KItMANSBC.O." 

What  diHVi-ent  dooms  onv  birthdays  bring! 
For  instam-e,  one  little  manikin  thing 

Survives  to  wear  many  a  wrinkle  ; 
While  death  forbids  another  to  wake. 
And  a  sim  that  it  took  nine  moons  to  make 

Expires  without  even  a  twinkle  : 


q-]-- 


Into  this  world  we  come  like  sliips 

Lannched  ftwn  the  docks,  and  stocks,  and  sliiv). 

For  fortune  fair  or  fatal  ; 
Aiul  one  little  craft  is  cast  away 
In  its  very  lirst  trip  iu  liibbiconn?  l»ay, 

While  another  rides  safe  at  Tort  Natal, 

What  dilfenrnt  lots  o\ir  stai-s  accoixl ! 

Ttiis  Kibe  to  be  hailed  and  wooed  as  a  loi\l. 

And  that  to  be  shuunetl  like  a  leper  ! 
One,  to  the  world's  wine,  honey,  and  corn, 
Another,  like  Oolchrater  native,  born 

To  its  vinegiir  ojily,  and  pepper. 

One  is  litteivd  tinder  a  roof 
Neither  wind  >ior  water  proof,  — 

That 's  the  piwse  of  l.ove  in  a  cottage,  — 
A  puny,  luvktnl,  sliivering  wivtch. 
The  w  liole  of  whose  birthright  would  not  fetoh, 
Though  Uobius  himself  divw  up  the  sketch, 

The  bid  of  "a  \uess  of  jiottago." 

Born  of  Fortuuatus's  kin. 
Another  coiues  tenderly  uslieivd  in 

To  a  piwspect  all  bright  and  bnrnisheil ; 
No  tenant  he  for  life's  Iwck  slums,  — 
He  couu's  to  the  world  as  a  gtnitlemau  comes 

To  a  Uxlging  ivady  ftirnishe»l. 

And  the  other  sex  —  the  tender"  —  the  fair  — 

What  wide  rever-stvs  of  fate  aw  there  ! 

Whilst  Mai'garet,  charmeil  by  the  Bulbul  rare, 

la  a  g!»i\len  of  l<ul  reixwes, 
Poor  lVgg.v  hawks  nosegays  frem  street  to  sti'eet 
Till  —  tliiuk  of  that,  who  find  life  so  sweet !  — 

Slie  hates  the  smell  of  i-oses  ! 

TuoMAS  Hood. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PIJVY. 

Tub  play  is  done,  —  the  curtain  di\>i>s. 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  WU ; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops 

And  Uwks  around,  to  S!«y  fawwell. 
U  is  an  irksome  wonl  and  tjvsk  ; 

And,  when  he  s  langhevl  and  sjiid  his  say, 
He  sliowsi,  as  he  removes  the  nu»sk, 

A  face  that 's  anything  but  gay. 

One  wo»\l,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends,  — 

Let 's  cU«t>  it  with  a  jvirtiug  rhyme  ; 
And  phnlge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends. 

As  tits  the  merry  Christnras  time  ; 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  jvirts 

That  fate  erelong  sliall  Wd  you  play ; 
OwhI  night !  — with  honest,  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  I 


e 


a- 


HORROIV  AND  ADVERSITY. 


259 


13] 


Good  iii^ht !  —  I  M  say  tlu;  griels,  the  joys, 

Just  hiiitwl  in  this  niimi';  page, 
Tlic  triumphs  and  defeats  of  Ixjys, 

Are  but  repealed  in  our  age  ; 
1  'd  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen. 

Your  hojjes  more  vain,  tliaii  tlios«  of  men,  — 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  (iftwn 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I  'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 

Not  less  nor  more  a«  men  than  Ixiys,  — 
With  grizzled  tjcards  at  foity-live. 

As  erst  at  twelve  iu  eorduroys  ; 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  i)ass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I  'd  say  how  fate  may  change  and  shift,  — 
The  prize  lje  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  ra<;e  not  always  to  tin;  swift  ; 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  gooil  may  fall. 

The  great  man  l>e  a  vulgai-  clown, 
The  knave  Ix;  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Wlio  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  !«  He  who  took  and  gave ! 
Why  shouhl  your  motln;r,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  <Jarling's  giave  ; 
We  Ikiw  tf>  Heaven  tliat  willeil  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all. 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  Ijlow, 

Tliat  's  free  to  give  or  U>  ro.all. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit,  — 
Who  brought  him  to  tliat  mirth  and  state? 

HLs  bettiirs,  see,  below  him  sit. 
Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 


Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we  '11  kneel. 

Confessing  Heaven  tliat  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  a<lvance. 

Dear  hoix-s,  dear  fiiends,  untimely  kille<l  ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance 

And  longing  p»assion  unfulfilled. 
Amen  !  —  what^'vcr  fate  1«  sent. 

Pray  dxi  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
AUIiough  the  hea<l  with  cares  1j«  Ix-nt, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  w<-alth  or  want,  come  nmxi  or  ill, 

I^;t  young  and  old  awjept  their  part. 
And  1><)W  l^rfore  tin-  awful  will. 

And  l>ear  it  with  an  honest  hrart. 
Who  niissi-.s,  or  who  wins  the  prize,  — 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  oi  old  or  young  I 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays;) 
The  sacred  clioius  first  was  sung 

CjKin  the  fii-st  of  Christmas  days; 
The  shei)herd»  heard  it  overhead,  — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said. 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men  ! 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

1  lay  tlic  weary  jR-n  a^ide. 
And  wish  you  health  and  love  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  car<jl  still,  — 
Be  peaee  on  earth,  Ije  |>ea';e  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


f:..-;,. 


roKMn  OF  aotmm'^  Axn  ukatu. 


■a 


1?  i<;  H.  1*;  A  V  K  M  w  N  r  and  d  e  a  t  ii . 


KKSUINAI'ION, 

TnKUK  if  «>>  lUvk,  l>i<w<>v<'i-  wntolio.l  aii<l  ton.li'il, 

lint  <vm>  >l«>vl  li»i>li  is  tluMV  ! 
'rin'ix'  is  »<>  liivs\>li>.  Imw si>t''t>l'  liolViniiul, 

Iviil  litis  »iu>  viioiuU  v'lmii'l 

'V\w  iiif  isi  M\  of  liiivwolls  tv>  llio  ilyiivjt. 

Aiul  uiomiiiiijpi  fvM'  llii<  ilwul ; 
'V\\c  lipiiit  of  Kiioliol,  t\>i'  lu'V  oliitvlivu  oiyiiij;, 

Will  iiol  l>*  comtVicUHl ! 

l.(>t  Hs  K>  \>!iti<mt !    'rU<w<>  si'voiv  ulUii'tioiis 

Not  t^^>^«  tlio  >;iwni>l  iicisi'. 
Um  »ft<>ul(m<<s  >H'li^iti»l  iH'iXHiiotiows 

AssiuHo  this  liiivk  ilissxi""*- 

Wo  s»H>  Imt  <li\i\l,v  tliivilsli  lh<'  <i«sls  '»»!  ViU'NM'S ; 

Aniiil  tluvio  <>»vtlil,Y  (liiiims 
Wlml  siH'iii  to  us  Imt  s<i.l,  iVmcwil  l;ii><-i's 

Mivj'  lx>  li«ivi>ii"s  liistam  liiiinvi, 

'riunv  is  no  IVitli !    Wlmt  stHvius  so  is  tmusition  ; 

'Hits  lifo  of  movtal  tnwitli 
U  Imt  »  s«\\Hv\>  of  tlu'  lifi'  plysisiu, 

AYluvso  i><>il!il  wo  >\>U  IVilh. 

Slio  is  iivit  >l<\\vU    -  tlio  oliili\  of  oHV  alUvtion.  -■ 

Um  ,i;\Mio  \mto  that  soIuhiI 
Wlioiv  slio  HO  loUi!x>v  ii<hh)s  our  i>o*M'  jMvtivtivWi, 

Ami  rtifist  liiu\5»>lf  viotli  niKv, 

\u  tlial  giwit  oloistor's  stilltuvs^  aiivl  siv)usiv>«, 

l\v  jiuawUiui  iuij5<>ls  1<hI. 
S<ifo  iVuu  to«mtat\o\i,  sato  I\\>ih  siu's  \)o\iutioii, 

Slio  >iv«>s  whom  wo  v^ail  ilwul, 

Oay  afloi-  vlay,  wo  think  what  sho  is  lioiujj 

\n  thivso  lx\\i;lit  <>i\iluis  of  aiv  ; 
Yisiv  al'toi-  y««',  hov  tomlov  stojis  {"ursviiivi;. 

Uoliolvl  hov  jjiMwti  mow  fair. 

Thus  vlo  w*  w»lk  with  hor,  ami  k<vi>  uiihivkou 

Tho  Ixwiil  whioh  watuiv  j;iv<\s, 
Thiiikiuj;  that   our  ivuioiuhintu'r',   thoujjh  uu- 
s)yxko\i. 

May  \vaoh  hov  whot-o  sho  liTtvs, 

Not  as  a  ohlhl  shall  wo  ajp«\u  IvlioM  hov; 

For  whou  with  wntuitvs  wiUl 
l«  our  ouxhwi-os  wv  a^iiti  oufvtlvl  lior, 

Sh«  will  «ot  V  «  ohiW ; 


ISut  ii  l';iii'  iiiiiiilou,  ill  hor  Katlior's  uiansioii. 

iMollvoil  with  ooUvitiiil  gmoo; 
Ami  Ix-aulilMl  with  all  tlio  soul's  oxixuisioii 

Shall  wo  K'liohl  hor  ftioo. 

Aiiil  tliou,>;h.  at  limos.  iuiiH-tiums  with  oiuotioii 

Ami  auj<uish  loujj  sujuiivssoii, 
Tlio  swoUiujs  hwirt  liwivos  iiuvauiii};  Uko  I  lio  oooiui. 

That  oatiuot  Ih>  at  ivst,   - 

Wo  will  K'  imtioiit,  ami  assuaj^v  ilio  fooliuj; 

Wo  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
Uy  silouoo  saiiotil^iiij;,  not  ooiuwiliuj;, 

Tho  jjiiof  thill  must  havo  way, 

ItKNKV  WAlVi\Vv»KlM  l,\»N\;»'BLl,0\V. 


iii'i;iKi>  i\>  i>.\Y, 

ll\'UlKl>  lo-ilay  ; 

Whou  tho  .soft  j!i\w\  luuls  atv  hurstiujt  out. 
Ami  ui>  ou  tho  .south-wiiul  >>oim>s  a  shout 

tV  villaj?'  Iviys  and  jtirls  at  ("lay 

lu  tlio  mihl  suvilij*  owiiiiiji  jsiiiy, 

'l\ikou  away, 

Stui\ly  of  luwt  aiul  st>'\it  oflimK 

l-Vun  oy<\s  that  vli-i-w  half  thoirlij*lit  t\\>t\i hiui. 

.Vtul  (lut  low,  low  iiiiiloru«ilh  tho  olay, 

Ih  his  sjiriujj,  -   o\i  this  sjiriuj;  day, 

I  IVsstw  awj\y 

I         All  tho  luivlo  of  K\v-lifo  Iwjjuii. 

'  .\ll  tho  liojio  of  lifo  wt  to  run  ; 

;  Who  (laivs  to  nmvstiou  whou  Oiio  stulli  "Nay." 

Murmur  not,      only  (miy, 
I 
i  Rutors  to-day 

Auothor  Kxly  in  ohuivhysird  s»hI, 
Auothor  s»to1  ou  tho  lilo  \«  0»hI, 

His  I'hrist  was  huriwl   -  ativl  Uv<'«  alwwy  ; 

IVust  llitu,  auvl  j{v>  yvnvr  wsiy, 

I  \MNA«  Ml'lAX-i:  CRAIK. 


0  HKiVtii's  that  uowr  a^is<>  to  y<>ani  ' 
O  hrimiuiivi!  t<\ii-s  that  uo'or  av\'  .Irii^l 

Tho  vltvnl.  thoujth  thoy  do)vnt,  ivturii 
As  though  thoy  had  not  ditvl  1 


-^ 


[&■ 


HKIIICAVKMKNT  A  Nil   liKATII. 


2<'.] 


'I'Ui:  Uvfnff  are  thfl  wily  Amil  j 

'I'tii!  >I<««1  live,  —  uiivi-niinri:  tii  i{\»  ; 

Ami  ii(U:ii,  wbftii  wit  iiniiiiii  Umiki  fl/:'), 
'J'Jujy  <)<;V<:r  wi!i<;  mi  iii^\i  '. 

AjkI  t.)i»Mgli  tlicy  lii;  lM;ii<:atli  tin:  WAV';)), 
Or  b|i;<!()  willilii  tin;  i:liiir';liyiti<l  <Jliii, 

(AU  !  lliloil«li  liow  l(i!i/iy  <lifr<;l<;lil  giavcii 
(y<)<r«  i;)ill'li<;l»  K')  (//  Mm  !; 

Vet  i-.vi-.ry  uriivc,  itivim  iij)  il.«  'li;(i/l 
Km  it  i»  'ivf.rifi'iiv/ii  »it)i  ({i.i»»  ; 

'i')«;i)  wliy  hIiomI'I  tio[«l<:«»  Ukkis  I«  sIk;'!, 
Or  /iw/l  wij  <!(y,  "  Al;t»  "  ; 

(yr  why  «h/jri|il  M<;H)</ry,  v<;il<;']  witli  glw/wi, 
AikI  lik/;  u  ijiiiiiv/iiij/^  iii'/iii'ii>;r  i.iajwl, 

Hit  w<«;|)i(i;<  «i;r  uk  <:i/i|jty  Ujiiih, 
WImW!  i;a|itlvi:»  liavi;  Ktf.ufH'A  I 

"I'  in  hut  a  r((/)iU)'l,  —  arnl  will  Ik;  unmifAV 
Wlii;iie'<!r  tin;  »ii/m/i<;r  ({lass  a|;jn!ar»  ; 

TIk!  IovwI,  tl)«il({li  w<;|)t,  ar<;  l)<;V';l  l'/«l  ; 
Wi!  only  low:  —  «iir  tcaiw  ! 

Nay,  Jl'iin;  fiiay  wIiibjh;!'  willi  llio  <li;a/l 
l»y  U'.iiiiiiin  r</iwiii'il  wli(;(i;  tlii;y  ar<! ; 

lint  M<;n(«iy,  will)  a  l/iu;kwiii'l  ti';ii/l, 
',''/iiimii»i«  with  tlu.-ni  afar. 

TIk:  j'/y»  wc  l</W:  ar"!  I/Ut  l'oiw:a»t, 

AikI  w<:  liliull  iiiirl  tlicr/i  all  <//ii.<;  /iior<; ; 

W<:  look  U;hl.j.|  .!«  for  til.;  I'Jifit, 
liiil  lo  !  't  ifl  all  l..;(ori!  ! 

AWOM'/MOIJi, 


t 


TOE  MOI/RNKIOl  «AMK  AT  KRKAK  O*"  DAY, 

'I'lIC,  iiioimii;r.-i  <:aiii<;  at  l<r<rak  of  ilay, 

1,'iit/)  lli<:  j^iiriUm  is<!|)uliln:r, 
Witl(  P!a<l>l<;/i(:<l  Irftartx  to  w<»![>  aji'l  (iray 

For  lllld,  tli(;  lovwl  0(«;,  l/liri<yi  tli<;rr;, 
Wliat  ra/liaiit  li«lit  <liH|«-l)i  tin;  ulifilii  '. 
Atl  angel  nils  l/<;»i/l<:  tll>;  ti/liil). 

'I'll'!  cartli  'iolli  iiioiirii  li<;r  Uf.iWMn'ii  lo,it, 
All  *t:\i\\\i\ii:yij\  Ixj/iftatli  tli<;  Bdow, 

Wli(;ri  wintry  wiii<l»  ami  <;liillin«  front 
llavf!  laid  lii;r  »iiinin';r  jilni'm  \iivi ; 

'I'll'-  »((rinf{  rftturoB,  tl«;  (low<;r<;t>(  hl/joiH,  — 

All  an((i;l  Siltii  lx:hi/l";  tlw;  tolllti, 

Thi!ii  mourn  w«  not  Iwlowl  'Iwfl  j 
K'<:n  v/hil<!  we  f;om'!  t/i  w<;<;|(  ami  l<ray, 

TIk:  happy  spirit  hath  hut  flwl 

To  hri(/lit«r  rcalinc  of  lii:av<!nly  'lay  ; 

hnni'/rtal  ho|«;  'li>ij/<:l»  th<:  (zioom,  -  - 

An  aiigftl  xitii  Ix;!:)'!';  Ih';  toiiih. 


70   (Mil  UhbViltVi/P  "hUUm,"  WtVl  l/lklJ  A'l  UII.AH, 
I  JOWt ',,,*!., 

"  /cvib  Mitli  llfit/ilmr,    Wt/tMh.   <Wliy  Mi^^tAtf  lll//Mt    >Al»//Hi   K^K 

>,lf,    il  tiuM   fl«V«    l^rfll^    llllli  ||itl(/>;,    U.-II   MM    Wlwn   llf/U    l.«al    l.Mj/1 
I,."..  >A//  «.    IV 

Ik  ill';  lair  gar'l<:n»  of  <;4!h:i,tia|  pi-a/;/! 

Walk<;lh  a  gaiil/:m:r  in  iii<-^-kni;6«  <:l;i/l  ; 
I'aii  ai<:  ih':  flow<:r»  that  wii:ath';  hi»  ih-wy  herkn, 

Ami  hi»  Hiy»t';rioiu!  i:y<:»  ari;  »w<«;t  ami  »m[, 

I'aii  ar':  th<;  hik-nt  fohlldgii  of  his  rolxra, 
(•ailing  with  saintly  <:alnim-«  t//  I.Ib  f.':t  ; 

An'l  wh<;n  hi:  walks,  lai/ih  (loW';i':t  U,  his  will 
With  ll'/ing  pulw:  iif  nwMl  luii/ii'i  'lolh  Ural, 

Kv';ry  gi'wii  hraf  thrills  U,  its  t/ni'l'i  Inait, 
In  thi:  niil'l  Biiinmi;!  railiam;/:  of  his  'ryi;  ; 

N'/  fi:ar  of  storiii,  or  'rohl,  or  \ilWi  fi'rtt, 
Kha/hiw.-.  tlw;  llowi;r':t«  when  tlnrir  sun  is  nigh, 

An'l  all  our  pleasant  haiiiits  of  i-arthly  lov: 
An:  niirB<:/ii:«  ill  lh'»s(:  gaiiliiim  of  Ihi;  air  ; 

An'l  his  (ar-'larliiig  cyi;,  with  stairy  Usim, 
VVat/,li/;«  till;  growing  of  his  lr'«isur';»  lli'ri':, 

Wi;  ';all  thi;rn  ours,  o'ltrw'-pt  with  s<;llish  t'iirs, 
0'':rv,at<:h';il  with  rf»ll':»«  longings  night  aii'l 
'lay  ; 

Koig'lliil  of  the  high,  mystirrioiis  light 

lie  liol'ls  Ui  lisir  our  eherislii;/!  phiiits  away, 

Iliit  wlnrii  some  sunny  sjKit  in  th'/M:  hright  liel'ln 
N'l'ls  I  he  (ail  pievrnei!  of  an  a'hle'l  Iti/wer, 

Oown  sw';'-|»s  a  tlarry  angel  in  lh<r  night  : 

At  morn  the  r'w  has  vaniilnvl  (loni  our  lui'/iiir  ', 

\Vher<;  st/Kxl  our  trei;,  our  (lower,  tln-re  is  a  giavi; ! 

(ilank,  sihrnt,  VHfjiiit ;  hut  in  worl'ls  alxtve, 
I.ike  a  new  star  outhl'/ss/ime/l  in  the  skhrs, 
t      'Che  angels  hail  an  aihle<(  (low*r  o(  love, 

0':ar  fiieml,  no  more  U(ion  that  lonely  moiiml, 
'      Htrev/<:'l  with  the  ri-'l  an'l  yellow  autumn  leaf, 
I  (>rop  th'/u  the  Uim;  hut  rai»<:  the  (ainting  eye 
IVryoii'l  the  autumn  mists  of  earthly  grief. 

I  Thy  gai'len  r'/s<;t/ii<l  hore  within  its  hieast 

Those  my»l/;ries  of  cilor,  warm  an'l  hright. 
That  the  hieak  eliniat/;  of  this  low':i  spli':ie 
I      CouW  never  waken  Iiit/*  form  an'l  light, 

Y'rti,  the  uweet  Gardener  hath  fiorne  her  hene»;, 
!      ,Vor  must  thou  ask  tu  take  her  th/;iiee  away  ; 
I'hou  shall  Iwrholil  her,  in  fniic  <»yming  hour. 
Cull  yAimfimtA  i«  hi*  (iel/l«  of  eloiiilii«»  'lay, 

I  HAMKII-.T  liUli/:HtliL  ST'/WK, 


^i 


[&-: 


262 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


■a 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  night 
Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumbered 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  iitl'ul  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  foiTus  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door,  — 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Nol.ile  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished. 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore. 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly. 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  being  beauteous 
^\'llo  unto  my  youth  w^as  given. 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me. 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine. 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine  ; 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes. 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like. 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended. 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

0,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside 
If  1  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 

Henry  wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions. 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joy  ful  school-days ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women  : 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her,  — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

1  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  aljruptly  ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  child- 
hood. 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling  ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces. 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have 

left  me. 
And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;  all  are  departed  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


THE  BURIED  FLOWER. 

In  the  silence  of  my  chamber. 
When  the  night  is  still  and  deep, 

And  the  drowsy  heave  of  ocean 
Mutters  in  its  channed  sleep, 

Oft  1  hear  the  angel  voices 

That  have  thrilled  me  long  ago,  — 
Voices  of  my  lost  companions, 

Lying  deep  beneath  the  snow. 

Where  are  now  the  flowers  we  tended  ' 
Withered,  broken,  branch  and  stem  ; 

^\^lere  are  now  the  hopes  we  cherished  ? 
Scattered  to  the  winds  with  them. 

For  ye,  too,  were  flowers,  ye  dear  ones  ! 

Nursed  in  hope  and  reared  in  love. 
Looking  fondly  ever  upward 

To  the  clear  blue  heaven  above  ; 

Smiling  on  the  sun  that  cheered  us, 
Pising  lightly  from  the  rain. 

Never  folding  up  your  freshness 
Save  to  give  it  forth  again. 

O,  'tis  sad  to  lie  and  reckon 
All  the  days  of  faded  youth. 

All  the  vows  that  we  believed  in. 
All  the  words  we  spoke  in  truth. 


[&_.— 


-^ 


WHITTIER'S    HOME    AT    AMESBURY. 

{Birthflnce  at  Hnn-rhUl.) 

"And  sivcet  homes  nestle  in  ihcsc  dales, 
And  perch  r.long  these  wooded  swells. 
And,  blest  beyond  Arc.-idiaii  vales, 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbalh  bells." 


f 


lei:ea]'emext  axd  death. 


263 


-a 


Severed,  —  were  it  severed  only 

By  an  idle  thought  of  strife, 
Such  as  time  may  knit  together  ; 

Not  the  broken  chord  of  life  ! 

0,  I  fling  my  spirit  backward. 
And  I  pass  o'er  years  of  pain  ; 

All  1  loved  is  rising  round  me, 
All  the  lost  returns  again. 

Brighter,  faii'er  far  than  living, 

A\'ith  no  trace  of  woe  or  pain. 
Robed  in  everlasting  beauty, 

Shall  1  see  them  once  again. 

By  the  light  that  uever  fadeth. 

Underneath  eternal  skies. 
When  the  dawn  of  resurrection 

Breaks  o'er  deathless  Paradise. 

William  Edmonstow.ne  aytqu.n. 


& 


THE  FUTURE  LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead. 

When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  I 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were 
given ; 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

And  wilt  thou  never  utter  it  in  heaven  '. 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing 
wind, 

In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere. 
And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind. 

Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  .stormy  past. 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore. 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last. 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light. 
Await  thee  there  ;  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right. 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell, 
Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 


And  wrath  has  left  its  scar  —  that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightfid  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky. 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name. 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelierinheaven'ssweetclimate,  yet  thesame  l 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home. 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this  — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love  —  till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ! 

William  Cullen  Bkvant. 


THE  AUGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 

A  FREE  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes  : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain. 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love  our  dear 
And  heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There's  qiuet  in  that  .\ugers  glance. 

There 's  rest  in  his  still  (-ountenance  ! 

He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer. 

Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear  ; 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 

He  kindly  ti-ains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm  ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  I'ear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear  ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still. 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will  ! 

0  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way. 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind. 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned  ; 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well  ! " 


FRIENDS  DEPARTED. 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light. 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear  ; 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast. 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, — 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 


^ 


f 


264 


POEMS  OF  SOKROir  AND  DEATH. 


■Q 


t 


I  see  tlu'iu  wnlkiiij;  in  an  iiir  of  glory, 

Wliosi'  \\iihl  doth  tniniple  on  my  ilays,  — 
My  ii:iys  wlui-li  mo  at  bust  lint  dull  and  hoary, 
Mciv  glinnuoriug  and  docays. 

<  I  holy  hope  !  and  high  huntility,  — 

1 1  igli  as  tho  (u-ching  lienvons  abovo  ! 
Tlu'si"  aro  your  walks,  and  yon  havo  showed  thoin 
ini', 
To  kindlo  my  cold  lovo. 

Hoar,  lioavitoous  death,  —  the  ji-wul  of  thojust, — 

Shining  nowhoii'  but  in  tin'  dark  ! 

AVhat  mysti'rios  do  lio  boyonil  thy  dust, 

Could  num  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  sonip  Hedged  bird's  nest  nuiy 
know, 
At  first  sight,  if  the  biixl  bo  llown  ; 
Hut  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now. 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  divams 

tall  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 
themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb. 

ller  eaptive  llames  must  needs  burn  there, 
liut  wlu'u  the  hand  that  looked  her  up  gives  room. 
She  '11  sliino  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Civated  glories  under  thee  ! 
Kosumo  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

Kithor  disperse  those  mists,  whioh  blot  and  lill 

My  perspootive  still  as  they  pass  ; 

Or  else  ronuive  me  henoe  unto  that  hill 

Where  1  shall  need  no  glass. 


THE  FIRST  SNO'W-FALL. 

TlIK  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

Aiul  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

Witli  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlook 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tive 
Was  ridged  ineli  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Cari-ara 
Camo  Cliantioleer's  mulHed  crow, 


The  stiir  rails  wore  softened  to  swan's-down. 
And  still  lluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 

The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky. 
And  the  sudden  Hurries  of  snow-birds, 

Like  brown  loaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  swoot  Auburu 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood  ; 

How  the  Hakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ?" 
And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 

Who  oares  for  us  hero  below. 

Ag-.iin  1  looked  at  the  snow-fall. 

And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 
That  arohod  o'er  oiu'  first  great  sorrow. 

When  that  nuiund  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  rememboreil  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  oloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  H'lke,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woo. 

And  again  to  the  ehihl  1  whispered, 

"The  snow  that  hu.sheth  all. 
Darling,  the  meroiful  Father 

Alone  can  nniko  it  fall !  " 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  hor ; 

And  she,  kissing  Imck,  could  not  know 
That  mil  kiss  was  given  to  hor  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deoiwning  snow. 

lAMlJS    ROSSELL    LOWKLL, 


THE  REAPER   AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

TllEUE  is  a  Reaper  whoso  name  is  Peath, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen. 
He  reaps  the  beaiiled  grain  at  a  breath. 

And  the  llowors  that  grow  between. 

"Shall  1  have  naught  that  is  fair?"  saith  ho  ; 

"  Havo  naught  but  the  boarded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

1  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gsized  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes. 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Faradiso 

}{•.'  bound  thoni  in  his  sheaves. 

"  Jly  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 
The  Keaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 


4 


IIEUKAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


2f] 


r^ 


43- 


"  Uiiir  tokena  of  tho  earth  are  they, 
W|]i;re  lie  was  once  a  i.hild. 

'"I'hcy  sliall  all  bloom  in  liflcj.s  of  li;;ht, 

'rrMiisplaiitoii  by  iijy  ran-, 
AihI  fiiciiits,  upon  their  garirK'iits  white, 

Thi-.so  sacred  bloflaoiiis  wear." 

And  tlie  motlier  gave,  in  tear.i  and  pain, 
'I'he  llowern  she  njo.st  did  love  ; 

.She  knew  »he  HJiould  lind  tln'in  all  af^ain 
In  the  lield«ofli;;ht  above. 

0,  not  in  eruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Re-ajier  eaine  that  rlay  ; 
'T  was  an  anjjel  visited  the  ;p-ecn  earth. 

And  took  the  dowel's  away. 

III'-NRY   WaOSWOKMI    LONGI'llLLOW. 


OVER  THE  RIVER. 

OvKit  the  river  they  lierkoii  to  nie, 

I,oved  ones  who  've  crossed  to  the  farther  side, 
Tiie  fjleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

lint  their  voices  arc  lost  in  the  da.shing  tide. 
There  's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold. 

And  eyes  the  relleelion  of  heavi^n's  own  blue; 
lie  r:ro.ssed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  jjale  mist  liid  liiin  from  nioi-tal  Tiew. 
We  .saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there, 

The  gates  of  the  eity  we  could  not  see  : 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  ine. 

Over  the  river  tbe  boatman  jralo 

( 'aiTied  another,  the  liouschold  jiet ; 
lier  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale, 

Dailing  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands. 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  baik ; 
We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands. 

And  all  our  sunshine  gi'ew  strangely  dark  ; 
We  know  slie  is  safe  on  the  farther  side. 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be  : 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river. 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

l'"or  none  retuni  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Wlio  iToss  with  the  boatman  colil  and  ]iale; 
Wi:  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars. 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  tin;  snowy  sail  ; 
Audio  !  they  have  pa-ssed  from  our  yeanling  hearts, 

Tliey  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye. 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  ajiart 

That  hiiles  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day  ; 
We  only  knc/w  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  .sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea  ; 


Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore. 
They  watidi,  ami  lji;i.koii,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  1  sit  and  think,  when  tho  sunset's  gold 

Is  Hushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
1  shall  oiji:  day  stand  by  the  water  cold. 

And  list  for  the  .sound  of  the  boatman's  oar; 
1  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  .sail, 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand, 
I  shall  ]iass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pal.-, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  llie  meeting  be. 
When  over  the  river,  the  jieaeeful  river. 

The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 


THE  TWO   WAITINGS. 


I)KAlt  liearts,  you  wen^  waiting  a  year  ago 

For  the  glory  to  1«;  revealed  ; 
You  were  wondering  deeply,  with  bati.'d  breath, 

What  treasure  the  days  concealed. 

0,  would  it  be  this,  or  wouhl  it  be  that  f 

Woiilil  it  be  girl  or  boy? 
Wonhl  it  look  like  father  or  mother  most  ? 

And  what  shouhl  you  ilo  for  joy? 

And  then,  one  day,  when  the  time  was  full. 
And  the  sjiring  was  coming  fast. 

The  trembling  veil  of  the  lioiiy  wa«  rent. 
And  you  saw  your  baby  at  last. 

Was  it  or  not  what  you  had  dreamed  ? 

It  was,  and  yet  it  was  not ; 
Hut  0,  it  was  better  a  thousand  times 

Than  ever  you  wislied  or  thought. 


And  now,  dear  hearts,  you  are  waiting  again, 
While  the  spring  is  coming  fast; 

For  the  Vjaby  that  was  a  future  dream 
Is  now  a  ilream  of  the  past  : 

A  dri'am  of  sunshine,  and  all  that 's  sweet ; 

Of  all  that  is  pure  and  bright  ; 
Of  eyes  tliat  were  blue  .as  the  sky  by  d.ay, 

And  its  soft  as  the  stars  by  inglit. 

You  arc  waiting  .again  for  the  fnllnens  of  time, 

And  the  glory  U>  Is;  revealed  ; 
You  are  wondering  deeply  with  iiehing  hearts 

What  treasure  is  now  eonee.ilcd. 


■M? 


'^t:- 


GO 


POEMS   OF  SOUROIF  ASP  DEATH. 


^■^ 


0,  will  she  Vie  this,  or  will  she  bo  that  ? 

And  whut  will  there  be  in  her  fiieo 
Tliat  will  tell  ymi  sure  that  she  is  your  own, 

When  you  meet  iu  the  heux'enly  [ilaee  » 

As  it  was  bclore,  it  will  bo  again, 
Kashion  yonr  ilreani  ns  you  will  ; 

When  the  veil  is  rent,  and  the  glory  is  seen, 
It  will  more  than  your  hope  fullill. 


ON   AN  INFANT'S   DKATH. 

A  i.i  rrLK  life, 
Five  snnnui'r  months  of  gladness 

Without  one  eloud  of  sorrow,  sin,  or  strife, 
Cut  slunt  liy  sudden  gloom  and  wintry  sadness. 

A  little  mound 
15y  buttress  gray  defended. 

Watered  with  tears  and  garlandeil  all  ro\iud, 
Hy  loving  hands  alVeetionately  tended. 

A  little  eot. 
Empty,  forlorn,  forsaken. 

Silent  reniembraneor  that  ho  is  not,  — 
Gone  —  past  our  voioo  to  lull,  or  kiss  to  waken. 

A  little  froek 
Ilo  wore,  a  hat  that  shaded 

His  iunoeent  brow,  seen  with  a  sudden  shoek 
Of  grief  for  that  dear  form  so  i|uiekly  faded. 

A  little  llower, 
Beeause  ho  touched  it  eherished. 

Fragile  memorial  of  one  happy  hour 
Before  the  beauty  of  our  blossom  perished. 

A  little  hair, 
Serured  with  trembling  lingers, 

.\11  that  is  left  us  of  our  infant  fair, 
All  we  shall  see  of  him  while  this  life  lingers. 

.\  little  name. 
In  parish  reeords  written, 

.\  passing  .sympathy  to  claim 
From  other  fathers  for  a  father  smitten. 

But  a  great  trust 
Irradiates  our  sorrow. 

That  though  to-day  his  name  is  writ  in  dust, 
We  shall  behold  it  writ  in  heaven  to-morrow. 

And  a  great  peace 
Our  troubled  soul  possesses. 
That  though  to  embrace  him  these  poor  arms 
must  cease. 
Our  lamb  lies  folded  in  the  Lord's  caresses. 


A  little  pain, 
To  point  his  life's  brief  story. 

A  few  hours'  mortal  weariness,  to  gain 
Unutterable  rest  and  enilless  glory. 

A  little  prayer. 
By  lips  Divine  once  spoken, 

"  Thy  will  be  done  !"  is  breathed  into  the  air 
From    hearts   submissive,    though  with   accents 
br,iken. 

A  little  while. 
And  Time  no  more  shall  sever  ; 

But  we  shall  see  him  with  his  own  sweet  smile, 
Aiul  clasp  our  darling  iu  our  arms  forever  ! 

ANONVMOUS. 


FOR  CHARLIE'S  SAKE. 

Tiir;  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still ; 

The  angels  of  the  hour  fullill 

Their  tender  ministries,  and  move 

From  couch  to  (■oiieh  in  cares  of  love. 

They  drop  into  thy  dreams,  sweet  wife, 

The  happiest  smile  of  Charlie's  life, 

And  lay  on  baby's  lips  a  Iviss, 

Fresh  from  his  aiiiv  1  l.r,,ili>  r's  bliss  ; 

And,  as  they  pass,  ih,  y  sc, m  to  nuike 

A  strange,  dim  liynm,  "For  Charlie's  sake." 

My  listening  heart  takes  up  the  strain. 
And  gives  it  to  the  night  again, 
Fitted  with  words  of  lowly  praise, 
And  patience  learned  of  mournful  days. 
And  memories  of  the  dead  child's  ways. 

His  will  be  done.  His  will  he  done  ! 
Who  gave  and  took  away  my  son. 
In  "  the  far  lami  "  to  shine  and  sing 
Before  the  Beautiful,  the  King, 
Who  every  day  doth  Christmas  make. 
All  starred  anil  belled  for  Charlie's  sake. 

For  Charlie's  sake  1  will  arise  ; 

I  will  anoint  me  where  he  lies. 

And  change  my  raiment,  aiul  go  in 

To  the  Lord's  liouse,  and  leave  my  sin 

Without,  and  seat  me  at  his  board. 

Eat,  and  be  glad,  and  praise  the  Lord. 

For  wherefore  should  I  fast  and  weep, 

And  sullen  moods  of  mourning  keep  ? 

I  cannot  bring  him  back,  nor  he, 

For  any  calling,  come  to  me. 

The  bond  the  angel  Death  did  sign, 

God  sealed  —  for  Charlie's  sake,  and  mine. 

John  Williamson  palmer. 


-g 


e^- 


llEHEAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


2G7 


r-Q] 


"ONLY  A  YEAR." 

Onk  year  ago,  —  a  ringing  voice, 

A  clear  blue  eye. 
And  clustering  curls  of  sunny  hair. 

Too  lair  to  die. 

Only  a  year,  — no  voice,  no  smile. 

No  glance  of  eye. 
No  clustering  curls  of  golden  hair. 

Fair  but  to  die  ! 

One  year  ago,  —  what  loves,  what  schemes 

Far  into  life  ! 
What  joyous  hopes,  what  high  resolves, 

What  generous  strife  ! 

The  silent  picture  on  the  wall, 

The  burial-stone 
Of  all  that  beauty,  life,  ami  joy, 

Remain  alone  ! 

One  year,  —  one  year,  —  one  little  year, 

And  so  much  gone  ! 
And  yet  the  even  flow  of  life 

Moves  calmly  on. 

The  grave  grow.s  green,  the  flowers  bloom  fai 

Above  that  head  ; 
No  sorrowing  tint  of  leaf  or  spray 

Says  ho  is  dead. 

No  pause  or  hush  of  men'y  birds 

That  sing  above 
Tells  us  how  coldly  sleeps  below 

The  foi-m  we  love. 

Where  hast  thou  been  this  year,  beloved  ? 

What  hast  thou  seen,  — 
What  visions  fair,  what  glorious  life, 

Where  thou  ha.st  been  ? 

The  veil  !  the  veil  !  so  thin,  .so  .strong  ! 

'Twi.ft  us  and  thee  ; 
Tlie  my.stic  veil  !  when  shall  it  fall, 

That  we  may  see  ? 

Not  dead,  not  sleeping,  not  even  gone, 

But  present  still. 
And  waiting  for  the  coming  hour 

Of  God's  sweet  will. 

Lord  of  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Our  Saviour  dear  ! 
We  lay  in  silence  at  thy  feet 

Tliis  sad,  sad  year. 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 


I  CANNOT  make  him  dead  ! 

His  fair  sun.shiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair  ; 

Yet  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  tuni  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes,  —  he  is  not  there  I 

1  walk  my  parlor  lloor, 

And,  tluough  the  open  door, 
1  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair  ; 

1  'm  stepping  toward  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call  ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that  — he  is  not  there  ! 

1  thread  the  crowded  street ; 

A  satcheled  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair; 

And,  as  he  's  running  by. 

Follow  him  with  my  eye. 
Scarcely  lielieving  that  —  he  is  not  there  ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  colIin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes  ;  cold  is  his  forehead  fair  ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt  ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  —  he  is  not  there  ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

"When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  with  [larental  care. 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  him  inijuiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes,  that  —  he  is  not  there ! 

When,  at  the  cool  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake. 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy  ; 
Then  comes  the  .sadthoughttlmt  — heisnotthere  ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  clo.se, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I  'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer  ; 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am  in  spirit  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though  —  he  is  not  there  ! 

Not  there  !  —  Where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-ofi' dress. 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked  ;  —  he  is  not  there  ! 


-^ 


f 


268 


POEMS   OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


--i^ 


He  lives  !  —  In  all  the  past 

He  lives  ;  nor,  to  the  last. 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  1  despair  ; 

In  dreams  I  see  liini  now  ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written,  "  Thou  slialt  see  me  there  I  " 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God  ! 

Father,  tliy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear. 

That,  in  the  spirit  laud. 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'T  will  be  our  heaven  to  find  that —  he  is  there  ! 


CASA  WAPPY. 

THE  CHILD'S  PET  NAME,  CHOSEN  BV  HIMSELF. 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 

Our  fond,  dear  boy,  — 
The  realms  where  soiTow  dare  not  come, 

Wliere  life  is  joy  ? 
Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth  ; 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  dearth, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 

When  thou  didst  die  ; 
Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee  ; 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  o\ir  unfathomed  agony  ; 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight. 

To  bless  us  given  ; 
Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight, 

A  t)'jie  of  heaven  ! 
So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self,  than  a  part 
Of  mine,  and  of  thy  mother's  heart, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Thy  bright,  brief  day  knew  no  decline, 

'T  was  cloudless  joy ; 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine. 

Beloved  boy ! 
This  moon  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay ; 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay ; 
And  ere  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride. 

Earth's  undefiled, 
Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died. 

Our  dear,  sweet  child  ! 


& 


Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree  ; 
Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

We  mourn  for  thee  when  lilind,  blank  night 

The  chamber  fills  ; 
We  pine  for  thee  when  morn's  first  light 

Reddens  the  hills  : 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 
AU  —  to  the  wallflower  and  wild  pea  — 
Are  changed  ;  we  saw  the  world  through  thee, 
Casa  W^appy  1 

And  though,  perchance,  a  smile  may  gleam 

Of  casual  mirth. 
It  doth  not  own,  whate'er  may  seem. 

An  inward  birth  ; 
We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair  ; 
We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening  prayer ; 
All  day  we  miss  thee,  —  everywhere,  — 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life's  spring-bloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below,  — 

The  silent  tomb. 
But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 
The  cuckoo,  and  "the  busy  bee," 
lieturn,  — liut  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

'T  is  so ;  but  can  it  be  —  while  flowers 

Revive  again  — 
Man's  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 

For  aye  remain  ? 
0,  can  it  be,  that  o'er  the  grave 
The  grass  renewed  should  yearly  wave. 
Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save  ?  — 
Casa  Wappy ! 

It  cannot  be  ;  for  were  it  so 

Thus  man  could  die. 
Life  were  a  mocker}',  thought  were  woe. 

And  truth  a  lie  ; 
Heaven  were  a  coinage  of  the  brain  ; 
Religion  frenzy,  virtue  vain, 
And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 
Casa  AVappy ! 

Then  be  to  us,  0  dear,  lost  child  ! 

With  beam  of  love, 
A  star,  death's  uncongenial  wild 

Smiling  above  ! 
Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph's  road, 
That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 
Casa  Wappy ! 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


2cr^ 


Yet  't  is  sweet  balm  to  our  despair. 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 
That  heaven  is  God's,  and  thou  art  there, 

With  him  in  joy ; 
Tliere  jiast  are  deatli  and  all  its  woes  ; 
Tliere  beauty's  stream  forever  Hows  ; 
And  pleasure's  day  no  sunset  knows, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Farewell,  then,  —  for  a  while,  farewell,  — 

Pride  of  my  heart ! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell. 

Thus  torn  apart. 
Time's  shadows  lilie  the  shuttle  flee  ; 
And  dark  howe'er  life's  night  may  be. 
Beyond  the  grave  I  '11  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

David  Macbeth  Moir. 


TOMMY'S  DEAD. 

You  may  give  over  plow,  boys. 
You  may  take  the  gear  to  the  stead. 
All  the  sweat  o'  your  brow,  boys. 
Will  never  get  beer  and  bread. 
The  seed  's  waste,  I  know,  boys. 
There  's  not  a  blade  will  grow,  boys, 
'T  is  cropped  out,  I  trow,  boys, 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

Send  the  colt  to  fair,  boys. 

He  's  going  blind,  as  I  said. 

My  old  eyes  can't  bear,  boys. 

To  see  him  in  the  shed  ; 

The  cow 's  dry  and  spare,  boys, 

She 's  neither  here  nor  there,  boys, 

I  doubt  she 's  badly  bred  ; 

Stop  the  mill  to-morn,  boys. 

There  '11  be  no  more  corn,  boys. 

Neither  white  nor  red  ; 

There 's  no  sign  of  grass,  boys. 

You  may  sell  the  goat  and  the  ass,  boys, 

Tlie  land  's  not  what  it  was,  boys. 

And  the  beasts  must  be  fed  : 

You  may  turn  Peg  away,  boys. 

You  may  pay  off  old  Ned, 

We  've  had  a  dull  day,  boys. 

And  Tommy 's  dead. 

Move  my  chair  on  the  floor,  boys. 

Let  me  turn  my  head  : 

She 's  standing  tliere  in  the  door,  boys. 

Your  sister  Winifred  ! 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys, 

Your  sister  Winifred  ! 

Move  nie  round  in  my  place,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head. 


Take  her  away  from  me,  boys, 
As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed, 
Tlie  bones  of  her  thin  face,  boys. 
As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed  ! 
I  don't  know  how  it  be,  boys, 
When  all 's  done  and  said, 
But  I  see  her  looking  at  me,  boys, 
Wherever  I  turn  my  head  ; 
Out  of  the  big  oak-tree,  boys. 
Out  of  the  garden-bed, 
And  the  lily  as  pale  as  she,  boys. 
And  the  rose  that  used  to  be  red. 

There  's  something  not  right,  boys, 

liut  I  think  it 's  not  in  my  head, 

I  've  kept  my  precious  sight,  boys,  — 

The  Lord  be  hallowed  ! 

( )utside  ami  in 

The  ground  is  cold  to  my  tread, 

Tlie  hills  are  wizen  and  thin. 

The  sky  is  shriveled  and  shred. 

The  hedges  down  by  the  loan 

I  can  count  them  bone  by  bone. 

The  leaves  are  ojien  and  spread, 

ISut  I  see  the  teeth  of  the  land, 

And  hands  like  a  dead  man's  hand. 

And  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man's  head. 

There  's  nothing  but  cinders  and  sand. 
The  rat  ami  the  mouse  have  fed, 
.Vnd  the  summer's  empty  and  cold  ; 
( )ver  valley  and  wold 
Wherever  I  turn  my  head 
There 's  a  mildew  and  a  mold. 
The  sun  's  going  out  overhead, 
And  I  'm  veiy  olil. 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

What  am  I  staying  for,  boys, 
You  're  all  born  and  bred, 
'T  is  fifty  years  and  more,  boys, 
Since  wife  and  I  were  wed. 
And  she 's  gone  before,  boys, 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

She  was  always  sweet,  boys, 

Upon  his  cnrly  head. 

She  knew  she  'd  never  see 't,  boys. 

And  she  stole  off'  to  bed  ; 

I  've  been  .sitting  up  alone,  boys. 

For  he  'd  come  home,  he  said. 

But  it 's  time  I  was  gone,  boys, 

For  Tommy 's  dead. 

Put  the  .shutters  up,  boys. 
Bring  out  the  beer  and  bread. 
Make  haste  and  sup,  boys, 
For  my  eyes  are  heavy  as  lead  ; 


-^ 


tS- 


rui:Ms  OF  soKRotr  and  death. 


-a 


There 's  something  wrong  i'  the  cu[>,  boys, 
There 's  something  ill  \vi'  the  breiul, 
I  don't  Cftiii  to  sup,  boys, 
Anel  Tommy  's  deiul. 

I  'm  not  riglit,  I  doubt,  boys, 
I  've  such  a  sleepy  liend, 
I  shall  nevermore  be  stout,  boys, 
Yon  may  carry  me  to  bed. 
What  are  you  about,  boys  ? 
The  prayers  are  all  said, 
The  tire 's  raked  out,  boys, 
And  Tommy  's  dead. 

The  stairs  are  too  steep,  boys. 
Yon  may  carry  mo  to  the  head, 
The  niglit  's  dark  and  deep,  boys. 
Your  mother's  long  in  bed, 
'T  is  time  to  go  to  sleep,  boys. 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

1  'm  not  used  to  kiss,  boys. 

You  may  shake  my  hand  instead. 

All  things  go  amiss,  boys, 

You  may  lay  me  where  she  is,  boys. 

And  I  '11  rest  my  old  head  : 

'T  is  a  poor  world,  this,  boys. 

Anil  Tommy  's  dead. 

SIDNEY  DOBELL. 


u 


THE  MERRY  LARK. 

The  merry,  merry  lark  was  up  and  singing. 

And  the  hare  was  out  and  feeding  on  the  lea. 
And  the  merry,  merry  bells  below  were  ringing, 

When  my  child's  laugh  rang  through  me. 
Now   the  hare   is  snared  and   dead  beside  the 
snowyard. 

And  the  lark  beside  the  dreary  winter  sea. 
And  my  baby  in  his  cradle  in  the  churchyard 

Waiteth  there  until  the  bells  bring  me. 

Charles  Ki.ngsley. 


THE  MORNING-GLORV. 

We  wTeathed  about  our  darling's  head 

The  morning-glory  bright ; 
Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath 

So  full  of  life  and  light, 
So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise. 

That  we  could  only  say, 
"  She  is  the  morning-glory  true. 

And  her  poor  types  are  they." 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 
We  called  her  by  their  name. 

And  very  fitting  did  it  seem,  — 
For  sura  as  morning  came, 


Behind  her  cradle  bare  she  smiled 

To  catch  the  first  faint  ray. 
As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  ilower 

And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 

Their  airy  cups  of  blui!. 
As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light, 

Brimmed  with  sleep's  tender  dew  ; 
And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 

Round  their  supports  are  thrown. 
As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched  plea 

Clasped  all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come. 

Even  as  comes  the  flower. 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 

To  crown  Love  's  morning  hour  ; 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 

The  love  we  could  not  say. 
As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 

Shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 


The  morning-glory's  blossoming 

Will  soon  be  coming  round,  — 
We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 

Upspringing  from  the  ground  ; 
The  tender  things  the  winter  killed 

Renew  again  their  birth. 
But  the  glory  of  our  morning 

Has  passed  away  from  earth. 

0  Earth  !  in  vain  our  aching  eyes 

Stretch  over  thy  green  plain  ! 
Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air. 

Her  spirit  to  sustain  ; 
But  up  in  groves  of  Paradise 

Full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful 

Twine  round  our  dear  Lord's  knee. 

makia  W'HITB  loweu. 


ARE  THE  CHILDREN  AT  HOME? 

E.^CH  day,  when  the  glow  of  sunset 

Fades  in  the  western  sky, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing. 

Go  trip]iing  lightly  by, 
I  steal  e.way  from  my  husbaiul, 

.Vsleep  in  his  easy-ehair. 
And  watch  from  the  open  doorway 

Their  faces  fresh  and  fair. 

Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead 
That  once  was  full  of  life. 

Ringing  with  girlish  laughter. 
Echoing  boyish  strife. 


-^ 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


271 


We  two  are  waiting  together  ; 

Aud  oft,  as  the  shadows  come. 
With  tremulous  voice  he  calls  me, 

"  It  is  night !  are  the  children  home  ? " 

"  Yes,  love  !  "  I  answer  him  gently, 

"They  're  aU  home  long  ago"  ;  — 
And  I  sing,  in  my  quivering  treble, 

A  song  so  soft  and  low. 
Till  the  old  man  drops  to  slumber, 

With  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
And  I  tell  to  myself  the  number 

At  home  in  the  better  laud. 

At  home,  where  never  a  soiTow 

Shall  dim  their  eyes  with  tears  ! 
Where  the  smile  of  God  is  on  them 

Through  all  the  summer  years  ! 
I  know,  —  yet  my  arms  are  empty. 

That  fondly  folded  seven, 
And  the  mother  heart  within  me 

Is  almost  starved  for  heaven. 

Sometimes,  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

I  only  shut  my  eyes, 
And  the  children  are  all  about  me, 

A  vision  I'rom  the  skies  ; 
The  babes  whose  dimpled  fingers 

Lost  the  way  to  my  breast. 
And  the  beautiful  ones,  the  angels, 

Passed  to  the  world  of  the  blest. 

With  never  a  cloud  upon  tliem, 

I  see  their  radiant  brows ; 
My  hoys  that  I  gave  to  freedom,  • — 

The  red  sword  sealed  their  vows  ! 
In  a  tangled  Southern  forest, 

Twin  brothers  bold  and  brave. 
They  fell ;  and  the  flag  they  died  for, 

Thank  God  !  floats  over  their  grave. 

A  breath,  and  the  vision  is  lifted 

Away  on  wings  of  light, 
And  again  we  two  are  together, 

All  alone  in  the  night. 
They  tell  me  his  mind  is  failing. 

But  1  smile  at  idle  fears  ; 
He  is  oidy  back  with  the  children. 

In  the  dear  and  peaceful  years. 

And  still,  as  the  summer  sunset 

Fades  away  in  the  west, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  trooping  home  to  rest, 
My  husband  calls  from  his  corner, 

' '  Say,  love,  have  the  children  come  ? " 
And  I  answer,  with  eyes  uplifted, 

"  Yes,  dear  !  they  are  all  at  home." 

Mrs.  M.  e.  m.  SA.NCSTER. 


THE  LOST  SISTER. 

They  waked  me  from  my  sleep,  1  knew  not  why. 
And  bade  me  hasten  where  a  midnight  lamp 
Gleamed  from  an  inner  chamber.    There  she  lay. 
With biowso pale,  whoyi'ster-morn  breathed  forth 
Through  joyous  smiles  her  superflu.\  of  bliss 
Into  the  hearts  of  others.     By  her  side 
Her  hoary  sire,  with  speechless  sorrow,  gazed 
Upon  the  stricken  idol,  — all  dismayed 
Beneath  his  God's  lebuke.    And  she  who  nursed 
That  fair  young  creature  at  her  gentle  breast. 
And  oft  those  sunny  locks  had  decked  with  liuds 
Of  rose  and  jasmine,  shuddering  wiped  the  dews 
Which  death  distills. 

The  sufl'erer  just  had  given 
Her  long  farewell,  and  for  the  last,  last  time 
Touched  with  cold  lips  his  cheek  who  led  so  late 
Her  footsteps  to  the  altar,  and  received 
In  the  deep  transport  of  an  ardent  heart 
Her  vow  ol'  love.     And  she  had  striven  to  i)ress 
That  golden  cij-clet  with  her  bloodless  hand 
Back  on  his  finger,  which  he  kneeling  gave 
At  the  Ijright  bridal  morn.     So  then-  she  lay 
In  calm  endurance,  like  the  smitten  lamb 
Wounded  in  flowery  j)astures,  from  whose  breast 
Tlie  dreaded  bitterness  of  death  had  passed. 
—  But  a  faint  wail  disturbed  the  silent  scene, 
And  in  its  nurse's  anus  a  new-born  babe 
Was  borne  in  utter  helplessness  along. 
Before  that  dying  eye. 

Its  gathered  film 
Kindled  one  moment  with  a  .sudden  glow 
Of  tearless  agony,  —  and  fearful  pangs, 
Racking  the  rigid  features,  told  how  strong 
A  mother's  love  doth  root  itself.     One  cry 
Of  bitter  anguish,  blent  with  fervent  prayer, 
Went  up  to  Heaven,  —  and,  as  its  cadence  sank, 
Her  spu-it  entered  there. 

Morn  after  mom 
Rose  and  retired  ;  yet  still  as  in  a  dream 
I  seenied  to  move.     The  ceitainty  of  loss 
Fell  not  at  once  upon  me.     Then  1  wejit 
As  weep  the  sisterless.  —  For  thou  werl  fled, 
My  only,  my  beloved,  my  sainted  one,  — 
Twin  of  my  spirit !  and  my  numbered  days 
Must  wear  the  sable  of  that  midnight  hour 
Which  rent  thee  from  me. 

LVDJA  H.  SIGOURNEV. 


GO  TO  THY  REST. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child  ! 
Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed. 
While  yet  so  gentle,  undetiled. 
With  blessings  on  thy  head. 


-^ 


[fl-^- 


POEMS  UF  SUliltOlF  AND  DEATH. 


-a 


ty- 


l''rosh  rosea  in  thy  hmut, 
UiuU  uii  thy  piUow  liiiel, 
lliiste  tVoin  this  (Uirk  mui  fearful  liiiiil, 
Wliere  Ikiweis  so  quickly  fade. 

Kro  sin  has  si'!ii-od  the  breast, 
Or  sorrow  waked  the  tenr, 
Rise  to  thy  throne  of  cliangeless  rest, 
In  yon  celestial  sphere  ! 

Keeause  thy  smile  was  fair, 
Thy  lip  and  eye  so  hright, 
Bei'iiiise  thy  loviny  eradle-eare 
Was  sneii  u  dear  delight, 

Shall  love,  with  weak  enibraco, 
Tliy  upward  wing  detain  ! 
No!  gentle  angel,  seek  thy  place 
Amid  the  eliernh  train. 


"THEY  ARE  DEAR   KISH  TO  ME." 

'I'liv.  farmer's  wife  sat  at  the  door, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  see  ; 
.\nd  lilithesonn-  were  tlu'  wee,  wee  Iwirns 

That  played  aronnd  her  knee. 

When,  bending  'iioath  her  heavy  ereel, 

A  poor  lish-wife  eame  hy. 
And,  turning  from  the  toilsonni  road, 

I'nlo  the  door  drew  nigh. 

She  laid  her  burden  on  the  green. 

And  spread  its  sealy  stoiv  ; 
With  trembling  hands  an<l  pleading  words 

She  told  them  o'er  and  o'er. 

lint  lightly  laughed  the  young  gnidwife, 
"  We  're  no  sae  searee  o'  cheer  ; 

Tak'  up  your  eroel,  and  gang  your  ways, — 
1  'U  buy  nae  fish  sae  dear." 

Hending  beiu-ath  her  load  again, 

.\  weary  sight  to  see  ; 
Kight  sorely  sighed  the  poor  tish-wife, 

"They  are  dear  fish  to  me ! 

"diu-  boat  was  oot  ae  fearfu'  night, 
And  when  the  storm  blew  o'er. 

My  husband,  and  my  throe  brave  sons, 
I.av  corpses  on  the  shore. 

"  1  've  been  n  wife  for  thirty  years, 

.\  idiildless  widow  three  ; 
1  in, inn  buy  them  now  to  sell  again,  — 

Thev  are  dear  hsh  to  me!" 


The  farmer's  wife  turned  to  the  door,  — 

What  was  't  ujion  her  check  ? 
What  was  there  rising  in  her  breast, 

That  then  she  scarce  could  speak  '. 

She  thought  upon  her  ain  guidmau, 

Her  lightsome  laddies  three  ; 
The  woman's  words  had  pierced  her  heart,  — 

"They  lui)  dear  lish  to  me  !  " 

"Come  back,"  she  cried,  with  nuiveriug  voice, 

And  pity's  gathering  tear  ; 
"L'onie  in,  come  in,  my  poor  woman. 

Ye  're  kindly  welcome  here. 

"  1  keutna  o'  your  aching  heart, 

Your  weary  lot  to  dree  ; 
1  '11  ne'er  forget  your  sad,  sad  words  : 

'  They  are  dear  lish  to  me  ! '" 

Ay,  let  the  happy-hearted  learn 

To  pause  ere  they  deny 
The  meed  of  honest  toil,  and  think 

How  much  their  gold  may  buy,  — 

IIow  much  of  manhood's  wasted  strength, 

What  woman's  misery,  — 
What  breaking  hearts  might  swell  the  cry  : 

"  They  are  dear  lish  to  me  !  " 

ANONVMOUS. 


TROM  "THli  LAUV  OF  THE  LAKE." 

II K  is  gone  on  the  mountain. 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 
Like  a  suiumer-dried  fountain 

When  our  need  was  the  .sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow. 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  I 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary  ; 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  aix>  searest. 
But  our  llower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi. 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Ked  hand  in  the  foniy. 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber  ! 


-& 


a- 


niCHK.lVEMKNT  AND   DEATH. 


273 


-a 


Like  the  ilew  on  the  iiioiiiilidn, 
Like  the  I'oum  on  the  rivei', 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 
Tliou  art  gone  and  ibrover  ! 


SiK  Walter  scor 


& 


IN  HEAVEN. 
"  Their  angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father." 

Silence  filled  the  courts  of  heaven, 

Hushed  were  serapha'  harp  aiul  tone. 
When  a  little  new-born  cherub 

Knelt  before  the  Kterual  Throne  ; 
While  its  soft  white  hands  were  lifted, 

Clasped  as  if  in  earnest  prayer. 
And  its  voice  in  dove-like  niurinurs 

Rose  like  music  on  the  ear. 
Light  from  the  full  fount  of  glory 

On  his  robe  of  whiteness  glistened, 
And  the  white-winged  seraphs  near  him 

iSowcd  their  radiant  heads  and  listened. 

"  l/ird,  from  thy  thniiie  of  glory  heic^ 

My  lii/iiit  turns  fondly  to  another  ; 
(I  I, "I'd  my  God,  the  Comforter, 

<.'cimf lit,  comfort  my  sweet  mother  ! 
Many  sorrows  hast  thou  sent  her,  — 

Meekly  has  she  drained  the  cup. 
And  the  jewels  thou  hast  lent  her 

llnrepining  yielded  up. 

Comfort,  comfort  my  sweet  mother  I 

"  Kaith  is  growing  lonely  round  her  ; 

Friend  and  lover  hast  thou  taken  ; 
Let  her  not,  though  woes  surround  her, 

l''eel  her.si'lf  by  thee  forsaken. 
Let  her  think,  when  faint  and  weary. 

Wo  are  waiting  for  her  here. ; 
Let  eaeli  loss  that  makes  earth  dreary 

Make  the  hope  of  Heaven  more  dear. 
Comfort,  comfort  my  swoet  mother  I 

"Tlmu  who  once,  in  nature  human, 

Dwelt  on  earth  a  little  child, 
I'illowed  on  the  breast  of  woman, 

UlessM  Mary  undcfiled  ; 
'I'lion  who,  from  the  cross  of  sunering. 

Marked  thy  mother's  tearful  face. 
And  bei|ueathed  her  to  thy  loved  one, 

Bidiling  him  to  fill  thy  place,  — 

'  'omfort,  comfort  my  sweet  mother  ! 

"Tliou  who  once,  from  heaven  descending. 
Tears  and  woes  and  conflicts  won  ; 

Thou  who,  nature's  laws  suspending, 
Cav'st  the  widow  back  her  son  ; 

Thou  who  at  the  grave  of  Lazarus 

Wept  with  those  who  wept  their  dead  ; 


TIiou  who  once  in  mortal  anguish 
Bowed  thine  own  anointed  head,  — 

(,'omfort,  comfort  my  sweet  molher!" 

Till'  dovi'-like  murmurs  died  away 

Upon  the  radiant  air  ; 
But  still  the  little  suppliant  knelt 

With  hands  still  clasped  in  prayer. 
Still  were  those  mildly  pleading  eyes 

Turned  to  the  sapphire  throne. 
Till  g<dden  harp  and  angel  voice 

Rang  forth  in  mingled  tone. 
And  as  tlie  swelling  numbers  llowed. 

By  angel  voices  given, 
Rich,  sweet,  and  clear,  the'  anthem  rolled 

Through  all  the  courts  of  heaven  : 
"  He  is  the  widow's  God,"  it  said, 

"Who  spared  not  his  (iw,\  Son." 
The  infant  ehernb  bowed  its  head  : 

"  Thij  I'-ill,  0  Loril,  l„:  dime!" 

Tno.\i.\s  WeslwooD. 


MOTHER   AND  POET.* 

Df.ai)  !  one  of  them  .shot  by  the  .sea  in  the  east. 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Dead  ]  lioth  my  boys  !    When  you  sit  at  the  least 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free. 
Let  none  look  at  mi^ ! 

Yet  1  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  .said  ; 
But  this  woman,  this,  wlio  is  agonized  here. 

The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  Inail 
Forever  instead. 

Wliat  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?    0,  vain  ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breas- 
With  the  milk  teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the 
pain  ? 
Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt  !  you  were  strong  a., 
you  pressed, 
And  I  pniud,  by  that  test. 

What  art 's  for  a  woman  ?     To  hold  on  her  knee* 
I'.oth  darlings  !  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her 
throat 
Cling,  strangle  a  little  !  to  sew  by  ilegrees 
And 'broiderthelong-clothesand  neat  little  i-oat; 
To  dream  and  to  dote. 

To  teach  them.  .  .  It  stings  tliere  !    /made  tliein 
indeed 
S]ieak    plain   tli(^  word    "country,"    /  tauglit 
them,  no  doubt. 


-S 


V' 


I'OKMS  OF  SUHIi'Oir  AND  DEATH. 


■^ 


a- 


'riiiit  a  i-oimtiy  "s  a  thing  nu'ii  almulil  ilio  for  at 
iiowl. 
1  ]ir;ilc'il  (if  liliorty,  rights,  ;iiul  nhoul 
The  lynmt  cast  nut. 

And  wliiMi  Ihcir  cyi-s  ll'islicil.  .  ,  (•  my  )«':uililnl 
I'yr.s  !  .  . 
I  (ixuUo.1  ;  nay,  U-t  thciii  go  fnrtli  at  the  wlu'cls 
nr  tho  gnus,  anil  ihmioil  not.  ■ —  But  then  Iho  sur- 
prise. 
Wln'O  our  sils  ,|uili'  aloiir  !       'I'luMi  ouo  wi'i'ps. 
Ih.'U  ouv  kurrls! 
—  do,!  !   how  111,,  lioiiso  firls! 

At  liisl,  lKi|i|iy  news  niiiii'.  in  gay  Iclti-l's  nioik'il 

Witli my  kissi's.  iiriv'im|i-liro, anilgloiyi imilhow 

Thi'v  I'olh  lovi'il  nil',  :iiiil  soon,  i-oniing  homo  to 

lu-  spoil,..!. 

ill  ivtuiii  \v,iiil,l  t;iii  olV,.v..rv  llv  IV.. in  iiiv  brow 

Willi  lli..ii,i,'iv,.ii  lau'ivM.,.!!-!!. 

I'll, .11  w:istiiiiiii|.liiil  'riiiiii  :  "An, .on:!  was  IVoc  !  " 
And.som,.oiu.i.ami.oulorilioth,.,.rsiiith,.stroet 

With  a  I'aoo  [lahi  as  stone,  to  say  soniotliing  to  nic. 
—  My  Ouido  was  iloaii  I  —  1  Ml  down  at  his  foot, 
M'hih'  thoy  ohoon.,!  in  th,'  str,.ot. 

1  l.or,.  it  :       IVi,.ii,ls  so,.lh,',l  in,.  :   my  \'ii,.r  looUo,! 
suMim,. 
As  llio  r.-msoiu  of  llalv.      Oil,'  I'ov  ii'imiiiii'il 
T,.  1.,.  haul  on  uu.l  walki.d  with.  r,.,.:dlin-  llio  liiii,. 
Wlii.ii  111,,  liisl  j;i,.w  inim,nlal.  wliil,.  I.olliof  us 
sirainr.l 
To  111,.  In  i-lil  li,.  ha,l  -mil,.,!. 

Aii,l  l,.tt,.rs  still  i-am,.,  -  shoit,.r,  sa,l,l,.r.  moro 
.strong, 
Wril  now  lint  in  one  hainl :  "  I  was  not  lo  I'aint. 
On,. lov,.,l  1110  for  two  —  w,nil,l  liowithnicro  long: 
Aii.l  •  \'ivii  Italia'  /(,■  di,',l  for,  oni-  saint. 
Who  forliids  our  ooniphuiit," 

My  Naniii  woiil.l  a.l.l  "li,.  was  satV,  an, I  awarp 
or  a  iirosoii,.,.  that   tunu'd  olflli,.  halls  -was 
ini|iivst 
It  was  (inido  liiins,.lf,  who  kiu'w  what   1  ,.oul,l 
hear. 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  disposses.si'd. 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  whi.'li  uillioiil  pause  up  lli,.  t,d,.j;rai.Ii  Hue 
Sw.'pt  smoolhlv  til,.  11, 'Xl  lU'Ws  from  (l.'i,.ta  :  — 
"Sh.it. 
Ti'U hisuiother."    Ah.  ah,  "  his  "  "  llieir  " mother ; 
not  "mine." 
Novoioesays  "  iiti/  mother"again  t,ime.  What  ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  .'  j 


Aresoulsstraightsohappythftt,  dizzy  with  Ilea  vim, 
'riieydropeartirsalVections,  conceive  not  of  woo? 

I  think  not.  Thoinsolves  wore  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  Love  and  Sorrow  which  recon- 

,.il,.,l  ,so 
Th,.  aluive  ami  ludow. 

f*   Christ  of   the  seven   wounds,   who   look'dst 
through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  thy  mother  !  eousiih'r,  1  pray, 
How  wo  coiunion  mothers  stand  desolate,  uuirk, 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes 
turned  away. 
Ami  no  lust  word  to  say  I 

Hoth  boys  dead  !  hut  that  'sout  of  nature.  Wo  all 
Have  boon  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always 
keep  one. 
'Twere  imbwile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall. 
And  when  Italy  's  imule,  for  what  eml  is  it  done 
If  we  h.'ive  not  a  .son  V 

Ah,  ah.  ah  !   when  (hieta's  taken,  what  then  ! 
When  tho  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  moro  at  hor 
sport 
Of  the  lire-balls  of  dcatherashingsoulsout  of  muu, 
Wh,.ii  your  guns  at  Cavalli  with  linal  retort 
Have  eut  tho  game  short,  — 

When  Venice  and  Uomo  keep  their  new  jubilee, 

W'hou  your  Hag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white, 

green,  and  red. 

When  you  have  your  country  IVomiuountain  to  sea, 

Wh,".n  King  Viet,u-hasltaly'serowiiouhis head, 

(Ami  1  hav,.  my  dead,)  — 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  mo.     Ah,  ring  your 

bi.lls  low, 
And   hum   your  lights  faintly  !  —  -Ui/  country 

is  llu-ir, 
Above  the  star  prickeil  by  th,.  last  p,.ak  of  snow, 
My  Italy's  there,     -with  my  brave  civic  pair. 
To  disfranchise  despair  I 

Forgive    mo.     Some   woinen   hear  ihiMrcii    in 
strength. 
And  bite  baekthe  cry  of  theiriiaiii  in  selt's^-orn. 
Hut  the  birth-]iangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at 
length 
Into  su,'h  wail  as  this  !    -  and  w,.  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

I'eail  !  one  of  tlu'in  shot  by  the  sea  in  tho  oast, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  soa  ! 

Both  !  both  my  hoys  !  —  If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free. 
Let  none  look  at 


ti.u.vui;™  HAKRinv  nuowNi\c.  T 


BEUKAVEMENr  AND   liF.ATII. 


27 


:ra 


THK  OOLDKN   KINOLKT, 

IIkiuc  is  a  liltli:  Kolrlcli  tl-O.H.s 

Of  sol'l  uiilirai'lcd  liiiir, 
Till-  111!  lliut'H  h-K  of  Ic.vflini-ss 

'I'lmt  011(^0  wiw  tlioiiglit  Hii  liiii' ; 
Aiirl  vol;,  tlioiiKli  tiriir  liritli  (liiiiiiK^tl  tts  hIjoci], 

Tlimiiil]  1.11  licHirl,,  ),„t[i  ll,,..|, 
I  lioM  il  l„Tr;,  a  link  Ijctwci'ii 

My  'piiit  iiiiii  tli(^  ilc'iid. 

Vim  !  IVotn  tlii.s  Hliiiiiiif;  linjjli'l  Htill 

A  iniiiirnriil  iiiijiiioi'y  K])riiif;H, 
'J'lmt  ini'lU  my  lir-iU'l,  miil  sIiciIh  h  Uiiill 

'J'liroiiKli  ali  ilM  tn;riil,lirij;  Hl,iiiig«, 
I  tliilil<  ol'lici-,  tin;  love.l,  lli<-  tt(|.t, 

U]ioii  wlioHc  rorolicud  I'uir 
For  riifflitiicui  yoara,  lil<r;  Hiiiihliiiii:,  h1c-|iI, 

'riiin  K'll'I'.'ii  '■iii'l  of  liair. 

O  HUiiny  liTHS  !   tin' joyoUh  I/row 

Wlic^ic  lliou  didst  liglitly  wave, 
Willi  all  thy  Hi»ti:r-tri.wH(;H  now 

l.ii'S  colli  within  tlie  grave  ; 
'I'liMt  idii'ck  i»  of  its  hlooni  Ijeicfl  ; 

'I'hat  eye  no  more  i.s  gay  ; 
Of  all  her  lieautieH  thou  ail  left, 

A  Bolitary  ray. 


EVKLYN   HOPE 

I'kai/'I'IFI'L  Evelyn  Hojie  in  dcml  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  Hide  an  hour. 
That  i.s  lier  book -shelf,  this  hi;i-  bed  ; 

.She  i)hicked  that  jiiece  of  geianiiini-llower, 
IJeginning  to  die  loo,  m  the  glass. 

Little  Iww  yet  been  elmnged,  I  tliink  ; 
The  shiittei'H  arc  sliiit,  —  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  .she  di(.-d  ! 

I'crliaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name,  — 
It  uiiH  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Ibr  life  liad  many  a  ho|iO  and  aim. 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares  ; 

And  now  was  f|iiiet,  now  astir,  — 
Till  fiod-s  hand  beckoned  unawares. 

And  tlichweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ' 

What  !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true  ; 
The  gorirl  stars  met  in  your  horoscojie, 

M.'ule  you  of  spii-it,  fire,  and  dew  ; 
And  just  bi'cau.sc  1  was  thrice  as  old. 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Kach  was  naught  to  eiudi,  must  I  be  told  ! 

Wo  were  fellow-mortals,  —  naught  beside  ? 


No,  indeed  I  for  (iod  above 

Is  great  to  grant  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creatc!S  the  love  to  reward  the  love  ; 

1  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  I 
iJehiyed,  it  may  be,  for  niort!  lives  yet, 

Tliiough  woilds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few  ; 
Muidi  is  to  h'arn  and  much  to  forget 

Kn.'  the  time  bi-  conn'  for  taking  you. 

linl  the  tiii[r.  will  come  —  at  last  it  will  — 

When,  Kvc-lyn  Hope,  what  nn:ant,  I  shall  say. 
Ill  the  lowi^r  earth,  -    in  the  yeais  long  still, 

That  Ijody  and  soul  so  jiiire  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber  1  shall  divine. 

And  your  nuaith  of  yourown  geranium's  red,- 
And  what  you  would  ilo  with  uic,  in  line, 

In  the  ni'W  lit.' com. ^  in  the  old  oie''s  stead. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  siucir  then, 

fiivcn  uji  myself  so  numy  times, 
Oaini!il  mc  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacki'd  the  ages,  sjioiled  the  elinK;s  ; 
Yet  one  thing  —  one —  in  my  soul's  full  seojie. 

Kit  her  I  missed  or  itself  misscrl  me,  — 
And  1  want  ami  find  you,  Kvclyn  Ilojie  ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  ! 

I  loved  you,  Kvelyn,  all  the  while  ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hohl,  — 
There  was  place  anil  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 
smile. 

And  the  I'ed  young  niouUi, and  the  hair's  young 
gold. 
So,  hunh  !   I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  ; 

.Si;e,  I  shut  it,  inside  the  sweet,  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  seejet  I  go  to  slee]i  ; 

You  will  wake,  and  reinember,  and  nndersland. 


ANNAIiEL  LEK. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago. 

In  a  kingdoni  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  lived,  wdiom  you  may  know 

l!y  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  tills  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thouglit 

Than  to  love,  and  lie  loved  by  me. 

1  was  a  chilli  and  she  was  a  cliild. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  ; 
lint  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  niy  Annabel  Lee,  — 
With  a  love  that  the  wing!;d  seraphs  of  heaven 

fJoveteil  her  and  mc. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago. 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 


^-^ 


^- 


276 


POEMS   OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


"""& 


A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

.My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  tliat  her  high-bom  kinsman  came, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  sliut  her  up  in  ii  sepulcher. 

In  his  kingdom  liy  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  so  happy  in  heaven, 

\\'eut  envying  her  and  me. 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know) 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

lint  our  love  it  was  strongi'r  by  far  than  the  love 

c  II'  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

(If  many  far  wiser  than  we  ; 
.\nj  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  deuious  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

Fill'  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me 
dreams 

I  If  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

I  )f  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling,  my  ilarling,  my  life,  and  my  bride, 

In  lier  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea. 

In  her  tomb  by  the  .sounding  sea. 

EDGAR  ALLKN   POH. 


FLORENCE  VANE. 

1  LOVED  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane  ; 
Jly  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again  ; 
1  renew  in  my  fond  vision 

My  heart's  ilear  pain. 
My  hopes  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

The  ruin,  lime  and  boarv. 

The  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told,  — 
That  spot,  the  hues  elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain, 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane. 

Tliou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime  ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme  ; 


Tliy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main, 
\\'ould  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane  I 

But  fairest,  coldest  wonder  ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Licth  the  green  sod  under  ; 

Alas  the  day  ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain. 
To  ijuicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

Tlu'  lilies  of  tlie  valley 

lly  young  graves  weep. 
The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep  ; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying. 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

I'HiLip  I'.  Cooke, 


FAIR  HELEN  OF  KIRKCONNELL. 

["A  lady  of  the  name  of  Helen  Irving  or  Bell  (for  this  is  disputed 
by  the  two  cl.iiis).  daughter  of  the  Laird  of  Kirkconnell.  in  DuiDrrics- 
shire,  and  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  was  beloved  by  two  genlli 
men  in  the  neighborhood.  The  name  of  the  favored  suitor  wi 
Adam  Fleming  of  Kirkpatrick  ;  th.tt  of  the  other  has  escaped  Ir 
dilion,  although  it  h.as  been  alleged  that  he  was  a  UcU  of  Ulackei 
House.  The  addresses  of  the  latter  were,  however,  favored  by  the 
friends  of  the  lady,  and  the  lovers  were  therefore  obliged  to  meet 
in  secret,  and  by  night,  in  the  churchyard  of  Kirkconncll, 
tic  spot  surrounded  by  the  river  iCirtle.  During  one  of  these  private 
interviews,  the  jealous  and  despised  lover  suddenly  appeared  on 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream,  and  leveled  his  carabine  at  the 
breast  of  his  riv.tl.  Helen  threw  herself  before  her  lover,  re- 
ceived in  her  bosom  the  bullet,  .and  died  in  his  arms.  A  desperate 
and  mortal  combat  ensued  between  Fleming  and  the  murderer,  in 
which  the  latter  was  cut  to  pieces.  Other  accounts  sny  that  Flem- 
ing pursued  his  enemy  to  Sp.-iin,  and  slew  him  in  the  streets  ai 

Madrid."  — Sir  Walter  Scott.) 

I  WISH  I  were  wliere  Helen  lies  : 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

0  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirkcoimell  lea  ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thouglit  the  thought. 
And  curst  the  haml  that  firetl  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  bunl  Helen  ili-opt. 
And  dieil  to  succor  me  ! 

0,  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair. 

When  my  love  ilropt  down  and  sjjake  nae  mair  ! 

1  laid  Iier  down  wi'  meikle  care. 
On  fair  Kirkcounell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  to  the  water-side, 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide. 

On  fair  Kirkcounell  lea,  — 


-^ 


f 


BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


27' 


-a' 


h 


I  lighted  down,  my  sword  did  dmw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  smu, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

0  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare  ! 

1  '11  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
.Shall  bind  ray  heart  forevermair 

Until  the  day  I  dee  ! 

0  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise. 
Says,  ' '  Haste,  and  come  to  me  !  " 

0  Helen  fair  !  0  Helen  chaste  ! 

1  f  1  were  with  thee  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest, 

On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 

I  wish  my  gi'ave  were  growing  green  ; 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  ai-ms  lying 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 

1  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ; 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries, 
And  1  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me  ! 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom. 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

\Vi'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender  ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

AVe  tore  oursels  asunder  ; 
But,  0,  fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sac  early ! 
Now  gi-een  's  the  sod,  and  cauld  's  the  clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary ! 


O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

1  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  moldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  di^arly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

ROURRT  BCRNS. 


HIGH-TIDE    ON    THE    COAST    OF     LINCOLN- 
SHIRE. 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  rang  by  two,  Ijy  three  ; 

"  I'ull  !  if  ye  never  pulled  before  ; 
Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  (pioth  he. 

"  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  0  Boston  bells  ! 

Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells  I 
Play  uppe  Thr,  Bridc.a  uf  Endcrlnjl" 

Men  .say  it  was  a  ".stolen  tyde,"  — 
The  Lord  that  sent  it,  he  knows  all, 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  aliide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall  ; 

And  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 

The  fliglits  of  mews  and  peewits  pied. 
By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea-wall. 

I  sat  and  si)un  within  tlie  doore  ; 

My  thread  bi-ake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes: 
The  level  sun,  like  iiiddy  ore. 

Lay  sinking  in  the  baircii  skies  ; 
And  dark  agnin.st  d.-iy's  g..M.Mi  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wamlereth,  — 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Klizalieth. 

"Cusha!  Cusha  !  C'uslia  !  "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farrc  away  I  heard  her  .song. 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  all  along  ; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  iloweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groiveth, 
Faintly  came  her  milking-song. 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling  ; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow. 

Mellow,  mellow ! 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  !  • 

Come  uppe,  Whitefoot !  come  ujjpe,  Lightfoot ! 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ! 
Come  uppe.  Jetty !  rise  and  follow ; 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ! 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot !  come  u]>pe,  Lightfoot ' 
Come  uppe,  .Jetty!  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 


-^ 


tp-.Tr 


POEMS  OF  SORHOiy  AND  DEATH. 


f^i 


1  r  it  Ih'  luiij;  —  ny ,  lonj;  aj^i  — 
Wlu'ii  1  iH'gimio  to  think  howo  long, 

Ajpiiiio  I  lu'iir  tlio  Limits  lUnv, 
Swift  lis  III)  iiniiwo,  shiii'ini  mul  stroiij;  ; 

Aiiil  nil  tlio  iiiiv,  it  si'ojin'tli  mco, 

liin  ftill  of  llwitinj;  IhMIs  (.snj'tli  shot>). 

'rimt  ring  tlu>  tuiio  of  Kiiiterhi. 

•Mil'  I'lvsli  t-lio  lovol  nitstuiv  lay. 
Ami  not  It  slunUnvo  moto  bo  scone, 

Si»Yo  wlioiv,  lull  fyvo  gi>oil  milos  invity, 
Tlio  stooplo  towoivil  ftvin  out  tlio  givone. 

Ami  lo  !  tJio  gitvtt  Ih'U  I'tuiv  and  wiilo 

Was  lioatil  in  all  tho  country  siilo 

That  StUuixlay  at  ovontiilo. 

Tho  s\vannoi\ls,  whoiv  their  scdjjos  nit\ 
ilovod  on  in  sunset's  jjohleii  hiwxtdt ; 

The  shoj>hoi\lo  lads  1  heard  afariv. 
And  my  sonno's  wife,  Kliisaheth  ; 

Till,  lloatinj;  o'er  tho  grassy  swi, 

r«tue  downe  that  kyndly  inessag«i  free, 

Thf  Jiridts  o/Mnvis  liiiiltfrliy. 

Then  soroe  looked  uppo  into  the  sky. 
And  all  along  where  Liudis  tlows 

To  whoiv  the  gwvlly  vessels  lie. 

And  \vheix>  the  lowily  steeulo  shows. 

They  saydo,  "  And  why  should  this  thing  be. 

What  diuigxu'  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ! 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Hiiiiei-by. 

"  For  evil  news  tVun  Mahlethorpe, 

Of  nyr!>te  galleys,  wai'iiing  down,  — 
For  shi|n»'s  ashoix<  heyoiul  tho  scorpe. 

They  have  not  siwiwl  to  wake  the  towne  ; 
Uut  while  tJie  west  bin  ivd  to  see, 
Atul  storms  Iw  none,  and  pyrntes  flee, 
W  hy  ring  The  iJri'rft's  o/  Underliji  > 

\  looked  without,  and  lo  I  my  soune 
Oanie  riding  downe  with  might  and  main  ; 

He  raised  a  shont  as  he  divw  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  ratig  again  : 

"  Kliiabeth  !  Kli2alH>th  !  " 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  dix>w  bivath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  KliraWth.) 

"The  olde  sea-wall  (he  cryed)  is  downe  ! 
•    The  rising  tide  comes  on  ajvaco  ; 
And  iHwts  adrift  in  yomior  towne 

t<*>  siiiling  npiH>  tho  market-)>lace  ! " 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"IIvhI  save  yon,  mother  !  "  sta-siight  he  sjiytli  ; 
"Where  is  my  wife,  EUralwth  ?" 

"Good  Sonne,  whore  lindis  winds  away 
With  her  two  Iwirns  1  markeil  her  long  ; 


And  oiv  yon  bolls  boganne  to  play. 
Afar  1  hoaixl  her  inilking-song." 
He  looked  across  tho  grassy  sea. 
To  right,  to  left,  Jh\  KmUrbij ! 
They  mug  Th(  iiri.Us  of  Kml,;-hi. 

With  that  he  cried  and  bent  liis  breast  ; 

l'"or  lo  !  along  the  river's  bo<l 
A  mighty  oygre  ivaivd  his  cix-st. 

And  uppe  tho  l.iudis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thundcixniS  noises  loud, — 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shivml. 

And  rearing  l.indis,  backwanl  prissed. 

Shook  all  her  tix-mbling  Imiikos  ainaine  ; 
Thou  madly  at  the  eygiv's  bivast 

Klung  ui>po  her  weltering  walls  agjiin. 
Then  l-iinkos  came  downe  with  ruin  and  ituit,  — 
Then  beaten  foam  llcw  ivuud  about,  — 
Then  all  tho  mighty  Hoods  woiv  out. 

So  fariv,  so  fast,  the  evgiv  drave, 
Tho  honrt  had  hai\llY  time  to  beat 

Before  a  slinllow  seething  wave 
SoliN'd  in  the  grsisses  at  ouiv  foot : 

The  foot  had  haixUy  time  to  tlce 

Hofoiv  it  brake  against  t.lu>  knee,  — 

.\nd  all  tho  world  was  in  the  sea. 

U[Xin  the  ivofe  we  sate  that  night  ; 

The  noise  of  bells  wont  swooping  by  ; 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stivani  I'lMm  tho  chtiivh  tower,  red  ami  liigh,  — 
A  lurid  mark,  and  dread  to  see  ; 
And  awsome  Ih>11s  they  weiv  to  luoo, 
That  in  tho  dark  rang  Kiuiirbii. 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide, 

Fivm  iwife  to  nwfe  who  fearless  rowed  ; 

And  1,  —  my  sonm>  was  at  my  side, 
.\nd  yet  the  ruddy  Iwicon  glowwl  ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  Iwueath  his  bivath, 

"O,  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  ! 

0  lost !  my  love,  VUizabeth  !  " 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  moiv  ! 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  dnvighter  deare  ! 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  dooiv 

Kiv  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear  ; 
Thy  pivtly  Iviirns  in  fast  embraiH\ 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Powne  drifttnl  to  tJiy  ilwelling-plaeo. 

That  flow  strewed  wroi-ks  alnntt  tho  gitiss. 
That  eblH<  swept  out  the  flocks  to  set*,  — 

A  fatal  eblw  and  flow,  alas  .' 
To  manve  moiv  than  mvne  anil  niiv  ; 


U 


--S 


a- 


ISEItEAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


27'J 


-a 


Uiit  oacli  will  iriouini!  hi»  own  fslu;  saytli) 
Ami  swfictcr  women  ne'ei'  drew  Ijreath 
Than  my  8oi)ne'»  wife;,  Kllzabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
Uy  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cuslui!  Cu/ihu  !  CiDilui!"  eallinj<, 
Kic  the  early  dcwH  be  falling  ; 
1  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"Cusha!  C'uslia  !  "  all  along, 
Where  the  sunny  l.indis  lloweth, 

Goeth,  lloweth, 
From  the  meiuJs  where  rnelick  growcth, 
Wliere  the  walei-,  winding  down. 
Onward  lloweth  to  the  town. 

1  shall  never  see  her  more, 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  ijuiver. 
Stand  beside  the  Sfjbbing  liver,  — 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling, 
To  the  sandy,  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  sluiU  never  hear  her  ealling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ! 
Quit  your  eowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ! 
Come  upjie,  Wliitefoot !  eome  uppe,  Lightfoot ! 
Quit  your  [lipes  of  jiaisley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow  ! 
Come  uppi.-,  l.ightl'oot !  rixe  and  follow  ; 

Lightfoot !  Whitefoot ! 
From  you)-  elove-rs  lift  the  heiul  ; 
Come  upjie,  Jetty  I  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed  I " 

JHAN  INGP-LOW. 


TO  MABY  IN  HEAVEN. 


Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  js-bbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woodn,  thiekening  green  ; 
Tlie  fragrant  bireh,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined  amoroUH  round  the  raptured  scene  ; 
The  llowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  [irest. 

The  binhi  sang  love  on  every  spray,  — 
Till  soon,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

I'roelaimcd  the  H|)i;ed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  thes<?  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  mUcj'  eare  I 
Tinje  but  the  impression  stjoiiger  makes, 

As  streams  their  eharinels  dee|)er  wear. 
My  .Mary  I  deal'  departed  shade  i 

Where  is  thy  plaee  of  blissful  rest? 
Sec'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ( 

Hear'st  tliou  tli(,'  gjoans  that  lend  his  breast? 

KOUMW  nOK.NS 


O,  SNATCHED  AWAY   I.V    liKAL'TY'H    DLOOM  I 

0,  H.VATClii'.ii  away  in  Iwauty's  bloom  I 

On  thee  sliall  press  no  ponderous  tomb! 

liut  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 

Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year. 

And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  temler  gloom  : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 

Shall  SoiTow  lean  her  droo]jing  head. 

And  feed  deep  thought  witli  many  a  dream, 

And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tieail ; 

Fond  wretch  ;  as  if  her  step  disturbed  the  dea>l! 

Away  !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  Death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress  : 
Will  this  untcach  us  to  comidaini' 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  / 
And  thou,  who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 
Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 

l,ORD  DVRQM. 


& 


TiiDi;  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  ushei'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary  !  dear  dejarted  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast/ 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget,  — 

Can  I  forget  the  hiii  lowed  grove, 
Where  liy  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  lovo  ? 
Eternity  will  not  cffiuie 

Those  reconls  ilear  of  transports  past ; 
Tliy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ; 

Ah  I  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last ! 


THE  M.\ID'H  LAMENT. 

I  LOVED  him  not  ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

1  fei-1  I  am  alone. 
Ichecked  him  while  lie  sfrnke  ;  yet  could  he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought. 

And  wearieil  all  rny  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  anri  when  he  found 

'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hiri  his  face  amid  the  sh.ides  of  death  ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me  ;  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 


-^ 


iSO 


POEMS  OF  SOREOir  AND  DEATH. 


f^ 


With  stitliug  heat,  heaving  it  u\<  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  tluit  liad  melted  his  soft  heart  ;  lor  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears  '. 
"  Merciful  God  !"  such  wius  his  latest  prayer, 

"These  may  she  never  share  !  " 
tjuii'ter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  eold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mold, 
Where  ehildren  spell  athwart  the  ehurchyard  gate 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  ye  bo, 

And  0,  pray,  too,  for  me  ! 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


I&-- 


THY  BRAES  WERE   BONNY. 

Thy  braes  were  bonny.  Yarrow  stj-eam. 
When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lover  ; 

Thy  braes  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream, 
AVlien  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover. 

Forever  now,  0  Yarrow  stream  ! 

Thou  art  to  me  a  stream  of  soiTow ; 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 

Behold  my  love,  the  flower  of  YaiTOW. 

He  promised  me  a  milk-white  steed. 

To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers  ; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page. 

To  'squire  me  to  his  father's  towers  ; 
He  promised  mo  a  wedding-ring,  — 

The  wedding-day  was  fixed  to-morrow ; 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas,  his  watery  grave,  in  Yarrow  ! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met ; 

My  passion  I  as  freely  told  him  : 
Clasped  in  his  anns,  1  little  thought 

That  I  should  nevermore  behold  him  ! 
Scarce  was  he  gone,  1  saw  his  ghost ; 

It  vanished  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow  ; 
Thrice  did  the  water-^n■aith  ascend. 

And  gave  a  doleful  groan  through  Yarrow. 

His  mother  from  the  window  looked 

With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother  ; 
His  little  sister  weeping  walked 

The  greenwood  path  to  meet  her  brother. 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  west. 

They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough ; 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night. 

They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow ! 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look. 

Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother  ! 

No  longer  w^alk,  thou  lovely  maid  ; 
Alas,  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother ! 


No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west. 

And  search  no  more  the  forest  thorough ; 

For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark. 
He  fell  a  lifeless  corse  in  YaiTow. 

The  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek. 
No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow ; 

1  '11  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream. 
And  then  with  thee  I  '11  sleep  in  Yarrow. 
John  Loga.n. 

MARY'S  DREAM. 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 

Which  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 
And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 

Her  silver  light  on  tower  .and  tree, 
When  Maiy  laid  her  down  to  sleep. 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea, 
When,  soft  and  slow,  a  voice  was  heard 

Say,  "  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! " 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Her  head,  to  ask  who  there  might  be, 
And  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand. 

With  visage  pale,  and  hollow  e'e. 
"0  Mary  dear,  cold  is  my  clay  ; 

It  lies  beneath  a  stormy  sea. 
Far,  far  from  thee  I  sleep  in  death  ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  mo  ! 

"  Three  stormy  nights  and  stonny  days 

We  tossed  upon  the  raging  main  ; 
Anil  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save, 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 
F.ven  then,  when  horror  chilleil  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  filled  with  love  for  thee : 
The  storm  is  past,  and  I  at  rest  ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

"  0  maiden  dear,  thyself  prepare  ; 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore, 
Wliere  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 

And  thou  and  I  shall  part  no  more  ! " 
Loud  crowed  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled, 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see  ; 
But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 

"Sweet  Maiy,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! " 

JOH.N  Lowe. 


Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  lo\'ing,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  aiul  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I  'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do  ;  — 


-ff 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


281 


fli 


h^ 


Swefit  as  your  smile  on  me  shom-  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

0  to  eall  back  the  days  tliat  are  not ! 

lly  eyes  were  tilinded,  your  words  were  few  ; 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
I  )ougla.s,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 

1  never  was  wortliy  of  you,  Douglas  ; 
Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you  : 

Now  all  men  besiile  seem  to  me  like  sliadows,  — 
I  love  yim,  Dougks,  timdcr  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  han4  to  mc,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
Dro|)  foigiveness  from  heaven  like  dew  ; 

As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dea^l  heart,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Dl.VAH   MULOCM  CKAIK. 


FIRST  SPRING  FLOWERS. 

I  A.M  watching  for  the  early  buds  to  wake 

L'nder  the  snow  : 
From  little  beds  the  soft  white  covering  take. 

And,  nestling,  lo  ! 

They  lie,  with  pink  lips  parted,  all  aglow  ! 

0  darlings  !  open  wide  your  tender  eyes  ; 

See  !  I  am  here  — 
Have  been  here,  waiting  under  winter  skies 
Till  you  appear  — 
You,  just  come  up  from  where  lie  lies  so  near. 

Tell  me,  dear  flowers,  is  he  gentlj'  laid, 

Wrapjted  round  from  cold  ; 
Has  spring  aljout  him  fair  green  garnienh>  nuide, 

Fold  over  fold  ; 

Are  sweet  things  growing  with  him  in  the 
mold  r 

Has  he  found  quiet  resting-place  at  last, 

After  the  fight  ? 
What  message  did  he  send  me,  as  you  passed 

Him  in  the  night, 

Kagerly  imshing  upward  toward  the  light  ? 

1  will  not  jihick  you,  lest  his  hand  should  be 

''lose  clasjiing  you  : 
These  slender  libere  which  so  cling  to  me 
I  )o  grasp  hi/ni  too  — 

What  gave  these  delicate  veins  their  blood- 
red  hue  ? 

One  kiss  I  press,  dear  little  bud,  liall  shut, 

On  your  sweet  eyes  ; 
For  when  the  April  i-ain  falhi  at  your  foot. 
And  April  sun  yearns  downward  to  your  root 

From  soft  spring  skies, 

It,  too,  may  reach  him,  where  he  sleeping  lies. 

MRS.    HOWLAND. 


AN  APRIL  VIOLET. 

U.N'IJKK  the  larch,  with  its  ta.ssels  wet. 
While  the  early  sunbeams  lingered  yet. 
In  the  rosy  dawn  my  love  1  met 

Under  the  larch,  when  the  sun  was  set, 
He  came  with  an  Ajiril  violet : 
Forty  years  —  and  1  liave  it  yet. 

Out  of  life,  with  its  fond  regret. 
What  have  love  and  memoiy  yet  ? 
Only  an  April  violet. 

ANONVMOUS- 


It  was  nothing  but  a  rose  I  gave  her, 

Nothing  but  a  rosi; 
Any  wind  might  rob  of  half  its  .savor, 

Any  wind  that  blows. 

When  she  took  it  from  my  trembling  fingers 

With  a  hand  as  chill  — 
Ah,  the  flying  touch  u]]on  them  lingers. 

Stays,  and  thrills  them  still  ! 

Withered,  faded,  pressed  between  the  pages. 

Crumpled  fold  on  fold, — 
Once  it  lay  upon  her  lireast,  and  ages 

Cannot  make  it  old  ! 

ANONVMOL'S. 


MINSTREL'S  SONG. 

0,  SING  unto  my  roundelay  ! 

f),  droji  the  briny  tear  with  mc  ! 
Dance  no  more  at  lioliday  ; 
Like  a  running  river  be  ; 
My  Ime  ii  dead. 
Gone  lo  his  dadh-bcd, 
All  UTuier  tlu;  vHHuvi-lree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
Whit(^  his  neck  as  sinnmer  snow, 

Kuiidy  his  face  as  the  moniing  light  ; 
Cold  lie  lies  in  the  grave  Vjelow  : 
My  love  is  dead,  etc. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note  ; 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be  ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 

0,  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree  ! 
My  love  w  dead,  etc. 

Hark  !  the  r.iven  flaps  his  wing 
In  the  liriered  dell  below  ; 


-^ 


282 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


^ 


Hark  !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 

To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 

My  love  is  dead,  etc. 

See  !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high  ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud, 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 

Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead,  etc. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave 
Shall  the  barren  Howers  be  laid. 

Nor  one  holy  .saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead,  etc. 

With  my  hands  I  '11  hind  the  briers 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gie  ; 
Ellin-fairy,  light  your  fires  ; 

Here  my  i>ody  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead,  etc. 

Come,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn. 
Drain  my  heart's  Ijlood  all  away  ; 

Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead,  etc. 

Water-witches,  cro\TOeil  with  reytes, 

F.ear  me  to  your  letlial  tide. 
I  die  !  I  come  !  my  true-love  waits. 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 

Thomas  Chatterton. 


LAMENT  FOR  BION 

FORKST  dells  and  streams  !  0  Dorian  tide  ! 
cian  with  my  grief,  since  lovely  Bion  died  : 
I'lants  and  copses,  now  his  lo.ss  bewail  : 
iwcrs,  from  your  tufts  a  sad  perfume  e.xhale  : 
cmones  and  I'oses,  mournful  show 
ur  crimson  leaves  and  wear  a  blush  of  woe  ; 
d  hyacinth,  now  more  than  ever  spread 
c  woeful  "  ah,"  that  marks  thy  petaled  head 
th   lettered  grief :  the   beauteous  minstrel  's 
dead  ! 


Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 

Ye  nightingales,  whose  plaintive  warblings  flow 

From  the  thick  leavesof  some  embowering  wood. 

Tell  the  sad  loss  to  Arethusa's  flood  : 

The  shepherd  Bion  dies  :  with  him  is  dead 

The  life  of  song  :  the  Doric  Muse  is  Hed. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 

The  herds  no  more  that  chant  melodious  know  : 

No  more  beneath  the  lonely  oak  he  sings. 

But  breathes  his  strains  to  Lethe's  sullen  springs  ; 


The  mountains  now  are  mute  :  the  heifers  pass 
Slow-wandering  by,  nor  browse  the  tender  grass. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
For  thee,  0  Bion  !  m  the  grave  laid  low, 
Apollo  weeps  ;  dark  palls  the  sylvan's  shroud  ; 
Fauns  ask  thy  wonted  song,  ami  wail  aloud  : 
Each  fountain-nymph  disconsolate  appears. 
And  all  her  waters  turn  to  trickling  tears  ;  — 
Mute  Echo  pines  the  silent  rocks  around, 
And  mourns  those  lips  that  waked  their  sweetest 
sound. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
But  retribution  sure  will  deal  the  blow  : 
I,  in  this  trance  of  grief,  still  drop  the  tear, 
And  mourn  forever  o'er  thy  livid  bier  :  — 

0  that,  as  Orpheus,  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Ulysses,  or  Alcides,  passed  before, 

1  could  descend  to  Pluto's  house  of  night. 
And  mark  if  thou  wouldst  Pluto's  ear  delight. 
And  listen  to  the  song  :  0  then  rehearse 
Some  sweet  Sicilian  strain,  bucolic  verse. 

To  soothe  the  maid  of  Enna's  vale,  who  sang 
These  Doric  songs,  while  ^Etna's  upland  rang. 
Not  unrewarded  should  thy  ditties  prove  : 
As  the  sweet  harper,  Orpheus,  erst  could  move 
Her  breast  to  yield  his  dear  departed  wife. 
Treading  the  backward  road  from  death  to  life, 
So  should  he  melt  to  Bion's  Dorian  strain. 
And  send  him  joyous  to  his  hills  again. 
0,  could  my  touch  command  the  stops  like  thee, 
I  too  would  seek  the  dead,  and  sing  thee  free  ! 

From  the  Greek  of  MOSCHUS. 
by  CHARLES  ABRAHAM  ELTON. 


al  friend  of  the  poet's,  drowned 


fin  memory  of  a  young  cle 
4    n.  ,6,7.1 


Yet  once  more,  0  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude  ; 
And,  with  forced  fingers  rade. 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  ; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhjTue. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
l^nwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then,  sisters  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring  ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse 


&~ 


^ 


DEREAVEMEXT  AX  I)   UEATII. 


283 


-a 


Si)  iiiuy  some  gentle  Muse 

\\'itli  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn  ; 

And,  us  he  passes,  turn. 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  selfsame  hill, 
Fed  the  same  Hock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill ; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
L'udcr  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 
We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  lieard 
AVhat  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
fattening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
( >ft  till  the  star,  that  rose  at  evening  bright, 
Towai-ds  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  hiswestering 

wheel. 
lleanwliile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
IV-Uiiicreil  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 
Hough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  wdth  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long; 
And  old  Damcetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  0  tlie  heavy  change  now  thou  art  gone. 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
Tlie  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green. 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Oy  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
<  ir  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear. 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows  ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherds'  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  nymphs,  when  the  remorseless 
deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  roved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  wei'e  ye  playing  on  tlie  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie. 
Nor  on  tire  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream  : 
.\y  me  !  I  fondly  dream, 

llnd  j-ebeen  there  :  for  what  could  that  havedone? 
M'hat  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  JIuse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
^\'llen,  by  the  i-out  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  inics!i:iiit  I'are 
To  tend  the  homely,  sli-litr,!  ,1,,  |i1m  i.l's  trade. 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thanklrss  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neiera's  hair  ? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  cleai'  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days  ; 
l!ut  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find. 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 


Comes  the  liliud  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  thethin-spun  life.    "  Butnotthe  praise," 
Pha'bus  replied,  aiul  touched  my  trembling  ears  ; 
"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  luortal  soil. 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  ofl'  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies  : 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes. 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  .love  : 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed  ! " 
0  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored  flood, 
Sniooth-slidmgMiucius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds! 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood  : 
But  uow  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea  ; 
He  a.sked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  nushaii  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain  ? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings. 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory  : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story  ; 
Anil  sage  Hijipotades  their  answer  Ijrings, 
That  not  a  blast  wa.s  from  his  dungeon  strayeil : 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisleis  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 
P)uilt  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark. 
That  sunk  .so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Ne.xt  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  ed^'c 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  will,  v.i.c. 
"All  !  wlio  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,  "my  dearest 

liU-dge?" 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go. 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  : 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain,) 
He  shook  his  mitered  locks,  and  stern  bes]i,ik('  : 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young 

sw'ain. 
Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake, 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoidng  make, 
Tluin  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast. 
Ami  shove  away  the  woi-thy  bidden  guest  ; 
Blind  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how 

to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  belongs  ! 
What  recks  it  them  ?  What  need  they  ?   TIrv  nie 

sped  ; 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  ^vi-etched  straw ; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 
But,  swoU'n  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they 

draw. 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spreacl  : 


-S 


& 


•284: 


POEMS   OF  SOREOir  AND  DEATH. 


•^ 


tQ- 


Besides  what  the  giiin  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said  ; 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  I'eady  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more. 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  \(iiri'  i:,  |.ast, 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  ;  retuin,  Sn  ilim  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  t]ui)i  hithi  r  rast 
Their  bells,  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks  ; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enameled  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers. 
And  purple  all  the  gi'ound  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet. 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  niusk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine. 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears  ; 
Bid  Amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 
And  dalfadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears. 
To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For,  .so  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise  ; 
Ay  me  !   whilst  thee  the  shores   aud  sounding 

seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled. 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou,  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold  ; 
Look  homeward,  angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth  : 
And,  0  ye  doljihins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds,  weep  no  more  ; 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor  ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky  : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the 

waves  ; 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves. 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song. 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and,  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  forever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more  ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore. 


In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perQous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and 
rills. 
While  the  still  mom  went  out  with  sandals  gi'ay  ; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  ([uills. 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay  : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay  ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue  : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 
John  Milton. 


SELECTIONS  FROM    "IN  MEMORIAM." 

[ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM,  OB.    1833  ] 

GEIEF   UNSPEAKABLE. 
I  so.\iETiMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  1  feel ; 

For  words,  like  Natui'e,  half  reveal 
And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  umjuiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  1  '11  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

DEAD,    IN  A   FOREIGN   LAND. 

F.\IR  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains. 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er  ! 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirrored  mast,  and  lead 

Through  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn  ! 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perple.x 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  through  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks  ! 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widowed  race  be  run  ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me  ! 


-.4i 


f 


BEREAVEMENT  ANT)  HEATH. 


181 


^ 


TJIE    I'E.UE    OF    .SnUKiiw. 

Calm  is  the  morn,  witliovit  a  souutl, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  througli  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  liigh  wold 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  tlie  furze. 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  ; 

Cahn  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
Tliat  sweeps  witli  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers. 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air. 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
Anil  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair- : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep. 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest. 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

TIME   AND   ETERXITY. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  bo  truly  one, 
i\nd  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Through  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on  ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 
Bare  of  the  body,  niiglit  it  last, 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower : 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man  ; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 

In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began  ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

PERSONAL  RESUKRECTION. 

That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  wliole. 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Eemerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet  : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
Tlip  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 


And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast. 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good  : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharjiest  height. 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place  to  clasp  and  say, 

"  Farewell  !     We  lose  ourselves  in  light." 

SPIRITUAL  COMPANIONSHIP. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  liide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame. 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame. 

And  I  be  lessened  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  gi-ave  with  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death  : 

The  dead  shall  look  me  through  and  through. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  roUin^-  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours. 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 

MOONLIGHT   Mr.SlNOS. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest. 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west. 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls  ; 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears 

As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 

Along  the  letters  of  thy  name. 
And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away  ; 

From  ofl"  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies  : 
And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 

I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

And  then  1  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  vale  from  coast  to  coast. 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

DEATH    IN   LIFE'.S   PRIME. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So"  little  done,  such  things  to  be. 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee  ? 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true. 


4d- 


-^ 


[&^ 


ISb 


/■MAW.s-  OF  SOEROir  AXD  DEATH. 


--n 


The  fame  is  quenched  that  I  foresaw, 
The  head  hath  missed  an  earthly  wreath  : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass  ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds  : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age  ■     It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame. 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  e.xults, 
.\nd  self-enfolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

THE    poet's   tribute. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  soHgs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshortened  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 
May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box. 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks  : 

Or,  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane, 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find. 

And,  parsing,  turn  tlie  page  that  tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something  else. 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ?  My  darkened  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same  ; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

Alkked  te.vnvson. 


THE  PASSAGE. 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave  : 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever. 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then  in  this  same  boat  beside. 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried,  — 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth. 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  whene'er  I  turn  mine  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone  by. 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 

Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 


But  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore  ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more. 

Take,  0  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee, 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly  ; 

For  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

From  the  German  of  LuowiG  Uhland, 


HOME  THEY  BROUGHT  HER  WARRIOR  DEAD. 


Ho.ME  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  : 
She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry  ; 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"Slie  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Called  him  woithy  to  be  loved. 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Liglitly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-doth  from  the  face. 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee,  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears,  — 
"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  FLOWER  OP  FINAE. 

A  BRIGADE  BALLAD. 

(Early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  the  flower  of  the  Catholic  youth 
of  Ireland  were  drawn  a\vay  to  recruit  the  ranks  of  the  Irish  Bri- 
gade in  the  service  of  the  King  of  France.  These  recruits  were 
popuUarly  known  .as  '■  Wild  Geese."    Few  returned.] 

Bright  red  is  the  sun  on  the  waves  of  Lough 

Sheelin, 
A  cool  gentle  breeze  from  the  mountain  is  stealing. 
While  fair  round  its  islets  the  sm.all  ripples  play. 
But  fairer  than  all  is  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

Her  liair  is  like  night,  and  her  eyes  like  gray 

morning. 
She  trips  on  the  heather  as  if  its  touch  scorning. 
Yet  her  heart  and  her  lips  are  as  mild  as  May  day. 
Sweet  Eily  MacMahon,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

But  who  down  the  hillside  th.an  red  deer  runs 

fleeter  ? 
.\nd  who  on  the  lakeside  is  hastenina 


'  to  gleet  her  T 

SI 


BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


-L^, 


287 


Wlio  l>ut  Fergus  O'Fnriell,  the  fiery  ami  gay. 
The  darling  and  i>ride  ul'  the  Flower  of  Finae  i 

One  kiss  and  one  clasp,  and  one  wild  look  ol' glad- 
ness ; 
Ah!  wh)  dolliiyi  liangeonasudden  to  sadness,  — 
He  has  |i.l,l  III    liml  lorlune,  norniore  ean  liestay. 
He  nmsl  ImM-  Ins  jioor  Eily  to  pine  at  Finae. 

l''or  Fergus  O'Farrell  was  true  to  his  sire-land. 
And  the  dark  hand  of  tyranny  drove  liini  from 

Ireland  ; 
He  joins  the  Brigade,  in  the  wars  far  away. 
Hut  he  vows  he '11  comeback  to  the  Flowerof  Finae. 

He  fought  at  Cremona,  —  she  hears  of  his  story  ; 
He  fought  at  Cassaiio,  —  she 's  proud  of  his  glory. 
Yet  sadly  she  sings  "  Shule  Aroon  "  all  the  day, 
"O,  eonip,  come,  my  darling,  come  home  to  Finae. " 

Kiglit   long   years   have   passed,    till   she 's  nigh 

broken-hearted. 
Her  reel,  and  her  ro(-k,   and   her  flax   she   has 

parted  ; 
She  sails  with  the ' '  Wild  Geese  "  to  Flanders  away, 
And  leaves  her  sad  parents  alone  in  Finae. 

I.iird  ('lare  on  the  field  of  Uamillies  is  charging, 
I;,  fore  him  theSassanachsiiuadrons  enlarging,  — 
lliliind  him  the  Cravats  their  .sections  display,  — 
I'.isidc  him  lides  Fergus  and  shouts  for  Finae. 

I  111  the  slopes  of  La  .Tiidoignc  the  Frenrhmen  are 

(lying, 
Lord  ( 'laic  .indhis  .squadrons,  the  foe  still  defying, 
Outiiiimbeii'd,  and  wounded,  retreat  in  array; 
And  lileediiig  rides  Fergus  and  thinks  of  Finae. 

In  tlic  cloisters  of  Vjircs  a  banner  is  swaying. 
And  by  it  a  pale  weeping  maiden  is  praying; 
That  flag's  the  sole  trophy  of  Ramillics'  fray. 
This  nun  is  poor  Eily,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

Thomas  Davis. 


ELEONORA. 


No  single  virtue  we  could  most  commend. 
Whether  the  wife,  the  mother,  or  the  friend  ; 
For  she  was  all,  in  that  suprenii'  degree, 
That,  as  no  one  prevailed,  .so  all  was  she. 
The  several  parts  lay  hidden  in  the  piece  ; 
Tlie  occasion  but  exerted  that,  or  this. 
A  wife  as  tender,  and  as  trae  withal. 
As  the  first  woman  was  before  her  fall  : 
Made  for  the  man,  of  whom  she  wms  a  part ; 
Made  to  attract  his  eyes,  and  keep  his  heart. 


A  second  Eve,  but  by  no  crime  accursed  ; 
As  beauteous,  not  as  brittle,  as  th(!  first. 
Had  she  been  first,  still  Paradise  had  Ijccn, 
And  death  had  found  no  entraiii'e  by  her  .-in. 
So  she  not  only  had  preserved  from  ill 
Her  .sex  and  ours,  but  lived  their  pattern  still. 

Love  and  obedience  to  her  lord  she  bore  ; 
She  much  obeyed  him,  but  she  loved  him  moit 
.\ot  aweil  to  duty  by  superior  sway, 
liut  taught  by  his  indulgence  to  obey. 
Thus  we  love  God,  as  author  of  our  good. 

Yet  unemployc'd  no  minute  slipped  away; 
Moments  were  precious  in  so  short  a  stay. 
The  haste  of  Heaven  to  have  her  was  so  great 
That  somewere  single  acts,  though  each  comjilete  ; 
ISut  every  act  stood  ready  to  repeat. 

Her  fcdlow-saints  with  busy  cai-e  will  look 
For  lier  blest  name  in  fate's  eternal  book  ; 
And,  pleased  to  be  outdone,  with  joy  will  .see 
Numberless  virtues,  endless  charity  : 
Hut  more  will  wonder  at  so  short  an  age. 
To  find  a  blank  beyond  the  thirtieth  page  ; 
And  with  a  pious  fear  begin  to  doubt 
The  piece  imperfect,  and  the  rest  torn  out. 
Hut 't  was  her  Saviour's  time  ;  and  could  there  lie 
A  copy  near  the  original,  't  was  she. 

As  jirecious  gums  are  not  foi'  lasting  fire. 
They  but  perfume  the  temple,  and  expire  ; 
So  was  she  soon  exhaled,  and  vanished  hence,  — 
A  short  sweet  odor,  of  a  vast  expense. 
She  vanished,  we  can  scarcely  say  she  died  ; 
For  hut  a  now  did  heaven  and  earth  divide  : 
She  passed  serenely  with  a  single  breath  ; 
This  moment  perfect  health,  the  next  was  death  : 
One  sigh  did  hei-  eternal  bliss  assure  ; 
So  little  penancenecds,  when  soidsarealmost  pure. 
As  gentle  dreams  oui-  waking  thoughts  pursue  ; 
Or,  one  dream  passed,  we  slide  into  a  new ; 
So  close  they  follow,  such  wild  order  keep, 
We  think  ourselves  awake,  and  are  aslcc])  ; 
So  softly  death  succeeded  life  in  her  ; 
She  did  liut  dream  of  heaven,  and  .she  was  tin  re 

No  pains  she  .suffered,  nor  expiied  with  noise  ; 
Her  soul  was  whispi'red  out  with  God's  still  voice  ; 
As  an  old  friend  is  beckoned  to  a  feast, 
And  treated  like  a  long-familiar  guest. 
He  took  her  as  he  found,  but  found  her  so, 
As  one  in  hourly  readiness  to  go  : 
E'en  on  that  day,  in  all  her  trim  prepared  ; 
As  early  notice  she  from  heaven  had  heard, 
And  some  descending  courier  from  above 
Had  given  her  timely  warning  to  remove  ; 
Or  counseled  her  to  dress  the  nn]itinl  room. 
For  on  that  night  the  bridegi'oom  was  to  come. 
He  kejit  his  hour,  and  found  her  where  she  lay 
Clothed  all  in  white,  the  livery  of  the  day. 


-^ 


& 


288 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


^ 


U-- 


LAMENT  OP  THE   IRISH   EMIGRANT. 

1  'm  sillin'  oil  the  stilo,  Jlary, 

Whei'o  wo  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  l)right  May  moniiii'  long  ago, 

Wlieii  Hist  ycm  were  my  bride  ; 
Tlie  iiiin  w;i.s  s|iiingiir  fresh  and  gi'ccn, 

And  the  lai-k  sang  loud  and  high  ; 
Anil  till'  red  was  on  your  liji,  Mary, 

And  llio  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  i)Iaee  is  little  clianged,  Mary ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 
Pint  1  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

Aiul  your  breatli,  warm  on  my  iheek  ; 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  I'or  tlie  words 

You  nevermore  will  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stamls  near,  — 
Tlie  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary ; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest,  — 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 
But,  0,  they  love  the  better  still 

Tlie  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  1  had,  Mary,  — 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride  ; 
Tlicro  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now. 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  goue  ; 
There  was  comfort  over  on  your  lip,  — 

And  the  kind  look  ou  your  brow,  — 
1  bless  you,  Maiy,  for  that  same. 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

1  lliaiik  you  for  the  patient  smile 

\V  hen  your  heart  was  lit  to  break,  — 
\\'hi'n  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawiu"  there. 

And  you  hiil  it  for  my  .sake  ; 
1  lili-ss  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  aud  sore,  — 
0.  1  'in  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I  'm  biddiii'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary  —  kind  and  true  ! 
But  1  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

ill  the  land  I  'm  goin'  to  ; 


They  say  there  's  bread  and  work  for  all, 
And  the  sun.shines  always  there,  — 

But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 
Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I  '11  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes. 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stilo 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 
And  the  springin'  corn  and  the  bright  May  morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  briile. 

LABY  DUFFI-KIN 
(Formerly  the  HON.  MRS.  ULACKWOOD). 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE. 

Wdiil)  was  brought  to  tlio  Danish  king 

(Ihirry!; 
That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering. 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring ; 

(0,  riile  as  though  you  were  flying  I) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl  : 
And  his  rose  of  the  isles  is  dying  ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed  ; 

("Hurry !) 
Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need  ; 

(0,  ride  as  though  you  were  flying !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank  ; 
Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank  ; 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girths  were  burst ; 
But,  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 
For  his  ro.se  of  the  isles  lay  dying  ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one  ; 

(Hurry!) 
They  have  tainted,  and  faltered,  and  homeward 

gone  ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  counigc  trying! 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faitliliil  child  ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled  ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din. 
Then  he  dropped  ;  and  only  the  king  rode  in 
Where  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying  ! 

The  king  blew  a  bhust  on  his  bugle-horn  ; 

(Silence !) 
No  answer  came  ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  gi'ay  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide  ; 
None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary  ride 


ide ;  J 

E? 


[fl-^- 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


289 


ra 


For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawiiihf;  day, 
Tlio  i)alo  sweet  form  of  the  weluoiuc.i-  lay. 
Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest. 

Stood  weary. 
The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  tliick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying, 
The  tears  guslieil  forth  which  ho  strove  to  check  ; 
III'  liowed  his  heaii  on  his  charger's  neck  : 
"0  steed,  that  every  nerve  didst  stiiiin, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 
To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  ! " 

Caroline  li.  Norton. 


^ 


LAMENT  OF  THE  BORDER  WIDOW. 

[Tlii-i  ballad  relates  to  tlic  cxccmioii  ol  Cuckbiirnc  nf  Ilcml* 
laiul,  a  border  freebooter,  liaiiijeil  ■  vi  i  iJh  ,  ir.  .  i  1m  .  own  tow 
by  James  v.  ill  his  famous  expedition,  n.  i  -      ,i    !  ilii.'  mataii 

crs  of  tlic  Ijorder.    In  a  deserted  bun. il  i    r  t    .   fiims  of  t 

castle,  tile  iiionumcnl  of  Cockbunir  ml  In  1..I)  i.  .nil  sIiom 
Tlie  following  inscription  is  slill  le^'ilile,  iliou^Ji  def.Rcil:  "•llir 
LYliS  I'ERVS  01--  COKBURNE  AND  HIS  WYFH  MARJORY."— 3 

;rn/vi-.y™«.) 

My  love  he  built  me  a  bonnie  bower, 
Antl  clad  it  a'  wi'  lily  flower  ; 
A  brawor  bower  ye  ne'er  did  see, 
Than  my  true-love  he  built  for  me. 

There  came  a  man,  by  middle  day. 
He  spied  his  sport,  and  went  away  ; 
And  brought  the  king  that  very  night. 
Who  brake  my  bower,  and  slew  my  knight. 

He  slew  my  knight,  to  me  sae  dear  ; 
He  slew  my  knight,  and  poin'd  his  gear  : 
My  servants  all  for  life  did  flee. 
And  left  me  in  extremitie. 

I  .'iiui'd  liis  sheet,  making  my  mane  ; 

I  uiilrliod  tlir  ,,,r|,sr  II I y.scU  alaue  ; 
f  Mill. J, ..I  III,  l,.„lv  iiiL'iit  and  day; 
No  living  nv.niuiv  ,■; that  way. 

1  loiik  hisbiidy  nil  my  back, 

And  whiles  1  gaed,  and  whiles  I  sat  ; 

I  digged  a  grave,  and  laid  him  in. 

And  happed  him  with  the  sod  sae  green. 

I'liit  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 
When  I  laid  the  moul'  on  his  yellow  hair  ? 
O,  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  wae. 
When  I  turned  about,  away  to  gae  ? 

Nae  living  man  I  '11  love  ag.-iin, 
Since  that  my  lively  knight  is  slain  ; 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  yellow  hair 
I  '11  chain  my  heart  forcveriuair. 

Anonymous. 


FAREWELL  TO  THEE,   ARABY'S  DAUGHTER. 


Fauevvkll,  —  farewell  to  thee,  Araby's daughter! 

(Thus  warliled  a  I'eri  beneath  the  dark  sea  ;) 
No  pearl  ever  lay  under  Onnin's  green  water 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  .siiirit  in. thee. 

0,  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing. 
How  light  \Yas  thy  heart  till  love's  witchery 
came, 
Like  th(!  wind  of  the  .south  o'er  a  sunuiiir  Uili' 
blowing. 
And  hushedall  itsniusie  and  witluTe.litsfiaiiic  ' 

IJut  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlaml.s, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  I'earl  l.slands. 
With  nauglit  lint  the  sea-star  to  light  uj.  her 
tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-sea.son  is  Imrning, 
And  calls  to  the  jialm-groves  the  young  and  the 
old. 

The  hapjiiest  tlicre,  from  their  pastime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  .story  is  told. 

The  young  village  maid,  when  with   flowers  she 
dresses 

Her  dark-flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day. 
Will  think  of  thy  fate,  till  neglecting  her  tresses. 

She  niounifully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  .,f  her  lieni,  forget  thee,- 

Though  tyrants  watch   over  her  tears  as  they 

stmt, 

Clo.se,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero  .she  '11   set 

thee, 

Embalmed  in  theinnennost  .shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell  !  —  lie  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  jiillow 
With  evervthing  beauteous  that  grows  in   the 
deep  ;■ 

Each  (lower  of  the  rock  and  .•aeh  gi'iii  of  tlu'  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bir<l  lias  wept, : 

With  many  a  shell,   in  who.se  liollow-wreatlied 
chamber, 
We,  Peris  of  ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling. 

And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head  ; 
We  '11  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  fasiiian  are 
sparkling. 

And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  tliy  bed. 


dJ- 


290 


I'OKMS  OF  SOBROIV  AND  DEATH. 


-^ 


q.]- 


FaivwcU  !  —  fiuvwell  !  —  until  pity's  sweet  fouii- 

tuiii 

Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  t'nii-  and  the  bmvo, 

They  '11  weep  for  the  ehiel'tain  who  died  on  that 

mountain, 

They  '11  weep  for  the  nmiden  who  sleeps  in  the 

•  wave. 

Thomas  Moore. 


QuKEN.    Good  Hamlet,  east  thy  nighted  color 
otf, 
And  let  tJiine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Henniiirk. 
Do  not,  forever,  with  thy  veiled  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust  : 
Thou  know'st  't  is  common,  — ^all  that  live  must 

die, 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Hamlet.    Ay,  madam,  it  is  eoninion. 

QuEitN.  If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  jwrticular  with  thee  ? 

Ham.    Seems,  madam  !  nay,  it  is  ;  I  know  not 
seems. 
'T  is  not  alone  my  inky  oloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  eustoniary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiratiou  of  forced  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  havior  of  the  visage. 
Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  mo  truly  :  these,  indeed,  seem, 
Kor  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  : 
But  I  have  that  within,  which  passeth  show  ; 
These  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 
Shakespeare. 


ON    THE  DKATH    OF  A  BEAITTIFUL  WIFE. 

Sleei'  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed, 

Never  to  be  disquieted. 

My  last  "  Good  Night !"    Thou  wilt  not  wake 

Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake  ; 

Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 

Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves,  and  fdl  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

Stay  for  mo  there  :  1  will  not  fail 
To  nu'ct  thee  in  that  hollow  vale  ; 
And  think  not  much  of  my  delay, 
I  am  already  on  the  w'ay  ; 
.\nd  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
Desire  can  make  or  sorrows  breed. 
Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 
And  every  hour  a  step  toward  tliee. 


At  night,  when  1  betake  to  rest, 
Next  morn  1  rise  ncai-er  my  west 
Of  life,  almost  by  eight  hours'  sail, 
Than  when  sleep  breathed  his  drowsy  gale, 
HENRV  King. 


TO  DEATH. 

MtyriiiNKs  it  were  no  inuu  to  die 
On  such  an  eve,  when  such  a  sky 

O'er-canopies  the  west  ; 
To  gaze  my  till  on  yon  calm  deep, 
And,  like  an  infant,  tall  asleep 

t>n  Kartli,  my  mother's  breast. 

There  's  peace  and  welcome  in  yon  sen 
Of  endless  blue  tiinuiuillity  : 

These  clouds  are  living  things  : 
I  trace  their  veins  of  liipiiil  gold, 
I  see  them  solemnly  unfold 

Their  soft  and  ileecy  wings. 

These  be  the  angels  that  convey 
Us  weary  ehildivn  of  a  day  — 

Life's  tedious  nothing  o'er  — 
Where  neither  passions  come,  nor  woes. 
To  vex  the  genius  of  repose 

On  Death's  majestic  shore. 

No  darkness  there  divides  the  sway 
With  startling  dawn  and  dazzling  day  ; 

lint  gloriously  seivne 
Are  the  interminable  plains  : 
One  fixed,  eternal  sunset  reigns 

O'er  the  wide  silent  scene. 

I  cannot  dolT  all  human  fear  ; 
1  know  thy  greeting  is  .severe 

To  this  poor  shell  of  clay  : 
Yet  come,  0  Death  !  thy  freezing  kiss 
Emancipates  !  thy  rest  is  bliss  ! 

I  would  I  were  away  ! 

I-roiii  the  Gcrm,11\  of  GH'CK. 


INDIAN  DEATH-SONG. 

The  sun  sets  in  night,and  the  stars  shun  the  day  ; 
But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away. 
Begin,  ye  tormentors  !  your  threats  are  iu  vain. 
For  the  son  of  Alknomook  will  never  complain. 

Kemember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow  ; 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low  ! 
Why  so  slow  ?  do  you  wait  till  1  shrink  from  the 


pain  ! 
No  !  the  son  of  .\lknomook  shall  never  complaiir 


•^ 


I& 


liEHKAVEMRNT  AND  DEATH. 


291 


^ 


Kernuiiiber  the  wood  when^  in  ambush  we  lay, 
And  the  scaljjs  which  we  bore  from  your  nation 

away  ! 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast,  you  exult  in  my  pain  ; 
])Ut  tlic  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  complain. 

I  go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone  ; 

His  ghost  shall  ivjoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son. 

Death  comes,  like  a  friend,  to  relieve  nic  from 
j«in  ; 

And  thy  .son,  0  Alknomook  !  has  scorned  to  com- 
plain. 

Anne  Homi!  Hunthr, 


NOW  AND  AFTERWARDS. 


"  Two  hands  u]jon  the  breast, 

And  labor  's  done  ; 
Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest,  — 

'I'he  race  is  won  ; 
Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 

j\nd  all  tears  cease  ; 
Two  lips  wlii-ri-  giief  is  mute, 

Ang.'r  at  jj.-.-u-.- "  : 
So  play  wi;  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot  ; 

God  in  his  kindness  answereth  not. 

"  Two  hands  to  work  addrest 

Ay(^  for  his  praise  ; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest 

Walking  his  ways  ; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above 

Through  all  their  tears  ; 
Two  lips  still  breathing  love. 

Not  wrath,  nor  fears  "  : 
So  ]iray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our  knees  ; 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers  !    Father,  hear  these! 
Dinah  Mulock  Craik. 


FAREWELL,  LIfE. 


fr. 


Faiikwell,  life  !  my  senses  swim. 
And  the  world  is  glowing  ilim  ; 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light. 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night,  — 
folder,  colder,  colder  still, 
U])ward  steals  a  vapor  chill  ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows,  — 
I  smell  the  mold  aljove  the  rose  ! 

Welcomi-,  lifi;  !  the  spirit  strives  ! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives  ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forloni 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn,  — 


O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 
Warm  pifrfume  for  vapor  cold,  — 
1  .snii-11  the  rose  above  the  mold  ! 

Thomas  Hood, 


I  LAY  me  down  to  sleep. 

With  little  care 
Whether  my  waking  find 

Me  here,  or  there. 

A  Ijowing,  burdened  head 
That  only  asks  to  rest, 

Unquestioning,  upon 
A  loving  breast. 

My  good  right-hand  forgets 

Its  cunning  now  ; 
To  march  the  weary  march 

I  know  not  liow. 

I  am  not  eager,  bold. 

Nor  strong,  — all  tliat  is  past ; 
I  [iin  ready  not  to  do, 

At  last,  at  last. 

My  half-day's  work  is  done, 
And  this  is  all  my  part,  — 

I  give  a  jiatient  God 
My  patient  heart ; 

And  grasp  his  banner  still, 
Though  all  the  blue  be  dim  ; 

These  stripes  a.s  well  as  stars 
Lead  after  him. 


HANO    UP     HIS    HARP;     HE'LL    WAKE    NO 
MORE  I 

Ills  young  bride  stood  beside  his  bed. 

Her  weejiing  watch  to  keep  ; 
Hush  !  hush  !  he  stirred  not,  — was  he  dead. 

Or  did  he  only  sleep  ? 

His  brow  was  calm,  no  change  was  there. 

No  sigh  b.td  filled  his  breath  ; 
0,  did  he  wear  that  smile  so  fair 

In  slumber  or  in  death  ? 

"  Reach  down  his  harp,"  she  wildly  cried, 

"  And  if  one  spark  remain. 
Let  him  but  hoar  '  Loch  Erroch's  Side '  ; 

He'll  kindle  at  the  strain. 


-^ 


^- 


PUEMS  OF  SORROW  AXV  HEATH. 


^ 


"That  tune  e'er  held  liis  soul  in  thrall ; 

It  never  breathed  in  vain  ; 
He'll  waken  as  its  echoes  fall, 

Or  never  wake  again." 

The  strings  were  swept.     'T  was  sad  to  hear 

Sweet  music  floating  there  ; 
For  every  note  called  forth  a  tear 

Of  anguish  and  despair. 

"  See  !  see  !  "  she  cried,  "  the  tune  is  o'er  : 

No  opening  eye,  no  breath  ; 
Hang  up  his  harp  ;  he  '11  wake  no  more  ; 

He  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death." 


BEYOND  THE  SMILING  AND  THE  WEEPING. 

Beyhxi)  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

1  slmll  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping. 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Lore,  rest,  and/wmc/ 
Sweet  hope  I 
Lord,  tarrtj  not,  but  eovh: 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Loir,  rest,  and  home!  etc. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

1  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting. 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  /  ttc. 

Bevond  the  sathering  and  the  strowing 

1  siiall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

1  shall  lie  soon. 
Love,  7'est,  and  home  !  etc. 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

1  shall  lie  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 

Beyond  this  pulse's  fever  beating, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  I  etc. 

Beyond  the  frost  chain  and  the  fevei 
I  shall  be  soon  ; 


Beyond  the  rock  waste  and  the  rivor, 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 
I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  homi^  I 

Sweet  hope  ! 

Lord,  tarnt  not,  bat  come. 

lioRATIUS  BONAR. 


THE  LAND  0'  THE   LEAL. 

I  'm  wearing  awa',  .lean, 

Like  snaw  when  it 's  thaw,  .lean  ; 

1  'm  wearing  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  ,Iean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Ye  were  aye  leal  and  true,  Jean  ; 
Your  task  's  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  1  'U  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Our  bonnie  bairn  's  there,  Jean, 
f>he  was  baith  guid  and  fair,  .lean  : 
( 1.  we  grudgeil  her  right  sair 

To  the  hind  o'  the  leal  ! 

Then  dry  that  tearfu'  e'e,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal  ! 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 
This  warld's  care  is  vain,  Jean  ; 
AVe  '11  meet  and  ave  be  fain 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

CAKul  INA.    IIARONESS  NAII 


SOFTLY   WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 

SoKTi.Y  WOO  away  her  breath. 

Gentle  death  { 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  life  ! 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day,  — 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom  ; 
Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away. 

Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom  ! 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here. 

Angels  dear  ! 
Bear  her  perfect  soul  above. 

Seraph  of  the  skies,  —  sweet  lovo  ! 
Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth  ; 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  her  heai't  was  wed  to  truth  : 
Take  her,  then,  forevermore,  — 

Forever  —  evermore  I 

nRVAN  Waller  proctkr 
(Barry  cornm 


.-^-S^ 


£h^ 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


L'J?. 


-a 


^ 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  DAUGHTER. 

'T  IS  o'er,  — in  that  long  sigh  sin;  past  — 
Th'  enfranchised  spirit  soars  at  last ! 

And  now  I  gaze  with  tearless  eye 
On  what  to  view  was  agony. 
That  i)anting  heart  is  tranquil  now, 
And  heavenly  oalm  that  ruffled  brow, 
And  those  pale  lips  which  feebly  strove 
To  force  one  parting  smile  of  love, 
Retain  it  yet,  —  soft,  placid,  mild, 
As  when  it  graced  my  living  child. 

0,  I  have  watched  mth  fondest  care 
To  see  my  opening  flow' ret  blow. 
And  felt  the  joy  which  parents  share. 
The  pride  which  fathers  only  know. 

And  I  have  sat  the  long,  long  night. 

And  marked  that  tender  flower  decay  ; 
Not  torn  abruptly  from  the  sight. 

But  slowly,  sadly,  waste  away  ! 
The  .sjroiler  came,  yet  paused,  as  though 

So  meek  a  victim  checked  his  arm. 
Half  gave  and  half  withheld  the  blow. 

As  I'orced  to  strike,  yet  loath  to  harm. 

We  saw  that  fair  cheek's  fading  bloom 
The  ceaseless  canker-worai  consume. 

And  gazed  on  hopelessly, 
Till  the  mute  sulfering  pictured  there 
Wrung  from  the  fatlier's  lip  a  prayer, 
0  God  !  the  prayer  his  child  might  die. 

Ay,  from  his  lip  —  the  doting  heart 
E'en  tlieii  refused  to  bear  its  part. 

But  the  sad  conflict 's  past,  —  't  is  o'er  ; 
That  gentle  bosom  throbs  no  more  ! 
The  spirit 's  freed,  — through  realms  of  light 
Faith's  eagle-glance  pursues  her  flight 

To  other  world.s,  to  happier  skies  ; 
Hope  dries  the  tear  which  sorrow  weepeth. 
No  mortal  sound,  the  voice  which  cries, 
"The  damsel  is  not  dead,  hut  sleepeth  !  " 

RICHARD  Harris  Barham 

(THOMAS  INCOLDSBY). 


WE  WATCHED  HER  BREATHING. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night. 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low. 
As  in  her  brea-st  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak. 
So  slowly  moved  about. 


As  We  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hojies  belied,  — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  mora  came  dim  and  .sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers. 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed,  —  .she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

THOMAS  HOOn, 


A  DEATH-BED. 


Her  suffering  ended  witli  the  day  ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close. 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away 

lu  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  iiassed  through  glory's  morning-gate. 

And  walked  in  Paradis('  ! 

JAMES    ALUKILI 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


AT  CHICAMAL'CA. 

"  I  .ini  dying.  E)jyi>t.  dying."  —  SHAKR 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying, 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark,  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast. 
Let  thine  arm,  0  (^ueen,  su]>port  me  ! 

Hush  tliy  sobs,  and  bow  thine  ear  ! 
Heai-ken  to  the  great  heart  sc^crets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Tliough  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

liear  their  eagles  high  no  more. 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore  ; 
Though  no  glittering  guaids  sunound  me. 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  lioman, 

Die  the  great  triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Cajsar's  sendle  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low  ; 
'T  was  no  foeman's  hand  that  felled  him, 

'T  was  his  own  that  struck  the  blow. 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray. 
His  who,  drunk  with  tliy  caresses. 

Madly  flung  a  world  away ! 


[0-*. 


-R. 


'J4 


I'OEMS   UF  SUHRUJV  AXI)  DEATH. 


ShouUl  tlie  base  plebeiau  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  lame  at  Rome, 
Where  the  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home. 
Seek  her,  say  the  gods  have  told  me, 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings, 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  connningled, 

Vet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 

And  fur  thee,  star-eyed  Egyjjtiau  ! 

(_! Kirious  sorceress  of  tlie  Nile  ! 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

AVith  the  splendors  of  thy  smile  ; 
Give  the  C'lKsar  crowns  and  arches. 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine, 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Kgypt,  dying  ; 

Hark  !  tlie  insulting  foeman's  cry  ! 
They  are  coming  —  ipnck,  my  falchion  ! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  1  die. 
Ah  I  no  more  amid  the  battle 

SliuU  my  heart  exulting  swell ! 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee, 

Cleopatra  !  Rome  !  —  farewell  I 


LIGHT. 


The  niglit  has  a  thou-^iand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one  ; 
Vet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  diet 

With  tlu^  dying  sun. 

Tlie  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  wliole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done. 

Francis  w.  bocrdillun 


&- 


THRENODY. 

My  heart  is  there, 
Where,  on  eternal  hills,  my  loved  one  dwells, 
Among  the  lilies  and  the  asphodels  : 
Clad  in  the  brightness  of  the  Great  White 

Throne, 
Glad  in  the  smile  of  Him  who  sits  thereon  ; 
The  glory  gilding  all  his  wealth  of  hair, 
.\nd  making  his  immortal  face  more  fair  ; 
Tliere  is  my  treasure,  anil  my  heart  is  there. 

My  heart  is  there  ; 

With  liim  who  made  all  earthly  life  so  sweet; 

So  lit  to  live,  and  yet  to  die  so  meet  ; 

So  meek,  so  grand,  so  gentle,  and  so  brave. 
So  really  to  forgive,  so  strong  to  save  ; 


His  fair,  pure  spirit  makes  tiie  heavens  more 

tail-, 
And  thitlier  rises  all  my  longing  prayer ; 
There  is  my  treasure,  and  my  heart  is  there. 

A.XONVMOUS. 


WHEN   I  AM  DEAD. 

Toi.i,  not  the  bell  otdc;itli  fur  me 

When  I  am  dead  ; 
Strew  not  the  lloweiy  wreath  o'er  me. 

On  my  cold  bed. 

Let  frieud-ship's  sacred  tear 
On  my  fresh  grave  appear, 
Gemming  with  pearls  my  bier  — 
When  I  am  dead. 

Xo  dazzling,  proud  array 
Of  pageantry  display, 

My  fate  to  spread  ; 
Let  not  the  busy  crowd  be  near, 

AVhen  I  am  dead, 

Fanniiii,'  with  unfilt  sighs  my  bier. 

Sighs  ijuickly  sped. 
Deep  let  the  impression  rest 
On  some  fond  female  breast ; 
Then  were  my  memory  blest, 

When  I  am  dead. 

Let  not  the  day  be  writ ; 
Love  will  remember  it 
Untold,  unsaid. 

A^'ox^*Mous. 


THE  FEMALE  CONVICT. 

She  shrank  from  all,  and  her  silent  mood 
Made  her  wish  only  for  solitude : 
Her  eye  sought  the  gromid,  as  it  could  not  brook, 
For  innermost  shame,  on  another's  to  look  ; 
-And  the  cheerings  of  comfort  fell  on  her  ear 
Like  deadliest  words,  that  were  curses  to  hear !  — 
She  still  was  young,  and  she  had  been  fair ; 
But  weather-stains,  Imnger,  toil,  and  care, 
That  frost  and  fever  that  wear  the  heart, 
Had  made  the  colors  of  youth  depart 
From  the  sallow  cheek,  save  over  it  came 
The  burning  flush  of  the  spirit's  shame. 

They  were  s,ailing  over  the  salt  sea-foam, 
F.ir  from  her  country,  far  from  her  home  ; 
And  all  she  had  left  for  her  friends  to  kee]) 
Was  a  name  to  hide  and  a  memoiy  to  weep ! 
.\nd  her  future  held  forth  but  the  felon's  lot,  — 
To  live  forsaken,  to  die  forgot! 


-^ 


[& 


r.EllEAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


-^ 


295      [ 


Slie  could  not  weej),  and  she  could  not  pray, 
I'.ut  she  wasted  and  withered  from  day  to  day, 
Till  you  might  have  counted  each  sunken  vein. 
When  her  wrist  was  prest  by  the  iron  chain ; 
And  sometimes  1  thought  her  large  dark  eye 
Had  the  glisten  of  red  insanity. 

She  called  me  once  to  her  sleeping-place, 

A  stiange,  wild  look  was  upon  her  face, 

Her  eye  flashed  over  her  cheek  so  white, 

Like  a  gravestone  seen  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

And  she  spoke  in  a  low,  unearthly  tone,  — 

The  sound  from  mine  ear  hath  never  gone!  — 

"I  had  last  night  the  loveliest  dream  -. 

Jly  own  kinil  shone  in  the  summer  beam, 

I  saw  the  tields  of  the  golden  grain, 

1  heard  the  reaper's  harvest  straiu ; 

There  stood  on  the  hills  the  green  pine-tree. 

And  the  thrush  and  the  lark  sang  merrily. 

A  lung  and  a  weary  way  1  had  come ; 

But  I  stopped,  methought,  by  mine  own  sweet 

liome. 
I  stood  by  the  hearth,  and  my  father  sat  there, 
Witli  pale,  thin  face,  and  snow-white  hair! 
The  Bible  lay  open  upon  his  knee. 
But  he  closed  the  book  to  w'elcoine  me. 
He  led  me  next  where  my  mother  lay. 
And  together  we  knelt  by  her  grave  to  pray, 
And  heanl  a  hymn  it  was  heaven  to  hear. 
For  it  .•c'liocd  one  t(.  mv  v.uii'^  .hiys  .|r;ii-. 
Thi-idnMiii  III. sw;ikr,ir,Tlii,-v !,„,-,  lull- -iiiceHed, 
And  hopes  whirli  1  drci,„d  in  my  lirmt  h  viv  ilead  ! 
—  We  have  not  spoken,  Ijut  still  1  have  hung 
On  the  Northern  accents  thatdwell  on  thy  tongue. 
To  me  they  are  music,  to  me  they  recall 
The  things  long  hidden  by  Memory's  pall ! 
Take  this  long  curl  of  yellow  hair, 
And  give  it  my  father,  auil  tell  him  my  prayer. 
My  dying  prayer,  was  for  him."  .... 

Next  day 
Upon  the  deck  a  coffin  lay  ; 
They  raised  it  up,  and  like  a  dirge 
Tli(^  heavy  gale  swept  over  the  surge  ; 
The  corpse  was  cast  to  the  wind  and  wave, — 
The  convict  has  found  in  the  green  sea  a  grave. 

LETITIA  ELIZABETH    LANDO.V. 


SOLILOQUY  ON  DEATH. 

Hamlet.    To  be,  or  not  to  be, — that  is 
question  :  — 
Whether  't  is  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  foituue. 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them  .'  —  To  die,  - 


:,:}-, 


Xo  more  ;  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  lieart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
Tliat  Hesh  is  heir  to,  —  't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die,  — to  sleeji ;  — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream : — ay,  there  's  tlie 

rub ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come. 
When  we  have  shuffled  olf  tliis  niorUd  coil, 
Must  give  us  jjause  :  there  's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life ; 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  ol'  time, 
Theoppres.sor's  wrong,  the  proud  man'scontumely. 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  odice,  and  the  spin-ns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
Wlien  he  himself  might  his  ijuietus  make 
With  a  Ijare  bodkin  '  who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  gi'unt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life. 
But  that  the  dread  of  sometliing  after  death,  — 
Tliat  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  boiu'M 
\o  traveler  returns,  —  puzzles  the  will. 
And  mak.^  us  laihi-r  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  lly  t.i  miIi.i,  iliat  we  know  not  of ? 
Thus  (Mil..,  i.  iii'i'  d'j.s  make  cowards  of  us  all; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  i>ale  cast  of  thought ; 
And  enterprises  of  gieat  pith  and  moment, 
With  tins  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry. 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


THE  SECRET  OF  DEATH. 

"She  is  dead  I"  they  said  to  him.    "Come  away; 
Kiss  her  and  leave  her,  —  thy  love  is  clay  ! " 

They  smoothed  lier  tresses  of  dark  blown  hair  ; 
On  her  forehead  of  stone  they  laid  it  fair  ; 

Over  her  eyes,  wliich  gazed  too  much, 
They  drew  the  lids  with  a  gentle  touch  ; 

With  a  tender  toucli  they  closed  up  well 
The  sweet,  thin  lips  that  had  secrets  to  tell  ; 

Aliout  her  lirows  and  beautiful  face 
They  tied  lier  veil  ami  her  marriage-lace, 

And  drew  on  her  white  feet  tlie  white  silk  shoes,  — 
Which  were  the  whitest  no  eye  could  choose  ! 

And  over  her  bosom  they  crossed  her  hands,  — 
"Come  away,"  they  said,  "(iod  understands!" 

But  there  was  a  silence,  and  nothing  there 
But  silence,  and  scents  of  eglantere. 

And  jasmine,  and  roses,  and  rosemary. 
And  they  said,  "  As  a  lady  should  lie,  lie 


■^ 


©^^ 


i06 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


--n 


U-- 


Aiul  tliey  lielil  their  breath  as  they  left  the  room 
With  a  shudder,   to  glance  at  its  stillness   and 
glooui. 

But  lie  who  loved  liur  too  wcU  to  dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  and  lieautiful  dead, 

He  lit  his  lamp  and  took  the  key 

And  turned  it.     Alone  again  —  he  and  she  ! 

He  and  she  ;  yet  she  would  not  speak. 
Though  he  kissed,  in  the  old  place,  the  quiet 
cheek. 

He  and  she  ;  yet  she  would  not  smile, 
Though  he  called  her  the  name  she  loved  ere- 
while. 

He  and  she  ;  still  she  did  not  move 
To  any  passionate  whisper  of  love. 

Then  he  said  :  "Cold  lips,  and  breast  without 

breath  ! 
Is  there  no  voice,  no  language  of  death, 

"  Dumb  to  the  ear  and  still  to  the  sense. 
But  to  heart  and  soul  distinct,  intense  ? 

"See  now  ;  I  wdll  listen  with  soul,  not  ear  ; 
Wliat  was  the  secret  of  dying,  dear? 

"  Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all 
That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower  fall  ? 

"  Or  was  it  a  greater  marvel  to  feel 
The  perfect  calm  o'er  the  agony  steal  ? 

"Was  the  miracle  deeper  to  find  how  deep, 
Beyond  all  dreams,  sank  downward  that  sleep  ? 

"Did  life  roll  back  its  record,  dear. 

And  show,  as  they  say  it  does,  past  things  clear  ? 

"  0  perl'ect  dead  !  0  dead  most  dear  ! 
I  hold  the  breath  of  my  soul  to  hear  ! 

' '  I  listen  as  deep  as  to  horrible  hell, 

As  high  as  to  heaven,  and  you  do  not  tell  1 

"There  must  be  a  pleasure  in  dying,  sweet, 
To  make  you  so  placid  from  head  to  feet. 

"  I  would  tell  you,  darling,  if  I  were  dead. 
And  't  were  your  hot  tears  ujion  my  brow  shed  ; 

"  I  would  say,   though  the  angel  of  death  had 

laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  unsaid. 


"You  should  not  ask  vainly,  with  streaming  eyes, 
Which  of  all  death's  was  the  chief  surprise ; 

"The  very  strangest  and  suddenest  thing. 
Of  all  the  surprises  that  dying  must  bring." 

Ah,  foolisli  world  !  0,  most  kind  dtad  ! 
Though  he  told  me,  who  will  believe  it  was  said? 

Who  will  believe  what  he  heard  her  say. 
With  a  sweet,  soft  voice,  in  the  dear  old  way  ? 

"The  utmost  wonder  is  this,  —  1  hear, 

And  sec  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss  you,  dear ; 

"  And  am  your  angel,  who  was  your  bride. 
And  know  that,  though  dead,  I  have  never  died." 

ANONYMOUS. 


ONLY  THE  CLOTHES  SHE   WORE. 

There  Is  the  hat 
With  the  blue  veil  thrown  'round  it,  just  as  they 

found  it, 
Spotted  and  soiled,  stained  and  all  spoiled  — 

Do  you  recognize  that  ? 

The  gloves,  too,  lie  there. 
And  in  them  still  lingers  the  shape  of  her  fingers. 
That  some  one  has  pressed,  perhaps,  and  caressed. 

So  slender  and  fair. 

There  are  the  shoes, 
With  their  long  silken  laces,  still  bearing  traces. 
To  the  toe's  dainty  tip,  of  the  mud  of  the  slip. 

The  slime  and  the  ooze. 

There  is  the  dress. 
Like  the  blue  veil,  all  dabbled,  discolored,  and 

drabbled  — 
This  you  should  know  without  doubt,  and,  if  so, 

All  else  you  may  guess. 

There  is  the  shawl. 
With  the  striped  border,  hung  next  in  order. 
Soiled  hardly  less  than  the  white  muslin  dress, 

And  —  that  is  all. 

Ah,  here  is  a  ring 
We  were  forgetting,  with  a  pearl  setting; 
There  was  only  tins  one — name  or  date  ? — none  ! 

A  frail,  pretty  thing  ; 


A  keepsake,  maybe. 
The  gift  of  another,  perhaps  a  brother. 
Or  lover,  who  knows  ?  him  her  heart  chose. 

Or  was  .she  heart-free  ? 


-•4 


BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


297 


■^ 


Does  the  bat  there, 
With  tlie  bhie  veil  around  it,  the  same  as  they 

found  it, 
Suniniou  up  a  fair  face  with  just  a  trace 

Of  gold  in  the  hair  ? 

Or  does  the  shawl, 
Mutely  appealing  to  some  hidden  feeling, 
A  fonn,  young  and  slight,  to  your  mind's  sight 

Clearly  recall  ? 

A  month  now  has  passed. 
And  her  sad  history  remains  yet  a  mystery, 
But  these  we  keep  still,  and  shall  keep  them  until 

Hope  dies  at  last. 

Was  she  a  prey 
Of  some  deep  sorrow  clouding  the  morrow, 
Hiding  from  view  the  sky's  happy  blue  ■ 

Or  was  there  foul  play  ? 


They  called  him  dull,  but  he  had  eyes  of  quick- 
ness 

For  everybody  that  he  could  befi-ieud ; 
Said  one  and  all,  "How  kind  he  is  in  sickness," 

But  there,  of  coui-se,  his  goodness  had  an  end. 
Another  praise  there  was  might  have  been  given, 
For  one  or  more  days  out  of  every  seven  — 

With  his  old  pickax  swung  across  his  shoulder, 
And  downcast  eyes,  and  slow  and  sober  tread  — 

He  sought  the  place  of  graves,  and  each  behohler 
Wondered  and  asked  some  other  who  w.as  dead  ; 

But  when  he  digged  all  day,  nobody  thought 

That  he  had  done  a  whit  more  than  he  ouglit. 

At  length,  one  winter  when  the  sunbeams  slanted 
Faintly  and  cold  across  the  churchyard  sni>w, 

The  bell  tolled  out,  —  alas !  a  grave  was  wanted, 
And  all  looked  anxiously  for  Uncle  Jo  ; 

His  spade  stood  there  against  his  own  roof-trcc, 

There  was  his  pickax  too,  but  where  was  lu-  ' 


They  called  and  called  again,  but  no  replying ; 
Smooth  at  the  window,  and  aliout  the  door, 


Alas  !  who  may  tell  ? 
Some  one  or  other,  perhaps  a  fond  mother. 

May  recognize  these  when  her  child's  clothes  she  ;  The  snow  in  cold  and  heavy  drifts  was  lyin 

I      He  did  not  need  the  daylight  any  more. 

One  shook  him  roughly,  and  another  said, 

HERD.       "  \s  true  as  preaching,  Uncle  Jo  is  dead  ! 


sees; 
Then  — will  it  be  well' 


I  HAVE  in  memory  a  little  story, 

That  few  indeed  would  rhyme  about  but  me  ; 
'T  is  not  of  love,  nor  fame,  nor  yet  of  glory. 

Although  a  little  colored  with  the  three,  — 
In  very  truth,  I  think,  as  much,  perchance. 
As  most  tales  disembodied  from  romance. 

Jo  lived  about  the  village,  and  was  neighlxir 
To  every  one  who  had  hard  work  to  do  ; 

If  he  possessed  a  genius,  't  was  for  labor 

Most  people  thought,  but  there  were  one  or  two 

Who  sometimes  said,  when  he  arose  to  go, 

"Come  in  again  and  see  us,  Uncle  Jo  ! " 

The  "  Uncle  "  was  a  courtesy  they  gave,  — 
And  felt  they  coidd  afford  to  give  to  him,  — 

Just  .as  the  master  makes  of  some  good  slave 
An  .\unt  Jemima,  or  an  Uncle  Jim  ; 

And  of  this  dubious  kindness  Jo  was  glad,  — 

Poor  fellow,  it  was  aU  he  ever  had  ! 

A  niile  or  so  away,  he  had  a  brother,  — 

.\  rich,  jiroud  man  that  people  did  n't  hire  ; 

But  Jo  had  neither  sister,  wife,  nor  mother. 
And  baked  his  comcake  at  his  caliin  fire 

After  the  day's  work,  hard  for  you  or  me. 

But  he  was  never  tired,  —  how  could  he  be  ? 


And  when  they  wrapped  him  in  the  linen,  fairer 
And  finer,  too,  than  he  had  worn  till  then. 

They  found  a  picture,  —  haply  of  the  sharer 
Of  sunny  hope  some  time,  or  where  or  when. 

They  did  not  care  to  know,  but  closed  his  eyes 

And  placed  it  in  the  coffin  where  he  lies  ! 

None  wTote  his  epitaph,  nor  saw  the  beauty 
I      Of  the  pure  love  that  reached  into  the  grave. 

Nor  how  in  unobtrusive  ways  of  dut}' 
I      He  kept,  despite  the  dark  ;  but  men  less  ln'avc 

Have  left  great  names,  while  not  a  willow  biuuls 

Above  his  dust,  —  poor  Jo,  lie  had  no  friends  ! 


FOR  ANNIE. 

Thank  Heaven  !  the  crisis,  — 

The  danger  is  past. 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last,  — 
And  the  fever  called  "Living ' 

Is  conc[uered  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know, 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length,  — 
But  no  matter  !  —  I  feel 

I  am  hotter  at  length. 


&-- 


--S 


©- 


298 


POEMS   OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


-^ 


B- 


And  I  rest  so  composedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead,  — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning. 
The  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart,  —  ah,  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing  ! 

The  sickness,  the  nausea, 

The  pitiless  pain, 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain,  — 
With  the  fever  called  ' '  Living  " 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  0,  of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated,  —  the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  naphthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst ! 
I  have  drunk  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst,  — 

or  a  water  that  flows. 

With  a  lullaby  sound. 
From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  ground,  — 
From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

Down  under  grouml. 

And  ah  !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed  ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed,  — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 

Here  blandly  reposes, 
Forgetting,  or  never 

Regretting,  its  roses,  — 
Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses  : 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies,  — 


A  rosemary  odor, 

Commingled  with  pansies. 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily. 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie,  — 
Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Aunie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me. 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  1  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  lier  breast,  — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished. 

She  covered  me  warm. 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm,  — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love,) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  ;  — 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast,) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead,  — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me. 

Thinking  me  dead  : 

But  my  heart  it  is  l.irighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky  ; 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie,  — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie, 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 

Edgar  Allan  Poa 


THE  LYKE-WAKE  DIRGE. 

AN  ANCIENT  FUNERAL  CHANT  OF  THE  "NORTH  COUNTRY, 


This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

Every  nighte  and  alle  : 
Fire  and  fleet  and  candle-light. 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

When  thou  from  hence  away  art  paste 
Every  nighte  and  alle  : 


-^ 


[&-- 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


299 


-^-a 


'J'u  Whinny-muir  thou  comes  at  laste, 
Axii  Christe  receive  tliy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gave  either  hosen  or  shoon, 

Every  nighte  and  alle  : 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on, 

And  Christe  receive  tliy  saule. 

But  if  hosen  or  shoon  thou  never  gave  neean, 

Every  nighte  and  alle  : 
The  whinnes  shall  jirick  thee  to  the  bare  heean, 

And  Cluiste  receive  thy  saule. 

From  Whinny-muir  when  thou  may  passe, 

Every  nighte  and  alle  : 
To  Brig  o'  Dread  thou  comes  at  laste, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

From  Brig  o'  Dread  when  thou  art  paste. 

Every  nighte  and  alle  : 
To  Purgatory  Fire  thou  comes  at  laste, 

And  Cliriste  receive  thy  saule. 

If  e^'er  thou  gave  either  meat  or  drinke. 

Every  nighte  and  alle  : 
The  tire  shall  never  make  thee  shrinke, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

But  if  milke  or  drinke  thou  never  gave  neean, 

Every  nighte  and  alle  : 
Tlie  fire  shall  burn  thee  to  the  bare  beean, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 


fy- 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun, 
Kose  up  for  me  with  life  begun. 
To  mark  all  liright  hours  of  the  day 
"With  hourly  love,  is  dimmed  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

The  tongue  which,  like  a  stream,  could  run 
Smooth  music  from  the  roughest  stone. 
And  every  morning  with  "Good  day" 
Make  each  day  good,  is  hushed  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

The  heart  which,  like  a  staff,  was  one 
For  mine  to  lean  and  rest  upon, 
Tlie  strongest  on  the  longest  day 
With  steadfast  love,  is  caught  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

And  cold  before  my  summer 's  done. 
And  deaf  in  Nature's  general  tune. 
And  fallen  too  low  for  special  fear, 
hm\  here,  with  hope  no  longer  here,  — 
While  the  tears  drop,  my  days  go  on. 


The  world  goes  whispering  to  its  own, 
"  This  anguish  pierces  to  the  bone  "  ; 
And  tender  friends  go  sighing  round, 
"  AVhat  love  can  ever  cure  this  wouml  ?" 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

The  past  rolls  forward  on  the  sun 
And  makes  all  night.     0  dreams  begun, 
Not  to  be  ended  !     Ended  bliss, 
And  life  that  will  not  end  in  this  ! 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

Breath  freezes  on  my  lips  to  moan  : 
As  one  alone,  once  not  alone, 
I  sit  and  knock  at  Nature's  door, 
Heartbare,  heart-hungry,  very  poor, 
Whose  desolate  days  go  on. 

I  knock  and  cry,  —  Undone,  undone  ! 
Is  there  no  help,  no  comfort,  —  none  ? 
No  gleaning  in  the  wide  wheat-plains 
AVhere  others  drive  their  loaded  wains  ? 
My  vacant  days  go  on,  go  on. 

This  Nature,  though  the  simws  Ik!  down. 
Thinks  kindly  of  the  Ijird  of  June  ; 
Tlie  little  red  hip  on  the  tree 
Is  ripe  for  such.     What  is  for  me. 
Whose  days  so  winterly  go  on  ? 

No  bird  am  1,  to  sing  in  June, 
And  dare  not  ask  an  eipial  boon. 
Good  nests  and  berries  red  are  Nature's 
To  give  away  to  better  creatures,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

/  ask  less  kindness  to  be  done,  — 
Only  to  loose  these  pilgrim-shoon, 
(Too  early  worn  and  grimed)  with  sweet 
Cool  deatlily  touch  to  these  tired  feet. 
Till  days  go  out  which  now  go  on. 

From  gracious  Nature  have  I  won 
Such  liberal  bounty  ?  may  I  run 
So,  lizard-like,  within  her  side. 
And  there  be  safe,  who  now  am  tried 
By  days  that  painfully  go  on  ? 

—  A  Voice  reproves  me  thereupon. 

More  sweet  than  Nature's  when  the  drone 

Of  bees  is  sweetest,  and  more  deep 

Than  when  the  rivers  overleap 

The  shuddering  pines,  and  thunder  on. 

God's  Voice,  not  Nature's.    Night  and  noon 
He  sits  upon  the  great  white  throne 
And  listens  for  the  creatures'  praise. 
A\Tiat  babble  we  of  days  and  days  ? 
The  Day-spring  \\e,  wliose  days  go  on. 


& 


[fi- 


rOEMS  OF  SORIiOW  AXD  DEATH. 


--f^ 


He  reigns  above,  lie  reijjiis  alone  ; 
Syatonis  burn  out  !uul  leave  bis  throne  : 
Fuir  mists  of  seraphs  melt  nml  fall 
Around  him,  oluingoless  amid  all,  — 
Ancient  of  Hays,  whose  days  go  on. 

lie  reii;iis  below,  be  reigns  alone, 
And,  having  life  in  love  foregone 
lioncnth  the  crown  of  sovran  thorns, 
lie  reigns  the  jealous  (uid.     Who  mourns 
Or  rules  with  bini.  while  days  go  on  ! 

I!y  angnisli  which  made  pale  the  sun, 
I  hear  him  charge  bis  saints  that  none 
Among  his  creatures  anywhere 
HlaspluMne  against  him  with  despair, 
However  darkly  days  go  on. 

Take  from  my  head  tho  thorn-wreath  brown  ! 
No  mortal  grief  deserves  that  crown. 

0  supremo  Love,  chief  Misery, 
The  sharp  regalia  are  for  Tm-.E, 
Whose  days  eternally  go  on  ! 

Vor  us.  —  whatever 's  undergone, 
Thou  knowest,  wiliest  what  is  done. 
t'.rief  may  be  joy  misunderstood  ; 
Only  the  Oood  discerns  the  good, 

1  trust  thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

Whatever 's  lost,  it  fii'st  was  won  : 

Wc  will  not  struggle  nor  impugn. 

I'erliaps  tho  cup  was  broken  heie, 

That  Heaven's  new  wine  might  show  more  clear. 

I  praise  thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

I  pnvise  thee  while  my  ilays  go  on  ; 

I  love  thee  while  my  days  go  on  ; 

Through  dark  and  dearth,  tlirongli  fire  and  frost. 

With  cmptii'il  arms  and  treasure  lost, 

I  thank  thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

E1.1ZAIU-TH   BAKRETT  BROWNING. 


THF.   FAIREST  THING   IN   MORTAL    EYES. 

[Atlilrcsscd  t<i  his  dccclbCti  wife,  who  died  in  chikllied  .it  the  n^t 
rtweiuytwo.] 

To  make  my  lady's  obseijuies 

My  love  a  minster  wrought, 
.•Vnil,  in  the  chantry,  service  there 

\V:u;  sung  by  doleful  thought  ; 
The  tiipers  were  of  burning  sighs, 

That  light  and  odor  gave  : 
And  sorrows,  painted  o'er  with  tears, 

Enlurainiid  her  grave  ; 


And  round  about,  in  (]uaintest  guise. 

Was  carved  :  "  Within  this  tomb  there  lies 

The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes." 

Above  lii'V  lii'th  spread  a  tomb 

Of  gold  and  sapphires  blue  : 
The  gold  doth  show  her  blessedness, 

The  sapphires  nnirk  her  true  ; 
For  blessedness  and  truth  in  her 

Were  livelily  portrayeil. 
When  j;rarious  God  with  both  his  hands 

111  1  ui'ihIIv  substance  made. 
He  riMuud  her  in  such  womlrons  wise. 
She  wius,  to  speak  without  di.sguise. 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

No  more,  no  more  !  niv  heart  doth  faint 

When  I  the  life  re.-all 
Of  licr  who  liveil  so  free  from  taint. 

So  virtuous  deemed  hy  all.  — 

That  in  herself  was  so  complete 

1  think  that  she  was  ta'en 
By  God  to  deck  his  paradise. 

Anil  with  his  saints  to  reign  : 
Whom  while  on  earth  each  one  did  prize 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

But  naught  mir  tears  avail,  or  crii's  ; 

All  soon  or  late  in  death  shall  sleep  ; 

Nor  living  wight  long  time  may  keep 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

From  tlie  I-rcncli  of  CllAKLliS  DOKE  OF  ORLEANS, 

by  llENRV  FRANCIS  CARV 


DIRGE  FOR  A  YOUNG  GIRL 

lI>mEr,NE.\TH  the  sod  low-lying. 

Dark  and  drear, 
Sleepcth  oi\e  who  left,  in  ilying, 

Sorri.w  here. 

Yes,  they  're  ever  bending  o'er  her 

Eyes  that  weep  ; 
Forms,  that  to  the  cohl  !jr;ivc  bore  her, 

Vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  .shining 

Snfl  and  fair, 
Friends  she  loved  in  tears  aiv  twining 

Chaplots  there. 

Kest  in  pence,  thou  gentle  spirit. 

Throned  above,  — 
Souls  like  tliine  with  God  inherit 

Life  anil  love  ! 


-^ 


[S-- 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  VKATIl. 


301 


-a 


FEAR  NO  MORE  THE  HEAT  0'  THE  SUN. 

FKOM  •■CVMIillLINP." 

I'lvAi:  no  more  the  heat  o'  t}ie  sun, 
Nor  the  fuiious  winter's  ra^es  ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

lloinij  art  /^one,  and  ta'en  tliy  wages  : 

fioldijii  lads  anil  ghls  all  must, 

As  oliimney-Hweei)i.'rs,  conic-  to  dust. 

Fi.-ar  no  more  the  frown  o'  t)ie  fjreat, 
'i'hou  art  jjast  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 

Caie  no  more  to  elotlie,  and  eat  ; 
To  thee  the  reeil  in  as  the  oak  : 

The  .seepter,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this  and  come  t<j  dust. 

Vi-,\y  no  more  the  lif^htnirig  Mash 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 

I''car  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  eorae  to  dust. 

SlIAKESFLAKE 


y- 


DEATH   THE  LEVEI.ER. 

[These  vcricj  nrc  «.ilcl  to  h.ivc  "  clllllcl  tlic  licirt  -  of  Olin 
romwcll.  ] 

TiiK  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  annor  against  fate,  — 
Death  lays  his  iey  hand  on  kings  ; 
Sceptei-  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  du.st  be  equal  made 
Willi  I  he  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  jilant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill  ; 
Ijut  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield,  — 
They  tame  but  one  another  still  ; 
Early  or  late 
They  stooji  to  fate, 
And  niiist  give  uj)  their  murmuring  breath, 
\Vhi,-n  tlii-y,  pale  i.-aptivc9,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  witlic-r  on  your  brow,  — 

Then  boast  no  nioi-e  your  mighty  deeds  ; 
Upon  death's  )»urple  altar,  now 

See  whi-i-e  the  victor  victim  bleeds  ! 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb,  — 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

jAMKs  Shirley. 


LiKK  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  moniing  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flooil. 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood,  — 
K'en  such  is  man,  whose  liorrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in,  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies. 
The  siiring  enUimlied  in  autumn  lies. 
The  dew  diies  up,  the  star  is  shot. 
The  (light  is  past,  —  and  man  forgot ! 

llii.NKy  King 


O,  WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORTAL  V,V, 
PROUD? 

[The  followinff  poem  wa-i  .1  [>3rt!cul;ir  favorite  with  Ahr.-ih.iiTi  IJn- 
r.olii.  It  w.-i»  firit  r.liown  to  him  when.1  youiiu  iiun  l.y.-i  frk-ml.  .inil 
.-iflcrw.irdft  he  cut  It  from  a  newspaper  anci  Icarncil  it  by  heart 
He  MiiiJ  to  a  friend.  "  I  would  ^Ive  a  ^rcnt  deal  to  know  who  wrote 
It.  but  have  never  been  able  to  ascertain."    He  was  told,  in  iV>4.] 

Oil,  why  should  the  spirit  of  nioi-tal  be  proud  ' 
Like  a  swift -fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
Man  ]iasses  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  faile, 

lie  sc^ittcred  around  and  together  be  laid  ; 

And  till!  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the 

high, 
.Shall  iiiolder  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved. 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who  jtroved  ; 
The  husband  that  mother  anil  infant  who  blessed, 
li/ich,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,   in 

whose  eye. 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure, — hertriurniihsareby ; 
And  thememoryofthosewholovedherand  [praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  scepter  hath  bonie. 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  miter  liiith  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  i-eaji, 
The  herdsman  who  clirnbf«l  with  his  goats  ii|i  \\k 

steep, 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 


The  .saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgi 


-^ 


©- 


3012 


POEMS  OF  SOHROIF  ANJ)  DEATH. 


-^ 


6- 


Thi<  wise  and  thu  Ibolisli,  Die  guilty  ami  just, 
Have  ijuietly  niingleil  their  bones  in  tlie  dust. 

So  tlie  multitude  goes,  like  the  llower  imd  theweed 
Tliiit  wither  awiiy  to  let  others  sueeeed  ; 
So  the  multitude  eonu'S,  even  those  we  behold. 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  that  our  fathers  have  been  ; 
We  see  the  same  sights  that  our  fathers  have  seen,  — 
We  drink  the  same  stream  and  view  the  same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  eoui'so  that  our  fathers  have  run. 

'I'he  Ihonghts  we  are  thinking  ovu-  falliers  would 

think  ; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  I'roni,  they  too 

would  shrink, 
Totlielifeweareelingiug  to,  they  too  would  eliiig; 
lint  it  speedsfrom  the  earth,  liki' a  bird  on  t  be  wing. 

They  loved,  but  their  story  we  eannot  uulold  ; 
They  seorued,  bnt  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  eold ; 
They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their  slumbei-s 

will  eome  : 
They  joyeil,   but  the  voice  of  their  gladness  is 

dumb. 

They  .lied,  —  ay  !  they  died  ;  and  we  things  that 

are  now. 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow. 
Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient  abode. 
Meet  the  changes  they  met  ou  their  iiilgrimage 

road. 

Yea  !  hope  and  despondeney,  pleasure  and  pain. 
Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and  rain  ; 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  the  song  and  the 

dirge. 
Still  tbllow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'T  is  the  twink  of  an  eye, 't  is  t  lie  draught  of  a  breath. 
From  the  Vilossom  of  health  to  the  palenessof  death. 
From  thegilded  saloon  to  the  bierandtheshroud, — 
0,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  > 


VIRTUE  IMMORTAL. 

Swicirr  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright. 
The  bridall  of  the  earth  and  skie  : 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  "thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angrie  and  brave 
Bids  the  vasli  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 

And  thou  mnst  die. 


Swoet  spring,  full  of  sweet  dayes  and  roses, 
A  bo.K  where  sweets  compacted  lie. 
Thy  musiek  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Onely  a  sweet  and  vertuous  soul. 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chielly  lives. 


MAN'S  MOltTALITY. 

I.IKF.  as  the  damask  rose  yo>i  see. 
Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May, 
Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 
Or  like  the  s>in,  or  like  the  .shade. 
Or  like  the  gourd  which  .loniis  had,  — 
F.'en  sneh  is  man  ;  whose  tliread  is  spun, 
Diawn  out,  and  cut,  and  so  is  doiui. — 

The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  bhisteth. 

The  llower  fades,  the  morning  Imsteth, 

The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flics, 

Tlic  gouvd  consumes,  —  and  man  he  dies  ! 

Like  to  the  grass  that 's  newly  sprung. 
Or  like  a  tale  that 's  new  Iwgun, 
Or  like  the  liird  that 's  here  to-day, 
Or  like  the  pearleil  dew  of  May, 
Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a  span, 
Or  like  the  singing  of  a  swan,  — 
I'.'cu  such  is  man  ;  —  who  lives  by  broatli. 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death.  — 
The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended, 
The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew  's  ascended. 
The  hour  is  short,  the  spiui  is  long. 
The  swan  's  near  death,  — man's  life  is  done ! 

SIMON  WASTULL. 


IF  THOU  WILT  EASE  THINE  HEART. 


Ik  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 
Of  love,  and  all  its  smart,  — 
Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep  ! 
And  not  a  sorrow- 
Hang  any  tear  on  your  eyelashes  ; 

Lie  still  and  deep. 
Sad  soul,  until  the  sea-wave  washes 
The  rim  o'  the  sun  to-morrow, 
In  eastern  sky. 

Hut  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart 
Of  love,  and  all  its  smart,  — 

Then  die,  dear,  die  ! 
'T  is  deeper,  sweeter, 


a-^ 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


—a 

W6      [ 


'J"]iaii  on  a  rose  bank  to  lii-  <Ii'canii]i^ 

With  foklcd  eye  ; 
And  llien  alone,  amid  the  iieaniing 
Of  love's  stars,  thou  'It  meet  her 
lu  eastern  sky. 

Thomas  Lovkll  Bkddoes. 


He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 
Ere  the  first  day  of  ileath  is  fled, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  eflVicing  lingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 
And  marked  the  mild  angelie  air. 
The  rajituic  of  repose,  that 's  there, 
The  lixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
Tlie  languor  of  the  plaeid  cheek. 
And  —  Ijut  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not  now. 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow. 
Where  («ld  Obstruction's  apathy 
Appalls  the  gazing  mourner's  heart. 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  uiion  ; 
^'es,  but  for  these  and  these  alone. 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power  ; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seiiled, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed  ! 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 
'T  is  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more  ! 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair. 
We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 
Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 
'I'hat  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breatli  ; 
liut  beauty  with  that  fearful  liloom, 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
lixpression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away ; 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  wanns  no  more  its  cherished 
earth  ! 

Lord  Byron. 


THE  DIRGK. 

What  is  the  existence  of  man's  life 

Hut  oi«n  war,  or  slumbered  .strife  ? 

Where  sickness  to  his  sense  presents 

The  combat  of  the  elements  ; 

And  never  feels  a  perfect  peace, 

TiU  Death's  cold  hand  signs  his  release  \ 


It  is  a  storm  —  where  the  hot  bloo,d 
(Jutvies  in  rage  the  boiling  flood  ; 
And  each  lou<l  passion  of  the  mind 
Is  like  a  furious  gust  of  wind. 
Which  beats  his  bark  with  many  a  wave, 
Till  he  casts  anchor  in  the  grave. 

It  is  a  flower  —  which  buds  and  grows 
And  withers  as  the  leaves  disclose  ; 
Whose  spring  and  fall  faint  seasons  keep. 
Like  fits  of  waking  before  sleeji  ; 
Tlien  shrinks  into  tliat  fatal  mold 
Where  its  flist  being  was  enrolled. 

It  is  a  dream  —  whose  seeming  truth 
Is  moralized  in  age  and  youth  ; 
Where  all  the  comforts  he  can  share 
As  wandering  as  his  fancies  are ; 
Till  in  the  mist  of  dark  decay 
The  dreamer  vanish  quite  away. 

It  is  a  dial  —  which  jioints  out 
The  sunset  as  it  moves  about ; 
And  shadows  out  in  lines  of  night 
The  subtle  stages  of  Time's  flight, 
Till  all-obscuring  earth  hath  laid 
T)ie  body  in  perpetual  shade. 

It  is  a  weary  interlude  — 
Which  doth  short  joys,  long  woes,  include 
The  world  the  stage,  the  prologue  tears. 
The  acts  vain  hoijes  and  varied  fears  ; 
The  scene  shuts  ui>  with  loss  of  breath, 
.\nd  leaves  no  epilogue  but  death. 

Hfnrv  King. 


THE  HTJSBAjra)  AND  WIFK'B  GRAVE. 

Hi'siiAND  and  wife  !  no  converse  now  ye  hold. 
As  once  ye  did  in  your  young  d.ays  of  love, 
On  its  alaiTa.s,  its  anxious  hours,  delays, 
Its  silent  meditations  and  glad  hopes, 
Its  fears,  impatience,  quiet  sympathies  ; 
Xor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and  blLss 
Full,  certain,  and  possessed.     Domestic  cares 
Gall  you  not  now  together.     Earnest  talk 
On  what  your  children  may  be  moves  you  not. 
Ye  lie  in  silence,  and  an  awful  silence  ; 
Not  like  to  that  in  which  ye  rested  once 
Most  happy,  —  silence  eloquent,  when  heart 
With   heart  held   si)eech,   and  your  mysterious 

frames, 
Haniionious,  sensitive,  at  every  beat 
Touched  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

A  stillne.ss  deep. 
Insensible,  unheeding,  folds  you  round, 
And  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  sealed  you  in 


^ 


? 


304 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


^ 


Awiiy  from  all  the  living,  here  ye  rest, 
In  all  the  nearness  of  the  narrow  tomb. 
Yet  feel  ye  not  each  other's  presence  now  ;  — 
Dread  fellowship  I  —  together,  yet  alone. 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then.  Love? 
And  doth  death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 
Commingling  spirits  ?    Are  thoughts  that  know 

no  bounds. 
But,  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  searching  out 
The  Eternal  Mind,  the  Father  of  all  thought,  — 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb '( — 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  the  illuminate  realms 
Of  uncreated  light  have  visited,  and  lived  ?  — 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendor  of  that  throne 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand  the  veil  of  flesh 
Lifting  that  hung  'twixt  man  aiul  it,  revealed 
In  glory?  —  throne  before  which  even  now 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down 
Kcjoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed  ?  — 
Souls  that  thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful  unseen  Presence,  —  are  they  quenched  ? 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not  ;  as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  ? 

And  do  our  loves  all  perish  with  our  frames  ? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root  and  put  forth  buds. 
And  then  soft  leaves  unfolded  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  heai'ts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty. 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair,  unconscious  flowers? 
An;  thoughts  and  passions  that  to  the  tongue  give 

speech. 
And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies. 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  ej'e  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance,  — 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents,  no  more  ? 
To  live  in  it,  and  when  that  dies  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  Hame  ? 

0  listen,  man  I 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die !"  Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  around  our  souls  ;  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  the  mild  stai's 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality  : 
Thick-clustering  ojbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain. 
The  tall,  dark  mountains  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

0  listen,  ye,  our  spirits  !  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air  !   'T  is  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 
Is  floating  in  day's  setting  glories  ;  Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  ;  — 
Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful 

eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 


y-^- 


By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 
The  dying  hear  it  ;  and,  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

Why  is  it  that  I  linger  round  this  tomb  ? 
AVhat  holds  it  ?     Dust   that   cumbered  those  I 

mourn. 
They  shook  it  ofT,  and  laid  aside  earth's  robes, 
And  put  on  those  of  light.    They  're  gone  to  divcll 
In  love,  — their  God's  and  angels' !  Mutual  love. 
That  bound  them  here,  no  longer  needs  a  speech 
For  full  communion  ;  nor  sensations  strong. 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  strive  in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind  in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that  rise  in  each 
By  natures  new  impart  themselves,  though  silent. 
Each  quickening  sense,  each  throb  of  holy  love, 
AH'ections  sanctified,  and  the  full  glow 
Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden  one, 
By  union  all  mysterious,  thrill  and  live 
In  both  immortal  frames  ;  —  sensation  all, 
And   thought,   pervading,   mingling   sense   and 

thought ! 
Ye  paired,  yet  one  !  wrapt  in  a  consciousness 
Twofold,  yet  single,  —  this  is  love,  this  life  ! 
Why  call  we,  then,  the  square-built  monument. 
The  ui)right.foIumn,  and  the  low-laid  slab 
Tokens  of  death,  memorials  of  decay  ? 
Stand  in  this  solemn,  still  assembly,  man. 
And  learn  thy  proper  nature  ;  for  thou  seest 
In  these  shaped  stones  and  lettered  tables  figures 
Of  life.     Then  be  they  to  thy  soul  as  those 
Which  he  who  talked  on  Sinai's  mount  with  God 
Brought  to  the  old  Judeans,  —  types  are  these 
Of  thine  eternity. 

I  thank  thee,  Father, 
That  at  this  simple  grave  on  which  the  dawn 
Is  breaking,  emblem  of  that  day  which  hath 
No  close,  thou  kindly  unto  my  dark  mind 
Hast  sent  a  sacred  light,  and  that  away 
From  this  green  hillock,  whither  I  had  come 
In  sorrow,  thou  art  leading  me  in  joy. 

Richard  Henry  Dana, 


THE  ENDS  OF  LIFE. 

A  G(iOD  that  never  satisfies  the  mind, 

A  beauty  fading  like  the  April  flowers, 

A  sweet  with  floods  of  gall  that  runs  combined, 

A  pleasure  passing  ere  in  thought  made  ours. 

An  honor  that  more  fickle  is  than  wind, 

A  glory  at  opinion's  frown  that  lowers, 

A  treasury  which  bankrupt  time  devours, 

A  knowledge  than  grave  ignorance  more  blind, 

A  vain  delight  our  equals  to  command. 


^ 


r 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


305     J 


dn_ 


A  style  of  greatness,  in  effect  :i  ilreani, 
A  swelling  thought  of  holding  sea  and  land, 
A  servile  lot,  decked  with  a  pompous  name,  — 
Are  the  strange  ends  we  toil  for  here  below, 
Till  wisest  death  make  us  our  errors  know. 

William  Dkummond, 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

TiiF.v  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  .side, 
They  filled  one  home  with  glee  ;  — 

Tlicir  graves  are  severed  for  and  wide, 
r.y  mount  and  stream  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight,  — ■ 
^Vhere  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

One  midst  the  forest  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid,  — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest. 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one,  — 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  Southern  vines  are  drest. 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one  —  o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fanned  ; 

Sh.>  faded  midst  Italian  flowers,  — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  played 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 
■Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  jirayed 

.\rotind  one  parent  knee  ! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
.\nd  cheered  with  song  the  hearth — 

Alas  !  for  love,  if  Ikon  wert  all. 
And  naught  lieyond,  O  earth  ! 


GREENWOOD  CEMETERY. 

How  calm  they  sleep  beneath  the  shade 

AVlio  once  were  weary  of  the  strife, 
And  bent,  like  us,  beneath  the  loail 
Of  human  life  ! 


The  willow  hangs  with  sheltering  grace 

And  benediction  o'er  their  sod. 

And  Nature,  hushed,  assures  the  soul 

They  rest  in  God. 

0  weaiy  hearts,  what  rest  is  here. 

From  all  that  curses  yonder  towTi ! 
So  deep  the  peace,  1  almost  long 
To  l.-;y  nie  down. 

For,  0,  it  will  Ijc  Ijlest  to  sleep, 

Xor  dream,  nor  move,  that  silent  night. 
Till  wakened  in  immortal  strength 
And  heavenly  light ! 

Ckammoxd  Kennedy. 


GODS-ACRE. 

1  I.IKE  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's- Acre  !     It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls. 

And  breathes  a  bcnison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's-Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  liearts. 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  fuiTows  shall  we  all  be  cast. 
In  tlije  sure  faith  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  gi-eat  haivest,  when  the  archangel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  clialf  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom. 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 
AVith  that  of  flowers  wliich  never  bloomed  on 
earth. 

With  thy  rude  plowshare.  Death,  turn  up  the  sod. 
And  spread  the  fun'ow  for  the  seed  we  sow  ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  gi'ow'! 


THE  OLD  BUEYING-GROUXD. 

Pn'MED  ranks  of  tall  wild-cherry 

And  birch  surround 
The  half-hid,  solitary 

Old  burying-ground. 

All  the  low  wall  is  crumbled 

And  overgl■ow^l, 
And  in  the  turf  lies  tumbled 

Stone  upon  stone. 


-4 


f 


306 


FOEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  DEATH. 


n 


L 


Only  tho  school-boy,  sci'aiiibling 

After  his  arrow 
Or  lost  ball,  —  searching,  tramijliug 

The  tufts  of  yarrow. 

Of  iiiilkweeil  aud  slim  inullciii,  — 

Tlu!  pliice  disturbs ; 
Or  buwed  wise-wouian,  culling 

Her  magic  herbs. 

No  more  tho  melancholy 

Dai'k  trains  draw  near ; 
The  dead  possess  it  wholly 

This  many  a  year. 

The  headstones  lean,  winds  whistle, 

The  long  grass  waves. 
Rank  grow  the  dock  and  thistle 

Over  tho  graves  ; 

And  all  is  waste,  deserted, 

Aud  drear,  as  though 
Even  the  gliosts  departed 

Long  years  ago  ! 

The  sipiirrels  start  forth  and  ehattor 

To  see  me  pass  ; 
Grasshoppers  leap  and  patter 

In  the  dry  grass. 

I  hear  the  drowsy  drumming 

Of  woodpeckers, 
And  sudilonly  at  my  coming 

The  quick  grouse  whirs. 

Untouched  through  all  mutation 

Of  times  and  skies, 
A  bygone  generation 

Around  me  lies  ; 

Of  high  and  low  condition, 

■hist  and  unjust. 
The  patient  and  jihysician. 

All  turned  t"  dust. 

Suns,  snows,  ilrouth,  colil,  birds,  blossoms. 

Visit  the  spot ; 
Rains  drench  the  iiuict  bosoms 

■\Vhich  hcfd  them  not. 

Under  an  aged  willow. 

The  earth  my  bed, 
A  mossy  mound  my  pillow, 

I  lean  my  hea<l. 

Babe  of  this  mother,  dying 

A  fresli  young  bride, 
That  old,  old  man  is  lying 

Here  by  her  side  ! 


I  muse  :  above  me  hovers 

A  haze  of  dreams  : 
Bright  maids  and  laughing  lovers. 

Life's  morning  gleams ; 

The  past  with  all  its  passions. 

Its  toils  and  wiles. 
Us  ancient  follies,  fashions, 

And  tears  aud  smiles ; 

With  thirsts  and  fever-rages, 

And  ceaseless  pains. 
Hoarding  as  for  the  ages 

Its  little  gains  ! 

Fair  lives  that  bloom  and  wither. 

Their  summer  done ; 
Loved  forms  with  heart-break  hither 

Borne  one  by  one. 

■\Vife,  husband,  cliild,  and  mother, 

Ni.»\\'  reek  no  more 
Which  mourned  on  earth  the  other, 

Or  wi'Ut  before. 

The  soul,  I'isen  from  its  embers. 

In  its  blest  state 
Perchance  not  even  remembers 

Its  earthly  fate  ; 

Nor  heeds,  in  the  duration 

Of  spheres  sublime. 
This  pebble  of  creation. 

This  wave  of  time. 

For  a  swift  moment  only 

Such  dreams  arise ; 
Then,  turning  from  this  lonely, 

Tossed  field,  my  eyes 

Through  clumps  of  whortleberry 

And  brier  look  down 
Toward  yonder  cemetery, 

Aud  modeni  town, 

Where  still  men  build,  and  marry, 

And  strive,  and  mourn. 
And  now  the  dark  pall  carry, 

Aud  now  are  liorne. 

John  t.  Trowuridge. 


ELEGY    WRITTEN   IN  A   COUNTRY    CHURCH- 
YARD. 

TiIK  curf.'W  tolls  tlu'  knrll  of  jiarting  day; 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me 


'4i 


&-- 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


307 


n 


Now  fadts  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight,    Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 


And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  I'ulds ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 


Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  ; 

But  knowdedge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
[      Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  nii'er  unroll ; 
Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  cun-ent  of  the  soul. 


[Hark  !  how  the  holy  calm  that  breathes  around  |  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

Bids  every  fierce  tumultuous  passion  cease ;       I      T''^  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

In  still  small  accents  whispering  from  the  gi'ound    Full  many  a  llower  is  born  to  Idush  unseen. 
The  grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace.]  *  ^^'^  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


y- 


Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering 
heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built 
shed. 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  honi. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  health  shall  burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 

How  jocund  (lid  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath   their  sturdy 

stroke ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  ]]onip  of  jiower, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour  ; 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 
vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  flatter)'  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

•  Removed  by  the  author  from  the  original  poem. 


Some   village    Hampden,    that,    with   dauntless 
breast. 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 

SomeCromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  lilood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  liistory  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Theirgi'owiiigvirtucs,  buttheircrimesconfined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  straggling  ])angs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  nnise's  llame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  thi!  cool,  seipiestered  vale  of  life 
They  kejit  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  pn)teet. 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 
decked. 
Implores  tlie  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered 
muse. 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfubiess  a  prey. 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cas-t  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 


-^ 


[& 


oOS 


IVEMS  OF  SOBEOJr  AXD    DEATH. 


-^ 


K'fii  I'rom  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  ill  our  ashes  live  tlieir  wonted  fires. 


For  tliee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inijuire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary -headed  swain  may  say  :  — 
"  Oft  liave  we  seen  him,  at  the  iieep  of  dawn, 

l^rushini;  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  thi'  upland  lawn. 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yoii.l,  !■  im.Miu.^'  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  l.nitj^iir  kmUs  so  high, 

His  listless  lcn<,'th  at  nunuiidc  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  snuling  as  in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  waywanl  fancies,  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  ; 

Another  came,  —  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Kor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  ; 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne ;  — 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE  Errr.M'ii. 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 
Fair  srienee  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  melancholy  marked  him  for  hor  own. 

Large  was  his  hounty,  and  his  soul  sincere  ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  ; 
He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  luuU  a  tear. 

He  gained  from  heaven  ('t  was  all  he  wished)  a 
friend. 

No  further  .seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode,  — 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  MELROSE  ABBEY. 

The  earth  goes  on  the  earth  glittering  in  gold, 

The  earth  goes  to  the  earth  sooner  than  it  wold  ; 

The  earth  builds  on  the  earth  castles  and  towers. 

The  earth  says  to  the  earth  —  All  this  is  ours. 

li   i    . . 


THANATOPSIS. 


To  him  who,  v.'i  the  love  of  Nature,  liolds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  languaga  :  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  liealing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.    When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall. 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart. 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  watera,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice :  — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground. 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tcr.s, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  sh:ill  ixist 
Thy  image.   Earth,  that  nourished  lhcc,shalUhiini 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  ;     . 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements  ; 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
.\nd  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  ami  pierce  thy  mold. 

Yet  not  to  thi)ie  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  —  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infantworld,  — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise,  the  gooil. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchor.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  .sun  ;  tlie  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  i^uiotness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  m.ajesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 
Thatniako  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured  ro\nul 

all. 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  • — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man  !     The  golden  s>ui, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven. 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death. 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  jiierce  the  Barcan  wilderness. 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings,  —  yet  the  dead  are  there  I 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 


ff 


fl- 


BEREAVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 


309 


^ 


& 


The  flight  of  years  began,  have  Iniil  tliem  dowii 
In  their  last  sleep,  — the  dead  reign  there  alone  I 
So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall 

come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid. 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  tliy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  tliem. 

"-   So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  eacli  shall  tak(^ 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  tjuarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged   to   his   dungeon,   but,  sustained   and 

soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  plea.sant  dreams,  yy 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.^ 


THE  COMMON  LOT. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

There  lived  a  Man  ;  —  and  WHO  WAS  he  ? 
—  Mortal  !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast. 

That  Man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 
The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown  : 

His  name  has  perished  from  the  earth, 
This  truth  survives  alone  :  — 

That  joy  and  grief,  and  hope  and  fear. 
Alternate  triumphed  in  his  breast  : 

His  bliss  and  woe  —  a  smile,  a  tear  ! 
—  Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb, 
The  changing  spirit's  rise  and  fall,  — 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  liini. 
For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

He  suffered,  —  but  his  pangs  are  o'er  ; 

Enjoyed,  —  but  his  delights  are  fled  ; 
Had  friends,  — his  friends  are  now  no  more  ; 

And  foes,  —  his  foes  are  dead. 


He  loved,  —  but  whom  he  loved,  the  grave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  wondi  ; 

O,  she  was  fair,  —  but  naught  could  save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee  ; 
He  was  —  whatever  thou  hast  been  ; 

He  is  —  what  tliou  shalt  be. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  ami  main, 

Ercwhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw, 

Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
Ko  vestige  where  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began. 

Of  hi'iii  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this,  — Thkke  uvr.n  A  max. 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    RICHMOND    CHURCH- 
YARD, YORKSHIRE. 


Metiiinks  it  is  good  to  be  here  ; 
If  thou  wilt,  let  us  liuild  —  but  for  whom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  ajipear. 
But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encom])ass  the  gloom. 
The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?    0,  no ! 
Affi'iglited,  he  shrinketh  away  ; 

For,  see  !  they  would  pin  him  below. 
In  a  small  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt  with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey. 

To  Beauty  ?  ah,  no  !  —  she  forgets 
The  charms  wliicli  she  wielded  before  — 

Nor  knows  the  foul  wonn  that  he  frets 
The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint  which  it 


Shall  we  build  to  the  puriile  of  Pride  — 
The  trajipings  which  dizen  the  proud  ? 

Alas  !  they  are  all  laid  aside  ; 
And  here 's  neither  dress  nor  adornment  allowed. 
But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe  of  the 
shroud. 

To  Riches  ?  alas  !  't  is  in  vain  ; 
Who  hid,  in  their  turn  have  been  hid  : 


[Q- 


-R-, 


olO 


POEMS  OF  SORliOir  AXU  DEATH. 


Tho  twasures  ait<  squandeied  agiiin  ; 
Ami  hi'i-o  iu  the  grave  are  all  metals  lorbkl, 
liut  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  eotlin-lid. 

To  the  pleasures  whieh  Jlirth  can  all'ord,  — 
The  revel,  the  liuigh,  and  the  jeer  '. 

Ah  !  here  is  a  plentirul  board  I 
I'lUt  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveler  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Attoetion  and  Love  ? 
Ah,  no  !  they  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  lied  with  the  spirit  above  ; 
Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side  by  side, 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  luul  none  have  replied. 

Unto  Sorrow  ?  —  The  dead  cannot  grieve  ; 
Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 


Which  compassion  itself  could  relieve  ! 
Ah  I  sweetly  tliey  slumlier,  nor  hope,  love,  nor 

fear,  — 
Peace,  peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here  ! 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarehs  must  bow  ? 
Ah,  no  !  for  his  empire  is  known. 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow  I 
Beneath  —  the  cold  dead,  and  around  —  the  dark 

stone, 
Are  the  signs  of  a  scepter  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build. 
And  look  for  the  sleei)ers  around  us  to  rise  ; 

Tho  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it  fultilled  ; 

And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great  sacrifice. 

Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  he  rose  to 

'■•lie  skies. 

Herbert  K.nowles. 


f&^ 


-^ 


^ a 

J^,^  ^c^^^  ^.^t^:^  o(c.^^^  ^^..c-  ^  /h^^^ 


rl-t- 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


THU  CELESTIAL  COUNTRY. 

[The  poem  De  Contemptit  Mundi  was  written  in  dactylic  hexam- 
eter Latin  verse  by  Bernard  de  Morlaix,  Monk  of  Cluni  who  hvcd 
in  the  earlier  half  of  the  twelfth  century.  It  contained  three  thou- 
sand lines  divided  into  three  books.    The  poem 


tempora  pessima 
mala  tenninet, 
|ue  pondera 


Sunt,  vigili 

^thera  donel 
Auferat  aspera  dura^ 


k^- 


Which  have  been  rendered  ;  — 

Hours  of  the  latest:  times  of  the  basest! 

Our  vigil  before  us  ! 
Judgment  eternal  of  Being  supernal 

Now  hanging  o'er  us ! 
Evil  to  terminate,  equity  vindicate, 

Cometh  the  Kingly  : 
Righteousness  seeing,  anxious  hearts  freeing. 

Crowning  each  singly, 
Bearing  life's  weariness,  tasting  life's  bitterness. 

Life  as  it  must  be 
Th"  righteous  retaining,  sinners  arraigning, 

Judging  all  justly. 


The  world  is  very  evil, 

The  times  are  waxing  late  ; 
Be  sober  and  keep  vigil, 

The  .Judge  is  at  the  gate,  — 
The  ,Tudge  that  comes  in  mercy, 

Tlie  .Judge  that  comes  with  might. 
To  terminate  the  evil, 

To  diadem  the  right. 
AVhen  the  just  and  gentle  Monarch 

.Shall  summon  from  the  tomb. 
Let  man,  the  guilty,  tremble. 

For  Man,  the  God,  shaU  doom  ! 

Arise,  arise,  good  Christian, 
Let  right  to  wrong  succeed  ; 

I^et  penitential  sorrow 

To  heavenly  gladness  lead,  — 

To  the  light  that  hath  no  evening. 
That  knows  nor  moon  nor  sun. 


The  light  so  new  and  golden, 
The  light  that  is  but  one. 

And  when  the  Sole-Begotten 

Shall  render  up  once  more 
The  kingdom  to  the  Fathkr, 

Whose  own  it  was  before, 
Then  glory  yet  unhe<ird  of 

Shall  shed  abroail  its  ray, 
Resolving  all  enigmas. 

An  endless  Sabbath-day. 

For  thee,  0  dear,  dear  Country  ! 

Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep  ; 
For  very  love,  beholding 

Thy  happy  name,  they  weep. 
The  mention  of  thy  glory 

Is  unction  to  the  breast. 
And  medicine  in  sickness, 

And  love,  and  life,  and  rest. 

0  one,  0  only  Mansion  ! 

0  Paradise  of  Joy, 
Where  tears  are  ever  banished, 

And  smiles  have  no  alloy! 
Beside  thy  living  waters 

All  plants  are,  gi'eat  and  small. 
The  cedar  of  the  forest. 

The  hyssop  of  the  wall  ; 
With  jaspers  glow  thy  bulwarks. 

Thy  streets  with  emer.alds  blaze, 
The  sardius  and  the  topaz 

Unite  in  thee  their  rays  ; 
Thine  ageless  walls  are  bonded 

With  amethyst  unpriced  ; 
Thy  Saints  build  up  its  fabric. 

And  the  corner-stone  is  Christ. 

The  Cross  is  all  thy  splendor. 

The  Crucified  thy  praise  ; 
His  laud  and  benediction 

Thy  ransomed  people  raise  : 
"Jesus,  the  Gem  of  Beauty, 

True  God  and  Man,"  they  sing, 
"The  never-failing  Garden, 

The  ever-golden  King ; 


4 


[fi- — 

r  312 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


^ 


B- 


The  Door,  the  Pledge,  the  Husband, 
The  Guardian  of  his  Court ; 

The  Day-star  of  Salvation, 
The  Porter  and  the  Port  !  " 

Thou  hast  no  shore,  fair  ocean  ! 

Thou  liast  no  time,  bright  day  ! 
Dear  fountain  of  refreshment 

To  pilgrims  far  away  ! 
Upon  the  Rock  of  Ages 

They  raise  thy  holy  tower  ; 
Thine  is  the  victor's  laurel. 

And  thine  the  golden  dower  ! 

Thou  feel'st  in  mystic  rapture, 

0  Bride  that  know'st  no  guile, 
The  Prince's  sweetest  kisses. 

The  Prince's  loveliest  smUe  ; 
Unfading  lilies,  bracelets 

Of  living  pearl  thine  own  ; 
The  Lamb  is  ever  near  thee. 

The  Bridegroom  thine  alone. 
The  Crown  is  he  to  guerdon, 

The  Buckler  to  protect, 
And  he  himself  the  Mansion, 

And  he  the  Architect. 

The  only  art  thou  needest  — 

Thanksgiving  for  thy  lot ; 
The  only  joy  thou  seekest  — 

The  Life  where  Death  is  not. 
And  all  thine  endless  leisure. 

In  sweetest  accents,  sings 
The  ill  that  was  thy  merit. 

The  wealth  that  is  thy  King's  ! 

Jerusalem  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest, 
Beneath  thy  contemplation 

Sink  heart  and  voice  oppressed. 
I  know  not,  0  I  know  not. 

What  social  joys  are  there  ! 
What  radiancy  of  glory, 

What  light  beyond  compare  ! 

And  w'hen  I  fain  would  sing  them. 
My  spirit  fails  and  faints  ; 

And  vainly  would  it  image 
The  assembly  of  the  Saints. 

They  stand,  those  halls  of  Zion, 

Conjubilant  with  song. 
And  bright  with  many  an  angel, 

And  all  the  martyr  throng  ; 
The  Prince  is  ever  in  them. 

The  daylight  is  serene  ; 
The  pastures  of  the  Blessfed 

Are  decked  in  glorious  sheen. 


There  is  the  Throne  of  David, 

And  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumph, 

The  shout  of  them  that  feast ; 
And  they  who,  with  their  Leader, 

Have  conquered  in  the  tight, 
Forever  and  forever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white  ! 

0  holy,  piacid  harp-notes 

Of  that  eternal  hymn  ! 
0  sacred,  sweet  reflection, 

And  peace  of  Seraphim  ! 
0  thirst,  forever  ardent. 

Yet  evermore  content  ! 
0  true  peculiar  vision 

Of  God  cunctipotent ! 
Ye  know  the  many  mansions 

For  many  a  glorious  name, 
And  divers  retributions 

That  divers  merits  claim  ; 
For  midst  the  constellations 

That  deck  our  earthly  sky. 
This  star  than  that  is  brighter  — 

And  so  it  is  on  high. 

Jerusalem  the  glorious  ! 

The  glory  of  the  Elect ! 
0  dear  and  future  vision 

That  eager  hearts  expect ! 
Even  now  by  faith  I  see  thee, 

Even  here  thy  walls  discern  ; 
To  thee  my  thoughts  are  kindled, 

And  strive,  and  pant,  and  yearn. 

Jei'usalem  the  only, 

That  look'st  from  heaven  below, 
In  thee  is  all  my  glory, 

In  me  is  all  my  woe  ; 
And  tliough  my  body  may  not, 

My  spirit  seeks  thee  fain, 
Till  llesh  and  earth  return  me 

To  earth  and  flesh  again. 

0  none  can  tell  thy  bulwarks. 

How  gloriously  they  rise  ! 
0  none  can  tell  thy  capitals 

Of  beautiful  device  ! 
Thy  loveliness  oppresses 

All  human  thought  and  heart , 
And  none,  0  peace,  0  Zion, 

Can  sing  thee  as  thou  art ! 

New  mansion  of  new  people, 
Whom  God's  own  love  and  light 

Promote,  increase,  make  holy, 
Identify,  unite  ! 


& 


POEMS   OF  L'ELIGIOX. 


313     4"^ 


Thou  City  of  the  Angels  ! 

Thou  City  of  the  Lord  ! 
Whose  everlasting  music 

Is  tile  glorious  decachord  ! 

And  there  the  baud  of  Prophets 

United  praise  ascribes, 
And  there  the  twelvefold  chorus 

Of  Israel's  ransomed  tribes, 
The  lily-beds  of  virgins, 

The  roses'  martyr-glow. 
The  cohort  of  the  Fathers 

AVho  kept  the  faith  below. 

And  there  the  Sole- Begotten 

Is  Lord  in  regal  state,  — 
He,  Judah's  mystic  Lion, 

He,  Lamb  Immaculate. 
0  fields  that  know  no  sorrow  ! 

0  state  that  fears  no  strife  ! 

0  princely  bower.s  I  0  land  of  flowers  ! 

0  realm  and  home  of  Life  I 

Jerusalem,  exulting 
On  that  securest  shore, 

1  hope  thee,  wish  thee,  sing  thee, 
And  love  thee  eveiTUore  ! 

I  ask  not  for  my  merit, 

1  seek  not  to  deny 
Jly  merit  is  destruction, 

A  child  of  wrath  am  I  ; 
But  yet  with  faith  1  venture 

And  hope  upon  my  way  ; 
For  those  perennial  guerdons 

I  labor  night  and  ilay. 


The  best  and  dearest  F.vniEi;, 

AVho  made  me  and  who  saved. 
Bore  with  me  in  defilement. 

And  from  defilement  laved, 
When  in  his  strength  I  struggle. 

For  very  joy  I  leap, 
When  in  my  sin  I  totter, 

I  weep,  or  tiy  to  weep  : 
Then  grace,  sweet  grace  celestial, 

Shall  all  its  love  display, 
And  David's  Royal  Fountain 

Purge  every  sin  away. 

0  mine,  my  golden  Zion  ! 

0  lovelier  far  than  gold, 
With  laurel-girt  battalions. 

And  safe  victorious  fold  ! 
0  sweet  and  blessed  Country, 

Shall  I  ever  see  thy  face  ? 

0  sweet  and  blessed  Country, 
Shall  I  ever  win  thy  grace  ? 

1  have  the  ho]ie  within  nie 
To  condbrt  and  to  bless  ! 

Shall  1  ever  win  the  prize  itself? 
0  tell  nic.  tell  me,  Yes  ! 

Exult  !  O  dust  and  ashes  ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part  ; 
His  only,  his  forever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art  ! 
Exult,  0  dust  and  ashes  ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part ; 
His  only,  his  forever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thoti  art  1 

Translated  from  the  Latin  of  Eernaku  dh  M 
by  Jon.-;  MA50 


DIES    IR^. 


[A  Latin  poem  by  Tliomas  of  Celano  (a  Neapolitan  village),  about  A.  D.  1250.  Perliaps  no  poem  has  been  more  frequently  translated. 
A  German  collector  published  eighty-seven  versions  in  German.  Dr.  Coles,  of  .Vewark.  N*.  J.,  has  noado  thirteen.  Seven  are  given  in 
the  "Seven  Great  Hymns  of  the  Medi.-eval  Church."  Randolph  &  Co..  .N".  V.     The  version  here  given  preserves  the  measure  of  the 


DIES  1R.-E,  DIES  ILLA.  rf/Vj  trihiilati 
lamitatis  ft  miscritF.  liies  tenebraruyn  f 
riirbinis,  dies  litha  rt  ctafJgoris  super  a 
«n^7tloscxce/sas/—Sophon\as  i.  15,  16. 


Dies  ir?e,  dies  ilia  ! 
Solvet  sieclum  in  favilla, 
Teste  David  cum  Sybilla. 


ittgustia.  dies  ca-  THAT  D.AV.  A  DAY  OF  WKATH.  a  day  0/ (ranfjle  and  disfn 

lis.  dies  nebttla  et  day  c/  ^ucisfeitess  and  desolation,  a  day  0/  darkitess  and  j^ii 
munitas,  et  super     ness.  a  day  0/ clouds  and  thick  darkness,  a  tiay  o/tlte  truntpe. 

alarm  against  the  fenced  cities,  and  affainst  the  high  tourr 

Zephaniah  i.  15.  16. 

1. 

Day  of  vengeance,  without  morrow  ! 
Earth  shall  end  in  flame  and  sorrow. 
As  from  Saint  and  Seer  we  bonow. 


ffi-^- 


Quantus  tremor  est  futurus, 
Quando  Judex  est  venturus, 
Cuncta  stricte  discussurus ! 


Ah  !  what  terror  is  impending, 
AYhen  the  Judge  is  seen  descending 
And  each  secret  veil  is  rending  ! 


-^'? 


iQ- 


314 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Tuba  luinim  spiugcns  somiiii 
Per  sopulera  i-fgioimin, 
Coget  omiies  ante  tluoiuiiii. 


To  till'  thi'oiu',  the  trmupot  souiuling, 
Tlirougli  the  se|nilchei's  resoimdiiig, 
Siiinmous  all,  with  voice  nstouudiug. 


Mors  stuiH'liit,  li  milmu, 
Quulu  resiii'get  ereatura, 
Jmlieanti  responsura. 


■1. 
IXvitli  ami  Nature,  luazeil,  aro  cjuakiiig. 
When,  the  grave's  long  slumber  breaUiu; 
Mau  to  judgment  is  awaking. 


liber  si'ri[ilus  iiroleretur, 
111  ijuo  toluni  contiuetur, 
Uiule  iiuuulus  judieotur. 


On  the  written  Volume's  I'ages, 
Life  is  shown  in  all  its  stages  — 
J  udgment-roeord  of  past  ages. 


.Tudex  ergo  eum  sedebit, 
tjuidquid  latet,  apparebit : 
Nil  inultum  remanebit. 


Sits  tlie  Judge,  the  raised  arraigning 
Darkest  mysteries  explaining. 
Nothing  unavenged  remaining. 


Quid  sum,  miser  !  tunc  dioturus, 
Quern  patronuni  rogaturus, 
Quum  vix  Justus  sit  securus  ? 


■What  shall  1  then  say,  unfriended. 

By  no  advocate  attended, 

When  the  just  are  scarce  defended  ? 


Hex  trenieiuhe  majestatis, 
Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis, 
Salva  me,  tons  pietatis  I 


King  of  majesty  tremendous, 
By  thy  saving  grace  defend  us. 
Fount  of  pity,  safety  send  us  ! 


Kocordare,  Jesu  pie, 
Quod  sum  causa  tuai  via' ; 
No  me  perdas  ilia  die  ! 


9. 
Holy  Jii.sus,  meek,  forbearing. 
For  my  sins  the  death-crown  wearing. 
Save  me,  in  that  day,  despairing  ! 


Qua'rens  me,  sedisti  lassus, 
Redeniisti,  erucem  passus  : 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus  I 


AVorn  ami  weary,  tliou  liast  sought  me 
By  thy  cross  and  passion  bought  me  — 
Spare  the  hope  thy  labors  brought  me  ! 


Juste  Judex  uUionis, 
Donum  fac  remissiouis 
Ante  diem  rationis ! 


11. 
Righteous  Judge  of  retrilmtion, 
Give,  0  give  me  absolution 
Kre  the  day  of  dissolution  ! 


Ingemisco  taiuiuani  reus, 
Culpa  rubot  vultus  mens  ; 
Supplieanti  parce,  Deus ! 


12. 


As  a  guilty  culprit  groaning, 
Flushed  my  face,  my  errors  owning. 
Hear,  0  God,  my  spirit's  moaning  ! 


& 


Qui  Mariam  absolvisti, 
Kt  latronem  exaudisti, 
Mihi  quociue  S])em  dodisti. 


13. 

Thou  to  Mary  gav'st  remission, 
Heard'st  the  dying  thief's  petition, 
Bad'st  nio  hope  in  my  contrition. 


-^ 


d3^- 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


315 


-a 


PrecGS  nicfe  non  sunt  dij^iia;, 
Sed  tu  bonus  lac  beiiigiie 
Ne  perenui  cremer  igiio  I 


14. 
In  niy  [iniyers  no  grace  dlsccniing, 
Yet  oil  iiiu  thy  favor  turning, 
Savo  my  soul  from  endless  burning  I 


Inter  oves  locum  piasta, 
Et  ab  biedis  mo  seiiuestra, 
Statuens  in  parte  dextra. 

XVI. 

Confutatis  maledictis, 
Flummis  acribus  addictis, 
Voca  me  cum  benedicti.s  ! 

XVII. 

Oro  supplex  ct  accliiiis, 
Cor  contritum  (|uitsi  ciiiis, 
Gere  cuiaiti  niei  linis  ! 


Lacrymosa  dies  ilia, 
(^ua  resurget  ex  faviM 
.ludicandus  homo  reus  ; 
1 1  uic  ergo  parce,  Deus  I 

THOMAS ' 


Give  me,  when  thy  sliei'p  confiding 
Tliou  art  from  the  goats  dividing. 
On  thy  right  a  place  aliding  ! 

18. 
Wlicn  tlie  wicked  are  confounded. 
Ami  liy  l)ilter  llames  surrounded, 
lie  my  joyful  pardon  sounded  ! 

17. 
Prostrate,  all  my  guilt  discerning. 
Heart  as  tliougli  to  ashes  turning  ; 
Save,  0  save  me  from  the  Ijurning  ! 

18. 
Day  of  weeping,  when  from  ashes 
Man  shall  rise  mid  lightning  flashes,  — 
Guilty,  trembling  with  contrition, 
Save  him.  Father,  from  perdition  ! 

John  a.  Dix. 


STABAT   MATER    DOLOROSA. 


[A  Latin  poem,  wi 
iJr.  Ni.ilc  s.iys  :  "  T 
uicdiarval  poems. "] 


ury  by  Jacoponc.  a  Fraticisc 
loit  lovely,  tilt  /Imj  /ra  the 


•if  Umbri.i.     Of  this  .ind  the  two  prcccdini:  jKictos 
ubiime,  and  the  Stadae  Afa/er  the  most  pathetic,  of 


iStaiiat  Mater  dolorosa 
Juxta  cnicriii  1,1.1  \  nil,  .:i, 

Dun.  |i-ii'i'  l.ii  lilius; 
Cujus  aiiiiiKiin  I'liiiriiii  Ml, 
Contristatam  et  ilolcntem, 

Pertransivit  gladius. 


1. 

Stooii  the  afllicted  mother  wi-cjiing, 
Near  tlie  cross  her  station  keeping 

Whereon  liung  her  Son  and  Lord  ; 
Through  whose  spirit  sympathizing, 
Sorrowing  and  agonizing. 

Also  passed  tlie  cruel  sword. 


0  quam  tiistis  et  afllicta, 
Fuit  ilia  bi-iicdiita 

Mati-r  iiuigeiiiti, 
Qua;  mo'i-eliat  et  ilolebat, 
Pia  mater,  duin  videbat 

Nati  pa-nas  inclyti  ! 


Oh  !  how  mournful  and  distrcssJid 
Was  that  favored  and  most  blessed 

Mother  of  the  only  Son, 
Treiiibling,  grieving,  bosom  heaving, 
While  perceiving,  scarce  believing, 

Pains  of  that  Illustrious  One  ! 


U-- 


Quia  est  homo  <|iii  non  fli-ret, 
(-'liristi  matreni  si  viJeret 

In  tanto  supplicio  ? 
Quis  non  posset  contristari 
Piam  matrem  contemplari 

Dolentem  cum  filio  ? 


Who  the  man,  who,  calleil  a  brother. 
Would  not  weep,  saw  lie  Christ's  mother 

In  sueh  deep  distress  and  wild  ? 
Who  could  not  sad  tribute  render 
Witnessing  that  mother  tender 

Agonizing  with  her  child  ? 


-^ 


fl- 


316 


POEMS   OF  RELIGION. 


-^ 


Pro  peccatis  sufe  gentis, 
Vidit  Jesum  in  tormentis, 

Et  flagellis  subditum. 
Vidit  suum  dulcem  iiatvini, 
Morientem,  desolatuiii, 

Dum  emisit  spiiitum. 


Eia  mater,  fons  nmoris, 
Me  sentire  vim  doloris 

Fac,  ut  tecum  lugeam. 
Fao  ut  ardeat  cor  meum 
In  amando  Christum  Deum, 

Ut  illi  oomplaceam. 


Sancta  Mater,  istud  agas, 
Cruciiixi  fige  plagis 

Cordi  meo  valide. 
Tui  nati  vulnerati, 
Tam  dignati  pro  me  pati, 

Poenas  mecum  divide 

VII. 

Fac  me  vere  tecum  Here, 
Crucifixo  condolere. 

Donee  ego  vixero ; 
Juxta  crucem  tecum  stare, 
Et  tibi  me  sociare 

In  planctu  desidero. 


Virgo  virginum  praclara, 
Mihi  jam  non  sis  amara ; 

Fac  me  tecum  plangere; 
Fac  ut  portem  Christi  mortem, 
Passionis  fac  consortem, 

Et  plagas  recolere. 


Fac  me  plagis  vulnerari, 
Cruce  hac  inebriari, 

Et  cruore  filii  ; 
Inflammatus  et  aecensus. 
Per  te,  Virgo,  sim  defensus 

In  die  judicii. 


Fac  me  cruce  custodiri, 
Morte  Christi  priemuniri, 

Confoveri  gratia. 
Quando  corpus  niorietur, 
Fac  ut  auimse  donetur 

Paradisi  gloria. 


4. 

For  his  people's  sins  atoning. 
Him  she  saw  iu  torments  groaning, 

Given  to  the  scourger's  rod  ; 
Saw  her  darling  olfspriug  dying. 
Desolate,  forsaken,  crying, 

Yield  his  spirit  up  to  Uod. 


Make  me  feel  thy  sorrow's  power, 
That  with  thee  I  tears  may  shower. 

Tender  mothei',  fount  of  love  ! 
Make  my  heart  with  love  unceasing 
Burn  toward  Christ  the  Lord,  that  pleasing 

I  may  be  to  him  above. 


Holy  mother,  this  be  granted. 

That  the  slain  one's  wounds  be  planted 

Firmly  in  my  heart  to  bide. 
Of  him  wounded,  all  astounded  — 
Depths  unbounded  for  me  sounded  — 

All  the  pangs  with  me  divide. 


Make  me  weep  with  thee  in  union  ; 
'With  the  Crucified,  communion 

In  his  grief  and  suffering  give  ; 
Near  the  cross,  with  tears  unfailing, 
I  would  join  thee  in  thy  wailing 

Here  as  long  as  I  shall  live. 


Maid  of  maidens,  all  excelling  ! 
Be  not  bitter,  me  repelling  ; 

JIake  thou  me  a  mourner  too  ; 
Make  me  bear  about  Christ's  dying, 
Share  his  passion,  shame  defying  ; 

All  his  wounds  in  me  renew. 


Wound  for  wound  be  there  created  ; 
'With  the  cross  intoxicated 

For  thy  Son's  dear  sake,  I  pray  — 
May  I,  fired  with  pure  affection, 
Virgin,  have  through  thee  protection 

In  the  solemn  Judgment  Day. 

10. 
Let  me  by  the  cross  be  warded. 
By  the  death  of  Christ  be  guarded, 

Nourished  by  divine  sujiplies. 
■When  the  body  death  hath  riven. 
Grant  that  to  the  soul  be  given 

Glories  bright  of  Paradise. 


U^ 


Fra  Jacopone. 


f 


POEMS   OF  RELIGIOX. 


VENI    SANCTE    SPIRITtrS. 
1  the  tenth  century  by  Robeit  II.,  the  gentle  son  of  Hugh  Capet      It  is  often  i 


tinned  as  second  in  ranl^ 


Vexi,  Sancte  Spiritus, 
Et  eniitte  calitus 
Lucis  tuse  latlium. 


Come,  Holj-  Ghost !  thou  fire  duine  ! 
From  highest  heaven  on  us  doivn  shine  1 
Comforter,  be  thy  comfort  mine  ! 


Veni,  pater  pauperum, 
Veui,  dator  munerum, 
Veni,  lumen  cordium. 


2. 
Come,  Father  of  the  poor,  to  earth ; 
Come,  with  thy  gifts  of  precious  worth  ; 
Come,  Light  of  all  of  mortal  birth  ! 


Consolator  optime, 
Dulcis  hospes  animae, 
Dulce  refrigeriimi. 


Thou  rich  in  eomfoit  !     Ever  blest 
The  heart  where  thou  art  constant  gncst, 
Who  giv'st  tlie  liea%'y-laden  rest. 


In  labore  requies, 
In  iestu  temperies, 
In  fletu  solatium. 


Come,  thou  in  whom  our  toil  is  sweet, 
Our  shadow  in  the  noon-day  heat, 
Before  whom  mourning  flieth  fleet. 


0  lux  beatissima ! 
Reple  cordis  intima, 
Tuorum  fidelium. 


5. 

Bright  Sun  of  Grace  !  thy  .sunshine  dart 
On  all  who  cry  to  thee  apart. 
And  fiU  with  gladness  everv  heart. 


Sine  tuo  numine. 
Nihil  est  in  homine, 
Nihil  est  innoxium. 


Whate'er  without  thy  aid  is  wrought, 
Or  skillful  deed,  or  wisest  thought, 
God  counts  it  vain  and  merely  naught. 


Lava  quod  est  sordidum, 
Riga  quod  est  aridum, 
Sana  quod  est  sauciuni. 


0  cleanse  us  that  we  sin  no  more, 
O'er  parchW  souls  thy  waters  pour ; 
Heal  the  sad  heart  that  acheth  sore. 


Flecte  quod  est  rigidum, 
Fove  quod  est  frigidum, 
Eege  quod  est  devium. 


Thy  will  be  ours  in  all  our  ways  ; 
0  melt  the  frozen  with  thy  rays  ; 
Call  home  the  lost  in  error's  maze. 


Da  tuis  fidelibus, 
In  te  confidentibus, 
Sacrum  septenarium ; 


And  grant  us,  LoiiD,  who  cry  to  thee, 
And  hold  the  Faith  in  unity, 
Thy  precious  gifts  of  charity ; 


&-- 


X. 

Da  virtutis  meritum, 
Da  salutis  exitum, 
Da  perenne  gaudium  ! 
Robert  II..  ( 


10. 
Tliat  we  may  live  in  holiness, 
And  find  in  death  our  happiness. 
And  dwell  with  thee  in  lasting  bliss  ! 

CAl  MARINE  WINKWORTH, 


^ 


a^- 


318 


POEMS   OF  RELIGION. 


-^ 


[This  hymn,  one  of  the  r 
The  better  opLnion,  hovvc 
Century.] 


VENI   CREATOR   SPXRITUS. 


important  in  the  service  of  the  Latin  Church,  has  been  sometimes  attributed  to  the  Emperor  Charlemagne, 
inclines  to  Pope  Gregory  I.,  called  the  Great,  as  the  author,  and  fixes  its  orijjin  somewhere  in  the  Sixth 


Veni,  Creator  Spiritus, 
Mentes  tuorum  visita, 
Imple  superua  gratia, 
Quse  tu  oreasti  pectora. 


1. 
Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 
The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid. 
Come  visit  every  pious  mind, 
Come  pour  thy  joys  on  human  kind  ; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 
And  make  thy  temples  worthy  thee. 


Qui  diceris  Paraclitus, 
Altissimi  doiiuin  Dei, 
Fous  vivus,  ignis,  caritas, 
Et  spiritalis  unctio. 


0  source  of  uncreated  light. 
The  Father's  promised  Paraclete  ! 
Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire. 
Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire  ; 
Come,  and  thy  sacred  miction  bring, 
To  sanctify  us  while  we  sing. 


Tu  septiformis  munere, 
Dextrse  Dei  tu  digitus 
Tu  rite  promissum  Patria, 
Sennone  ditans  guttura. 


Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high. 

Rich  in  thy  seven-fold  energy  ! 

Thou  strength  of  his  almighty  h;iud, 

Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command! 

Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defense. 

Who  dost  the  gifts  of  tongues  dispense, 

And  crown'st  thy  gift  with  elotjuence  ! 


Accende  lumen  sensibus, 
Infimde  amoreni  cordibus, 
lufirraa  nostri  corporis 
Virtute  firmans  perpeti. 


Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts  ; 
But,  0,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts  ! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 
And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 
Then  lay  thy  hand  and  hold  'em  down. 


Hostem  repcllas  longius, 
Pacemque  dones  protinus : 
Ductore  sic  te  prievio 
Vitemus  omne  noxium. 


Chase  from  our  minds  th'  infernal  foe, 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow  ; 
And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  on  the  way. 


Per  te  sciamus  da  Patrem, 
Noscamus  attjue  Filium  ; 
Te  utriusque  Spirituui 
Credamus  omni  tempore. 

VII. 

Deo  Patri  sit  gloria 
Et  Filio  qui  a  mortuis 
Sun'exit,  ac  Paraclito, 
In  sseculonim  SEecula. 

ST.  Gregory  the  Great. 


Make  us  eternal  truths  receive. 
And  practice  all  that  we  believe ; 
Give  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father  and  the  Son  by  thee. 

7. 
Immortal  honor,  endless  fame. 
Attend  the  Almighty  Father's  name ; 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified, 
Wlio  for  lost  man's  redemption  died ; 
And  equal  adoration  be, 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  thee. 


la-- 


-^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  RELIGIOX. 


1.-^ 


B-- 


VEXILLA  REGIS. 

The  Royal  Banners  forward  go  ; 
The  cross  shines  forth  in  mystic  glow  ; 
Where  He  in  flesli,  our  Hesh  who  made, 
Our  sentence  bore,  our  ransom  jfaid  ; 

Where  deep  for  us  the  spear  was  dyed. 
Life's  torrent  rushing  from  his  side, 
To  wash  us  in  that  precious  flood 
Where  mingled  water  flowed,  and  blood. 

Fulfilled  is  all  that  David  told 

In  true  prophetic  song  of  old  ; 

Amidst  the  nations  God,  saith  he. 

Hath  reigned  and  triumphed  from  the  tree. 

0  Tree  of  Beauty  !  Tree  of  Light ! 
0  Tree  with  royal  purple  dight ! 
Elect  on  whose  triumphal  breast 
Those  holy  limbs  should  find  their  rest ; 

On  whose  dear  arms,  so  widely  flung, 
The  weight  of  this  world's  ransom  hung, 
The  price  of  human  kind  to  pay. 
And  spoil  the  Spoiler  of  his  prey  I 

0  Cross,  our  one  reliance,  hail ! 
This  holy  Passion-tide,  avail 
To  give  fresh  merit  to  the  saint, 
And  pardon  to  the  penitent. 

To  thee,  eternal  Three  in  One, 
Let  homage  meet  by  all  be  done  ; 
Whom  by  the  Cross  thou  dost  restore. 
Preserve  and  govern  evennore  ! 


SAVinrr,,  when  in  dust  to  thee 
Low  we  bend  the  adoring  knee  ; 
When,  repentant,  to  the  skies 
Scarce  we  lift  our  weeping  eyes,  — 
0,  by  all  thy  pains  and  woe 
Suffered  once  for  man  below. 
Bending  from  thy  throne  on  high, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 

By  thy  helpless  infant  years  ; 
By  thy  lil'e  of  want  and  tears  ; 
By  thy  days  of  sore  distress 
In  the  savage  wilderness  ; 
By  the  dread  mysterious  hour 
Of  the  insulting  tempter's  power,  - 
Turn,  0,  turn  a  favoring  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 


By  the  sacred  griefs  that  wept 
O'er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
By  the  boding  tears  that  flowed 
Over  Salem's  loved  abode  ; 
By  the  anguished  sigh  that  told 
Treacheiy  lurked  within  thy  fold,  — 
From  thy  seat  above  thy  sky 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 

By  thine  hour  of  dire  despair  ; 
By  thine  agony  of  prayer  ; 
By  the  cross,  the  nail,  the  thorn. 
Piercing  spear,  and  torturing  scorn  ; 
By  tlie  gloom  that  veiled  the  skies 
O'er  the  dreadful  sacrifice,  — 
Listen  to  our  humble  cry. 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 

By  thy  deep  expiring  groan  ; 
By  the  sad  sejailchral  stone  ; 
By  the  vault  whose  dark  abode 
Held  in  vain  the  rising  God  ! 
0,  from  earth  to  heaven  restored, 
Mighty,  reaseended  Lord,  — 
Listen,  listen  to  the  cry 
Of  our  solemn  litany  ! 

SIR   ROBERT  GRAN 


THE  HOLY  SPIRIT. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed. 
Sick  at  heart,  and  sick  in  heail. 
And  with  doubts  discomforteil. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep. 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  kecj). 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  Iiope  but  of  his  fees. 
And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill 
Has  or  none  or  little  skill. 
Meet  for  nothing  but  to  kill,  — 
Sweet  Spii-it,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  passing-bell  dotli  toll. 
And  the  Furies,  in  a  shoal. 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 


-^ 


[IJ- 


320 


POEMS  OF  HKUaiON. 


-a 


Wlu'ii  the  tiiimis  imw  Imrii  liliu', 

And  Uic  cimirnrtorN  iirc  low, 

Anil  Hull  imiiilKT  luorc  llinii  ln\i\ 

Sw,M'(   Spilil,   ,',.|lll'nlt    lllol 

W'hoii  111!'  prii'sl  his  last  liiilli  \>myn\. 
Ami  1  noil  lo  wlml  is  sniil 
liofimsr  luy  spi'iH'li  is  now  ilrciiyi'il, 
SwiH'l  Spiril,  I'liiiiloil  nw  ! 

WhoM.  Oinl  knows,  I  'ni  tost  iibont 
Kitlior  with  .losimir  or  iloiilit. 
Yot  Ivloio  tlio  j{lass  lio  out, 

Swri'l  .'^piiil,  .MMul'oit  nil'  I 

Wli.Mi  till'  ti'inpti'i'  nn>  imi-sn'tli 
Will.  111.,  sins  ol' nil  my  vonlli. 
Ami  luill'iliinins  im'  with  iinlnitli, 
Swi'i'l  Spirit,  i-omlorl  nic  ' 

\Vli,.n  llu'  ll.iim's.iml  lu'llisli  nios 
Krij;lil  niino  I'lirs,  ami  I'riiilit  miuo  oyi's, 
Ami  all  li'iTors  nic  surprise, 

Swoi'l  Spiril,  ooiiit'ort  \\\v  ! 

Wlu'ii  lliojmljjnuMil  is  ivvnilwl, 

All. I  lliMl  opcMii'il  wliioli  was  soalinl,  — 

Wli.il  to  tlu'o  1  havo  appoaloil, 

Swoi'l  Si.irit,  .•onil'.irt  u\v  ! 


O  riior  .'ti-riKil  dm.  !  wli.iso  pivsoiic,.  lirijjht 
All  spaoo  a.illi  o.'i'iipy,  all  motion  >;iii.lo  ; 
I'm-linnjjoil  tlirovijjli  timo's  all-iloviistatiiifiUijjlit ; 
'I'hon  only  (unl  !     'I'lioiv  is  no  (!inl  liosiilo  ! 
Ui'int;  aliovo  all  lu>inJ^! !     Tluvi'  in  ono  ! 
Whom  nono  ran  oompix'lu'ml,  ami  uoiic  oxploiv. 
Who  lill'st  oxistoiu'o  with  Wi ;/,«■(/' alouo  ; 
Kuihrai'inj;  all,  supporting,  niliii);  o'er  ! 
Iloing  whom  wo  oall  tioil  —  ami  know  no  more  ! 

In  its  suhlinii"  rosi'iurh,  philosophy 
May  n\i'asiiro  out  tho  ocean  ilcop,  —  n\ay  I'onnt 
'I'ho  samia  or  tho  sun's  rays,  —  l>nt  (loil  I  lor  Ihoo 
Tiu'ii'   is  no  woight   nov  moasuiv  ;  —  none  can 

mount 
I'l'  to  thy  uiystcrioa.     licasou's  brightest  spark, 
'I'liough  kin.Ucil  l>y  tl>y  light,  in  vain  \v<uiUl  try 
To  Inicc  thy  counsels,  inliuitc  ami  dark  ; 
And  thouglit   is   lost    crc    lli.nii;ht   can   soar   so 

high,  — 
K'cn  like  past  n\omcnts  in  ctcrnily. 

Thou  I'rom  primeval  nothingness  didst  call, 
Kirst  chaos,  then  existence  :    -  I.011I  I  on  thei 


Eternily  had  it»  f'ouiulation  ;  —  all 

Sprung" rortli  from  tliec,  of  light,  joy,  liarinony. 

Sole  origin  ;   -  all  lil'c,  all  beauty,  thine. 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create  ; 

Thy  splendor  tills  all  space  with  rays  divine  ; 

Thon  art,  niid  werl,  and  shalt  he  I     lilorioiin. 

Light -giving,  lile-sustiuuing  I'otciiliitc  ! 

'I'hy    chains    tlui     nnmeasnred    uiiivers..    sur- 
round ; 
I'pheld  by  tliee,  by  thee  iiispirc.l  willi  brciilh  ' 
'I'hon  tlie'beginniiig  with  the  cii.l  liasl  b..un.l, 
And  beanlil'uUy  nungled  life  and  deiilh  ! 
.\s  sparks  mount  upward  I'nmi  the  liery  bla/e. 
So  suns  arc  born,  so  worl.ls  spring  lorlh  I'r.im 

thee, 
And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 
Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
or  h.'avi'n's  bright  army  glillers  in  thy  jiraiso. 

A  million  torches,  lighted  by  Ihy  hand, 
Waiuhr  unwearied  through  tlie  blue  abyss  : 
They  own  Ihy  power,  accomplish  Ihy  coniniaml, 
All  giiv  with'lil'e,  all  elo.inent  with  i.lisa. 
What  sliall  we  call  tliein  I    Tyres  of  crystal  liglil, 
.\  glorious  company  of  golden  streams, 
l.auips  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright. 
Suns  lighting  systems  with  tlieir  Joyful  beams  ! 
Hut  thou  lo  Ihese  art  as  the  noon  lo  nighl, 

Yes  !  as  a  .Irop  of  water  in  the  sea. 
All  Ibis  magnilieeuce  ill  thee  is  lost ;  — 
What  ai,'  I.Mi  Ihousaii.l  worl.ls  compare.l  to  thee? 
An.l   ubal    am    /   th.ii  '      Heaven's  iiiimiiiibcred 

host. 
Thongli  imiltiplicd  by  myria.ls,  an.l  arrayed 
In  ali  the  glory  of  subliincsl  thonghl. 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  bahiiice  weighed 
.\gainst  thy  gix<aliies8,  —  is  u  cipher  brought 
Against  inlinity  !     What  am  /  then  ?     Naught  I 
Naught  !     lint  the  elllucuce  of  thy  light  divine, 
IVrvading  worlds,  lialh  reached  my  bosom  too  ; 
Yes,  '..    .«iy  spirit  doth  thy  spirit  shine. 
As  shines  the  smibeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 

Naught  f  but  1  live,  and  011  hope's  pinions  lly 
Kager  toward  thy  pivsence  ;  for  in  thee 
1  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell  ;  aspiring  high 
Kveii  to  the  throne  of  thy  divinity. 
1  am,  0  t5od  !  and  suivly  llioii  must  be  I 
Thou  art  !  directing,  guiding  all,  thou  art ! 
nirect  my  understanding  then  to  thee  ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart  ; 
Thougli  but  an  atom  mi.lst  iinmensity, 
Still  I  am  something,  fashioned  by  thy  haml. 
I  hold  a  middle  rank,  'twixt  heaven  an.l  .nrth. 
tin  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stiind. 
Close  to  the  ivalui  wheiv  nugels  have  their  birth, 
.Inst  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit  land  I 
'I'he  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me  ; 
In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 
.Vn.l  the  next  step  is  spirit  —  l>eity  ! 


4J-- 


^ 


f 


l'()KMH  0I<'  UKLiaiON. 


;i2i 


ii 


L 


I  can  (.•oitiiriiirjil  lliu  liglitiiiii/{,  fiml  am  duHt ! 
A  inon;iM:)i,  anil  h  hIuvo  ;  ii  wonii,  ii  t;iii|  ! 
Wlii:iic:(!  i-uiiio  I  lii.ii',  ami  liDW  ?  HO  iniirvuloiiHly 
<;i)MHlriii;li:il    iiiiil     rijiiceivcdf     IJlikiiowii!     tliin 

do.l 
\Avm  Hiin.-ly  tlirouj^li  hoiiid  liiglii;r  energy  ; 
Kor  Iroiii  iUoir  almji:  il  i;r)[i)i|  uii\.  Im  ! 
Cri'al.c>f,  yi;«  I     'I'liy  wIhiIoiij  ami  tijy  wonl 
OrwiUiil  7»,c/     'l')ioii  HOiiini;  of  lilV'  ami  (^ood  ! 
'I'tiou  Hjiirit  of  my  n|)irit,  ami  my  Lonl  ! 
'I'liy  IIkIiI,  lliy  love,  in  tin;  l;ii({lil  plcnitinlc;, 
Filli'il  Mi(;  witlj  im  immoital  kouI,  to  npring 
(>vc;r  tin;  aliyHit  of  ilwillj,  ami  liaili;  il,  woaf 
Till!  gaiim;ntH  of  utcinal  ilay,  ami  wing 
lit)  lii;avi:nly  fliglil  licyomi  Uiij  lillli)  biiIioid 
Kvi:n  1,0  it,H  KOili'cc,  —  to  tlii;i:,  its  iiiillioi-  llifru. 

O  Uiou)^litn  im;flaljl(! !     0  vi«ionH  lilrjut  ! 
TlioLigli  wiii11i1i;h»  our  i;om:i![jtion  all  of  lliwi, 
Vi;t  Hliall  lliy  nliiulowwl  ima;;o  fill  our  liraiMt, 
Ami  waft  il»  lioina;{i;  to  thy  l>i;ily. 
'ioil  !  lliuH  aloni!  my  lonuly  tlion;{lrln  ciui  Hour  ; 
'I'lniH  w.i-k  lliy  H7c;Honi;<!,  licinj;  vi'm:  ami  good  ; 
Miil;il  lliy  va«t  woiltH  ailniiio,  oln-y,  lulori!  ; 
Ami,  wlii'ii  llio  tongun  Ih  cloijucnt  no  more, 
Till;  Noiil  idiall  H]ii:ak  in  tears  of  gratitudo. 

Jirom  tlic  Kun^lnti  ii(  IJim;!tlAVrN, 

by  fjK,   ItOWKINC 


Tiior',  wlio  doHt  dwell  alom:  ; 
Tlioii,  wliodoHt  know  tliinft  own  ; 
'I'liou,  to  wlioni  nil  an;  known, 
Kioni  till-  i:radli;  to  tlic  gravd, — 
Siivi;,  f»,  Havi; ! 

Kroni  till:  worM'H  li;niptationB  ; 
Kroiii  IrilMilatiomt  ; 
From  lliat  (ii;ri;r;  anguinli 
Wlii:ri:in  wo  liinguiHli  ; 
I'Voin  lliat  torfior  diji;]) 
Wlir-ri:in  W(;  lii:  imli;i,-ji. 
Heavy  m  diatli,  cold  uh  tin;  grave,  — 
Have,  O,  nave  I 

When  thoHoul,  growing  eli-arer, 

Seen  God  no  nearer  ; 

When  the  donl,  mounting  higher, 

To  God  comeH  no  nigher  ; 

lint  the  areh-liend  I'ride 

MountB  at  her  Hide, 

Foiling  her  high  ernjirize, 

.Sealing  her  eagle  eyen. 

And,  when  »lie  lain  would  Koar, 

MakeH  idol»  t'j  ailore  ; 

Changing  the  pure  emotion 

Of  her  high  devotion, 


To  a  8kin-i|ei'|i  wnne 
Of  her  own  eloi|Ueiiee  ; 
.Strong  to  ilei'i'ive,  titrong  to  emdavc,  — 
Save,  (),  Have  I 

From  the  ingrained  hi»hioii 
Of  thin  wuilily  nature 
That  inaiH  thy  ereature  ; 
I'roni  grief,  lliat  in  hut  |«iHHion  j 
From  mirth,  that  Ih  hut  feigning; 
Fiom  learn,  that  bring  no  healing  ; 
I'lum  wild  and  weak  eonipliuning  ;  — 
Thine  old  ulrenglh  revealing, 
.Save,  O  Have  I 

From  doubt,  where  all  in  douMe, 
Where  wiHe  men  are  not  ntiong  ; 
Wlii;re  iiiimfort  turnn  to  Iroulile  j 
Where  jiihl  men  Hufler  wrong  ; 
Where  Borrow  treadB  on  joy; 
Where  Bweet  lliingB  B4)oneHt  eloy ; 
Where  liiithB  are  huill  on  iIiibI  ; 
Where  love  Ib  half  mlBlniBl, 
Ilungiy,  and  barren,  and  Bharp  uj)  the  hvu  ; 
O,  Hi,-l  UH  fri;e  ! 

O,  let  the  falne  dream  lly 
Where  our  hiek  bduIb  do  lie, 
Tonning  eonlinually. 
' ),  where  thy  voiie  doth  eoinc, 
Let  all  doiiblB  be  dumb  ; 
Let  all  worilB  U:  mild  ; 
All  Btrife  be  reeoneilcd  ; 
All  jiaim*  beguiled. 
Light  bring  no  blindnewi ; 
l.ovi!  no  unkindneBH; 
Knowledge  no  rain  ; 
Fear  no  undoing, 
I'rom  the  eriwlle  to  the  grave,  — 
Have,  0,  Have  ! 


MV  OOD,   I  LOVE  TUBE, 

Mv  God,  I  love  thee  I  not  bceaiwc 
I  hope  foi-  heaven  thereby; 

Nor  bceaUBe  thoHC  wlio  love  thee  not 
MiiBt  burn  eternally. 

Thou,  0  my  .leBUB,  thou  didnt  me 

L'|>on  the  eroBs  ernbraee  I 
For  me  didHt  bear  tlie  riailB  and  Bj«;ar, 

And  manifold  di«gra/;e. 

Ami  giiefH  and  tonncntx  numlKjrlcdo, 

A  ml  Bweat  of  agony. 
Yea,  death  itnelf,  -  and  all  for  one 

Tliat  WHH  thine  enemy. 


■^ 


^ 


322 


POEMS  OF  RELIGIOX. 


'*~Bi 


Then  why,  0  blessed  Jesus  Christ, 
Should  1  not  love  thee  well  ? 

Not  for  the  hope  of  winning  heaven, 
Nov  of  escaping  hell  ; 

Not  with  the  hope  of  gaining  aught, 

Not  seeking  a  reward  ; 
But  as  thyself  hast  loved  rae, 

0  everlasting  Lord  ! 

E'en  so  I  love  thee,  and  will  love. 
And  iu  thy  praise  will  sing,  ^ 

Solely  beeause  thou  art  my  God, 
And  mv  eternal  King. 


[Founded  < 


THE  NEW  JERUSALEM. 


riginal  c 

0  MOTHER  dear,  Jerusalem, 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end,  — 

Thy  joys  wlien  sluiU  I  see  ? 

0  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints  ! 

0  sweet  and  pleasant  soil  ! 
In  thee  no  sorrow  can  be  found. 

Nor  grief,  nor  cave,  nor  toil. 

No  dimly  cloud  o'erehadows  thee. 
Nor  gloom,  nor  darksome  night ; 

But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun. 
For  God  himself  gives  light. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stone, 

Thy  bulwarks  diamond-square, 
Thy  gates  are  all  of  orient  pearl,  — 

0  God  !  if  I  were  there  ! 

0  my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem  ! 

Thy  joys  when  shall  1  see  ?  — 
The  King  sitting  upon  thy  throne. 

And  tiiy  felicity ' 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  goodly  walks 

Continually  are  green, 
Where  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

Quite  through  the  streets  with  pleasing  sound 

The  Hood  of  life  doth  flow ; 
And  on  the  banks,  on  every  side, 

The  trees  of  life  do  gix)w. 

Those  trees  each  month  yield  ripened  fruit ; 
Forevermore  they  spring. 


And  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 
To  thee  their  honors  bring. 

Jerusalem,  GckI's  dwelling-place 

Full  sore  1  long  to  see  ; 
C>  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 

That  1  might  dwell  in  thee  ! 

I  long  to  see  Jerusalem, 

The  comfort  of  us  all  ; 
For  thou  art  fair  and  beautiful, — 

None  ill  can  thee  befall. 

No  candle  needs,  no  moon  to  shine, 

No  glittering  star  to  light ; 
For  Christ  the  King  of  Kighteousness 

Forever  shineth  bright. 

0,  passing  happy  were  my  state, 

Jlight  I  be  worthy  found 
To  wait  upon  my  God  and  King, 

His  praises  there  to  sound  I 

Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  1 

Thy  joys  fain  would  1  see  ; 
Come  quickly,  Lord,  and  end  my  grief, 

And  take  me  home  to  thee  ! 

DAviij  Dickson. 


DROP,   DROP,    SLOW  TEARS. 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears, 

And  bathe  those  beauteous  feet 
Which  brought  from  heaven 

The  news  and  prince  of  peace  ! 
Cease  not,  wet  eyes, 

His  mercies  to  entreat ; 
To  cry  for  vengeance 

Sin  doth  never  cease  ; 
In  your  deep  floods 

Drown  all  my  faults  and  fears  ; 
Nor  let  his  eye 

See  sin  but  through  my  tears. 

I'HINEAS  Fletch 


DARKIfESS  IS  THINNTNO. 

P.\RKXEs.<!  is  thinning  ;  shadows  are  reti-eating  ; 
Morning  and  light  are  coming  in  their  beauty  ; 
Suppliant  seek  we,  with  an  earnest  outcry, 
God  the  Almighty ! 

So  that  our  Master,  having  mercy  on  us, 
May  repel  languor,  may  bestow  salvation. 
Granting  us,  Father,  of  thy  loving-kindness 
Glorv  hereafter ! 


-^ 


e^- 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


323 


r^ 


This,  of  his  mercy,  ever-blessed  Godliead, 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Sjjirit,  give  us,  — 
Whom  through  the  wide  world  celebrate  forever 
Blessing  and  glory ! 


DELIGHT  IN  GOD. 

I  LOVE,  and  have  some  cause  to  love,  the  earth,  — 
She  is  my  Maker's  creature,  therefore  good  ; 

She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth  ; 
Slie  is  my  tender  nurse,  she  gives  me  food  : 
But  what 's  a  creature.   Lord,   comiiarcj  with 

thee? 
Or  what 's  my  mother  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air,  —  her  dainty  sweets  refresh 
My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me ; 

Her  shrill-mouthed  choir  sustain  me  with  their 

flesh, 

And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight  me  ; 

But  what 's  the  air,  or  all  the  sweets  that  she 

Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  to  thee  ? 

I  love  the  sea,  —  she  is  my  fellow-creature. 
My  careful  purveyor ;  slie  provides  me  store  ; 

She  walls  me  round  ;  she  makes  my  diet  greater ; 
She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign  shore  : 
But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with  thee. 
What  is  the  ocean  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey. 
Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye  ; 

Mine  eye,  by  contemplation's  great  attorney. 
Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky : 
But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared  to 

thee? 
Without  thy  presence,  heaven  's  no  heaven  to 


Without  tliy  presence,  earth  gives  no  refection  ; 

W^ithout  thy  presence,  sea  affords  no  treasure  ; 
Without  thy  presence,  air 's  a  rank  infection  ; 

Without  thy  presence,  heaven 's  itself  no  pleas- 
ure : 

If  not  possessed,  if  not  enjoyed  in  thee, 

Wliat  's  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heaven  to  mel 

The  highest  honors  that  the  world  can  boast 
Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire ; 

The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are,  at  most. 
But  dying  sparkles  of  thy  li\'ing  fire  ; 
The  loudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle  be 
But  nightly  glow-worms,  if  compared  to  thee. 

Without  thy  presence,  wealth  is  bags  of  cares  ; 
Wisdom  but  folly;  joy,  disquiet  —  sadness  ; 


Friendship  Is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares  ; 
Plea-sures  but  pain,  and  mirth   but  pleasing 

madness  ; 
Without  thee.  Lord,  things  be  not  what  they  be. 
Nor  have  their  being,  when  compared  with  thee. 

In  having  all  things,  and  not  thee,  what  have  I  ? 

Not  having  thee,  what  have  my  labors  got  ? 
Let  me  enjoy  but  thee,  what  further  crave  1  ? 

And  having  thee  alone,  what  have  1  not  ? 

I  wish  nor  sea  nor  land  ;  nor  would  I  be 

Possessed  of  heaven,   heaven   unpossessed  of 
thee ! 

FRANCIS  QUARLES. 


A  THANKSGIVING  FOR  HIS  HOUSE. 

LoKD,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell. 

Wherein  to  dwell ; 
A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 

Is  weather-proof. 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft  and  dry  ; 
Wliere  thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 

Hast  set  a  guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me  while  I  sleep. 
Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate. 

Both  void  of  state  ; 
And  yet  the  tlueshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  the  poor, 
Wlio  hither  come,  and  freely  get 

Good  words  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlor,  so  my  hall, 

And  kitchen  small  ; 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  little  bin, 
Wliich  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchi]>t,  unllead. 
Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  oi-  brier 

Make  me  a  fire, 
Close  by  whose  living  coal  I  sit. 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,  I  confess,  too,  when  I  dine, 

The  pulse  is  thine, 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  thee. 
The  worts,  the  purslain,  and  the  mess 

Of  water-cress. 
Which  of  thy  kindness  thou  hast  sent : 

And  my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  belove<l  beet. 

To  be  more  sweet. 
'T  is  thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth ; 
And  giv'st  me  wassail  bowls  to  drink, 
Spiced  to  the  brink. 


-S 


[&-* 


524 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


-^ 


Lord,  't  is  thy  plenty-dropping  liand 

Tliiit  sows  my  laiul  : 
All  this,  and  better,  dost  tliou  send 

iMe  for  tins  end  : 
Tliiit  1  shovild  render  for  my  jiart 

A  tlumUful  heart. 
Which,  tired  with  ineense,  I  resign 

As  wholly  thine  : 
But  tlie  acceptance  —  that  must  be, 

0  Lord,  by  thee. 


'WITH  WHOM  IS  NO   VARIABLENESS,    NEI- 
THER SHADOW  OF  TURNING." 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know- 
That,  though  I  perish.  Truth  is  so 
'I'hat,  liowsoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
Wliate'i'r  1  do.  Thou  dost  not  change. 
1  steadiei-  step  when  1  recall 
That,  if  1  slip,  Thou  dost  not  fall. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUCH. 


TWO  WENT  UP  TO  THE   TEMPLE  TO   PRAY. 

Two  went  to  pray  ?    0,  rather  say. 
One  went  to  brag,  the  other  to  pray ; 

One  stands  up  close  and  treads  on  high. 
Where  the  other  daros  not  lend  his  eye  ; 

Oue  nearer  to  God's  altar  trod, 
The  other  to  the  altar's  God. 

KICUAKD  CRASHAW. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE. 

Give  me  my  scallop-slicU  of  quiet. 

My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon ; 
My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet; 

My  bottle  of  salvation  ; 
My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gauge, 
And  tlius  I  '11  take  my  pilgrimage ! 
liloinl  MUist  be  mv  body's  'balmer, 
Nn  „tlicr  balm  will  tlicre  be  given  ; 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  nuiot  palmer, 
Traveleth  towards  the  land  of  Heaven, 
Over  the  silver  mount^iins 
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains. 
There  will  I  kiss  the  bowl  of  bliss, 
And  ilrink  mine  everlasting  lill 
LT^pon  every  milkeu  hill. 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before. 
But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 
Then  by  that  happy,  blissful  day. 
More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see. 


That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 

And  walk  appareled  fresh  like  me. 

I  '11  take  them  first  to  quench  their  thirst, 

And  taste  of  nectar's  suckets 

At  those  clear  wells  where  sweetness  dwells 

Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets. 

And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 

Are  tilled  with  immortality, 

Tlien  the  blest  paths  wc  'U  travel, 

Strewed  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel,  — 

Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  iloors, 

High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers. 

From  thence  to  Heaven's  bribelcss  hall, 

AVhere  no  corrupted  voices  brawl  ; 

No  conscience  molten  into  gold. 

No  forged  accuser,  bought  or  sold, 

No  cause  deferred,  no  vain-spent  journey, 

For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  Attorney  ; 

Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees. 

And  ho  hath  angels,  but  no  fees  ; 

And  when  the  grand  twelve-million  jury 

Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury, 

'Gainst  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 

Christ  pleads  his  death,  and  then  wo  live. 

Be  thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader, 

Unblotted  lawyer,  true  prooeeder  ! 

Thou  giv'st  salvation  even  for  alms,  — 

Not  with  a  bribed  lawyer's  palms. 

And  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 

To  Him  that  made  lieaven,  earth,  and  sea, 

That,  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon. 

Ami  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon. 

Just  at  the  stroke  when  my  veins  start  and  s[)read, 

Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head  : 

Then  am  I,  like  a  palmer,  fit 

To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  1  writ. 

Of  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell, 

Who  oft  doth  think,  must  lU'cds  die  well. 


A  TRUE  LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast.  —  to  keep 
Tlie  larder  lean. 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  vet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish  \ 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour. 
Or  rag'il  to  go. 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour  ? 


-^ 


f 


I'UKMS  UF  RELIGION. 


^^ 


No  !  't  is  a  fast  to  dole 

Tliy  sheaf  of  wheat, 
And  meat, 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate 
And  liate,  — 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent ; 
To  starve  thy  sin. 
Not  bin,  — 
And  that 's  to  keeii  thy  Lent. 


A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

Long  pored  St.  Austin  o'er  the  .sacn.'d  jiage, 

And  doubt  and  darkness  overspread  his  mind  ; 
On  God's  mysterious  being  thought  the  .Sage, 

The  Triple  Person  in  one  Godhead  joiiieil. 

The  more  he  thought,  the  harder  did  lie  find 
To  solve  the  various  doubts  which  fast  a  lose  ; 

And  as  a  ship,  caught  by  imperious  wind. 
Tosses  where  chance  its  shattered  body  throws. 
So  tossed  his  troubled  soul  and  nowliere  found 
repose. 

Heated  and  feverish,  then  he  closed  his  toine. 

And  went  to  wander  by  the  ocean-side, 
Where  the  cool  breeze  at  evening  loved  to  come, 

Murmuring  responsive  to  the  murmuring  tide  ; 

And  as  Augustine  o'er  its  maigent  wide 
Strayed,  deeply  pondering  the  puzzling  theme, 

A  little  child  before  him  he  espied  : 
In  earnest  labor  did  the  urchin  seem, 
Working  with  heart  intent  close  by  the  sounding 
stream. 

He  looked,  and  saw  the  child  a  hole  had  scooped, 

Shallow  and  narrow  in  the  shining  sand. 
O'er  which  at  work  the  laboring  infant  stoojied. 

Still  pouring  water  in  with  busy  hand. 

The  saint  addressed  the  child  in  accents  bland  : 
"Fair  boy,"  quoth  he,  "I  pray  what  toil  is  thine? 

Let  me  its  end  and  purpose  understand." 
The  boy  replied  :   ' '  An  easy  task  is  mine, 
To  sweep  into  this  hole  all  the  wide  ocean's  brine. " 

"  0  foolish  boy  !  "  the  saint  e.xclaimed,  "to  hope 
That  the  broad  ocean  in  that  hole  should  lie  !  " 

"  0  foolish  saint ! "  e.xclaimed  the  boy  ;  "thyscope 
Is  still  more  hopeless  than  the  toil  I  ply. 
Who  think'st  to  comprehend  God's  nature  high 

In  the  small  compass  of  thine  human  wit  ! 
Sooner,  Augustine,  sooner  far,  shall  I 

Confine  the  ocean  in  this  tiny  pit. 

Than  finite  minds  conceive  God's  nature  infinite  ! " 

ANONYMOUS. 


I  WOULD  I  WERE  AN  EXCELLENT  DIVINE  — 

I  WOULD  I  were  an  excellent  divine 
That  had  the  Bible  at  my  fingers'  ends  ; 

That  men  might  hear  out  of  this  mouth  of  mine 
How  God  doth  make  his  enemies  liis  friends  ; 

liather  than  with  a  thundering  and  long  prayer 

Be  led  into  presumption,  or  despair. 

This  would  I  be,  and  would  none  other  be, 
I5ut  a  religious  servant  of  my  God  ; 

Anil  know  there  is  none  other  God  but  he. 
And  willingly  to  suffer  mercy's  rod,  — 

Joy  in  his  gi-ace,  an<l  live  but  in  his  love, 

And  seek  my  bliss  Init  in  the  world  al>ove. 

And  I  would  frame  a  kind  of  faithful  prayer. 
For  all  estates  within  the  .stite  of  grace. 

That  careful  love  might  never  know  despair, 
Nor  servile  fear  miglit  faithful  love  deface  ; 

And  this  would  I  botli  day  and  night  devise 

To  make  my  humble  spirit's  exercise.    . 

And  I  would  reaii  the  rules  of  sacred  life  ; 

I'ersuade  the  troubled  soul  to  patiiMice  ; 
The  husband  care,  and  comfort  to  tlie  wife. 

To  child  and  servant  due  obedience  ; 
Faith  to  the  friend,  and  to  the  neiglilior  ]icace. 
That  love  might  live,  and  cjuarrels  all  might  cease. 

Prayer  for  the  health  of  all  that  are  iliseased. 
Confession  unto  all  that  are  convicted. 

And  patience  unto  all  that  are  disjilrased. 
And  comfort  unto  all  that  are  afilicted. 

And  mercy  unto  all  that  have  olfended. 

And  grace  to  all,  that  all  may  be  amended. 


DUM  VRTMUS,   VIVAMUS. 

"  Live  while  you  live  !  "  the  epicure  would  say, 
"  And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day  !  " 
"  Live  while  you  live  !  "  the  sacred  I'reacilier  cries, 
"And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies  ! " 
Lord,  in  my  view  let  botli  united  be, 
I  live  in  jileasure  while  1  live  to  thee. 

Philip  doddridc.e. 


ADAM'S  MORNING  HYMN  IN  PARADISE. 

Thkse  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of  good. 
Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame. 
Thus  wondrous  fair  ;  thyself  how  wondrous  then 
Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens 
To  us  invisible,  or  ilimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works  ;  yet  these  declare 
Thv  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  jiower  divine.        T 

^ ^\ 


tt-J- 


32(5 


J'OK.\IS  OF  RKLIGJON. 


Spj^vk,  yo  \vlu>  Ih'sI  oim  toll,  yo  sous  of  li)?l\t, 
Aiijp'ls  i  IW  .vii  IhOikW  hiiii,  »iul  with  sonjjs 
AhiI  olioml  s_viu|>h»uii<s,  tiny  without  uijtht, 
Oiivli>  liis  tlnvuo  ivjoii-iuj; ;  yo  in  lloiivru, 
t*\>  «»tl>  join,  :ill  yo  I'lviilui^vs,  to  oxiol 
lliiu  lii'st,  Uini  b\st,  liiui  iiiiilsl,  i\iul  witliout  oml. 
Kivii-iwt  ol'stins,  \i\st  ill  tlio  Iniiu  vvfui^lit, 
\f  Ivttof  thou  Ih'Ivuijj  not  to  tlio  iliiwu, 
Suiv|>h'ilj;i\'otMt>Y,  thut  oixiwu'sl  the  siuiliuj;  luoru 
With  thy  hrijjht  oitvUit,  juuiso  him  iu  thy  sultoiv, 
Whilo  liny  rti'isos,  thut  swoot  liom-  of  i>iii\>o, 
Thou  suu,  of  this  jji^'^tt  woiiil  Initli  oyo  luul  soul, 
Aokuovvh',li!x>  him  thy  )t''<'«l>'i'  i  souinl  his  ju'iiiso 
In  thy  i'toi'n«\  oovu'so,  both  whon  thou  i'liml>'st. 
And  wlion  hijjh  i\oon  hiist  gjvinod,  ivml  \v1\im\  tliv>u 

fnll'st, 
Moo\>,  thut  now  uu'ots  tho  oriont  sun,  now  lliost, 
W'itlt  tho  HxihI  stivis,  tixoil  iu  thoir  orh  tlvut  lliivs, 
Aiul  y<>  livo  othor  wmuloiinj;  liivs  thut  inovo 
Iu  mystio  »l«Ui-<>  not  without  soiij;,  i\\soui\il 
Mis  (imiso,  who  o\tt  of  vhukuoss  oidhnl  \ii>  light. 
Air,  and  yo  oh>inonts,  tho  ohlost  hiith 
l>f  N!\tui~<''s  womK  thut  in  unutoiuion  nut 
IVi'iiotuul  oiivlo,  uuiltifoiiu,  und  mix 
Au>l  nourish  «ll  thiujp!,  lot  your  owisoloss  oluu\g» 
Y»ry  to  our  i;i\\\t  Mukov  still  now  jni»isiv 
Yi>  \uists  uuil  oxhrtlutious,  thut  t\ow  viso 
Kivui  hill  ov  stoumiuj;  luko,  ilusky  or  grsty. 
Till  llio  sun  jviinl  your  lUvoy  skirts  with  j^ihl. 
In  honor  to  tho  world's  i;>vut  Author  riso, 
Whothor  to  ihvk  with  olouds  tho  unooloivil  sky, 
t>r  wot  tho  thirsty  iMith  with  fuUins  showoi's, 
Kisiujj  or  fullius,  still  uilvauvv  his  uraistv 
llisiH'!Us«\yow»uils,  thut  l\vn\  four  miartors Wow, 
U>\>!>thosoftorloud  ;  uiul  wuvoyonrtoiv^.  yo\nui>s. 
With  ovory  plant,  iu  sij;i>  of  worship  wuvo. 
Kountains,  un>l  yo  that  wavhlo,  as  yo  How, 
MoUniious  in\irn\ui's,  wuvhliuj;  t\iuo  his  imiistv, 
,loii>  voii'ivs,  all  yo  livinjj  s\>uls  ;  yo  l>ii\ls, 
Thut  siu^i'iu^j'  m>  to  lloiwou-jrulo  asoouil, 
l>oi>v  on  your  wiujis  ami  iii  your  uolivs  his  jiraiso. 
Yo  that  in  wutoi-s  j;li>lo,  ami  yo  thut  wulk 
Tho  w\rtl\,  auil  statoly  ti>>)\d,  or  lowly  oivoiv 
Witiu<ss  if  I  tH>  silont,  morn  or  ovon. 
To  hill  or  vulloy,  t'ouututn  or  tWsh  shudo, 
Mudo  vwul  hy  u\y  sons;,  uud  tuvijtht  his  prtus<\ 
lluil,  rinivorsul  l.oixl  !  Ki  Ivnutoous  still 
To  )jiv<>  us  only  gvHnl ;  and  if  tho  i\i);ht 
Have  j;!st1ioivd  attj»ht  of  ovil,  or  oouowUihI, 
Pisiwrso  it,  as  iu»w  %ht  disiwla  tJ>o  dark, 

Maixw 


I  j(o  to  I'huivli  ;  hoi)!  mo  to  wings,  und  1 
Will  thithor  llio; 
Oi,  if  I  m.'iml  uiilo  tho  skio. 
1  Mill  do  moiv, 

Man  is  all  woukiiosso  :  thoiv  is  no  suoh  thiiii; 
As  Primo  or  Kin;;  : 
His  urui  is  short  ;  vol  with  u  slinjc 
Ho  may  do  uuuv. 

A  horh  dosiillod,  aiul  drunk,  nn>y  dwoll  noxt  iloor»i. 
Oh  tho  Siuuo  llooi-ii. 
To  u  Imwo  soul  ;  V'.xult  tho  jvooiv, 
Thoy  oun  ilo  i\ioiv, 

0,  raiso  mo  I  lion  I  (looiv  hoos,  that  Wvuk  uU  day, 
Stiuj;  my  doluy. 
Who  havo  a  work,  us  woU  us  thoy. 
And  mnoh,  muoh  moiv. 

v'.llOKC.ti   UtlKltUKr. 


TRAISK, 


6-- 


To  writo  a  vors<<  or  two  is  all  tho  praiso 
Thut  I  oau  Riiso  ; 
Moud  my  ostato  in  suiy  way<>s. 
Thou  slialt  havo  numv 


IU'  1111.1.. 

PoKs  tho  ixwd  wind  u|>  hill  all  ilio  way  f 

)'i\«,  lo  the  ivri;  i-ik^. 
AVill  tho  day's  jonnM<y  tnko  tho  wholo  louj;  duy  ( 

fSvm  movH  lo  itij/A/,  wji  t'rir'O't, 

Hut  is  thoi"p  for  tho  nijjht  a  ivstiujM>luoo  ? 

.•\  ivof  for  whon  llio  slow  dark  luuu's  hoijin  I 
May  not  tho  ilurknoss  hido  it  flvm  my  faoo  t 

I'oM  MWiurf  mi'.**  thill  inn. 

Shall  I  moot  othor  wayfaiws  ut  tiight  I 

ThiKirf  ii'Ai"  Amy  ijinie  Ix'/my, 
Thon  mu»t  I  kuook,  or  oull  whon  just  iu  sijtht  t 

Thi'ji  trill  mil  Aw;i  j/oii  aliimlini)  lU  thai  </<>i>r. 

Shall  1  tiud  oomfort,  travol-aow  and  w<x\k  • 

ti'"/,iNir  jA'M  shall  ^tinil  thf  sum. 
Will  thoiv  1h>  liods  for  mo  and  all  who  aook  • 

JVi»,  MisjW  (til  N'Ao  cxmit. 

CHKlSriN*  0.  ROSSItTTl 


T»K  riUUAR  OF  THE  Oa.OU». 

l.KAl<,  kindly  l.isl't.  umid  tho  ouoiivliuu  gloom, 

l.<>ad  thou  mo  on  ! 
Tho  nijjht  is  dark,  aud  I  uiu  fur  fivm  homo,    - 

l.<>)>d  thou  mo  on  ! 
Koo|i  thou  my  t'wt  ;  1  do  iu>t  ivsk  to  soo 
Tlio  distiiut  soouis  —  ouo  sto{>  onough  for  uio, 

I  was  not  ovov  thus,  nor  ju-ayivl  thut  thou 

SliouUlst  l«ul  mo  on  ; 
1  lovwl  to  ohoivso  and  soo  mj'  jvitli.  l>ut  now 

l.i-jid  thou  mo  on  V 


.  FT. 


I'OKMH  OF  TiELKHON. 


— a 

327 


43-.- 


I  U/yw]  tb<!  garisli  <ljiiy,  aii'l,  >i\i\tt:  of  hitin, 
Vi'uiK  rulwl  my  will  ;  iimtumUn  wA  jast  yftais, 

H<i  hmjf  tliy  iM^WftC  Jjath  Uisiw:'!  i(i<;,  »ijr<:  it  still 

Will  U-M  m>t  on  ; 
O'er  ;ii<></r  afcl  fijii,  o'er  ';iaf{  ami  t'/ri<;iit,  till 

'I'll";  i)i({l)t  is  ({f;ii«  i 
Arul  witlj  tl)<;  luijiii  ihiiai:  aij;{<:l  Uf-m  niM't 
Whicli  I  liav<;  \iiviA  \iiun  »i;i<x-,  sn<l  l/wt  awldl*. 


TllOf  wlwjic  swwt  youth  and  i;arly  l)0|/<«  i^uUmuji 
Thy  rat";  ami  j;ri'«,  aii'l  luaik  llux  loi  a  t/i;a«ui':, 
Hea)k«ii  urjl^;  a  Vi-iv.-r,  who  tuny  cliaiiw 
Khy;;i<;  th<;':  l<<  !i'>'><i,  aii'i  makft  a  l^it  ol  j/li«if>U)<;  ; 
A  vi:i»<:  may  (iii'l  him  who  a  sx.-iido/i  IVh:* 
Awl  tuui  "li!li;{ht  inUi  a  sa/.i ili'i,-. 

When  th</u 'lout  [/iir;c/»'j  aught  f within  thy  l/jww), 
He  sure  t^i  <loe  it,  tJiou;{h  it  Ix;  hut  small ; 
'.'onsta/ii.-ix:  knits  tin;  ifiMH,  an'l  niake  u»  sst/ywre, 
WJifcn  want/^n  |/l(-<i»iiie»  \itxliim  ua  i/i  thrall, 
Whohr'«ik»hi)iown  l«/n'i,  foH'elt';th  hini«';lf : 
What  nature  nimUt  a.  iship,  he  n/ake»  a  thelf. 

IJy  all  mean*  uw;  ^jnietlmeii  fj  U;  alone, 
Halut/:  Ihyw;!!' :  W;/;  wlwt  thy  w^ul  iiiA\i  wear, 
iJare  Ut  look  in  thy  ehest ;  (or  't  is  thine  own  ; 
An-l  tiirnhle  up arwl  'lown  wliat  thou  fliul'st  tli*re. 
Who  eann/it  rest  till  he  jiixA  fellows  fiu'l/;, 
He  hr'ake  up  houw;,  turns  out  of  il'jtireis  hi» 
min'h;, 

I  n  elotlnni,  eh'rfi(i  han(la//rnen'rt!W;'loth  J)<;3rthe  lx;ll. 
Wiwio/ne '»  a  trimmer  thing  than  shoj)  e'er  gave, 
Kay  not  then,  '('hl»  v^ith  that  hn/w  will  <!</  well  ; 
IJut,  This  with  my  'lii/iietion  will  \ie  brave, 

Mueli  curloiniitcss':  is  a  j)<!r|«;tijal  w<><jing  ; 

Nothing,  with  lalwr  ;  folly,  long  a  doing. 

When  one;  thy  fo<;t  enters  tl»e  eliurch,  \f:  Ijare, 
Go<l  i»  more  there  tlian  thou  ;  for  thou  art  tWe 
Only  hy  hi»  i«;rnus«ion.     Then  l,>eware, 
And  make  thyw;!)  all  reverenr*  and  f<s»r. 

Kne>;ling  ne'er  ni/iAUA  hilk  fct'>':kings  ;  quit 
thy  Ktate ; 

All  wjual  are  within  tie;  ehurch's  gat':, 

lUtivirt  u>  Harmons,  but  to  prayent  numt : 
Praying '»  the  en<l  of  pre3<;hing,     O,  Jx;  drest ! 
Stay  not  for  th'  oth<;r  pin  ;  why  thou  ha»!t  lost 
A  joy  for  it  worth  worhk,     Tlius  hell  doth  jest 
Away  thy  hlcssingu,  and  extremely  flout  th';*;. 
Thy  clothes  b<;)Dg  ti»t,  but  thy  tsoul  loow; 
ab<jut  thi«. 


,/u/lge  not  the  prea/;her  ;  for  he  is  thy  judge  ; 
If  thou  mi»like  him,  thou  wn<«iv'et  him  not, 
Oo<l  ealleth  pri«i';hing  folly,  IJo  not  grudge 
'I'o  pick  out  treasunas  from  an  eartlien  yA. 

Th<;  worst  »p<aik  li'^mething  go*/*!  ;  if «//  want 
»<;n»e, 

(i'M  tak<ai  a  t<;xl,  and  prea/;heth  \iHl'u:iiit:. 


AKCIK.NT  IIVMW, 

Aur  thou  wrairy,  art  thou  Languiil,  art  thou  w/ie 

dislr'^t  I 
"','ome  U/  III':,"  isalth  On*  —  anil,  "  ijumiui^, 

IJ<;  at  r<»it  I  " 
Math  he  njark  ii>  lea<l  me  to  him  —  if  \t):  Ix:  my 

gui<le  ? 
(n  hi«  (<*t  and  bands  are  wound-prints, 

And  hi«  side. 
Is  tli/;rediajlem,  sm  iif^nareh,  tliat  hU  browadof  ns '. 
y<,-:i ;  a  erown,  In  very  surety,  — 

IJut  of  thorns ! 
If  I  fln<l  him,  if  I  follow,  wliat  bus  gu<;r<lon  here  f 
Many  a  wyr/ow,  many  a  lalwr, 
Many  a  t'-ar ! 
[  If  I  still  hold  fdowdy  U,  him,  wliat  hath  he  at  la»t  ( 
'fy^irow  yan<|uish<-j|,  lal(or  end'yl, 
'  .lor'tan  \iMvA  '. 

If  I  ask  him  to  re';"ive  me,  will  lie  »ay  me  nay  ' 
Not  till  Mrth,  and  not  till  h'OiVviL, 

Pass  away  1 
Tending,  following,  keeping,  struggling,  is  h- 

sure  t/;  bless  ? 
Angels,  jnartyrs,  prophets,  pilgrir/ui, 
Answer  "  Yes!" 


TO  HEAVEH  AVVl'JlKCHRD  A  BUKI  KAINT, 

To  heaven  app;'^;h";'l  a  Sufi  Haint, 
Kjom  groj<iiig  in  the  darkness  lat<:, 

And,  tapping  timidly  and  faint, 
IJesought  admission  at  Oo<rs  gat«. 

Bai/1  O'xl,  "  Wlio  8<:ftk»  Ui  '-.nit'i  iu-.n  ? " 
"'T  is  I,  d<«ir  Kriend,"  the  fiaint  replii;-!. 

And  trembling  mueh  with  hojx;  and  tear. 
"  If  it  Ix;  <A//M,  withfjut  abi/le," 

Ba/lly  t/i  earth  the  jxytr  Saint  tarru-A, 
To  bear  the  scourging  of  life's  ro<l«; 

i'ut  aye  his  heart  within  him  yfarnwi 
To  mix  and  l'/s<;  it«  h,ive  in  Ood'e, 

He  TimmiA  alone  through  W';ary  years, 
/)y  (flTwl  men  still  tvurmvA  and  m'x;ked, 

1,'nlil  from  faith's  pure  fires  and  t^ars 
Again  he  ro«e,  and  rnfld<«t  )itiiji:k<A. 


-5 


a- 


S2S 


FUEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


-ft 


y- 


A  i!iud  GoJ,  "Who  now  is  at  the  door?" 

"It  is  thyself,  bolovSd  Lord," 
Answeied  the  Saint,  in  doubt  no  more, 

Rnt  clasped  and  rapt  in  his  reward. 

Iromtlic  Persian  of  DSCIIELLALEDDIN  RuMI. 
by  WIT.I.IAM  K.  ALGHR 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  llaiuu  ! 
I  Juit,  0,  quit  this  mortid  frame ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  Hying, 
0,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying  ! 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife. 
And  let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

Hark  !  they  whisper  ;  angels  say. 
Sister  spirit,  come  away  ! 
■\Vhat  is  this  absorbs  me  quite  ? 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight. 
Drowns  toy  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes  ;  it  disappears  ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes !  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  !  I  mount !  I  fly ! 
0  Grave !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

0  Death  !  whore  is  thy  sting  ? 

ALUXANDHK   POPE. 


0  God  !  though  sorrow  bo  my  fate. 
And  the  world's  hate 

For  my  heart's  faith  pursue  me, 
My  peace  they  cannot  take  away ; 
From  day  to  day 

Thou  dost  anew  imbue  me  ; 
Thou  art  not  far  ;  a  little  while 
Tliou  liiil'st  thy  face  with  brighter  snulo 

Thy  father-love  to  show  nie. 

Lord,  not  my  will,  but  thine,  bo  done ; 
If  1  sink  down 

When  men  to  terrors  leave  me. 
Thy  father-love  still  warms  my  breast ; 
All 's  for  the  best ; 

Shall  man  have  power  to  grieve  me, 
When  bliss  eternal  is  my  goal. 
And  thou  the  keeper  of  my  soul. 

Who  never  will  deceive  me  ' 

Thou  art  my  shield,  as  saith  the  Word. 
Christ  Jesus,  Lord, 

Thou  standest  pitying  by  me, 


And  lookest  ou  each  grief  of  mine 
And  if  't  were  thine  : 

What,  then,  though  foes  may  try  me, 
Thougli  thorns  be  in  my  path  concealed  ! 
World,  do  thy  worst  !  God  is  my  shield ! 

And  will  be  ever  nigh  me. 

Tranblalcd  from  MAUV,  (JuliHN  OF  HUNGARY. 


PER  PACEM   AD   LUCEM. 

I  DO  not  ask,  0  Lord,  that  life  may  bo 

A  pleasant  road ; 
I  do  not  ask  that  thou  wouldst  take  from  me 

Aught  of  its  load  : 

I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 

Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know'  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only.  Lord,  dear  Lord,  I  plead. 

Lead  me  aright  — 
Though  strength  should  falter  aiul  though  heart 
should  bleed  — 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

I  do  not  ask,  0  Lord,  that  thou  sliouldst  shed 

Full  radiance  here  ; 
Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 

Without  a  fear. 

I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand. 

My  way  to  see  ; 
Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  thy  hand, 

And  follow  thee. 

.Joy  is  like  restless  day  ;  but  peace  divine 

Like  quiet  night ; 
Lead  ine,  O  Lord  —  till  perfect  day  shall  shine  — 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

ADELAIDE  A.    PkOCTER. 


THE  MARTYRS'  HYMN. 

Fluno  to  the  heedless  winds, 

Or  on  the  waters  cast, 
The  martyrs'  ashes,  watched. 

Shall  gathered  be  at  last  ; 
And  from  that  scattered  dust, 

Around  us  and  abroail. 
Shall  spring  a  plenteous  seed 

Of  witnesses  for  CJod. 

The  Father  hath  received 
Their  latest  living  breath  ; 

And  vain  is  Satan's  boiust 
Of  victory  in  their  death  ; 


-^ 


POEMS   OF  RELiaiOK. 


—-a 


Still,  still,  though  dead,  they  speak, 
And,  tninipet-tongued,  proclaim 

To  many  a  wakening  land 
The  one  availing  name. 

Frujii  the  Gcnnun  of  Martin  LUTHER, 
by  W.  J.  Fox 


THE  FIGHT  OV  FAITH. 

[The  author  of  lliis  poem,  one  of  the  victims  of  the  persecuting 
Iciuy  VI II..  was  burnt  to  death  at  Sniithfield  in  J546.  It  was  niade 
md  sun);  by  her  wliilc  a  prisoner  in  Newyatc,] 

Like  as  the  ai-med  Knighte, 
Appointed  to  the  tielde,  ' 

With  this  world  wil  1  light. 
And  faith  shal  be  my  .shildc. 

Faith  is  that  wea]jon  stronge, 
Which  wil  not  faile  at  nede  ; 
My  foes  therefore  amonge. 
Therewith  wil  1  jiioL-ede. 

As  it  is  had  in  .strengthe, 
And  forces  of  Christes  waye, 
It  wil  prevaile  at  lengthe. 
Though  all  the  devils  saye  naye. 

Faithe  of  the  fathers  olile 
OlitainW  right  witness. 
Which  makes  me  veiye  bolde 
To  fear  no  worldes  distress. 

I  now  rejoice  in  harte, 
And  hope  bides  me  do  so  ; 
For  Christ  wil  take  my  part, 
And  ease  me  of  my  wo. 

Thou  sayst,  Lord,  whoso  knocke, 
To  them  wilt  thou  attemle  ; 
Undo,  therefore,  the  locke. 
And  thy  stronge  power  sende. 

More  enemies  now  I  have  ! 

Than  hceres  upon  my  head  ; 
Let  them  not  me  deprave. 
But  fight  thou  in  my  steade. 

On  thee  my  care  J  cast. 
For  all  their  cruell  spight ; 
I  set  not  by  their  hast, 
For  thou  art  my  delight. 

I  am  not  .she  that  list 
My  anker  to  let  fall 
Foi-  every  dri.slinge  mist ; 
My  shippe's  substancial. 

Kot  oft  I  use  to  Wright 
In  prose,  nor  yet  in  ryme  ; 
Yet  wil  1  shewe  one  sight, 
That  I  sawe  in  my  time  : 


I  sawe  a  royall  throne. 
Where  Justice  sliulde  have  sitte  ; 
But  in  her  steade  was  One 
Of  moody  cruell  witte. 

Alisorpt  was  lightwisness. 
As  by  the  raginge  floude  ; 
Sathan,  in  his  excess, 
Suete  up  the  guiltlesse  bloude. 

Then  thought  I,  —  .Jesas,  Lordo, 
Wlien  tliou  sh.alt  judge  us  all, 
Hardc  is  it  to  recorilc 
On  these  men  what  will  fall. 

Yet,  Lorde,  I  thee  desire, 
For  that  tliey  doe  to  me. 
Let  thi'm  not  taste  the  hire 
Of  their  iniijuitie. 


HOW  LONG? 

My  God,  it  is  not  fretfulness 
That  makes  me  .say,  "  How  long  ? " 

It  is  not  heaviness  of  heart 
That  hinders  me  in  song  ; 

'T  is  not  despair  of  truth  and  right, 
Nor  coward  dread  of  wrong. 

But  how  can  I,  with  such  a  hope 

Of  glory  and  of  home. 
With  such  a  joy  before  my  eyes, 

Not  wi.sh  the  time  were  come,  — 
Of  years  the  jubilee,  of  days 

The  Sabbath  and  the  sum  ? 

These  years,  what  ages  they  liave  been  ! 

This  life,  how  long  it  seems  ! 
And  how  can  I,  in  evil  days, 

.Mid  unknown  hills  and  streams. 
But  sigh  for  tho.se  of  home  and  heart. 

And  visit  them  in  dreams  ' 

Yet  peace,  my  heart,  and  hu.sh,  my  tongue  ; 

Be  calm,  my  troubled  breast ; 
Each  restless  hour  is  ha.stening  on 

The  everlasting  rest  : 
Thou  knowest  that  the  time  thy  God 

Appoints  for  thee  is  best. 

Let  faith,  not  fear,  nor  fretfulness. 

Awake  the  cry,  "  How  long?" 
Let  no  faint-heartedness  of  soul 

I).inip  thy  a.spiring  .song: 
Right  comes,  truth  dawns,  the  night  departs 

Of  error  and  of  wrong. 

HOKA'irCS   BONAR. 


& 


[& 


330 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


--q- 


ON   HIS  BLINDNESS. 

When  1  consider  how  my  light  is  siiciit 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to  hide, 
l^odged  with  me  useless,  though  my  sonl  more 
beut 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?" 
1  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  ta  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  woi-k  or  his  own  gifts  ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best  :  his 
state 

Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed. 
Anil  post  o'er  laud  and  ocean  without  rest  ; 
Tlioy  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


SAID  I  NOT  SO? 

S.\iii  I  not  so,  — that  1  would  sin  no  more? 

Witness,  my  God.  I  did  ; 
Yet  1  am  run  again  upon  the  score  ; 

Jly  faults  cannot  be  hid. 

What  shall  I  do  ?  ^  Make  vows  and  break  them 
still  f 

'T  will  be  but  labor  lost ; 
My  good  cannot  prevail  against  mine  ill : 

The  business  will  be  crost. 

O,  say  not  so ;  thou  canst  not  tell  what  strength 
Thy  God  may  give  thee  at  the  length. 

Renew  thy  vows,  and  if  thou  keep  the  last. 
Thy  Gwl  will  panlon  all  that 's  past. 

Vow  while  thou  canst ;  while  thou  canst  vow, 
thou  mayst 
Perhaps  perform  it  when  thou  thiukest  least. 

Thy  God  hath  not  denied  thee  all. 
Whilst  he  permits  thee  but  to  call. 
Call  to  thy  God  for  gi-ace  to  keep 
Thy  vows  ;  and  if  thou  break  them,  weep. 
Weep  for  thy  broken  vows,  and  vow  again  : 
Vows  made  with  tears  cannot  be  still  in  vain. 
Then  once  again 
1  vow  to  mend  my  ways  ; 

Lord,  say  Amen, 
And  thine  be  all  the  praise. 

Gkorge  Herbert. 


^ 


HEAVEN. 

0  BEAUTEOiTs  God  !  uncircumscrihkl  treasure 
Of  an  eternal  pleasure  ' 
Thy  throne  is  seated  far 
.\bove  the  highest  star, 


Where  thou  prcparest  a  glorious  place. 
Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face, 
Eor  every  spirit 
To  inherit 

That  builds  his  hopes  upon  thy  merit, 
And  loves  thee  with  a  holy  charity. 
What  ravished  heart,  seraphic  tongue,  or  eyes 
Clear  as  the  morning  rise. 
Can  speak,  or  think,  or  see 
That  bright  eternity, 

Where  tlie  great  King's  transparent  throne 
Is  of  an  entire  jasjier  stone  ? 
There  the  eye 
0'  the  chrysolite. 
And  a  sky 

Of  diamonds,  rabies,  chrysoprase,  — 
And  above  all  thy  holy  face,  — 
Makes  an  eternal  charity. 
When  thou  thy  jewels  up  dost  liind,  tliat  day 
Hememlier  us,  we  pray,  — 
That  where  the  beryl  lies. 
And  the  crystal  'bove  the  skies, 
There  thou  mayest  appoint  us  place 
Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face,  — 
And  our  soul 
In  the  scroll 

Of  life  and  blissfulness  enroll. 
That  we  may  praise  thee  to  eternity.    Allelujah  ; 
Jeremy  tavlok 


"ROCK  OF  AGES." 

"  Such  hymns  are  never  forgotten.  They  clinij  to  us  through  ou 
whole  life.  We  carrj-  them  with  us  upon  our  journey.  Wc  siiii 
them  in  the  forest.  The  workin.in  follows  the  plow  with  sacrei 
songs.  Children  cAtch  thein,  and  sint^ng  only  for  the  joy  it  give 
them  now,  are  yet  Liyinil  up  for  all  their  life  food  of  the  swectes 
joy."— HENRY  Ward  Beecher. 

"  KocK  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Thoughtlessly  the  maiden  sung. 
Fell  the  words  unconsciously 

From  her  girlish,  gleeful  tongue  ; 
Sang  as  little  children  sing  ; 

Sang  as  sing  the  liinls  in  June  ; 
Fell  the  wortls  like  light  leaves  do\ni 

On  the  current  of  the  tune,  — 
"  Kock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me. 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee."  — 

Felt  her  soul  no  need  to  hide,  — 
Sweet  the  song  as  song  could  be. 

And  she  had  no  thought  beside  ; 
All  the  words  unheedingly 

Fell  from  lips  untouched  by  care. 
Dreaming  not  that  they  might  be 

On  .some  other  lips  a  prayer,  — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me. 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee. " 


^J 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


^r^ 


"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," 

'T  was  a  woman  sung  them  now, 
Pleadingly  and  prayerfully  ; 

Every  word  her  heart  did  know. 
Rose  the  song  as  storm-tossed  bird 

IJeats  with  weary  wing  the  air, 
Every  note  with  sorrow  stirred, 

Every  syllable  a  prayer,  — 
"  Kock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

"Kock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," — 

Lips  grown  aged  sung  the  hymn 
Trustingly  and  tendeily. 

Voice  grown  weak  and  eyes  grown  dim,  — 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

Trembling  though  the  voice  and  low. 
Rose  the  sweet  .strain  peacefully 

Like  a  river  in  its  flow  ; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  life's  tlioniy  path  have  passed  ; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  behold  the  promised  rest,  — 
"  Kock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

"  Kock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Sung  above  a  coffin  lid  ; 
Underneath,  all  restfully. 

All  life's  joys  and  sorrows  hid. 
Nevennorc^,  0  stomi-tosaed  soul  ! 

Ncvei-more  from  wind  or  tide. 
Nevermore  from  billow's  roll, 

Wilt  thou  need  thyself  to  hide. 
Could  the  sightless,  sunken  eyes, 

Clo-sed  beneath  the  soft  gi-ay  hair, 
Could  the  mute  and  .stiffened  lips 

Move  again  in  pleading  prayer. 
Still,  aye  still,  the  words  would  be,  — 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

Anonymous. 

THE  SPIRIT-LANX). 

Fathkr  !  thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand. 

Nor  far  removed  where  feet  have  seldom  strayed  ; 

Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land. 

In  marvels  rich  to  thine  own  sons  displayed. 

In  finding  thee  are  all  things  round  us  found  ; 

In  losing  thee  are  all  things  lost  beside ; 

Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain  strange  voices  sound ; 

And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied. 

We  wander  in  the  country  far  remote. 

Mid  tombs  and  ruined  piles  in  death  to  dwell ; 

Or  on  the  records  of  past  greatness  dote. 

And  for  a  buried  soul  the  living  sell ; 

■While  on  our  path  bewildered  falls  the  night 

Th.at  ne'er  returns  us  to  the  fields  of  light. 

Jones  Vekv. 


Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies. 

Beyond  death's  cloudy  portal. 
There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies, 

Where  love  becomes  immortal ; 

A  land  whose  life  is  never  dimmed  by  shade. 

Whose  fields  are  ever  vernal  ; 
Where  nothing  beautiful  can  ever  fade. 

But  blooms  for  aye  eternal. 

We  may  not  know  how  sweet  its  balmy  air, 

How  bright  and  fair  its  flowers  ; 
We  may  not  hear  the  songs  that  echo  there, 

Through  those  enchanted  bowers. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see 

With  our  dim  earthly  vision. 
For  Death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key 

That  opes  the  gates  elysian. 

But  sometimes,  when  adown  the  western  sky 

A  fiery  sunset  lingers. 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward  noiselessly. 

Unlocked  by  unseen  fingers. 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar. 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  lirightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 

0  land  unknown  !     0  land  of  love  divine  ! 

Father,  all-wise,  eternal  ! 
0,  guide  these  wandering,  wayworn  feet  of  mine 

Into  those  pastures  vr-rnal  ! 

nancv  a  w,  priest. 


'ONLY  WAITING.' 


Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown. 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown  ; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  the  heart,  once  full  of  day  ; 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  are  breaking 

Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home. 
For  the  summer  time  is  faded, 

And  the  autumn  winds  have  come. 
Quickly,  reapers  !  gather  quickly 

The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart. 
For  the  bloom  of  life  is  withered, 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 


-J 


I — I  rt 


8S1' 


i;,s'  OF  RKuaio.w 


"*^ 


t 


(>1>>Y  Wrtitius  till  tho  i>iij!«>ls 

i>l>i>i\  wiilo  tli<>  invslio  jpdo. 
At  wluwt"  IVnt  I  K'Uji  l>«vo  liugvuxHl, 

W'tviwy,  |>i>w,  Hiitl  lUvsoliito, 
KvoH  now  1  !>«>!' tUo  ro>i|stoi«, 

Aiwl  tln'ir  Ynii'M  l'«c  nwiiv  ; 

If  tl«\Y  Oilll  ll>i>,  I  <t\u  \Vl>itiUj5, 
Only  \V!>itii\}«  l»  o\H>y, 

Only  waitiuj;  till  tho  sliinUnva 

Aiv  II  litilo  Ikhjjiiv  }!I\>\vu, 
t>\il,v  Wiiitiwg  III!  tin- j«lii»n\oi' 

I'f  ll«'  >lny's  liist  Iwun  is  llowii, 
'IMieii  l\\«\>  ortt  tho  }p<tUoiV(l  il!U'kii«ii», 

Holy,  >l«itUWs  stm~s  shall  i'is(\ 
ISy  wluvw  lij;lit  my  sohI  sliall  ijliully 

'hiivad  its  iwtJiway  t»>  tlit>  skit«, 

Aixtsi\inu  Annb  rmHT»K 


THK  son, 

OoMK,   ISivtln'v,   tuvu  with   mo   ri\>u\   ni\>iuij 
tUovijsla 
AhiI  «U  tli<<  iuwm\l  ills  t]»i\t  si«  Iwa  wiwigltt  j 
(.Vu>t\  soinl  i>l«\v»l  »  lovo  loi'  all  who  live. 
Ami  i'<fo\  tho  vl«H<|»  iH<iitt<<tt  in  tuni  tl\t>y  j;ivt>, 
Kimi  wishi\-i  ami  gvw«l  iUhhIs,  —  they  makw  not 

JHW ; 
Thw  'U  ho\m>  it^tiu,  MX  lavlon,  to  thy  diwf  i 
TUt>  stivsdrts  of  lovo  How  lvi>olt  whov  thoy  l*>};i«, 
Fv>v  s|>viiiipi  of  outWiinl  jovs  Uo  >U'oi>  w  ithiii, 

Kvon  lot  tliiiu  Itow,  tu\vl  niako  tlio  iilaa«  jjltul 
WhftXHlw.H  thy  foUovv-iuPU,  SUotiMst ihvMiWsjul, 
A(ul oavth  siH>m  Iviiv,  ami  hotii^,  otuo liajniy, (mtis 
l'\>v«>  thy  thotijilits,  aitkl  mnko  thy  lo\i<<liH<«s 
Moiiit  lonoly  IW  tho  |v!>st,  thoti  then  sluOt  hivir 
Tho  iHU&io  of  thv«i'  watefs  n>m>iiij«  ii«u' ; 
Ami  thy  fai\\t  spirit  drink  tho  oinvlinj;  sti<i>au), 
A\nl  thiup  oyo  j;la>lilon  with  tho  (ilayiiij;  IxKint 
That  now  «(H>n  tho  watov  vlanoos,  now 
l.«>lv<  u|i  !»\ivl  ihmiHw  in  tho  hiui^in,»{  lH>iij>h. 

Is  it  \>v^t  lovoly  ■    Toll  nns  who«v  ih>th  vlwoll 
'I'ho  (lowor  that  w(\>>\j<ht  so  lw»ntil\>l  a  sjioll  f 
In  thino  own  Invsomj  UiMthcc  .*    Thon  as  thine 
Ona(\l  with  a  >t>Yi?rvut  tWr  this  )H>wt>f  diviuo, 

An.l  if,  intWl,  't  is  not  tho  outwatxl  stato, 
I5«t  ton\jH>i'  of  tho  sonl  1\y  whioh  wo  I'ato 
S*!uluoss  or  joy,  oyou  lot  thy  Ixwoni  niovo 
With  noWo  tlious^hts  auvl  wako  thoo  into  Ioyo  ; 
Ami  lot  o«oh  I'tH'liiv^i;  in  tliy  l>j\>«st  l>o  j;iYon 
An  honost  ain\,  whioh,  sanotilitsl  hy  lloavon. 
Ami  s^vrinjiin^^;  into  aot.  now  litV  iin|v\rts. 
Till  IvMts  tliy  l\'a\no  as  with  a  thons^tml  hearts. 

Sin  olonils  tho  iniml's  oloor  vision  ! 
Aivund  tho  s«ilf-starvovt  s\>«l  has  si«\v;>\l  a  iWrth, 
Tho  ivarlh  is  t\ill  of  lifo  ;  tho  Kviuj;  llaml 
IVvroho*!  it  with  Ufo  ;  aiul  all  its  forms  «ix|>ami 


With  (irinoiiilos  of  U'inj;  n\a<lo  to  unit 
Man's  variisl  (lowors  ami  raiso  hi\i\  ft-om  I  ho  hnito. 
Ami  shall  tho  oiuth  of  hijjhor  omls  1h>  l\\ll,  - 
Karth  whioh  thoti  tr«m>ral,  —  ami  thv  (uior  nviml 

Ivo  >lnll  < 
Thon  talk  of  lifo,  with  half  thy  sonl  asl«'i>  1 
Thon  ■•  living  ih>«il  ttiaii,"  lot  thy  spirit  lo«p 
Forth  to  tho  (lay,  ami  lot  iho  IWh  air  Mow 
Thivn^i;h  ihy  soul's  slmtnii  inaiisioti,     Wouhlst 

thoii  know 
Soinothin)-  of  what  is  lifo,  shako.olf  this  iloath  ; 
llavo  thy  sotil  fool  tho  univorsal  hivath 
With  whioh  all  natniv's  unii-li,  ami  hwn  to  lio 
Shaivr  in  all  that  thon  tlivst  tonoh  or  ao<< ; 
Ihvivk  fiMin  thy  hovly's  j{ras(>,  thy  sjarit's  Irtmoo  ; 
OiYo  thy  sonl  air,  thy  faonltios  oxinmso  ; 
UoYo,  joy,  oYon  soriMW,  -    yiohl  thysolf  to  all  ! 
Thoy  makotliy  fivoiloni,  giMYolor,  not  tliy  thrall. 
Knook  olf  tho  shaokhvs  whioh  thy  ai>irit  hiinl 
To  iltist  aiul  sonso,  aitil  sot  at  larj!\>  tho  miml ! 
Thon  tnovo  in  syn\i»athy  with  lunl's  givat  whoh\ 
Aiul  K'  liko  man  at  lirst,  «  /('t'tXo  >ww/, 

KiCnAKK  U«NKV  UANA 


Sir  IWWN,   S.\l^  SOt'l„ 

Si  r  down,  sail  sonl,  ami  oonnt 

Tho  \non\onts  llyittj! ; 
l\«no,  toll  tho  swoot  anunint 

That 's  lost  l\Y  si^hinj; ! 
How  many  stnih>s  !    -  a  siH^i'o  f 
Thon  lanjih,  and  oonnt  no  mow ; 
For  day  is  dyin^st  •' 

Lio  dv>wn,  sod  sonl,  and  slwji, 

And  no  n\otv  inonsnro 
Tho  lli|«ht  of  tinio,  noj'  wwp 

Tho  hvss  of  loisnro  ; 
lint  hoiv,  hy  this  loiio  atr\s>m, 
I.io  down  with  ns,  and  dro«>n 
t>f  starry  twvtsuiv .' 

AW  divan* :  do  thon  tho  sau>o  ; 

\Vo  loYO,  —  foroYov  ; 
AVe  lan^lv,  yot  fow  wo  »lwnns  — 

Tho  gontlo  «ovor. 
Stay,  thon,  till  sorivw  dies  ; 
Thon  -    hojio  sunl  hai>j\v  skioa 
Aw  thino  l\wover  ! 

H.\KRV  COKNW.tll. 


TRLL  mi;,  yk  winord  winds, 

Tki.i.  mo,  yo  w\i\i;!<'d  winds. 

That  ivnnd  n\\'  (vathway  x\v«r. 
Do  yo  not  know  somo  s\wt 

Whow  mortida  wooj>  no  «>or«> ' 


p 


fiiKM;;  <)!<•  UKlJiiloN. 


333 


tl 


fiomfi  loiiii  ttrul  pli'iiwini;  iM\, 

Hiiiw.  vallny  in  tti'?  wuHt, 
Wlii:l'i:,  IVlri:  t'i'ilil  l/iil  .unl  (raid, 
Till:  wmry  wml  iiiny  ii'st  ( 
'I'lii;  loud  wiful  ilwiii'lli-il  I')  «  wlii.i|ii!r  low, 
Ami  ulgliwl  tor  [ilty  (in  ll  iiii»wi!ii'il,  —  "  No." 

'IVfll  mi;,  lli'iii  jfii({lil,y  il<!ft|), 

WliDW!  Iiillims  iviiiinl  rill!  pi'iy, 
Kiiiiw'st  tli'/ii  «oii)i:  (iivDjiiil  Bjiijl:, 

HoiiiD  isliiinl  I';!!'  away, 
Wli";i';  v/fjiry  in.-iii  iniiy  (liul 

'I'lie  lilisiii  I'lir  wliii.li  liii  Bf;(lis,  — 
Wliirrfi  Hoiiow  iii'.vi;!'  Wvm, 
Aiiij  dieji'lslilj)  iii)Vi!i'  ilks  'I 
Till!  loiiil  wavi'ii,  mlliii((  In  pi!i|ii!lii;il  (|i»w, 
SUj1)|i(!<I   for  a  wliil':,  iiml  liigln:'!  lo  iiimwcr, 
"No," 

Ari'l  1,1)011,  ((i!i«i(i!»t  moon, 

Tliat,  with  liiii'li  loviily  (a/;*, 
Dofil  look  iijion  till!  i.'iiilli, 

A!ili*[i  III  iii({lit'«  i!iiilira':i!  ; 
Tiill  nie,  in  nil  tliy  loiiinl 

Hast  tlioii  not  8(;i;n  sonift  »pot 
Wlii!ii!  niimialilc  man 

May  finil  u  liii|i|)ii!r  lot ! 
I'diiii'l  tt  r:lou<l  tin:  moon  witlulrcw  in  wo«. 


Anil  a  voifie,  8Wi*t  Ijilt  sail,  |i!»|i«ni|i:i|. 


'  No," 


y--. 


Ti-ll  nil!,  my  nfcnti  ooiil, 

O,  tell  me,  Hoiii!  all')  I'ailli, 
I»  lliiiii:  no  iifBtin^-iilui!!) 

From  willow,  uin,  ami  iltalli  ? 
In  tlniif!  no  liappy  spot 

WliiiK!  nioilals  may  Ixr  Mirut, 
Wlii:iir  giii:!  may  fimi  a  l,aliii, 
Ami  wi!arini!HH  «  M!»t ! 
I'aitli,  Hope,  anil  l,ov"!,  ImulUjoniit'jniOitaliigivrn, 
Wavftil   their   luiglit   win({»,   anil  whimmrcil,  — 
"  yen,  in  Inaven  1 " 


NO'l'lirNO   liC/'J'  /.EAVKK. 

NWKINO  hut  leaves  ;  the  spirit  grieves 

Over  a  wasUjil  life  j 
Rill  ':ornniitt<!il  while  KonncMiHi'i  Blept, 
rioniiseu  rna/le,  hut  never  kept, 

llatreil,  hattle,  an'l  utrife  | 
Nuthliiij  hat.  liiii.mH  I 

Nothing  hut  leaven  ;  no  ^riM'-A  Kheaves 

Of  life's  fair,  ripeniiil  ifvaiti  ; 
Worik,  idle  wonlu,  for  earaeut  ileeils  ; 
We  BOW  our  bijciIs,  —  lo  I  tare.'i  ami  wihAh  : 

We  reap,  with  t'lil  and  (lain, 
Nidldwj  ImI  Uimca  I 


Nothing  hut  leaves  ;  iiiemoiy  weaves 

No  veil  Ut  Kiieeii  the  past  : 
As  we  retriu;*!  our  weary  way, 
Coiintiiip;  eaiih  lost  and  miiispent  day. 

We  liii.l,  sa-lly,  at  laa, 
NulliiiKJ  hill.  Imiuint 

And  shall  we  meet  the  Mastijr  S'l, 

lieariiij/  our  withered  haves? 
The  .Saviour  looks  for  perfeet  fruit  ; 
We  stand  hefore  him,  liiimhled,  mut<i ; 

Waiting  the  words  he  hreathes,  — 
"  NolUiiiij  liul  Imvi'.n?" 

t.llf.Y  U    AKKf  MAil 


'J'HK    IJ.NIVKHKAF,  yilAVV.H. 

Kaiiikii  of  all  !  in  every  age. 

In  every  elinie  luhuial, 
l!y  saint,  hy  savage,  and  hy  sage, 

.(eliovah,  .love,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  great  Kirst  ','aiiBe,  least  understood, 

Who  all  my  sense  tjiii\UifA 
'I'o  know  l/iit  this,  that  thou  art  good. 

And  llial  myself  Mill  hiind  ; 

Vet  gave  me,  in  this  riark  estate. 

To  si!e  the  gooil  from  ill  ; 
And,  hinding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Ix-ft  frei!  the  human  will: 

What  '■ons/hiiiee  dietates  Ut  h:  done, 

Or  wains  rue  not  t/i  do. 
This,  teaeh  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  hlessings  thy  fre<!  lifjunty  gives 

Let  me  not  east  away  ; 
I'or  'Joil  is  jiaid  when  man  reeeives. 

To  enjoy  ix  to  oln-y. 

Yet  not  Ui  earth's  <'jmittu:teil  sfian 

Thy  gooilnesB  let  me  hound. 
Or  think  thee  Ixird  alone  of  man. 

When  thousand  worl/Is  are  round  ; 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  thy  Ik/Hs  in  throw, 
And  deal  damnation  round  the  kind 

'Jii  eaeh  1  jmlge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  light,  thy  gra/.e  irnj»art 

(Still  in  the  right  to  stay  ; 
If  I  am  v/rong,  0,  t<!aeh  my  heart 

To  find  that  tiett/;r  way  ! 


J 


a- 


oS4 


POEMS  OF  HELIQION. 


-a 


Savo  mo  nlikti  fvom  t\>olisli  piiiU' 

Ami  iim>ioHs  (Usiviitoiit 
At  luiglit  thy  wisilvnu  h«a  deuitHi, 

l>r  t>vij;lit  tliy  gomliu'ss  lent. 

'IViioh  me  to  iVel  anot Inn's  woe, 

'l\>  hide  tht<  fault  1  siv  ; 
Tluit  nuMvy  I  to  othoi's  sliow, 

That  meivy  sliow  to  mo. 

Mcaiv  though  1  am,  uot  wholly  so, 
Siiu'o  »iuioktm<Hl  by  thy  breath; 

O,  Itfiiil  u>ti  whoivso'oi'  I  i;o, 

Throuj;h  this  days  Ufo  or  ileath  ! 

'I'his  liny  Iw  bivail  ami  jioaoti  my  lot ; 

All  olso  boiu'ath  the  svm. 
Thou  know'st  if  Ivst  Iwstowed  or  uot. 
Ami  let  thy  will  be  iloue. 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  sivxee. 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies. 

One  chorus  let  all  Heiug  mise. 
All  Natuiv's  iuceuse  rise  '. 

ALBNANDSK   J^Ol-B 


WKKST1..1N0   JACOB. 
FlK.sf  v.\i;r. 

Come,  0  thou  Ti-aveler  unknown, 
Whonr  still  I  hohl,  l>ut  cannot  see  ; 

My  comi>!U>y  liefoiv  is  j:^>ne. 
And  1  am  left  alone  with  thee  ; 

With  thee  all  night  1  mean  to  stay. 

And  wivstle  till  the  bivak  of  day. 

1  ne«l  not  tell  thee  who  1  am  ; 

My  siu  and  misery  dev'laro  ; 
Thyself  hast  ealhxl  me  by  my  name  ; 

1-ook  on  thy  hands,  and  iviid  it  there  ; 
lUit  who,  1  ask  thet\  who  art  thou  ? 
Tell  me  thy  naiue,  luid  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  thou  strujiglest  to  get  free  ; 

I  never  will  unloi>se  my  hold  ; 
.■\rt  thou  the  Man  that  die*l  for  me  i 

The  secivt  of  fhy  love  unfold  ; 
Wivstliug,  1  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Wilt  thou  uot  yet  to  me  reveal 
Thy  new,  nnutter«ble  name  f 

Tell  me,  I  still  l^eseei-h  thee,  tell ; 
To  know  it  now  resolvwl  I  am  ; 

W  tvstling,  1  will  not  let  thee  go 

Till  I  thy  name,  thv  nature  know. 


What  though  my  shrinking  tlesh  complain 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long, 

1  rise  superior  to  my  pain  ; 
When  I  am  weak,  then  am  1  slivng! 

And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 

I  shall  with  the  tiodiium  pivvail. 

SKI'0N1>   lAur. 

YlELP  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak. 

But  contident  in  self-desi«ir  ; 
Speak  to  n>y  heart,  in  blessings  speak  ; 

Ue  conquered  by  my  instant  prayer  ; 
Speak,  or  thou  never  hence  shalt  n\ove. 
And  tell  me  if  thy  name  be  l.ove. 

"T  is  Love !  "t  is  Love !    Thou  diedst  for  me  ; 

I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  luMirt  ; 
The  morning  breaks,  tlie  shadows  tlee  j 

Puiv,  universal  Love  thou  art ; 
To  me,  to  all,  thy  bowels  move  ; 
Thy  nature  and  thy  ntune  is  Love. 

My  pniyer  hath  power  with  Ood  ;  the  grace 

r  nsiH'akable  1  now  receive  ; 
Threugh  faith  I  see  thee  face  to  faoa  ; 

1  see  thee  face  to  face  and  live  ! 
In  vain  1  have  not  wept  and  strove  ; 
Thy  nature  and  Uty  name  is  Love, 

1  know  thee.  Saviour,  who  thou  art, 
Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend  ; 

Nor  wilt  thou  with  the  night  de^iart, 
Uut  stay  and  love  me  to  the  end  ; 

Thy  meivies  never  shall  remove  ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

The  Sun  of  Kighteonsness  on  me 

Hath  risen,  with  healing  in  his  wings  ; 

WitheftHl  my  nature's  strength ;  (Vom  thee 
My  soul  its  life  and  succor  brings : 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  at>ove  ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

l^ontentcil  now  njvn  my  thigh 
I  halt  till  life's  short  journey  end  ; 

All  helplessiu'ss,  all  weakn«>ss,  1 
Ou  thee  alone  for  strtmgth  depend; 

Nor  have  1  ^K>wev  frem  thee  to  vuove  ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  1  am,  1  take  the  prey  : 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin  with  ease  o'en"K)me  ; 

I  leap  for  joy,  pui-sue  my  way. 

And,  as  a  bounding  hart,  fly  home  ; 

Through  all  eternity  to  prove 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

CHAKLBS  WESiBT. 


& 


POEMH  OF  RELIGION. 


335 


-a 


[5-^ 


"I  WILL  THAT  MEN  PRAY  EVERYWHERE." 

To  prayer  !  to  prayer  !  —  for  the  morning  breaks, 

And  earth  in  her  Maker's  smile  awakes. 

His  light  is  on  all,  below  and  above,  — 

The  light  of  gladness  and  life  and  love. 

0,  tlien  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air. 

Send  upward  the  ineonse  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer  !  —  for  the  glorious  sun  has  gone, 
And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on. 
Like  a  curtain  from  God's  kind  hand  it  Hows, 
To  shade  the  couch  where  his  children  repose. 
Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright. 
And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of 
night. 

To  prayer  !  for  the  day  that  God  has  blest, 
','omes  trancjuilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 
It  speaks  of  creation's  early  bloom. 
It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb. 
Then  summon  the  spirit's  exalted  powers, 
And  devote  to  Heaven  the  hallowed  hours. 

There  are  .smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

O,  hour  of  bliss  !  when  the  heart  o'erflows 

With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows  ;  — 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer  ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  Heaven  for  her  precious  care. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling 

hand. 
What  trying  thoughts  in  her  bosom  swell. 
As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell  ! 
Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair. 
And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer. 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner's  side, 

And  pray  for  his  soul,  through  Him  who  died. 

Large  ilrops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow  : — 

O,  what  are  earth  and  its  [deasures  now  ? 

And  wliat  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair 

But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer  ? 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  dej)arting  faith, 
And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 
He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends  : 
There  is  peace  in  his  eye  that  upward  beuds ; 
There  is  peace  in  his  calm  confiding  air  : 
For  his  last  thoughts  are  God's,  —  his  last  words, 
prayer. 

The  voice  of  jirayer  at  the  sable  \)vx  !  — 
A  voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer. 
It  commends  the  spirit  to  God  who  gave  ; 
It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold  dark  grave  ; 


It  points  to  the  glory  wheru  He  shall  reign, 
^  Who  whispered,  "Thy  brother  shall  rise  again. 

The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  world  of  bliss  !  — 
'  Ijut  gladder,  purer,  than  rose  from  this. 
)  The  ransomed  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
I  When  no  sorrow  shades  the  soul  as  they  sing  ; 
But  a  sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise, 
And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 

Awake  !  awake  !  and  gird  up  thy  strength 
To  join  that  holy  band  .at  length. 
To  liini  who  unceasing  love  dis])lays. 
Whom  the  jiowcrs  of  nature  unceasingly  praise, 
To  Him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given  ; 
For  a  life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  Heavi-n. 


A  MIGHTY  FORTRESS  IS  OUR  OOD. 

nin'  fcstc  burg  ist  unjer  Gott 

A  MIGHTY  fortress  is  our  God, 

A  bulwark  never  failing  ; 
Our  helper  he  amid  the  Hood 

Of  mortal  ills  prevailing. 
For  still  our  ancient  foe 
Doth  seek  to  work  us  woe  ; 
His  craft  and  power  are  great. 
And,  armed  with  equal  hate, 
On  earth  is  not  his  ecjual. 

Did  we  in  our  own  strength  confids, 
Our  striving  would  be  losing  ; 

Were  not  the  right  man  on  our  side, 
The  man  of  God's  own  choosing.  - 

Dost  ask  who  that  may  be  ? 

Christ  Jesu.s,  it  is  he. 

Lord  .Sabaoth  hLs  name. 

From  age  to  age  the  same. 
And  he  must  win  the  battle. 


IT  KINDLES  ALL  MY  SOUL. 


It  kindles  all  my  soul, 

My  country's  loveliness  !     Those  starry  choirs 

That  watch  around  the  jiole, 
And  the  moon's  tender  light,  and  heavenly  fires 

Through  golden  halls  that  roll. 
0  chorus  of  the  night !     0  planets,  sworn 

The  music  of  the  spheres 
To  follow  !     Lovely  watchers,  that  think  sconi 

To  rest  till  day  ajjpears  ! 
Me,  for  celestial  homes  of  glory  bom. 


f 


336 


PO£MS  OF  SJSUGION. 


^ 


Why  bew,  0,  why  sy  long, 
l\>  ye  IvhtJd  an  exile  I'uuu  v\u  high  ' 

Heiv,  0  ye  shining  thivug, 
W  ith  lilies  sja'ead  the  niouiul  wheiv  1  sliall  lie  : 

Here  let  we  dwp  my  chain, 
AhU  Unst  to  ilusl  wtumiug,  east  away 

The  trammels  that  rem!»iu  ; 
The  ivst  of  me  shall  sjnivig  to  emlless  day  .' 

Froiu  lh«  l-Miu  oS  CA--UU1R  or  fOLAX», 


The  boru  in  sojtow  shall  U'ing  IWth  in  joy  ; 

Thy  jueivy,  IauxI,  sliall  U«d  thy  ohiUlivu  home; 
He  that  went  forth  a  tender  iimltling  Iw 

Yet,  e»v  he  die,  to  Ssdem's  stivets  sliall  wme  ; 
And  Canaan's  vini«  for  ns  their  fruit  slisUl  Wai', 
And  Uormou's  liees  their  houeyeil  stoivs  luviKu-e, 
And  we  sliall  kueel  agtxiu  in  thankful  grayer, 

Whew  o'er  the  ehernb-sealwl  tJovl  full  Uazed 
the  irrailiate  vUnutv 

H8NKV  lUKl    MlLUAN, 


^ 


JEWISH  HYMS   IN  BABYLON. 

Goi>  of  the  thunder !  fKan  whose  cloudy  seat 

The  fiery  winds  of  Desolation  Bow  ; 
Father  of  vengeance  !  that  with  i>ur{>le  feet 

Like  a  full  winc-iu-ess  wvad'sl  the  world  below  ; 
The  emhattteil  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay. 
Nor  sj>rings  the  beast  of  havvKj  on  his  prey, 
Xor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blaster!  way, 
Till  thou  hast  markevl  the  guilty  laud  for  woe, 

G».hI  of  the  i-aiubow  .'  at  whose  gracious  sign 

The  billows  of  the  pivud  their  I'age  suppj'sss  ; 
Father  of  meivies  '.  at  one  woul  of  thine 

An  Kdeu  Wooms  in  the  waste  wilderness. 
And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  ssinds. 
And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens'  glancing  hands. 
And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lauds. 
And  pillareil  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O'er  Judah's  laud  thy  thnudei-s  bix>ke,  0  Lorvl ! 

The  chariots  rattles!  o'er  her  sunken  givte, 
Hir  sous  were  wasted  by  the  Assyrian's  swokI, 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state  ; 
And  heaps  her  ivory  jwlaces  be^-ame. 
Her  prini-es  wore  the  captive's  garb  of  shame. 
Her  temples  sauk  amid  the  smoldering  tlame. 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest  clvmd  of  fate. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  i-ainbow,  Lonl,  shall  beam. 

And  the  sad  CMty  lift  her  civwuless  head. 
And  songs  shall  wake  and  daucing  footstejisgleam 
In  streets  where  biv-xls  the  silence  of  the  dead. 
The  sun  shall  shine  ou  Salem's  gildeil  towel's. 
On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  (lowers 
To  deck  at  blushing  eve  their  bridal  bowel's. 
And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Siou  tread. 

Thy  vengeauc-e  gave  us  to  the  stranger's  hand, 

.Vnd  Abraham'schildren  were  lei,l  forth  forslaves. 
With  fetteiv^i  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  laud, 

Eavying  our  fathers  in  their  j>e«eeful  graves. 
The  strangers'  bread  with  bitter  teal's  we  steep, 
And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 
In  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep. 
Where  the  palewillows  shade  Euphi-ates'  waves. 


THE  DYING  SAVIOUR. 

O  SACRBP  Head,  now  wounded. 

With  grief  and  shame  weigheil  down  ; 
Now  scornfully  surivnnded 

With  thorns,  thy  only  crown  ; 
O  sjicivd  Head,  what  glory, 

Whirt  bliss,  till  now  was  thine  ! 
Yet,  though  dcspist\l  and  gv>ry, 

I  joy  to  call  thee  mine. 

O  noWest  brow  aud  deai-est. 

In  other  days  the  world 
All  feared  when  thou  appearedst ; 

What  shame  on  thee  is  hurled  ! 
How  art  thou  jwle  with  anguish. 

With  sorei  abuse  and  scorn  '. 
How  does  that  visage  languish 

Which  ont-e  was  bright  as  morn  ! 

What  language  shall  I  borrow. 

To  thank  thee,  detu-est  Friend, 
For  this  thy  dying  sv>rrow. 

Thy  pity  without  end  ! 
O,  make  me  thine  forever, 

Aud  should  I  fainting  be, 
Loi\l,  let  me  nevei',  never. 

Outlive  my  love  to  thee. 

If  1,  a  wretch,  should  leave  thee, 

0  Jesus,  leave  not  me  : 
In  faith  may  I  receive  thee. 

When  death  shall  set  me  free. 
When  strength  and  comfort  languish, 

Aud  I  must  henw  depart, 
Kelease  me  then  from  anguish. 

By  thine  owu  wouude^l  heart. 

Be  near  when  1  am  dying, 

0,  show  thy  cross  to  me  ! 
And  for  my  sua-or  Hying, 

Come.  Lonl,  to  set  me  fr«e. 
These  eyes  new  faith  i-eceiving. 

From  Jesus  shall  not  move ; 
For  he  who  dies  believing 

Dies  safely  —  through  thy  love. 


-»-t 


a- 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


ii)7 


^- 


THE  MINLSTKY  OF  AMGEtS. 

And  is  there  care  in  Leaven  ?    And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  tliese  creatmes  base, 
Tliat  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  if 
There  is :  —  else  much  nwre  wretched  weie  the 

case 
Of  men  than  l>easts :  hut  0  the  excec<ling  /{race 
Of  Highest  God  !  that  loves  hLi  creatmes  so, 
And  all  his  workes  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
Tliat  blessed  angels  he  sends  Xti  and  fro. 

To  serve  to  wicked  uxaii,  to  serve  his  wicked  foe  ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  Iwwers  leave, 
To  come  to  succour  us  tliat  succour-  want ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleave 
The  (littiug  skyes,  like  flying  pui-suivaut. 
Against  lowle  feeudes  to  ayd  us  militant  I 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch,  and  dewly  ward. 
And  their  blight  squaxlions  round  alxjut  us 

jdant ; 
And  all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward  ; 

0,  why  should  heavenly  God  to  men  have  such 
regard  ! 


NEAEEE,   MY  GOD,  TO  THEE. 

Kkakbk,  my  God,  to  tliee, 

Nearer  to  tliee  ! 
E'en  thougli  it  Ix;  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me  ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  l^e,  — 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  tb<5e, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Though,  like  the  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  \xt  over  me. 

My  rest  a  st<)ne  ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  1« 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  I 

There  let  the  way  apjtear 

Steps  unto  heaven  ; 
All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given  ; 
Angels  to  Wkon  me 
Nearer,  my  Goil,  to  thee. 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts. 
Bright  with  thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel!  '11  raise  ; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 

Nearer,  my  Owl,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee ! 


Or  if  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  staj-s  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly  ; 
Still  all  my  song  sliall  Ije,  — 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 

Nearer  to  thee. 

SaKAH  FLOWEfc   hl> 


FROM  THE  KECESSE8  OF  A  UiWl.Y   SPIRIT. 

FiiOM  the  recesses  of  a  low  ly  spirit, 
Ouj-  humble  pi-ayer  awjends  :  ()  Father  I  hear  it. 
Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  awe  and  meekness. 
Forgive  its  weakness  ! 

We  see  thy  hand,  —  it  leads  us,  it  suj/ports  us  ; 
We  hear  thy  voice,  —  it  counsels  and  it  courts  us ; 
And  then  we  turn  away  ;  and  still  thy  kindness 
Foigives  our  bliniluess. 

0,  how  long-suffering.  Lord  '.  but  thou  de)ightJ,-st 
To  win  with  love  the  wanilering  :  thou  invitest. 
By  smiles  of  mercy,  not  In'  frowns  or  tenoi's, 
llan  fiom  his  errors. 

Father  anrl  Saviour  !  plant  within  each  txjs<jm 
Th'-  seeds  of  holiness,  and  bid  them  IJossom 
In  fragrance  an^i  in  Ixauty  bright  and  vernal. 
And  spiing  eternal 

John  bowjcikc. 


NEARER  HOME. 

Oke  sweetly  s<;lenjn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

I  'm  nearer  my  home  to-day 
Than  I  ever  liave  l>een  l>efore  ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house. 

Where  the  many  mansions  lie  : 

Nearer  tlie  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  ciystal  sea  ; 

Nearer  the  1x.)und  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross. 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown  ! 

But  the  waves  of  that  silent  sea 
Roll  dark  l>eforc  my  sight 

That  brightly  the  other  side 
Break  on  a  shore  of  light. 

O,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gaitH'd  the  brink  ; 


-3 


^- 


338 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


--&' 


If  it  be  1  uni  nearer  home 
Even  to-ilay  than  I  think,  — 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ! 

Let  my  spirit  feel,  in  death. 
That  her  feet  are  tirmly  set 

On  the  Rock  of  a  living  faith  ! 

PHCEBS   CARV. 


1 


THE  SPACIOUS  FIRMAMENT  ON  HIGH. 

TiiK  spaeious  firmament  on  high. 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 

Ami  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Tlieir  great  Original  proclaim  ; 

The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day. 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display. 

And  publishes  to  eveiy  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

.'^oon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
Tlie  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale. 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
liepeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ; 
Wlule  all  the  stars  that  round  her  bum. 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 
Confirm  tlie  tidings  as  tliey  roll. 
And  spread  tlie  truth  from  pule  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
.Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  no  I'eal  voice  or  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
"  The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine/" 

Joseph  Addison. 


LORD  I  WHEN  THOSE  GLORIOUS  LIGHTS  I 
SEE  — 

HYMN  AND   PRAVEK  FOR  THE  USE  OF  BELIEVERS. 

Loud  !  when  those  glorious  lights  I  see 

Witli  which  thou  hast  adorned  the  skies, 
Observing  how  they  movkl  be, 

-And  how  their  splendor  fills  mine  eyes, 
Methinks  it  is  too  large  a  grace. 

But  that  thy  love  ordained  it  so,  — 
That  creatures  in  so  higli  a  place 

Should  servants  be  to  man  below. 

The  meanest  lamp  now  shining  there 

In  size  and  lustre  doth  exceed 
The  noblest  of  thy  creatures  here. 

And  of  our  friendship  hath  no  need. 


Yet  these  upon  mankind  attend 
For  secret  aid  or  public  light ; 

And  from  the  world's  e.xtremest  end 
Kepair  unto  us  eveiy  night. 

0,  had  that  stimip  been  uudefaced 

Which  first  on  us  tliy  hand  had  set, 
How  highly  should  we  have  been  graced. 

Since  we  are  so  much  honored  yet ! 
Good  God,  for  what  but  for  the  sake 

Of  thy  beloved  and  only  Son, 
Who  did  on  him  our  nature  take. 

Were  these  exceeding  favors  done? 

As  we  by  him  have  honored  been. 

Let  us  to  lum  due  honoi's  give  ; 
Let  his  uprightness  hide  our  sin, 

.And  let  us  worth  from  him  receive. 
Yea,  so  let  us  by  grace  improve 

What  thou  by  natui'e  doth  bestow. 
That  to  thy  dwelling-place  above 

We  may  be  raised  Irom  below. 

GEORGE  WITHER. 


BEFORE  SUNRISE.  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

H.A.ST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course  ?    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  0  sovereign  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveii-on  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form, 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines 
How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above, 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black,  — 
An  ebon  mass.     Methinks  thou  piercest  it. 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again. 
It  is  thuie  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !  I  gazed  upon  thee. 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought.     Entranced  in 

prayer 

1  worshiped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  nielody. 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  mean  while,  wast  blending  with  my 

thought,  — 
Ye.-i,  with  my  Hie  and  life's  ovn\  secret  joy,  — 
Till  the  ililating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused. 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing,  there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !   Awake, 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


339 


-ei 


Voice  of  sweet  song  !    Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale ! 
0,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink, 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
<_'o-herald,  —  wake,  0,  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  tliy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Wlio  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 
Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Yourstrength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy. 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came). 
Here  let  the  biUows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain,  — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  I 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
('lothe  you  witli  rainbows  ?     Who,   with  living 

flowci-s 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 
Ood  !  —  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God  !  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome 

voice  ! 
Ye   pine-gi-oves,  ivith  your  soft  and  soul-like 

sounds ! 
Ami  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost  ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  plajniiates  of  the  mountain-stomi  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements  ! 
Utter  fortli  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Thou,  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing 
|ieaks, 
Oft  fiom  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard. 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure 

serene, 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast,  — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Jfountain  !  thou 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhUe  bowed  low 


In  adoration,  upward  from  tliy  base 
Slow  traveling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  witli  tears. 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me,  —  Rise,  0,  ever  rise  ! 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  liills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Kartli  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

SA.V1UF.L  TAYLOR  CoLKKIDGE. 


AMAZING,   BEAUTEOUS  CHANGE  I 

AMAZlN'fr,  beauteous  change  ! 
A  world  created  new  ! 
My  thoughts  with  transport  range. 
The  lovely  scene  to  view ; 

In  all  I  trace, 

Sa\'iour  divine. 

The  work  is  thine,  — 

Be  thine  the  jiraise  ! 

See  cry.stal  fountains  play 
Amidst  the  liurning  sands ; 
The  river's  winding  way 
Shines  through  tlie  thirsty  lands  ; 

New  grass  is  seen. 

And  o'er  the  meads 

Its  cai-pet  spreads 

Of  living  green. 

Where  pointed  biambles  grew, 
Intwined  witli  liorrid  thorn. 
Gay  flowers,  forever  new. 
The  painted  fields  ailorn,  — 

The  blushing  rose 

And  lily  there, 

In  union  fair. 

Their  sweets  disclose. 

Where  the  bleak  mountain  stood 
AH  bare  and  disarrayeil. 
See  the  wide-branching  wood 
Diffuse  its  grateful  shade  ; 

Tall  cedars  nod. 

And  oaks  and  pines, 

And  elms  and  vines 

Confess  the  God. 

The  tjTants  of  the  plain 
Their  savage  chase  give  o'er,  — 
No  more  they  rend  the  slain. 
And  thirst  for  blood  no  more  ; 

But  infant  hands 

Fierce  tigers  stroke. 

And  lions  yoke 

In  flower)'  bands. 


-S 


f 


340 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


n 


O,  when,  Almig)ity  Lord ! 
Shall  tbeso  glad  sceuos  arise, 
To  verify  thy  word. 
And  bless  our  wondering  eyes  ? 
That  earth  may  raise, 

With  all  its  tongues, 

United  songs 

Of  ardent  praise. 

PHILII'  DODDRIDGE. 


THE  SABBATH. 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 
The  jilowboy's  whistle  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
The  st-ythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  (lowers. 
That  yesterniorn  liloonied  waving  in  the  breeze ; 
Sounds   the   most  faint  attract  the   ear, — the 

hum 
Of  early  beo,  the  trickling  of  the  dew. 
The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  you  uumoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas 
The  blackbiril'.s  note  comes  mellower  from  the 

dale  ; 
.\nd  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warliles  his  heaven-tuned  song ;  the  hilling  brook 
iMurniurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen  ; 
While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  circling  smoke 
O'ermouuts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  intervals 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 
Willi    dovcliko    wings    Peace   o'er    von    village 

broods  ; 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests  ;  the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased  ;  all,  all  around  is  ([uietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  ibiy,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  ami  looks  on 

man. 
Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  psisture,  roams  at  large  ; 
And  as  his  stiff,  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls. 
His  Iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 
JAMRS  Gkahamb. 


±5- 


THE  MEETINa. 

Thk  older  folk  shook  hands  at  last, 
Down  seat  by  scat  the  signal  passed. 
To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 
H;ilf  solemnized  and  half  amused, 
With  long-drawn  breath  and  shrug. 
His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 
Outside,  the  hills  lay  warm  in  sun  ; 
Tile  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 
Stood  half-leg  deep  ;  a  single  bird 
The  green  lepose  above  us  stine<l. 


my  guest 


"  Wiat  part  or  lot  have  you,"  he  said, 
"  In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head  ? 
Is  silence  worship  ?     Seek  it  where 
It  soothes  with  dreams  the  summer  air  ; 
Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  liall. 
But  where  soft  lights  and  shadows  fall. 
And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 
Glide  soundless  over  grass  and  llowers ! 
From  time  and  place  and  form  apart. 
Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart. 
Nor  ritual-bound  uor  templeward 
Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 
His  followers  up  from  otlier  men  ; 
His  service  lilierty  indeed, 
He  built  no  church,  he  framed  no  creed  ; 
15ut  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 
Made  broader  his  phylactery, 
As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 
The  dusty-sandaled  Nazarene 
Through  ripening  cornlields  lead  the  way 
Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day. 
His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 
That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk. 
His  wayside  texts  were  llowers  and  birds. 
Where  mingled  with  his  gracious  words 
The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 
.\nd  ripple-wash  of  (ialilce." 

"Thy  words  are  well,  0  friend,"  I  said  ; 

"  Unmeasured  and  unlimited. 

With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone. 

The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 

Invisible  and  silent  stands 

The  temple  never  made  with  hands. 

Unheard  the  voices  still  and  .small 

Of  its  unseen  confessional. 

He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 

Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere  ; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 

That  ringed  the  e.arth  with  stones  of  praise, 

Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 

The  plinths  of  Philre's  colonnade. 

Still  less  he  owns  the  selfish  good 

And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 

The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 

Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite  ; 

Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole. 

Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  so\fl. 

Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 

And  native  air  and  .soil  of  sin. 

The  living  waters  spring  and  flow. 

The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

"Dream  not,  0  friend,  because  I  seek 
This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 
I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 
Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


341 


-a 


But  nature  is  not  solitude  ; 

She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood  ; 

Her  many  hands  reacli  out  to  us, 

Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous  ; 

Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 

She  otters  to  our  ears  and  eyes  ; 

She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 

But  drags  them  captive  at  her  will  ; 

And,  making  earth  too  great  tor  heaven. 

She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 

"And  so  I  find  it  well  to  come 

For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 

For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 

Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control  ; 

The  strength  of  mutual  piii-pose  pleads 

More  earnestly  our  connnon  needs  ; 

And  from  the  sUence  multiplied 

By  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 

Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

"  Vet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 
Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  Hows, 
A  flavor  of  its  many  spring.s, 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings  ; 
In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy ; 
And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 
I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face  ; 
The  blind  by-sitter  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot ; 
Xo  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me ! 
And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin. 
In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin, 
I  bow  my  head,  my  heart  I  bare 
As  when  that  face  was  living  there. 
And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain) 
The  yieace  of  simple  trust  to  gain. 
Fold  fancy's  restless  wings,  and  lay 
The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 

"  AVeleome  the  silence  all  unbroken. 

Nor  less  the  words  of  fitness  spoken,  — 

Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 

Our  autumn  flowers  have  just  made  room  ; 

Whose  hopeful  utterance  through  and  through 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew  ; 

Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 

Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 

But  saw  in  all  fail'  fonns  moi'e  fair 

The  Eternal  beauty  miiTored  there. 

Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 

And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 

The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 

Glad  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day. 

While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 


The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet ! 

Or  haply  hers  whose  pilgrim  tread 

Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led  ; 

Who  dreams  her  childhood's  sabbath  dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream. 

And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 

Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 

Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 

To  pi-ayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall, 

Repeating  where  His  works  were  wrought 

The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught, 

Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave. 

The  prophesies  of  Cunuc'e  cave  ! 

"  1  ask  no  oigan's  soulless  breath 
■  To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death. 
No  altar  candle-lit  by  day. 
No  ornate  wordsman's  rhetiu-ic-play, 
No  cool  philosophy  to  teach 
Its  bland  audacities  oi' speech 
To  doubled-tasked  idolaters, 
Themselves  their  gods  and  wor.shipers, 
No  pul)iit  hammered  by  the  list 
Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 
Who  borrows  for  the  liand  of  love 
The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 
I  know  how  well  the  fathers  taught, 
What  work  the  later  schoolmen  wrought ; 
I  reverence  old-time  faith  and  men. 
But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then  ; 
His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent, 
His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent ; 
And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 
Outgi'ows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds  ; 
The  manna  gathered  yesterday 
Already  savors  of  decay  ; 
Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  unknown 
Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone  ; 
Too  little  or  too  nnich  we  know, 
And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow  ; 
The  [lower  is  lost  to  self-deceive 
With  shallow  fonns  of  make-believe. 
We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 
Call  to  a  thousand  orach's. 
But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 
Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight ; 
The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 
Glimmer  and  swim  beneath  our  look  ; 
Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breast 
With  deepening  agony  of  ijuest 
The  old  entreaty  :   '  Art  thou  He, 
Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be  ? ' 

"God  should  be  most  where  man  is  least,' 
So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest. 
And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 
To  clothe  the  nakedness  of  need,  — 
Where  farmer-folk  in  silence  meet,  — 


a-^~ 


342 


POEMS   OF  UELIOWN. 


■a 


B-^- 


I  turn  my  bell-uiisummoiieil  feet ; 

1  lay  the  critic's  glass  asiilc, 

I  tread  upon  my  letteroil  i>rido, 

Anil,  lovvost-sentud,  testify 

To  the  oneness  of  humanity  ; 

Confess  the  universal  want. 

Anil  share  whatever  Heaven  may  grant. 

llr  fuxleth  not  who  seeks  his  own. 

The  soul  is  lost  that 's  saved  nlono. 

Not  on  QUO  favored  forehead  fell 

IH'  old  the  fire-tongued  miraelo, 

r>ut  llamod  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 

The  liaiitism  of  the  Holy  (Ihost  ; 

Heart  answers  heart  ;  in  one  desire 

Tlie  lilending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 

■  Where,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  throe, 

Our  Lord  hath  said,  '  1  there  will  he  ! ' 

"So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 
The  feeling  which  is  evideiue 
Tliat  very  near  about  ns  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 
Tlie  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours. 
The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts. 
To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts; 
The  breath  of  a  diWner  air 
r>lo\vs  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer  :  — 
'I'liat  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 
.\  great  compassion  clasps  about. 
And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 
.\re  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 
Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task, 
The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask  ; 
With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands. 
The  jiassivo  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew. 
The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

"So,  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 

The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught. 

The  mystery  dimly  understood. 

That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 

.\ud,  chiefly,  its  divinest  traeo 

In  Him  of  Nazareth's  holy  face  ; 

That  to  be  saved  is  only  this,  — 

Salvation  from  our  sollishness, 

Kroni  more  than  eletnontal  fire. 

The  soul's  nnsanctified  desire. 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 

That  warns  ns  of  its  chafing  chain  ; 

That  woi-ship's  deeper  meaning  lies 

In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice. 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 

.\nd  posturing  of  jHinitonce, 

Hut  love's  nnforced  obedience  ; 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 

l\>r  man,  not  God,  —  for  earth,  not  heaven, 


The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends. 
Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends  ; 
That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 
The  king  of  some  remoter  st«r, 
But  Hanicd  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 
The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
Heart  answers  heart  :  in  one  desii-u 
Till'  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 
'  Whore,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  three,' 
Onr  Lord  hatli  said,  '  1  there  will  be  ! '  " 

John   GRF.ENLliAh  WliriTIEK. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  LIFE. 

0  F.A.TiiKn,  let  me  not  die  young  ! 
Earth's  beauty  asks  a  heart  and  tongue 
To  give  true  love  and  praises  to  her  worth  ; 

Her  sins  ami  judgment-sufi'erings  call 
For  fearless  nnirtyrs  to  redeem  thy  Earth 
From  her  disastrous  fall. 
For  though  her  s\nnmer  hills  and  vales  might 

seem 
The  fair  creation  of  a  poet's  dream,  — 

Ay,  of  the  Highest  I'oet, 
Whose  wordless  rhythms  are  chanted  by  the 
gyres 
Of  constellate  star-choirs, 
That  with  deep  melody  How  and  overflow  it,  — 
The  sweet  Earth,  —  very  sweet,  dcsi)ite 
The  rank  grave-smell  forever  drifting  in 
.\mong  the  odors  from  her  censers  white 
Ofwave-swungliliesandofwiud-svvungroses,  — 
The  Earth  sad-sweet  is  deeply  attaint  with 
sin ! 
The  pure  air,  which  encloses 
Her  and  her  starry  kin. 
Still  shudders  with  the  nnsjient  palpitating 
Of  a  great  t'urse,  that  to  its  utmost  shore 
Thrills  with  a  deadly  shiver 
Which  has  not  ceased  to  quiver 
Down  all  the  ages,  nathless  the  strong  beating 

Of  Angel-wings,  and  the  defiant  roar 
Of  Earth's  Titanic  thunders. 

Fair  and  sad. 
In  sin  and  beauty,  our  belovi'd  Earth 
Has  need  of  all  her  sons  to  make  her  glad  ; 
Has  need  of  martyrs  to  retire  the  hearth 
Of  her  ipienched  altars,  —  of  heroic  men 
With  freedom's  sword,  or  Truth's  supernal  pen. 
To  shape  the  worn-out  mold  of  nobleness  again. 
And  she  has  need  of  Poets  who  can  string 
Their  harps  with  steel  to  catch  the  lightning's 

fire. 
And  pour  her  thunders  from  the  clangingwire. 
To  cheer  the  hero,  mingling  with  his  ehi 
Arouse  the  laggtird  in  the  battle's  rear, 


^ 


POEMS   OF  RELIGION. 


— a 

343  ^^ 


^ 


Daunt  the  stem  wicked,  and  from  discord  wring 

Prevailing  harmony,  while  the  humtilest  soul 
Who  keeps  the  tune  the  warder  angels  sing 
In  golden  dioirs  above, 
And  only  wears,  for  crown  and  aureole. 

The  glow-worm  light  of  lowliest  human  love, 
Sliall    lill    with   low,    sweet    undertones    the 

chasms 
Of   silence,    'twixt    the    booming    thunder- 
spasms. 
And  Earth  has  need  of  Prophets  fiery-lipped 
And   ileep-souled,    to    announce    the    glorious 
dooms 
Writ  on  the  silent  heavens  in  starry  scrijit. 
And   Hashing    fitfully    from    her   shuddering 
tombs,  — 
Commissioned  Angels  of  the  new-born  Faith, 

To  teach  the  immortality  of  Good, 
The  soul's  God-likeness,  Sin's  coeval  death. 
And  Man's  indissolulile  lirotherhood. 

Yet  never  an  age,  when  God  lias  need  of  him. 
Shall  want  its  Man,  predestined  by  that  need. 
To  jjour  his  life  in  fieiy  word  or  deed,  — 
Tlie  strong  Archangel  of  the  Klohirn  ! 

Earth's  hollow  want  is  prophet  ol'  his  coming : 
In  the  low  murmur  of  her  tarnished  cry. 
And  heavy  sobs  breathed  up  despairingly, 

Ye  hear  the  near  invisible  luimming 
Of  his  wide  wings  that  fan  the  lurid  sky 
Into  cool  rijijiles  of  new  life  and  hope. 
While  far  in  its  dissolving  ether  ojie 
Deeps  beyond  deeps,  of  sapphire  calm,  to  cheer 
With  Sabbath   gleams  the  troubled   Now  and 
Here. 

Father  !  thy  will  be  done  ! 
Holy  and  righteous  One  ! 
Though  the  reluctant  years 
May  never  crown  my  throbbing  brow's  with 
white, 
Nor  round  my  shoulders  turn  the  golden  light 
Of  my  thick  locks  to  wisdom's  royal  ermine  : 
Yet  by  the  solitary  tears, 
Deeper  than  joy  or  sorrow,  —  by  the  thrill, 
Hi'.'her  than  hope  or  terror,  whose  quick  genuin, 

I  n  those  hot  tears  to  sudden  vigor  sprung. 
Sheds,  even  now,  the  fruits  of  graver  age,  — 
By  the  long  wrestle  in  which  inward  ill 
Fell  like  a  trampled  viper  to  the  ground,  -  - 
73y  all  tliat  lifts  me  o'er  my  outward  jicers 
To  that  supernal  stage 
Where  soul    dissolves    the    bonds    by   Nature 
bound,  — 
Fall  wlien  I  may,  by  pale  disease  unstrung. 
Or  by  the  hand  of  fratricidal  rage, 

I  cannot  now  die  young  ! 

George  s.  Dorleich. 


I V  I  were  told  that  I  must  die  to-morrow. 

That  the  next  sun 
Whichsinksshould  bearme  pastallfearandsoirow 

For  any  one. 
All  the  fight  fought,  all  the  short  journey  through. 

What  should  1  do  ( 

I  do  not  think  that  I  should  shrink  or  falter. 

But  just  go  on, 
Doing  my  work,  nor  change  nor  seek  to  alter 

Aught  that  is  gone  ; 
But  rise  and  move  and  love  and  smile  and  pray 

For  one  more  day. 

And,  lying  down  at  night  for  a  last  sleeping. 

Say  in  that  ear 
Which  hearkeiLS  ever :  "  Lord,  within  thy  keei)ing 

How  should  I  fear  ? 
And  when  to-monow  brings  thee  nearer  still. 

Do  thou  thy  will." 

I  might  not  sleep  for  awe  ;  but  peaceful,  tender. 

My  soul  would  lie 
All  the  nightlong  ;  and  when  the  uiomingsplendor 

Flushed  o'er  the  sky, 
1  think  that  I  could  smile  —  could  calmly  .say, 

"  It  Is  his  day." 

But  if  a  wondrous  hand  from  the  blue  yonder 

Held  out  a  scroll. 
On  which  my  life  was  writ,  and  1  with  wonder 

Beheld  unroll 
To  a  long  century's  end  its  mystic  clue. 

What  shoidd  I  do  '< 

What  muld  I  do,  0  blessed  Guide  and  Master, 

Other  than  this ; 
Still  to  go  on  as  now,  not  slower,  faster, 

Nor  fear  to  miss 
The  road,  although  so  very  long  it  be. 

While  led  by  thee  < 

Step  after  step,  feeling  thee  close  beside  me. 

Although  unseen. 
Through  thorns,  through  flowers,    whether  tin- 
tempest  hide  thee, 
I  Or  heavens  serene. 

Assured  thy  faithfulness  cannot  betray, 
Thy  love  decay. 

I  may  not  know  ;  my  God,  no  hand  revealeth 

Thy  coun.sels  wise  ; 
Along  the  path  a  decjwning  shadow  stealeth. 

No  voice  replies 
To  all  my  questioning  thought,  the  time  to  tell  ; 

And  it  is  well. 


^ 


[fh- 


344 


PVKAtS  or  HMLIGION. 


-^ 


B- 


Lot  mo  kot!i>  on,  abiiUuj,'  niul  uulViuiug 

Thy  will  iihvays, 
'rhroiigli  »  long  ceutiuy'a  \iivuing  ft'uitiou 

Ov  a  short  day's  ; 
Thuu  oanst  Hot  oomo  too  soon  ;  aiul  1  cau  wait 

It'  thou  fOiuB  latt). 

SUSAN  COOLUtl.B. 


THE  FUOirr  INTO  KUYIT. 


Tu  KKB  "a  ft  logt^ml  that  'a  toUl  of  a  gypsy  who  dwelt 

In  tho  lands  where  the  pymniids  bo  ; 
And  her  i\^be  was  embivideivd  with  stars,  and  hor 
belt 

Witlv  di'vioes  right  wondrous  to  see  ; 
And  sholivod  in  the  days  when  our  l.oulwasaehiUl 

I  >u  his  nuithor's  iniuiaoulate  breast  ; 
\\'  hon  he  tied  fi'onihis  foes, —  when  to  Kgyptoxiled, 

He  wont  down  with  St,  Josepli  the  blest. 

'f  his  Egyi'tianheldconvei'sewith  magic,  methinks, 

And  the  future  was  given  to  her  gaze  ; 
Kor  an  obelisk  marked  her  abode,  and  a  siJiiux 

Dn  her  threshold  ko|>t  vigil  always. 
She  was  (lensivo  and  over  alone,  nor  was  seen 

In  the  haunts  of  the  dissolute  erowd  ; 
Hut  oomni\inod  with  the  ghosts  of  the  Pharaohs, 
\  weeu. 

Or  with  visitors  wrajiped  in  a  sliivud. 

.\nd  tlieni  oauieanoldman  ftom  the  desert  oneday, 

With  a  nuiid  on  a  mule  by  that  rwid  ; 
And  a  child  on  hor  liosoni  reclined,  and  tho  way 

Led  them  straight  to  the  gyjwy's  alxide  ; 
.\ud  they  soenred  to  have  traveled  a  wearisome 
path, 

Fix>m  thence  many,  many  a  h^igue,  — 
Fji>m  a  tyrant's  jnu'suit,  from  an  enemy's  wrath, 

Spent  with  toil  and  o'ercome  with  fatigHo, 

.Vud  the  gvpsy  came  forth  from  her  dwelling,  and 
prayed 

'I'luit  the  pilgrims  would  ivst  them  awhile  ; 
Auvl  she  otl'ered  her  coiu-h  to  that  deli<:ate  maid, 

Who  hail  come  many,  many  a  mile. 
And  slie  fondled  the  babe  with  atfoction's  cai'ess, 

.\nd  she  U'gged  the  old  man  wotild  ivpose  ; 
"Hero  the  stranger,"  she  said,  "ever  finds  free 
access. 

And  the  wanderer  Imlm  for  his  woes. " 

Thou  her  guests  from  the  glaro  of  the  noonday 
she  led 
To  a  seat  in  her  grotto  so  cool  ; 
Whero  she  spread  them  a  lianipiet  of  fruits,  and 
a  shed, 
■With  K  manger,  was  found  for  tlie  niule  ; 


With  the  wine  of  the  palm-tree,  with  dates  newly 
culled. 

All  the  toil  of  the  day  she  beguiled  ; 
And  with  song  in  a  language  mysterious  she  lulled 

On  hor  bosom  the  wayfaring  child. 

When  the  gyjisy  iiuon  in  her  Kthiop  hand 

Took  the  infant's  diminutive  palm, 
O,  'twas  fearful  to  see  how  the  features  she  scanned 

Of  the  babo  in  his  slumbers  so  calm  ! 
Well  she  noted  each  mark  and  each  furrow  that 
I'rossed 

O'er  the  tracings  of  destiny's  line  : 
"WiiENiB  c-.\MK  Yisf"  sho  cried,  in  a-stonish- 
n>out  lost, 

"Kou  nils  I'niuii  is  of  u.ne.uje  Pivini;  !" 

"Fixim  the  village  of  Nazareth,"  Joscpli  replied, 

"  Where  we  dwelt  in  tho  laud  of  tho  ,low. 
We  have  lied  from  a  tyrant  whose  garment  isdywl 

In  the  gore  of  the  children  he  slew  : 
We  were  told  to  renuviu  till  an  angoTs  command 

Should  appoint  us  tho  hour  to  return  ; 
But  till  then  wo  inhabit  the  foreigners'  land, 

Antl  in  Kgypt  we  make  our  sojourn," 

"Then  ye  tarry  witli  nm,"  cried  the  gypsy  in  joy, 

"And  ye  make  of  my  dwelling  your  honu' ; 
Many  years  have  1  prayed  that  the  Israelite  boy 

(Hlossed  hope  of  tho  Gentiles  I)  would  couui." 
And  sho  kissed  both  the  feet  of  theinfant  and  kuelt. 

And  adored  him  at  oneo  ;  then  a  smile 
Lit  the  face  of  his  mother,  who  cheerfully  tlwolt 

With  lu'r  host  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile, 

FKANLis  Mauonv  (Father  I'Rour). 


BURIAL  OF  MOSES, 


"  Ant)  he  buried  him  in  a  valWy  in  ih 

f  laml  of  M( 

kiK  over  n^lnst 

Beth'-iiooT  :  but  no  »ia»  knowcth  of  hi-. 

scpulchei  t 

nio  this  vlay."  — 

Deul,  sxxiv.  6. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain. 

On  this  side  Joulan's  wave. 

In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave  ; 

Viut  no  man  built  that  sepulchor. 

And  no  nrau  Si>w  it  o'er  ; 

Kor  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 

.And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  jMssed  on  earth  j 

Yet  no  man  heaixl  tho  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  tjain  go  forth  : 

Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 

-And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  choek 

Grows  into  the  gi-eat  sun  ; 


^ 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


W^ 


Noiselessly  as  th'-  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  venlure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Unfold  their  thousand  leaves  : 

So  without  sound  of  music 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 

Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  cromi 

The  great  pi'oeession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  iJeth-peor's  height 

Out  of  his  I'ocky  eyry 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight ; 

Perchance  the  lion  stalking 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot  ; 

For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But,  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  conira/les  of  the  war. 

With  arms  reversed  and  muttled  drums, 

Follow  the  funeral  car  ; 

They  show  tlie  banners  taken  ; 

They  tell  his  battles  won  ; 

And  alter  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 

Anil  give  the  Ijard  an  honored  place, 

Willi  costly  marbles  drest, 

In  the  great  mii:ister  transept 

Where  lights  like  gloi'ies  fall. 

And  the  .sweet  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  hall. 

This  was  the  bravest  wairior 

That  ever  buckled  sword  ; 

This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word  ; 

And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen 

On  the  deathless  page;  truths  Iialf  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  li.ad  he  not  high  honor?  — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall  ! 

To  lie  in  state  while  angeb  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall  '. 

\nd  the  ilark  rock-jnnes,  like  tossing  plumes, 

Over  his  Ijier  to  wave. 

And  Cod's  own  liaiid,  in  that  lonely  land. 

To  lay  him  in  his  gi-ave  !  — 

In  that  strange  grave  without  a  name, 
Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again  —  0  wondrous  thought  I  — 
Before  the  judgment-ilay, 


And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around. 
On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And  speak  of  the  strife  tliat  won  our  life 
With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 

0  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  lanil  ! 

0  dark  Beth-[)eor's  hill  ! 

Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  he  still : 

Gwl  liath  his  mystiiiiks  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannontell. 

He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 

CtCll,  FKA-NCES  ALeXANO£R. 


THE  GREENWOOD  SHRIFT. 

CEORCE  III.   AND  A  OVl.NG  WOMAN   IN  WINDSOR  FORES 

OlTSl'RBTCHEn  Ixineatli  the  leafy  sha<le 
Of  Windsor  forest's  deepest  glaile, 

A  dying  woman  lay  ; 
Three  little  children  round  her  stood. 
And  there  went  uji  from  the  greenwood 

A  woful  wail  that  day. 

"O  mother  !  "  was  the  niingld  cry, 
"0  mother,  mother!  do  not  die. 

And  leave  us  all  alone." 
"  lly  blcsscil  babes  !  "  she  tried  to  say, 
But  the  faint  accents  died  away 

In  a  low  sobbing  moan. 

And  then,  life  struggle*!  hard  with  death. 
And  fust  and  strong  she  drew  her  breath, 

And  up  she  raised  her  head  ; 
And,  ])i-ering  through  the  deep  wood  maze 
With  a  long,  sharp,  unearthly  gaze, 

"  Will  she  not  come  ? "  she  said. 

Just  then,  the  parting  Ixiughs  Ijctwcen, 
A  little  maid's  light  form  was  seen. 

All  breathless  with  her  s|)ced  ; 
And,  following  close,  a  man  came  on 
(A  portly  man  to  look  ujjoii). 

Who  leil  a  janting  steed. 

"Mother  ! "  the  little  maiden  cried. 
Or  e'er  she  reached  the  woman's  side. 

And  kissed  her  clay -cold  cheek,  — 
"  I  liave  not  idleii  in  the  town. 
But  long  went  wandering  up  and  down, 

The  minister  to  seek. 

"  They  told  me  here,  they  told  me  there,  — 
I  think  they  mocked  me  everywhere  ; 
And  wlien  I  fouml  his  home, 


-i 


e- 


:j-i6 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


-^ 


And  lieggc'il  him  on  my  bended  knee 

To  bring  his  book  and  come  with  me, 

llotlier  !  111!  would  not  uome. 

"  I  told  liini  how  juu  dying  hiy, 
And  conld  not  go  in  peace  away 

Witliout  the  minister ; 
I  begged  liim,  for  dear  Christ  his  sake, 
l!ut  (>,  my  heart  was  fit  to  break,  — 

jMotlier  !  he  iBiuld  not  stir. 

"So,  though  my  tears  were  blinding  me, 
I  ran  back,  fast  as  fast  could  be. 

To  come  again  to  you  ; 
And  here  —  close  by  —  this  squire  I  met, 
M'lio  asked  (so  mild)  what  made  me  fret  ; 

And  when  I  t,.ld  him  true,  — 

"  '  1  will  go  with  you,  cliild,'  he  said, 
'  God  sends  mo  to  this  dying  bed,'  — 

Mother,  he  's  here,  hard  by." 
While  thus  the  lillle  maiden  spoke. 
The  man,  his  baek  ;igainst  an  oak. 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye. 

The  bridle  oi^his  nerk  bung  free, 

With  iiuivering  Hank  and  trembling  kuee, 

Pressed  close  his  bonny  hay  ; 
A  statelier  man,  a  statelier  steed. 
Never  on  greensward  paced,  I  rede, 

Thau  those  stood  there  that  day. 

So,  while  the  little  maiden  spoke. 
The  man,  his  baek  against  an  oak. 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye 
And  folded  arms,  and  in  his  look 
Something  that,  like  a  sermon-book, 

Preached,  —  "All  is  vanity." 

Hut  when  the  dying  woman's  face 
Tnrueil  toward  him  with  a  wishful  gaze, 

He  stepped  to  where  she  lay  ; 
And,  kneeling  down,  bent  over  her, 
Saying,  "  I  am  a  minister. 

My  sister  !  let  us  pray." 

And  well,  withouten  book  or  stole, 
(Ood's  words  were  printed  on  his  sold  !) 

Into  the  dying  ear 
He  breathed,  as  't  were  an  angel's  strain. 
The  things  that  unto  life  pertain. 

And  death's  dark  shadows  clear. 

He  spoke  of  sinners'  lost  estate, 
In  Christ  renewed,  regenerate,  — 

Of  God's  most  blest  decree. 
That  not  a  single  soul  should  die 
Who  turns  repentant,  with  the  cry 

"  Be  merciful  to  me." 


He  spoke  of  trouble,  pain,  and  toil, 
Endured  but  for  a  little  while 

In  ])atience,  faith,  and  love,  — 
Sure,  in  God's  own  good  time,  to  be 
Exchanged  for  an  eternity 

(_)f  ha|)piness  above. 

Then,  as  the  spirit  ebbed  away, 

He  raised  his  hands  and  eyes  to  pray 

That  peaceful  it  might  pass  ; 
And  then  —  the  orphans'  sobs  alone 
Were  heard,  and  they  knelt,  every  one, 

Close  round  ou  the  green  grass. 

Svich  was  the  sight  their  wandering  eyes 
Beheld,  in  heart-struck,  mute  surprise, 

Who  reined  their  coursers  back, 
Just  as  they  found  the  long  astray. 
Who,  in  the  heat  of  chase  that  day. 

Had  wandered  from  their  track. 

But  each  man  reined  his  pawing  steed, 
And  lighted  down,  as  if  agreed. 

In  silence  at  his  side  ; 
And  there,  uncovered  all,  they  stood,  — 
1 1  was  a  wholesome  sight  and  good 

That  day  for  mortal  pride. 

For  of  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Was  that  deep-hushed,  bareheaded  band  ; 

And,  central  in  the  ring, 
By  that  dead  pauper  on  the  ground. 
Her  ragged  orphans  clinging  round. 

Knelt  their  anointed  king. 

KOUICUT  niui  CAUOLINll  SOUTHEV 


THE  RELIGION  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

He  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  he  the  true  church  militant  : 
Such  as  do  lnuld  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  jiikc  ami  gun  ; 
Pecide  all  eontrover.sies  by 
infallible  artillery, 
And  ])rove  their  doctrine  orthodox 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knoi:ks  ; 
Call  fire,  and  sword,  and  desolation 
A  godly,  thorough  lieforiuation. 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on 
And  still  lie  doing,  never  done  ; 
As  if  religion  were  intended 
For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended. 
A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd  perverse  antipathies  ; 
In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss  ; 


-A'P 


r 


POEMS  OF  BELIGION. 


■^7^ 


More  peevisli,  cross,  and  splenetic, 
Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick  ; 
That  with  more  care  keep  holiday 
Tlie  wrong  tlian  others  the  i-iglit  way  ; 
Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 
I!y  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to  ;' 
Still  so  perverse  and  opjjosite. 
As  if  tliey  worshiped  God  for  spite  ; 
The  selfsame  thing  they  will  abhor 
One  way,  ami  long  anotlier  for. 

Samuel  Butler. 


[& 


THE  FAITHFUL  ANGEL. 

FROM   '■  I'ARADISE   LOST." 

The  serapli  Abdiel,  faithful  found 
Among  the  faithless,  faithful  only  he  ; 
Among  innumerable  false,  unmoved. 
Unshaken,  unseduced,  untenifieil, 
His  loyalty  he  kept.  Ids  love,  his  zeal  ; 
Nor  n\nnlier,  nor  example  with  lum  wrought 
To  swerve  from  truth, or  change  his  I'onstant  mind, 
Though  single.   From  amidst  them  forth  he  passed. 
Long  way  through  hostile  scorn,  whi('li  he  sus- 
tained 
Supenor,  nor  of  violence  feai-ed  auglit  ; 
And  with  retorted  scorn  his  hack  he  turned 
On  those  proud  towers  to  swift  destruction  doomed. 


THE  REAPER'S  DREAM. 

The  road  was  lone  ;  the  grass  was  dank 

With  night-dews  on  the  briery  bank 

Whereon  a  weaiy  reaper  sank. 

His  garb  was  old  ;  his  vi-sage  tanned  ; 

The  nisty  sickle  in  his  hand 

t'liuld  find  no  work  in  all  the  land. 

He  .saw  the  evening's  chilly  star 

Above  his  native  vale  afar  ; 

A  moment  on  the  horizon's  bar 

It  hung,  then  sank,  a.s  with  a  sigh  ; 

And  there  the  crescent  moon  went  by. 

An  empty  sickle  down  the  sky. 

To  soothe  his  pain,  Slecj/s  tender  jialm 
Laid  on  his  brow  its  touch  of  halm  ; 
His  brain  received  the  slumberous  calm  ; 
Ai!fl  .soon  that  angel  without  name, 
Her  rnbc  a  dre.im,  her  face  the  same. 
The  giver  of  sweet  visions  cMiiie. 

She  touched  his  eyes  ;  no  longer  sealed, 
They  saw  a  troop  of  reapers  wield 
Their  swift  blades  in  a  ripened  field. 


At  each  thrust  of  their  snowy  sleeves 
A  thrill  ran  through  the  future  sheaves 
Rustling  like  rain  on  forest  leaves. 

They  were  not  lirawny  men  who  bowed. 
With  liaiN.^t  V'liirs  rough  and  loud, 
liut  spirit  -.  ii:.'.  Ill,'  as  a  cloud. 
Like  111  111   li-liliiiiigs  in  their  hold, 
The  .silver  sickles  manifold 
Slid  musically  through  the  gold. 

O,  liid  the  moniing  stars  combine 

To  match  the  chorus  cleai-  and  fine. 

That  rippled  lightly  <lown  the  line,  — 

A  cadence  of  celestial  rhyme. 

The  language  of  that  cloudless  clime. 

To  which  their  shining  hands  kejit  time  ! 

Behind  them  lay  the  gleaming  rows. 
Like  those  long  clouds  the  sunset  shows 
On  amber  meadows  of  repose  ; 
But,  like  a  wind,  the  binders  bright 
Soon  followed  in  their  mirthful  might. 
And  swejjt  them  into  sheaves  of  light. 

noubliiig  the  sjilendor  of  the  plain. 
There  rolled  the  great  celestial  wain, 
To  gather  in  the  fallen  grain. 
Its  frame  was  built  of  golden  bars  ; 
Its  glowing  wheels  were  lit  with  stars  ; 
The  royal  Harvest's  car  of  cars. 

The  snowy  yoke  that  drew  the  load. 

On  gleaming  hoofs  of  silver  trode  ; 

And  music  was  its  only  goad. 

To  no  command  of  word  or  beck 

It  moved,  and  felt  no  other  check 

Than  one  white  arm  laid  on  flic  neck,  — 

The  neek,  whose  light  was  ovenvovmd 
With  liells  of  lilies,  ringing  round 
Tlieir  odors  till  the  air  was  drowned  : 
The  starry  foreheads  meekly  borne, 
With  gaHands  looped  from  horn  to  horn. 
Shone  like  the  many-colored  morn. 

The  field  was  cleared.     Home  went  the  bands. 
Like  children,  linking  happy  hands. 
While  singing  through  their  father's  lands  ; 
Or,  arms  about  each  other  thrown. 
With  amber  tresses  backward  blown. 
They  moved  as  they  were  music's  own. 

The  vision  brightening  more  and  more. 

He  saw  the  gamer's  glowing  door. 

And  sheaves,  like  sunshine,  strew  the  floor, — 

The  floor  was  jasper,  —  golden  flails. 

Swift-sailing  as  a  whirlwind  sails, 

Throbbed  mellow  music  down  the  v.alcs. 


-s 


fl- 


•S-iS 


POEMS   OF  RELIGION. 


^ 


He  saw  the  mansion,  —  all  repose,  — 
Great  conidors  and  porticoes. 
Propped  with  the  columns,  shining  rows  ; 
And  these  —  for  beauty  was  the  rule  — 
Tlie  polished  pavements,  hard  and  cool, 
Eedoubled,  like  a  crystal  pool. 

And  there  the  odorous  feast  was  spread ; 
The  fruity  fragrance,  widely  shed, 
Seemed  to  the  floating  music  wed. 
Seven  angels,  like  the  Pleiad  seven. 
Their  lips  to  silver  clarions  given. 
Blew  welcome  round  the  walls  of  heaven. 

In  skyey  garments,  silky  thin, 
The  glad  retainers  iloated  in 
A  thousand  forms,  and  yet  no  din  : 
And  from  the  visage  of  the  Lord, 
Like  splendor  from  the  Orient  poured, 
A  smile  illumined  all  the  board. 

Far  Hew  the  music's  circling  sound  ; 
Then  Iloated  back,  with  soft  rebound. 
To  join,  not  mar,  the  convei'se  round,  — 
Sweet  notes,  that,  melting,  still  increased. 
Such  as  ne'er  cheered  the  bridal  feast 
Of  king  in  the  enchanted  East. 

Did  any  great  door  ope  or  close. 
It  seemed  the  birth-time  of  repose. 
The  faint  sound  died  where  it  arose  ; 
And  they  who  passed  from  door  to  iloor. 
Their  soft  feet  on  the  polished  floor 
Jlet  their  soft  shadows,  —  nothing  more. 

Then  once  again  the  groups  were  drawn 
Through  corridors,  or  down  the  lawn. 
Which  bloomed  in  beauty  like  a  dawn  : 
Where  countless  fountains  leapt  alway. 
Veiling  their  silver  heights  in  spray. 
The  choral  people  held  their  way. 

There,  midst  the  brightest,  brightly  shone 
Dear  forms  he  loved  in  years  agone,  — 
The  earliest  loved,  —  the  earliest  flown. 
He  heard  a  mother's  sainted  tongue, 
A  sister's  voice,  who  vanished  young, 
While  one  still  dearer  sweetly  sung  ! 

No  further  might  the  scene  unfold  ; 
The  gazer's  voice  could  not  withhold  ; 
The  very  rapture  made  him  bold  : 
He  cried  aloud,  with  clasped  hands, 
' '  0  happy  fields  !  0  happy  bands. 
Who  reap  the  never-failing  lands  ! 

"  0  master  of  these  broad  estates. 

Behold,  before  your  very  gates 

A  worn  and  wanting  laborer  waits  ! 


Let  me  but  toil  amid  your  gi'ain. 

Or  be  a  gleaner  on  the  plain, 

So  I  may  leave  these  fields  of  pain  ! 

' '  A  gleaner,  I  will  follow  far, 
With  never  look  or  word  to  mar, 
Behind  the  Harvest's  yellow  car  ; 
All  day  my  hand  shall  constant  be, 
And  every  happy  eve  shall  see 
The  precious  burden  borne  to  thes  !  " 

At  morn  some  reapers  neared  the  place. 
Strong  men,  whose  feet  recoiled  apace  ; 
Then,  gathering  round  the  upturned  face. 
They  saw  the  lines  of  pain  and  care. 
Yet  read  in  the  expression  there 
The  look  as  of  an  answered  prayer. 

THOMAS  BUCHANA.N   READ. 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


"  L«t  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  : 
Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor."  —  GRAY. 

JIy  loved,  my  honored,  much-i'espected  friend. 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  : 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 

Mydearest  meed,  a  friend'sesteemand  praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene  ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  ; 

W^hat  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 
Ah  !   though  his  worth  unknown,   far  happier 
there,  I  ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angi-y  sugh  ; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  Jileugh, 

The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  to  theirrepose ; 
The  toilwom  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes,  — 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hame- 
ward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 
Th'   e.xpectant  wee   things,   toddlin',    stacher 
through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'flichterin'  noise  an'glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonnily. 

His  clean   hearthstaue,   his  thriftie  wifie's 
smUe, 


^ 


[&- 


PUEMS   OF  RELIGION. 


349 


ti 


4^.- 


The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  i-arking  cares  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil. 

Bclyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapijiug  in. 

At  service  out  amang  the  fanners  roun'  ; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  riu 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  ueibor  town  ; 
Tlieir  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown. 

In  youtlifu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
('oniLS  lianie,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  bra'  new  gown, 

Or  dejiosit  her  sair-won  penny-foe. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

\Vi'  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers  : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view  : 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheai-s, 

Gai'sauhl  claes  lookamaist  as  weel  's  the  new  ; 
The  father  mi.xes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 
And  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  hand. 

And  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play ; 
"An'  0,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  mom  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  ]mth  ye  gang  astray. 

Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  nught ; 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright  !  " 

But,  hark  !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  cons('ious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 
Wi'   heart-strack   anxious   care    inquires   his 
name. 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weelpleased  the  mother  hears  it  'snaewild,  worth- 
less rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

A  strappin'  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother's  e'e ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit 's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
Butblateandlathefu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae 
grave  ; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn  's  respected  like 
the  lave. 


0  happy  love  !  wliers  love  like  this  is  found  ! 
O  heartfelt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  com[pare  ! 

1  've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  :  — 
If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

(!ine  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  even- 
ing gale. 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heait, 

A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth. 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  ait. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts !  dissemblingsmoolh  ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  > 
Is  there  no  [>ity,  no  relenting  ruth. 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  <'hild. 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distrac- 
tion wild  ? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 

The  halesome  paiTitch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food  ; 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That 'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  hercood  ; 
The  dame  brings  fortli,  in  complimental  mood. 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck  fell. 
An'  aft  he  's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid  ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  't  was  a  towmond  aidd,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the 
bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha' -Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  ; 
His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haff"ets  wearing  thin  an'  bare  : 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  ]iortion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  !"  he  says  with  solemn 


They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 

Theytune  theirhearts,by far  thenoblest  aim  ; 
Perhaps  "Dundee's"  wild-warbliag  measures 
rise, 

Or  plaintive  "Martyrs,"  worthy  of  the  name; 
Or  noble  "  Elgin  "  beets  the  heavenward  flame. 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise  ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  jiriest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, — 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 


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u 


Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Anialek's  ungracious  progeny, 

Or  how  tlio  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Hfucath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire ; 

Or  .lob's  pnthotie  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  lire  ; 

Or  other  lioly  seers  tliat  tune  the  Siicred  lyre. 

reihaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, — 

1  lowguiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  liis  head  : 
How  his  lirst  followers  and  serviuits  sped  ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  nuiny  a  land  ; 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand. 
And  heard  great  Hab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by 
Heaven's  command. 

Then,  kiu^elingdown,  to  heaven's  eternal  King, 

The  .saint,  the  father,  and  the  luisband  prays  : 
Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  ; 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 
While  eireling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride. 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
Wlien  nu'U  display  to  congregations  wide, 

1  'I'votion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
Tlie  I'owev,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  str.ain,  the  sacenlotal  stole  ; 
But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 

May  heai-,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the 
s'oul  ; 
And  in  liis  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way  ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest  : 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  prolfer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request. 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

.Xud  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride. 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

F(U'  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But,  chielly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  j>re- 
sido. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur 

springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad ; 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

'An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  !" 


And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  : 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ? — a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ! 

0  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent. 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Uo  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content  ! 
And,  0,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 

Then,  liowe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  popnlace  may  rise  the  while, 

And  stJind  a  wall  of  lire  around  their  much-loved 

isle. 

0  Thou  !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart ; 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 
0,  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard 
In  brightsuccession  raise,  herornamentandguard ! 

KOBeRT  BUK.NS. 


THE  OTHER  WORLD. 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud,  — 

A  world  we  do  not  see  ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

M.iy  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek  ; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love. 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred. 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 

The  silence  —  awful,  sweet,  and  calm  — 
They  have  no  power  to  break  ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem,  ^ 

They  seem  to  lull  us  to  our  rest, 
And  melt  into  our  dream. 


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.^ 


And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring 

'T  is  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be. 

To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss. 

And  gently  dream  in  loving  arms 
To  swoon  to  that  —  from  this. 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are. 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away. 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us !  watch  us  still, 

Press  nearer  to  our  side. 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  he  as  nauglit, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream  ; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 
Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


B-^- 


THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

All  things  that  are  on  eartli  shall  wliolly  pass 

away. 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last 

for  aye. 
The  foiTiis  of  men  shall  be  as  they  had  never  been  ; 
The  blasted  groves  shall  lose  their  fresh  ami  tender 

green  ; 
The  birds  of  the  thicket  shall  end  their  plea.sant 

song. 
And  the  nightingale  shall  cease  to  chant  the  even- 
ing long. 
The  kine  of  tlie  pasture  shall  feel  the  dart  that  kills. 
And  all  the  fair  white  flocks  shall  perish  from  the 

hills. 
The  goat  and  antlered  stag,  the  wolf  and  the  fox. 
The  wild  boar  of  the  wood,  and  the  chamois  of 

the  rocks. 
And  the  strong  and  fearless  bear,  in  tlie  troilden 

dust  shall  lie  ; 
And  the   dolphin  of  the  sea,   and   the   mighty 

whale,  shall  die. 
And  realms  shall  be  diss-olveii,  and  empires  lie 

no  more, 
And  they  shall  bow  to  death,   who  raled  from 

shore  to  shore  ; 
.\nil  the  great  globe  itself,  so  the  holy  writings  tell. 
With   the  rolling  firmament,   where   the   starry 

armies  dwell. 


Shall  melt  with  fervent  heat  —  they  shall  all  pass 

away. 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last 

for  aye. 


THE  MA.STER'S  TOUCH. 

I.N'  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard  ; 

In  the  rough  marble  beauty  hides  unseen  : 
To  make  the  music  and  the  beauty,  needs 

The  master's  touch,  the  sculptor's  chisel  keen. 

Great  Master,  touch  us  with  thy  skillful  hand  ; 

Let  not  the  music  that  is  in  us  die  ! 
Great  Sculptor,  hew  and  polish  us  ;  nor  let. 

Hidden  ami  lo.st,  thy  form  within  us  lie  ! 

Spare  not  the  stroke  !  do  with  us  as  thou  wilt  ! 

Lettherebenaughtunfini.shed,  broken, marred  ; 
Complete  thy  purpose,  that  we  may  become 

Thy  perfect  image,  tliou  our  God  and  Lord  ! 


ALL'S  ■WELL. 

The  day  is  ended.  Ere  1  sink  to  sleep. 
My  weary  spirit  seeks  repose  in  thine  ! 

Father,  forgive  my  trespasses,  and  keep 
This  little  life  of  mine  ! 

With  loving  kindness  curtain  thou  my  bed. 
And  cool  in  rest  my  burning  pilgi-im  feet  ; 

Tliy  pardon  be  the  pillow  for  my  head  : 
So  shall  my  rest  be  sweet. 

At  peace  with  all  the  world,  dear  Lord,  and  thee. 
No  fears  my  soul's  unwavering  faith  ran  shake  ! 

AH 's  well,  whichever  side  the  grave  for  me 
The  morning  light  may  break. 


Dear  Friend  !  whose-  presence  in  the  house, 

AVhose  gracious  word  benign, 
Could  once,  at  Cana's  wedding  feast. 

Change  water  into  wine  ; 

Come,  visit  us  !  and  when  dull  work 

Grows  weary,  line  on  line. 
Revive  our  souls,  and  let  us  see 

Life's  water  turned  to  wine. 

Gay  mirth  shall  deepen  into  joy. 
Earth's  hopes  grow  half  divine. 

When  Jesus  visits  us,  to  make 
Life's  water  glow  as  wine. 


-^ 


S52 


ivKMs  or  MUaiON. 


fh 


Gjx>w  U'i^lit  with  «n^i;vl  vi.iils,  whou 
Tho  IauxI  ik>\us  i>u(  tlic  ttiuo, 

tVr  wlitm  !ifU-si>«>kiu^»;  t»iU!i  to  love. 
Not  kuowiii^  luiuo  nor  tUiiw, 

TUo  tuiraol*  <\j>«\u  is  \v\\>\>gUt, 
Auvl  water  tvvtuwi  to  wine. 


Who  shitU  >H»ke  tlvuWe  .'  —  uot  the  evil  inimla 

W'hioli  like  a  slimlow  o'er  invtttiiyi  lower; 
Tho  s)>ivit  (Hutio  h«th  so  attvuuNvl,  timls 
There  I'wiiii^  t  hut  u>«,v  own  the  i"«l<««r's  jK>wer ; 
What  <»«,Y  she  Hot  ooufer, 

K'eu  wheiv  she  luvtst  iHUitleum  ? 
They  take  not  i>eai-e  t'ixxtu  her, 
Slu'  >«»;*'  sj>eak  jnniee  to  them  ! 

ANt>N'VUOl'S. 


QUIKT  FROM  HOD. 

tjvttsr  hwn  (5i.hI  !    It  kHMueth  «ot  to  still 
The  vast  auvl  hi^h  asjuriii^  ol'  the  soul. 
The  d>HH>  e>\>otioits  whieh  the  si«rit  till. 
Autl  sjHwl  its  ^>ur^^>se  ouwaixl  to  the  j»v»»l ; 
It  vliuis  not  yovtth'a  bright  eye, 

l'>emls  iu>t  joy's  Uvtty  luvw, 
No  i;HiUh\ts  eivstasy 

Ne<'Al  iw  its  )>re«euw  K>w. 

U  eiMues  uot  in  a  sullen  fawn,  to  jJaw 

Life's  great>vit  jiinnl  in  an  inglorious  rest  ; 
Th>vt»j;h  a  dull,  lieaten  traok  its  way  to  tJ'aw,      | 
Aiul  to  lethai^io  slunilvr  lull  the  IxiNjast  ; 
Action  may  Ih>  its  sivlieiv,  > 

Mountain  ^«ths,  l<>nnvHess  fleWs, 
O'er  billows  its  eai^-ev  ; 

JCAis  is  the  i>vnver'  it  yieUls  : 

To  sojvntru  in  the  worW.  and  yet  aj«rt ;  ' 

To  tlwell  with  IJoil,  yet  still  with  wan  to  feel ; 
To  l>ear  aVut  foivver  in  the  heart 
The  glrtUneiis  which  his  sjxirit  doth  ivveal  ; 
Not  to  vleeut  evil  goire 

t'twn  every  ejuthly  seene ;  j 

To  see  the  stv«n\  ivnie  orr, 
Uut  feel  his  slrieUl  Wtweeu, 

U  giveth  uot  a  stivi\j;th  to  human  kind. 

To  leave  all  sutleriug  jHAvevless  at  its  (\«et, 
Kut  keejvs  within  the  teroiJe  of  the  iniml 
A  gvJilou  altar,  surd  a  n>eivy-se<»t  ; 

A  spiritual  ark,  \ 

ISearing  the  \>e«oe  ivf  Uo<l  ' 

AK've  the  waters  dark. 
And  o'e»'  the  desert's  s\hI. 

How  besu>til\rl  within  our  souls  to  k«i' 

This  treasuiv,  tho  AU-Meivit\\l  hath  given  ; 
To  feel,  wheu  we  awake,  and  when  we  sleejv 
Itsiuiiuiservuud  us,  likeabrveae  frxuu  heaven  ! 
Quiet  at  hearth  and  hvvme, 

\Vhei»  the  heart's  joys  l>egin  ; 
Quiet  whww'er  we  iw'im,  i 

Quiet  aivuuvl.  within. 


THR  WAY,  XHR  TRVTH.  AND  THK  UKS, 

I  O  VHoi',  grei>t  Krienvl  to  all  the  swrs  ivf  mett. 

Who  onoe  ajuH-aiwl  in  luunhlest  gnrse  Ih>1ow, 
I  Siir  to  tvbuke,  to  hivak  the  i'a\>tive's  chain. 

And  call  thv  l>\x<th>vn  forth  t\vm  want  and 


Wv'  Uvk  to  thee  !  thy  truth  is  still  the  Wght 
Whiehguides  the  nations,  ginning  on  theirway, 
I  Stum  Wing  and  falling  in  disitstrvus  night, 
I     Yet  hoj>ing  ever  for-  the  j>erfeet  vlay. 

I  Yes  ;  thou  art  still  the  life,  thou  art  the  Way 
Th*  holiest  know ;  light,   lifts  the  Way  ol 
heaven  ! 
\  And  they  who  deiirest  hoj>e  and  deej^est  jvroy. 
Toil  by  the  light,  Life,  Way,  which  thou  hast 
i;iven. 


TllRRK  WAS  &11.KN0K  IX  HKAVKK 

t\vN  angel  sj>irits  ueevl  ivjHNse 
lu  the  l\tll  sunlight  of  the  sky » 

And  can  the  veil  of  slnn\l>er  close 
A  cheruKs  Wight  and  Wasii\g  ey«  1 

Have  ser'«i>hin»  a  weary  hiwv, 

A  fainting  heart,  an  aching  hre«st  ? 

Niv  far  tv\>  high  their  )>nlses  How 
To  langnislr  with  inglorious  I'est. 

0,  not  the  death-like  calm  of  slt-e|> 
Covxld  hush  the  everlasting  song ; 

No  Mry  di'eam  or  sluniKn'  deep 
KjrtiHUi-e  the  r^i^t  and  holy  throng. 

Yet  not  the  lightest  tone  was  hearvl 
Frvin  angel  voice  or  a>\g«'l  hand  ; 

And  not  ot\e  jilnm^l  pinion  stirred 
Among  the  )>n«v  and  blissful  l>and. 

For  theiv  was  silenw  in  the  sky, 
A  joy  not  angel  tv>«gu««  could  t«U, 

As  fivrn  its  mystic  fount  on  high 
The  i>ei»ce  of  (!o*l  in  st^lln^^ss  tVU. 


"i-i- 


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^ 


O,  wliat  is  bileu'*  li«ie  Ixilow  ? 

Th«  fruit  of  a  wiiccalcl  d*s|;ai)- ; 
Tlw;  pause  of  i/aiu,  th'j  ilruaiii  of  woe  ;  — 

It  is  tiie  lest  of  laptuie  tl«e)c. 

And  to  tlie  wayworn  pilgrirji  Uere, 

iloji;  ki)i<lre<i  seeins  tJial  pcifwt  jxiace, 

TJian  the  full  cltaiits  of  joy  to  hear 
JioU  on,  aijd  never,  uevy  cease. 

From  earthly  aj^onies  set  fiee, 
Tire*!  with  the  jwith  Vm  slowly  tiwl, 

May  »u<;h  a  silence  vnAiJiitu:  nie 
Into  the  ]iiiU/x  of  my  Go<l 

ANONYMOUS. 


FOEEVEE  WITH  THE  LOED. 

FoKUVKK  with  the  Ixird  ! 
Anjen  !  so  l<;t  it  Ije  ! 
Life  from  the  deaii  is  in  that  word, 
And  immoitality. 

Here  in  the  Ixidy  i>ent, 
AhK";nt  from  hirn  I  roam, 
Vet  nightly  \iiU:\i  my  moving  tent 
A  "lay's  march  ncarei'  home. 

My  Father's  house  on  liigh, 
Home  of  my  S'jul !  how  near. 
At  tijnes,  to  faith's  foreswring  eye 
Thy  golden  gates  apj)ear  ! 

All  !  then  my  spirit  faints 
To  reach  the  land  I  love. 
The  briglit  inlieritance  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  alwve  ! 

Y<-(  'louds  will  intervene. 
And  all  my  piosjx-x-t  flies  ; 
Like  Koah's  dove,  I  flit  };etwe<;n 
I{ough  seas  and  st';nny  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  dejtart. 
The  winds  and  waters  cease  ; 
While  swe<;tl/  o'er  my  gladdened  heart 
Expands  the  lx)w  of  i^eace  ! 

Beneath  its  glowing  ardi, 
Along  the  liallowwi  ground, 
I  see  cheruhie  annic-s  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hifar  at  mom  and  even, 
At  noon  and  midnight  hour, 
The  choral  liarmonies  of  h<aven 
Earth's  Bahel  tongues  o'eri<ower. 


Then,  then  I  tix\  that  lie, 
Eememljered  or  forgot, 
The  I/ord,  is  never  faj  from  me. 
Though  I  ijer<:*ive  him  not. 

In  darkness  as  in  light, 
Hidden  alike  fiom  view, 
I  slwj;,  1  wake,  as  in  his  sight 
Who  looks  all  nature  thiough. 

All  that  I  am,  liave  l.ieen. 
All  that  I  yet  juay  Ije, 
He  sees  at  once,  as  he  hath  seen, 
And  shall  forever  see. 

"  Forever  with  the  I/jrd"  : 
Father,  if  't  h  thy  will. 
The  promise  of  tliat  faithful  word 
L'nfj  thy  child  fulfill  I 

So,  when  my  latest  breath 
Sliall  lend  the  veil  in  twain, 
15y  death  I  sliall  es<;a|«;  from  death. 
And  life  eternal  gain. 

James  monto'jmlk 

THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  SfJL'L. 

Slkkf,  sleep  to-<iay,  Uirnienting  cares. 

Of  earth  and  folly  Wn  ; 
Ye  shall  not  dim  the  light  that  stri«ims 

From  this  wlestial  morn. 

To-mo)row  will  l>e  time  enough 

To  Icel  your  liai.'ih  control ; 
Ye  shall  not  violate;,  this  'lay, 

The  Salyl/ath  of  my  soul. 

Sleep,  sleep  forever,  guilty  thoughts  ; 

lyct  fires  of  vengeance  die  ; 
And,  purged  from  sin,  may  I  Ijchold 

A  G<xJ  of  purity ! 


SEAECH  AFTEE  GOD. 

I  mvam  thee  round  about,  0  thou  my  Go<l ! 

In  thine  aljode. 
I  said  unto  tlie  eartJo,  "  Speak,  art  thou  he  ? " 

She  answered  me, 
"I  am  not."     I  iuijuired  of  creatures  all. 

In  general. 
Contained  therein.    They  with  one  voice  proclaim 
That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such  a  name. 

I  asked  the  seas  and  all  the  deeps  Wow, 

My  Go*!  to  know; 
I  aski:«l  the  reptiles  and  wliatever  is 

In  the  abyss,  — 


tt- 


-O 


a- 


554 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


■-n. 


Even  from  the  shrimp  to  the  leviatlian 

Imiiiiry  ran  ; 
But  in  tliose  deserts  which  no  line  can  sound, 
Tlie  Llod  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I  asked  the  air  if  that  were  he  ;  but  lo  ! 

It  told  me  "  No." 
I  from  the  towering  eagle  to  the  WTen 

Demanded  then 
If  any  feathered  Ibwl  'mougst  them  were  such  ; 

But  they  all,  much 
Offended  with  my  question,  in  full  choir, 


Unspeakalile,  inscrutable,  eternal, 

Lord  over  all  ; 
The  only  terrible,  strong,  just,  and  ti'ue. 
Who  hath  no  end,  and  no  beginning  knew. 

Ho  is  the  well  of  life,  for  he  doth  give 

To  all  that  live 
Both  breath  and  being  ;  he  is  the  Creator 

Both  of  the  water. 
Earth,  air,  and  tire.     Of  all  things  that  subsist 

He  hath  the  list,  — 
Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth  claims. 


Answered,   "To  find  thy  God  thou  must  look    He  keeps  the  scroll,   and  calls  them  by  their 
higher."  names. 


1  asked  the  heavens,  sun,  moon,  and  stars  ;  but 
they 

Said,  "We  obey 
The  t!od  thou  seekest."     I  asked  what  eye  or  ear 

Could  see  or  hear,  — 
What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  or  know 

Above,  below ; 
With  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things  said, 
"  We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  him  were  made." 

I  asked  the  world's  great  universal  mass 

If  that  God  was  ; 
Which  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice  replied. 

As  stupefied,  — 
"  I  am  not  he,  0  man  !  for  know  that  I 

By  hun  on  high 
Was  fashioned  first  of  nothing  ;  thus  instated 
;Vnd  swayed  by  him  by  wliom  I  was  created." 

I  sought  the  court ;  but  smooth-tongued  flattery 
there 

Deceived  each  ear  ; 
In  the  thronged  city  there  was  selling,  buying. 

Swearing,  and  lying  ; 
r  the  country,  craft  in  simpleness  arrayed, 

And  then  I  said,  — 
"  Vain  is  my  search,  although  my  pains  be  great ; 
Where  my  God  is  there  can  be  no  deceit." 

A  scrutiny  within  myself  I  then 

Even  thus  began  : 
"  I)  man,  what  art  thou  ?"     What  more  coidd  I 
say 

Than  dust  and  clay,  — 
Frail,  mortal,  fading,  a  mere  puff,  a  blast. 

That  cannot  last ; 
Enthroned  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  urn. 
Formed  from  that  earth  to  which  I  must  return ! 

I  asked  myself  what  this  great  God  might  be 

That  fashioned  me. 
I  answered  :  The  all-potent,  sole,  immense. 

Surpassing  sense ; 


And  now,  my  God,  by  thine  illumining  grace, 

Thy  glorious  face 
(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discovered  be) 

Methiuks  I  see  ; 
And  though  invisible  and  infinite. 

To  human  sight 
Thou,  in  thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  appearest, 
In  which,  to  our  weak  sense,  thou  comest  nearest. 

0,  make  us  apt  to  seek  and  quick  to  find. 

Thou,  God,  most  kind  ! 
Give  us  love,  hope,  and  faith,  in  thee  to  trust, 

Thou,  God,  most  just  ! 
Remit  all  our  ofienses,  we  entreat. 

Most  good  !  most  great  ! 
Grant  that  our  willing,  though  imworthy  quest 
May,  through  thy  grace,  admit  us  'mongst  the 
blest. 

THOMAS  HErwOOD 


HUMILITY. 

The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing 
Builds  on  the  ground  her  lowly  nest ; 

And  she  that  doth  most  sweetly  sing. 
Sings  in  the  shade  when  all  things  rest : 

In  lark  and  nightingale  we  see. 

What  honor  hath  Humility. 

When  Mary  chose  the  better  pai't. 

She  meekly  sat  at  Jesus'  feet  ; 
And  Lydia's  gently  opened  heart 

Was  made  for  God's  own  temple  meet. 
Fairest  and  best  adorned  is  she 
Whose  clothing  is  Humility. 

The  saint  that  wears  heaven's  brightest  crown, 

In  deepest  adoration  bends  ; 
The  weight  of  glory  bears  him  down 

The  most  when  most  his  soul  ascends. 
Nearest  the  throne  itself  must  be 
The  footstool  of  Humility. 


-^ 


C0- 


POEMS   OF  liELIGION. 


35c 


ra 


EDWIN  AND  PAULrSUS: 

TH1£  CONVERSION  OF  NORTHUMBRIA. 

The  black-haired  gaunt  Paulinus 
By  ruddy  Edwin  stood  :  — 

"  Bow  down,  0  king  of  Deira, 
Before  tlie  blessed  liood  ! 

Cast  out  thy  heathen  idols, 

And  worship  Christ  our  Lord." 

—  But  Edwin  looked  and  pondered, 
And  answered  not  a  word. 

Again  the  gaunt  Paulinus 

To  ruddy  Edwin  spake  : 
"God  oilers  life  immortal 

For  his  dear  Sou's  own  sake  ! 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  his  message. 

Who  bears  the  keys  and  sword  ? " 

—  But  Edwin  looked  and  pondered, 
And  answered  not  a  word. 

Rose  then  a  sage  old  wanior 

Wa.s  fivescore  winters  old  ; 
Whose  beard  from  chin  to  girdle 

Like  one  long  snow-wreath  rolled  : 
"At  Yule-time  in  our  idianiber 

We  sit  in  wannth  and  light, 
While  cold  and  howling  round  us 

Lies  the  black  land  of  Night. 

"Athwart  the  room  a  sparrow 

Darts  from  the  open  door  : 
Within  the  hajipy  hearth-light 

One  red  flash,  —  and  no  more  ! 
We  see  it  come  from  darkness, 

And  into  darkness  go  :  — 
So  is  our  life,  King  Edwin  ! 

Alas,  that  it  is  so  ! 

"  But  if  this  jiale  Paulinus 

Have  somewhat  more  to  tell  ; 
Some  news  of  Wlienee  and  Whither, 

And  where  the  soul  will  dwell ;  — 
If  on  that  outer  darkness 

The  sun  of  Hope  may  shine  ;  — 
He  makes  life  worth  the  living  ! 

I  take  his  God  for  mine  !  " 

So  spake  the  wise  old  Avarrior  ; 

And  all  about  him  cried, 
"  Paulinus'  God  hath  conquered  ! 

And  he  .shall  be  our  guide  :  — 
For  he  makes  life  worth  living 

Who  brings  this  message  plain. 
When  our  brief  d.iy.s  are  over, 

Tliat  we  shall  live  again." 


THE  LOVE  OF  GOD  SUPREME. 

Thou  hidden  love  of  God,  whose  height, 
Whose  depth  unfathomed  no  man  knows, 

I  see  from  far  thy  beauteous  light. 
Inly  I  sigh  for  thy  repose. 

My  heart  is  pained,  nor  can  it  be 

At  rest  till  it  finds  rest  in  thee. 

Thy  seci-et  voice  invites  me  still 
The  sweetness  of  thy  yoke  to  prove, 

And  fain  I  would  ;  but  though  my  will 
Be  fi.xt,  yet  wide  my  passions  rove. 

Yet  hindrances  strew  all  the  way  ; 

I  aim  at  thee,  yet  from  thee  stray. 

"  'T  is  mercy  all  that  thou  hast  brought 
My  mind  to  seek  her  peace  in  thee. 

Yet  while  I  seek  but  find  thee  not 
No  peace  my  wand'ring  soul  shall  see. 

Oh  !  when  shall  all  my  wand'rings  end, 

And  all  my  steps  to-thee-ward  tend  ? 

Is  there  a  thing  beneath  the  sun 

That  strives  with  thee  my  heart  to  share  ? 
Ah  !  tear  it  thence  and  reign  alone, 

The  Lord  of  every  motion  there. 
Then  shall  my  heart  from  earth  be  free. 
When  it  has  found  repose  in  thee. 

Oh  !  hide  this  self  from  me,  that  I 
No  more,  but  Christ  in  me,  may  live. 

My  vile  affections  crucify. 

Nor  let  one  darling  lust  survive. 

In  all  things  nothing  may  I  see. 

Nothing  desire  or  seek  liut  thee. 

0  Love,  thy  sovereign  aid  impart. 
To  save  me  from  low-thoughteil  care  ; 

Chase  this  self-will  through  all  my  heart, 
Through  all  its  latent  mazes  there. 

Make  me  thy  duteous  child,  that  I 

Ceaseless  may  Abba,  Father,  cry. 

Ah  !  no  ;  ne'er  will  I  backward  turn  : 
Thine  wholly,  thine  alone  I  am. 

Thrice  happy  he  who  views  with  scorn 
Earth's  toys,  for  thee  his  constant  flame. 

Oh  !  help,  that  I  may  never  move 

From  the  lik-st  footsteps  of  tliy  love. 

Each  moment  draw  from  earth  away 
My  heart,  that  lowly  waits  thy  call. 

Speak  to  my  inmost  soul,  and  say, 
"  1  am  thy  Love,  thy  God,  thy  All." 

To  feel  thy  power,  to  hear  thy  voice. 

To  taste  thy  love  is  all  my  choice. 

JOHN  Wesley. 


■-& 


1P-..7: 


356 


rOKMS  OF  RELIGION. 


-R 


-f 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

As  sliiulows  fust  by  cloud  and  sun 

Klit  o'er  tlie  summer  grass, 
Sii,  in  tliy  sight,  Almighty  One, 

Kartli's  generations  )iass. 

And  vvliilii  Iho  years,  an  endless  host, 

(•..inr  1. 1., sill,.  suirUy  on, 

'i'lii>  111    III.  nI   11 s  thai  earth  can  boast 

.lust  uli,lin  and  are  gone. 

Vet  doth  the  Star  of  Uethleheni  shed 

A  Ulster  j)iiro  and  sweet, 
And  still  it  loads,  as  once  it  led, 

'I'o  the  Messiah's  feet. 

n  l''athrr,  may  tliat  holy  star 
(irow  every  year  more  bright. 

And  send  its  glorious  beams  afar 
To  fill  the  world  with  light. 

William  cullen  Bryant. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN. 

(t,  IT  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  his  jiart 
l'|ion  this  battle-liold  of  earth, 

And  not  sonietimrs  lose  heart  ! 

He  hides  liimseU'so  wondronsly, 
.\s  though  there  were  no  God  ; 

lie  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  he  dcierts  us  lit  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost  ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

.Uist  when  we  need  hiiu  most. 

Ill  masters  good,  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease  ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes, 

.■\h  !  God  is  other  than  we  think  ; 

1 1  is  ways  are  far  above. 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reached 

Only  by  childlike  love. 

AVorkinau  of  God  !  0,  lose  not  heart, 
lint  learn  what  God  is  like  ; 

And  in  the  darkest  bnttle-field 
Tliou  slialt  kiMuv  wheiv  to  strike. 


Thrice  blest  is  he  to  whom  is  given 
The  instinct  that  can  tell 


That  God  is  on  the  held  when  he 
Is  most  invisible. 

Blest,  too,  is  ho  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie. 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  tliat  seems 

Wrong  to  mail's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God  ; 

.\nil  right  tlie  dav  must  win  ; 
To  doubt  would  he  di.sloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin  ! 

FKlilM^RIC  Wn,LIAM    FAUL 


A  DYING  HYMN. 

E.MITII,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills 

Recedes  and  fades  away  ; 
Lift  uji  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills  ; 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whisjiered  song,  — 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 
The  shadows  that  1  feared  so  long 

Are  full  of  life  and  light. 

Till'  while  my  pulses  fainter  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound  ; 
1  fi'cl  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 

The  green,,  immortal  gi'ound. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go  : 
1  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives,  — 

That  1  shall'live  1  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King! 

0  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  ? 

ALlcIi  c, 


HOPEFtri.I,Y  WAITING. 


Not  as  you  meant,  0  learned  man,  and  good  I 
Do  I  accept  thy  words  of  truth  and  rest ; 
God,  knowing  all,  knows  what  for  me  is  best, 
And  gives  mo  what  I  need,  not  what  he  could. 

Nor  always  as  I  would  ! 
I  shall  go  to  the  Father's  house,  and  sec 

Him  and  the  Elder  Brother  face  to  face,  — 
What  day  or  hour  I  know  not.     1-et  mo  bo 
Steadfast  in  work,  and  earnest  in  the  race. 
Not  as  a  homesick  child  who  all  day  long 
Whines  at  its  play,  and  seldom  speaks  in  song. 


aj 


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POEMS  OF  RELIGIOX. 


357 


-a 


If  for  a  time  some  loved  one  goes  away, 
And  leaves  us  our  appointed  «ork  to  do, 
Can  we  to  him  or  to  ourselves  be  true 
In  mourning  his  departure  day  by  day, 

And  so  our  work  delay  ? 
Nay,  if  we  love  and  honor,  wo  shall  make 

The  absence  brief  by  doing  well  our  task,  — 
Not  for  ourselves,  but  for  the  dear  One's  sake. 
And  at  his  coming  only  of  him  ask 

Approval  of  the  work,  which  most  was  done. 
Not  for  ourselves,  but  our  Beloved  One. 

Our  Father's  house,  I  know,  is  liroad  and  grand; 
In  it  how  many,  many  mansions  arc  ! 
And  far  beyond  the  light  of  sun  or  star, 
Four  little  ones  of  mine  through  that  fair  laud 

Are  walking  hand  in  hand  ! 
Think  you  1  love  not,  or  that  I  forget 

These  of  my  loins?     Still  this  world  is  fair, 
And  I  am  singing  while  my  eyes  are  wet 
With  weeping  in  this  balmy  summer  air  : 
Yet  1  'm  not  homesick,  and  the  children  here 
Have  need  of  me,  and  so  my  way  is  clear. 

I  would  be  joyful  as  my  days  go  by. 
Counting  God's  mercies  to  me.     He  who  bore 
Life's  heaviest  cross  is  mine  forevermore, 
And  I  who  wait  his  coming,  shall  not  I 

On  his  sure  word  rely  '! 
And  if  sometimes  the  way  be  rough  and  steep, 

Be  heavy  for  the  grief  he  sends  to  me. 
Or  at  my  waking  I  would  only  weep. 
Let  me  remember  these  are  things  to  be. 
To  work  his  blessed  will  until  he  come 
To  take  my  hand,  and  lead  nii!  safely  home. 
A.  l>.  1".   Randolph. 


WHY  THTTS  LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 
For  the  far  off,  unattained,  and  dim, 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Otfers  up  its  low  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouliist  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching. 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still, 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw. 

If  no  silken  chord  of  love  hath  hound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe  ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own, 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 


Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  win  thee  world-renown. 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses. 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  thi^  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 
Every  day  a  rich  rew-ard  will  give  ; 

Thou  wilt  find  by  hearty  striving  only, 
And  tndy  loving,  tliou  canst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning 
When  all  nature  hails  the  Lord  of  light, 

And  his  smile,  nor  low  nor  lofty  scorning, 
Gladilens  hall  and  hovel,  vale  and  height  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  lield  and  forest, 
Pro\id  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine. 

But  with  fervent  love  if  tliou  adorest. 
Thou  art  wealthier,  — all  the  world  is  thine. 

Yet  if  througli  earth's  wide  domains  thou  rovest. 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou  lovest. 
And  tlieir  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are  gone. 

IlAKKIIil    WlNbLpW  SriWALL 


THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

Tlioi!  Grace  Divine,  encircling  all, 

A  soundless,  shoreless  sea  ! 
Wherein  at  last  our  souls  must  fall, 

0  Love  of  God  most  free  ! 

When  over  dizzy  heights  we  go. 
One  soft  hand  blinds  our  eyes. 

The  other  leads  us,  safe  and  slow, 
0  Love  of  God  most  wise  ! 

And  though  we  turn  us  from  thy  face, 

And  wander  wide  and  long, 
Thou  hold'st  us  still  in  thine  embrace, 

O  Love  of  God  most  strong  ! 

The  .saddened  heart,  the  restless  soul. 
The  toilwoi-n  frame  and  mind. 

Alike  confess  thy  sweet  control, 
0  Love  of  God  most  kind  ! 

But  not  alone  thy  care  we  claim. 

Our  wayward  steps  to  win  ; 
We  know  thee  by  a  dearer  name, 

0  Love  of  God  within  ! 

And  filled  and  quickened  by  thy  breath. 

Our  souls  are  strong  and  free 
To  rise  o'er  sin  and  fear  and  death, 

0  Love  of  God,  to  thee  I 

Eliza  Scldds  b 


-^ 


^ 


358 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


U-- 


MY  TIMES  ARE  IN  THY  HAND. 

Katiiku,  1  know  that  all  my  life 

Is  jiortiouod  out  for  lue. 
Ami  the  chaugi's  that  will  surely  eoiuo, 

I  do  not  fear  to  soo  ; 
But  I  ask  thee  for  a  present  mind 

Intent  on  pleasing  thee. 

I  ask  thoe  for  n  thoughtful  love, 
Tlirough  eonsfant  watching  wise, 

To  meet  the  glad  with  joyful  smiles, 
And  to  wijic  the  weeping  eyes  ; 

And  a  heart  at  leis\ire  from  itself, 
To  soothe  and  sympathize. 

1  would  not  have  the  restless  will 

That  hurries  to  and  fro, 
Seeking  for  some  givat  thing  to  do, 

Or  seci-et  thing  to  know  ; 
I  W'Ould  bo  treated  as  a  eliild, 

And  guided  where  1  go. 

Vherever  in  the  world  I  am, 

In  whatsoe'er  estate, 
I  have  a  fellowship  with  hearts 

To  keep  and  eultivale  ; 
.\iul  a  work  of  lowly  lovo  to  do. 

For  the  Loi\l  on  whom  1  wait. 

.'^o  I  ask  thee  for  the  daily  strength. 

To  none  that  ask  denied  ; 
And  a  mind  to  lilend  with  outward  life, 

While  keeping  at  thy  side, 
t'outent  to  fill  a  little  space. 

If  thou  bo  gliu'ified. 

.•\nd  if  some  things  I  do  not  ask 

In  my  cup  of  blessing  be, 
I  would  have  my  spirit  filled  the  more 

With  grateful  love  to  thee  ; 
.■\nd  eareful,  less  to  serve  thee  much 

Than  to  plea.-H-  thee  perfectly. 

Tlu-rc  are  briei-s  besetting  every  path, 

Which  call  for  patient  caiD  ; 
There  is  a  cross  in  every  lot, 

And  an  earnest  need  for  prayer  ; 
lUit  a  lowly  heart  that  leatis  on  thee 

Is  happy  anywhere. 

In  a  service  which  thy  love  appoints, 

There  ai-e  no  bonds  for  me  ; 
For  my  secret  heart  is  taught  "the  truth" 

That  makes  thy  children  "  free"  : 
And  a  life  of  self-reuomicing  lovo 

Is  a  life  of  liberty. 

Anna  l.  Waring. 


THE  SOUL'S  DEFIANCE. 

I  SAU)  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm 

Tliat  beat  against  my  breast, 
liage  on,  —  thou  mayst  destroy  this  form. 

And  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 
Hut  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high. 
Undaunted  on  its  fury  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I  said  to  Penury's  meager  train, 

Come  on,  — your  threats  1  brave  ; 
My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 

And  cru.sh  me  to  the  grave  ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 

Shall  mock  yoiu'  force  the  while, 
And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 

With  bitter  smile. 

I  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Tass  on,  —  I  hoed  you  not ; 
Ye  may  pui-sue  mo  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit,  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles. 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  highborn  smiles. 

I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 

Strike  deep,  —  my  heart  shall  bear  ; 
Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  woo 

To  those  already  there  ; 
Vet  still  the  spirit  that  sustains 

This  last  severe  distress 
Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

.'\ud  scorn  redress. 

I  said  to  Heath's  uplifted  dart. 

Aim  sure,  —  0,  why  delay  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart, 

.\  weak,  reluctant  prey  ; 
Foi-  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Cnrullled  by  this  last  dismay. 
Wnipt  in  its  own  eternitv. 

Shall  pass  awav. 


1  SAW  THEE. 
"  W'hen  thou  w;ist  uiulor  the  fiif-trec.  I  k»w  thee.*' 

1  SAW  theo  when,  as  twilight  foil, 
And  evening  lit  her  fnire>st  star. 
Thy  footsteps  sought  you  ipiiet  dell. 
The  worUl's  confusion  left  afar. 

I  saw  thee  when  thou  stoodst  alone, 
AVhere  drooping  branches  thick  o'erhung. 


-4J' 


rr-t- 


FOEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


359 


r^j 


Thy  still  retreat  to  all  unknown, 
Hid  in  deep  shadows  darkly  (lung. 

1  saw  thee  when,  as  died  eaeh  sound 
Of  bleating  lloek  or  w'oodland  bird, 
Kneelini,',  as  if  on  holy  ground. 
Thy  viiici!  the  listening  sileiiee  heard. 

I  .saw  thy  ealni  uplifted  eyes, 
And  marked  the  heaving  of  thy  breast, 
When  nwe  to  heaven  thy  heartfelt  sighs 
l''or  |iiinn'  life,  for  jiirfeet  rest. 

1  saw  the  light  that  o'er  thy  faee 

Stole  with  a  soft,  sulTusing  glow. 

As  if,  within,  celestial  gi-aeo 

I'.ri'iithed  Ihe  same  bliss  that  angels  know. 

I  s.iw       what  (boil  (lidsl  not  —above 
'I'by  lowly  head  an  open  heaven  ; 
And  tokens  of  thy  Kalher's  love 
Willi  smiles  to  thy  ra]it  spirit  given. 

I  s.nv  lb..-  fiom  tliat  saercd  spot 
With  lirm  and  peaceful  .soul  depart  ; 
1,  .lesus,  saw  thee,  —  doubt  it  not,  — 
And  road  the  secrets  of  thy  heart ! 

KAV   I'ALMl'.R, 


KitOM    ".SAINT  PAUL," 

ClIltlST  '    I  !im  Chri.st's  I  and  let  thi'  nanir  sulliei 
yon, 

Ay,  n.r  me  t(jo  he  greatly  halli  snlli.r.l  : 
IiH,  with  nil  winning  words  I  wniiM  mliri'  you, 

I'anl  liiis  no  honor  and  no  IVimil  Iml  I'hrist. 

Yes,  wilhiiut  I'hoer  of  si.ster  or  of  il;nigliler, 
Yes,  Willi, lut  stay  of  father  or  of  sun. 

Lone  (III  llir  hind  ami  lionnless  on  the  water, 
I'ass  I  in  p;itirnre  till  Ihr  work  be  done. 

Yet  not  in  solitude  if  Chri.st  nnear  me 

^Vaketh  him  workers  for  the  great  em|iloy, 

<>,  not  in  solitude,  if  souls  that  hear  me 
l':ilrli  from  riiy  joy:inrr  lli(^  surprise  of  jov. 

Tlrarts  I  have  won  of  sister  or  of  brother, 
t.'iiiek  on  the  earth  or  hidden  in  tim  sod, 

l.o,  i'\erv  heart  awaiteth  me,  another 
Frinei  in  the  lilameless  family  oftJod. 

Wli;it  was  their  sweet  desire  and  subtle  yearning, 
Lovers,  and  ladies  whom  their  song  enrolls  ' 

Faint  to  the  (l.'inie  which  in  my  breast  is  burning. 
Less  than  tie  love  with  which  T  ache  for  souls. 


^ 


Then  with  a  ripjile  and  a  radiance  through  me 
liis(!  and  be  manifest,  0  Moi-ning  Star  ! 

Flow  on  my  .soul,  thou  kS|iirit,  and  renew  me, 
l''ill  witli  thyself,  and  let  the  rest  be  fur. 

Safe  to  the  hidden  house  of  thine  abiding 

I  any  the  weak  knees  and  the  heart  that  faint*  ; 

.'^liii'ld  from  the  scorn  and  cover  from  the  chiding  ; 
(live  Ihe  world  joy,  but  patience  to  the  .saints. 

.Saints,  did  I  say  ?  with  your  remembered  faces. 
Dear  men  and  women,  whom  1  sought  and  slew! 

All,  when  we  mingle  in  the  heavenly  places, 
llow  will  1  w^eep  to  Stephen  and  to  you  ! 

I)  for  the  strain  that  rang  to  our  reviling 

Still,  wh'en  the  bruised  lindissank  u]ion  the  sod  ; 

I)  for  the  eyes  that  looked  their  last  in  .smiling, 
Last  on  Ibis  world  here,  but  their  first  on  Ood  ! 

O,  could  I  tell,  ye  surely  would  believe  it  I 
O,  c'ouM  1  oidy  say  what  I  have  si'i'U  ! 

llow  should  1  tell  or  how  can  ye  receive  it, 
llow,  till  lie  bringeth  you  where  I  have  been  ? 

Therefore,  O  Lord,  I  will  not  fail  or  falter; 

Nay,  but  1  ask  it,  nay,  but  1  desire  ; 
Lay  on  my  lips  thine  embers  of  the  altar, 

.Seal  with  thirsting  and  funnsli  with  lln'  lire  i 

Oive  me  a  voice,  a  cry  and  a  i'om]ilaining,  — 
0,  let  my  sound  be  .stormy  in  their  eais  ! 

Throat  that  would   shout  but    cannot   stay   for 
straining, 
Eyes  that  would  weep  but  cannot  wait  for  tears. 

ijuick  in  a  moment,  inhnite  forever, 

Send  an  arousal  better  than  I  jiray  ; 
(Jive  me  a  grace  upon  the  faint  cmleavor, 

Sends  for  my  hire  and  rentecost  to-day  ! 

Hark  what  a  so\ind,  and  too  divine  for  hearing, 
Stirs  (Ui  the  earth  and  trembles  in  the  air  ! 

Is  it  the  thunder  of  the  Lord's  ajipcariiig? 
Is  it  the  music  of  his  people's  prayer? 

Surrly  be  comc-th,  and  a  thousand  voices 

Shout  to  the  saints  and  to  the  deaf  are  dumb  i 

Surely  he  (■onuith,  and  the  earth  r(^joices, 
rilad  in  his  coming  wdm  hath  sworn,  1  come. 

This  li.ilh  he  done,  and  .shall  we  not  adore  him  ? 

This  sh.all  he  do,  .and  can  we  .still  despair? 
Com...  let  us  quickly  fling  ourselves  before  him, 

( '.ast  at  his  feot  the  burden  of  our  care, 

Flash  from  our  eyes  the  glow  of  our  thanksgiving, 
nhid  and  regretful,  confident  ami  calm  ; 

Then  through  all  life  and  wdiat  is  after  living 

Thrill  to  the  tireless  music  of  a  psalm.  T 

1^^ 


L& 


360 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


'-fb 


Yea,   thious;li  life,   death,    thioiigli  sorrow  and  |  Oesiiisid  with  Jesus,  sorrowful  and  lonely, 


through  sinninj; 
He  shall  suttieo  nie,  lor  he  hath  sullioed  : 
Christ  is  the  end,  lor  Christ  was  the  beginning, 
Christ  the  beginning,  lor  the  end  is  Christ. 

FRKUKKIC  W.   II.   MVBKS, 


TUB  OllKISTIAN  CALLING. 

TiiY  night  is  dark  ;  behold,  the  shade  was  deeper 
In  the  old  g!ii\len  of  Gethsemane, 
When  that  ealm  voice  awoke  the  weary  sleeper : 
' '  Couldst  t  liou  not  wateh  one  hour  alone  with  me  ? " 

O  thou,  so  weary  of  thy  self-denials  ! 
And  so  impatient  of  thy  little  eross. 
Is  it  so  hard  to  hear  thy  daily  trials, 
'I'o  eouut  all  earthly  things  a  gainful  loss  ? 

What  if  thou  ahvai/s  sutler  tribulation. 
And  if  thy  Christian  warfare  never  cease  ; 
Tlu>  gaining  of  the  nuiet  habitation 
Shall  gjither  thee  to  everlasting  peace. 

But  here  we  all  must  sutler,  walking  lonely 
The  path  that  Jesus  once  himself  hath  gone  : 
Watch  thou  in  jNitience  through  the  dark  hour 

only. 
This  one  dark  hour,  — befoiv  the  eternal  dawn. 

The  captive's  oar  may  jmuso  upon  the  galley, 
The  soldier  sleep  beneath  his  plumed  crest. 
And  Teace  may  fold  her  wing  o'er  hill  and  valley, 
l>ut  thou,  0  Christian  I  must  not  take  thy  rest. 

Thou  must  walk  on,  however  man  upbraid  thee, 
With  llini  who  trod  the  wine-press  all  alone  ; 
Thou  wilt  not  tiud  one  hunuvn  hand  to  aid  thee, 
One  human  soul  to  comprehend  thine  own. 

Heed  not  the  images  forever  thronging 
From  out  the  foregone  life  thou  liv'st  no  more  ; 
Kaint-hearted  mariner  !  still  art  thou  longing 
For  the  dim  line  of  the  receding  shore. 

Canst  thou  forget  thy  Christian  supersciption, 
"  Hehold,  we  count  them  happy  which  endure  "  ? 
Whattivasure  woiddstthou,  in  the  land  Egyptian, 
Kejwss  the  stormy  water  to  secure  ? 

Poor, wanderingsoul '.  Iknowthatthouartseeking 
Some  easier  way,  us  all  have  sought  before. 
To  silence  the  reproachful  inwai\l  speaking,  — 
Some  landwanl  path  unto  an  island  sliore. 


&- 


0,  that  thy  faithless  soul,  one  great  hour  only. 
Would  comprehend  the  Christian's  perfect  life  ; 


Yet  calmly  looking  upwaril  in  its  strife. 

In  nu'ek  olwdienoo  to  the  heavenly  Teacher, 
Thy  weary  soul  can  find  its  only  peace  ; 
Seeking  no  aid  from  any  human  creature,  — 
Looking  to  Ood  alone  for  his  release. 

And  he  will  come  in  his  own  tinte  and  power 
To  sot  his  earnest-hearted  children  free  : 
Watch  only  through  this  dark  aiul  painful  hour. 
And  the  bright  morning  yet  will  break  for  thee. 

ANONYHOl'S. 


THE  SOUL'S  CRY. 

y  i.ul.>Thccrti>ily.-— Cs.  Ix 


vl.  3. 


0,  E\1CK  from  the  deeps 

W'itliin  my  soul,  oft  as  1  muse  alone, 

Comes  forth  a  voice  that  pleads  in  tender  tone  ; 

.\s  when  one  long  unblest 

Sighs  ever  after  rest ; 

Or  as  the  wind  perpetual  muruuiring  keeps. 

1  hear  it  when  the  day 

Fades  o'er  the  hills,  or  cross  the  sliimnu'ring  sea  ; 

In  the  soft  twilight,  as  is  wont  to  bo, 

Without  my  wish  or  will. 

While  all  is  hushed  and  still. 

Like  a  sad,  plaiutive  cry  heard  far  away. 

Not  even  the  noisy  crowd. 

That  like  some  mighty  torrent  rusliing  down 

Sweeps  clamoring  on,  this  cry  of  want  can  drown  ; 

lint  ever  in  my  heart 

.M'rcsh  the  echoes  start  ; 

1  hear  them  still  amidst  the  tumult  loud. 

Each  waking  morn  anew 

The  sense  of  many  a  need  returns  agjiin  ; 

1  feel  myself  a  child,  helpless  as  when 

I  watched  my  mother's  eye, 

As  the  slow  hours  went  by. 

And  from  her  glance  my  being  took  its  hue. 

1  cannot  shape  my  way 

Where  nanudess  perils  ever  may  betide, 

O'er  slippery  steeps  whereon  my  feet  may  slide  ; 

Sonu'  mighty  hand  I  crave, 

To  hold  and  help  and  save. 

And  guide  me  ever  when  my  steps  would  stray. 

There  is  but  One,  I  know. 
That  all  my  hourly,  endless  wants  can  meet ; 
Can  shichl  from  harm,  recall  my  wandering  feet  i 
My  God,  thy  hand  can  feed 
And  day  by  day  can  lead 

Where  the  sweet  streams  of  peace  and  safety  llow. 
Ray  1'.i 


--& 


[fi- 


^- 


-a 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


WORLDLINESS. 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers ; 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours  ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon. 
The  winds  that  ■nill  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers, 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !  1  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn,  — 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Haveglimpsesthat  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  WTeathed  liom. 


^- 


NATURE. 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leaji  when  I  come  by. 
Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call ; 
The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh, 
For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great  and  small. 
The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hillside  grows 
Expects  me  there  when  spring  its  bloom  hasgiven ; 
And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wanderings  knows 
And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven  ; 
For  lie  who  with  his  Maker  walks  aright. 
Shall  lie  their  lord  as  .\dam  was  before  ; 
His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with  new  delight, 
Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then  it  wore ; 
Anil  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he  stood, 
Hear  from  his  Father's  lips  that  all  is  good. 

JOXES  VERY. 


TTNTERN  ABBEY. 

I  HAVE  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 
Not  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 


To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and,  in  the  mind  of  man, 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Then'lorc  am   I 

still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows,  and  the  woods. 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive  ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense 
The  anchor  ol'  my  purest  thoughts. 

William  WoRDSWOKrH. 


CORRESPONDENCES. 

HE.\AMKTERS  AND  PENTAMETERS. 

All  tilings  in  nature  are  beautiful  types  to  the 
soul  that  reads  them  ; 
Nothing  e.\i.sts  upon  earth  but  for  unspeakable 
enils  ; 
Every  object  that  speaks  to  the  senses  was  meant 
for  the  spirit ; 
Nature  is   but   a   scroll  ;    God's   handwriting 
thereon. 
Ages  ago,  when  man  was  pure,  ere  the  flood  over- 
whelmed him, 
While  in  the  image  of  God  every  soul  yet  lived, 
Everything  stood  as  a  letter  or  word  of  a  langUiige 
familiar, 
Telling  of  truths  which  now  only  the  angels 
can  read. 
Lost  to  man  was  the  key  of  those  sacred  hiero- 
glyphics, 
Stolen  away  by  sin,  till  Heaven  restored  it ; 
Now  with  infinite  pains  we  here  and  there  spell 
out  a  letter, 
Here  and   there  will    the  sense  feelily   .shine 
through  the  dark. 


^ 


[fl- 


3G2 


POEMS   UF  NAT U HE. 


-^ 


Wlieu  we  perceive  the  light  tliat  breaks  tlirough 
the  visible  symbol, 
What  exultation  is  ours  !     We  the  discovery 
have  made, 
Yet  is  the  meaning  the  same  as  when  Adam  lived 
sinless  in  Eden, 
Only  long  hidden  it  slept,  and  now  again  is 
revealed. 
Man  unconsciously  uses  figures  of  speech  every 
moment. 
Little  dreaming  the  cause  why  to  such  terms 
he  is  prone, 
Little  dreaming  that  everything  here  has  its  own 
coiTespondence 
Folded  within  its  form,  as  in  the  body  the  soul. 
Gleams  of  the  mystery  fall  on  us  still,  though 
much  is  forgotten. 
And  through  our  commonest  speech  illumine 
the  path  of  our  thoughts. 
Thus  doth  the  lordly  sun  shine  forth  a  type  of 
God-head  ; 
Wisdom  and  love  the  beams  that  stream  on  a 
darkened  world. 
Thus  do  the  sparkling  waters  flow,  giving  joy  to 
the  desert, 
And  the  fountain  of  life  opens  itself  to  the 
thirst. 
Thus  doth  the  word  of  God  distill  like  the  rain 
and  the  dew-drops  ; 
Thus  doth  the  warm  wind  breathe  like  to  the 
spirit  of  God  ; 
And  the  green  grass  and  the  flowers  are  signs  of 
the  regeneration. 

0  thou  Spirit  of  Truth,  visit  our  minds  once 
more  ; 
Give  us  to  read  in  letters  of  light  tlie  language 
celestial. 

Written  all  over  tlie  earth,  written  all  over  the 
the  sky,  — 
Thus  may  we  bring  our  hearts  once  more  to  know 
our  Creator, 

Seeing  in  all  things  around,  types  of  the  Infi- 
nite Mind. 

CHRISTOPHER  P.  CRANCH. 


NATURE'S  CHAIN. 

FROM   "THE  ESSAY  ON  MAN." 

Look  round  our  world  ;  behold  the  chain  of  love 
Combining  all  below  and  all  above. 
See  plastic  nature  working  to  this  end. 
The  single  atoms  each  to  other  tend. 
Attract,  attracted  to,  the  next  in  place. 
Formed  and  impelled  its  neighbor  to  embrace. 
See  matter  next,  with  various  life  endued. 


Press  to  one  center  still,  the  general  good. 
See  dying  vegetables  life  sustain. 
See  life  dissolving  vegetate  again  : 
All  forms  that  perish  other  forms  supply 
<By  turns  we  catch  the  vital  breath,  and  die); 
Like  bubbles  on  the  sea  of  matter  borne. 
They  rise,  they  break,  and  to  tliat  sea  return. 
Nothing  is  foreign  ;  parts  relate  to  whole  ; 
One  all-extending,  all-preserving  Soul 
Connects  each  being,  greatest  with  the  least ; 
Made  beast  in  aid  of  man,  and  man  of  beast ; 
All  served,  all  serving  ;  nothing  stands  alone  ; 
The  chain  holds  on,  and  where  it  ends,  unknown. 

Has  God,  thou  fool !  worked  solely  for  thy  good, 
Thy  joy,  thy  pastime,  thy  attire,  thy  food  ? 
Who  for  thy  table  feeds  the  wanton  fawn, 
For  1dm  as  kindly  spreads  the  flowery  lawn. 
Is  it  for  thee  the  lark  ascends  and  sings  ? 
.Toy  tunes  his  voice,  joy  elevates  his  wing.s. 
Is  it  for  thee  the  linnet  pours  his  throat ! 
Loves  of  his  own  and  raptures  swell  the  note. 
The  bounding  steed  you  pompously  bestride 
.Shares  with  his  lord  the  pleasure  and  the  pride. 
Is  thine  alone  the  seed  that  strews  the  plain  ? 
The  birds  of  heaven  sliall  vindicate  their  gi'ain. 
Thine  the  full  harvest  of  the  golden  year? 
Part  pay.s,  and  justly,  the  deserving  steer  : 
The  hog  that  plows  not,  nor  obeys  thy  call, 
Lives  on  the  labors  of  this  lord  of  all. 

Know,  Nature's  children  all  divide  her  care  ; 
The  fur  that  warms  a  monarch  warmed  a  bear. 
While  man  exclaims,  "Seeall  things  for  my  use  !" 
"See  man  for  mine  ! "  replies  a  pampered  goose : 
And  just  as  short  of  reason  he  must  fall 
Who  thinks  all  made  for  one,  not  one  for  all. 

Grant  that  the  powerful  still  the  weak  control ; 
Be  man  the  wit  and  tyrant  of  the  whole  : 
Nature  that  tyrant  checks  ;  he  onlj'  knows. 
And  helps,  another  creature's  wants  and  woes. 
Say,  will  the  falcon,  stooping  from  above, 
Smit  with  her  varying  plumage,  spare  the  dove  ? 
Admires  the  jay  the  insect's  gilded  wings  ? 
Or  hears  the  hawk  when  Philomela  sings  ? 
Man  cares  for  all  :  to  birds  he  gives  his  woods, 
To  beasts  his  pastures,  and  to  fish  his  floods  ; 
For  some  his  interest  prompts  him  to  provide. 
For  more  his  pleasure,  yet  for  more  his  pride  : 
All  feed  on  one  vain  patron,  and  enjoy 
The  extensive  blessing  of  his  luxury. 
That  very  life  his  learned  hunger  craves. 
He  saves  from  famine,  from  the  savage  saves  ; 
Nay,  feasts  the  animal  he  dooms  his  feast, 
And,  till  he  ends  the  being,  makes  it  blest ; 
Which  sees  no  more  the  stroke,  or  feels  the  pain, 
Than  favored  man  by  touch  ethereal  slain. 
Tlie  creatui'e  had  his  feast  of  life  before  ; 
Thou  too  umst  perish  when  tliy  feast  is  o'er  ! 

ALEXANDER   fUP 


e- 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


-t:] 


THE  IDLER. 


When  days  are  long  and  skies  are  briglit, 
Wlien  woods  are  green  and  fields  are  breezy, 

1  takf  my  fill  of  air  and  light, 

And  take  —  yes,  take  things  rather  easy. 

You  men  of  figures  sneer,  I  know,  — 

Call  mc  an  idle,  dreamy  fellow  ; 
But  my  chief  business  here  below 

Is,  like  the  apple,  to  grow  mellow. 

1  coax  the  fkh  in  cove  or  creek  ; 

Jly  light  skiff  rocks  on  rocking  billow  ; 
Or,  weary,  in  some  shade  I  seek 

A  mossy  hummock  for  my  pillow. 

There,  sti'etched  upon  the  checkered  grass. 
Above  the  bare,  brown  margin  growing, 

1  watch  the  stiU,  soft  shadows  pa.ss. 
Lulled  by  the  hum  of  warm  airs  blowing. 

On  bending  spray  of  tallest  tree 

The  brown  thrush  balanced  takes  his  station. 
And  now  in  je.st,  now  soberly. 

Holds  forth,  half  song  and  half  oration. 

The  red-capped  workman  on  a  limb, 
Uji,  down,  in  circles  briskly  hopping. 

Nods  to  the  helpmeet  calling  liim, 
With  knowing  air  his  sage  head  dropping. 

At  times,  by  plashy  shore,  the  still 

Wliite-belted  watchman  springs  his  rattle, 

Wliilf  faintly  from  the  distant  liill 
Come  tinkling  bells  and  low  of  cattle. 

The  waves  in  long  procession  tread 
Upon  the  beach  in  solemn  motion. 

Fringed  with  white  breakers  ;  overhead, 
Cloud-islands  dot  the  upper  ocean. 

I  know  you  solid  men  will  sneer  ; 

Call  me  a  thriftless,  idle  fellow  ; 
But,  as  I  said,  my  business  here 

Is,  like  the  apples,  to  gi-ow  mellow. 

And  since  the  summer  will  not  stay, 
And  since  the  winter  follows  fleetly. 

To  fitly  use  the  passing  day 

Reipiires  my  time  and  thought  completely. 

But,  if  of  life  I  get  the  best. 

The  use  of  wealth  without  its  fetters. 

Am  I  more  idle  than  the  rest. 

Or  wiser  than  the  money-getters  ? 


!&- 


CREATION. 


The  earth  was  formed,  but  in  the  womb  as  yet 
Of  waters,  embryon  immature  involved, 
Appeared  not ;  over  all  the  face  of  earth 
Main  ocean  flowed,  not  idle  ;  but,  with  warm 
Prolific  humor  softening  all  her  globe, 
Fermented  the  great  mother  to  conceive, 
.Satiate  with  genial  moisture;  when  God  said, 
"  Be  gathered  now,  ye  waters  under  heaven. 
Into  one  place,  and  let  dry  land  appear." 
hnmediately  the  mountains  huge  ajipear 
Emergent,  and  their  bioad  liare  backs  upheave 
Into  the  clouds  ;  their  tops  ascend  the  sky : 
So  high  as  heaved  the  tumid  hills,  so  low 
Down  sunk  a  hollow  bottom  broa<i  and  deep, 
Capacious  bed  of  waters  :  tlutlier  they 
Hasted  with  glad  precipitance,  uprolled, 
.As  drops  on  dust  conglobing  from  the  diy: 
Part  rise  in  crystal  wall,  or  ridge  direct. 
For  haste;  such  flight  the  great  command  im- 
pressed 
On  the  swift  floods  ;  as  armies  at  the  call 
Of  trumpet  (for  of  armies  thou  hast  heaicl) 
Troop  to  their  standard  ;  so  the  watery  throng, 
Wave  rolling  after  wave,  where  way  they  found, 
If  steep,  with  torrent  rapture,  if  through  plain, 
Soft  ebbing  ;  nor  withstood  them  rock  or  hill  ; 
Hut  they,  or  under  ground,  or  circuit  wide 
With  serpent  error  wandering,  found  their  way. 
And  on  the  washy  ooze  deep  channels  wore  ; 
Easy,  ere  God  had  bid  the  ground  be  diy. 
All  but  within  those  banks,  where  rivers  now 
Stream,  and  perpetual  draw  their  humid  train. 
The  dry  land.  Earth  ;  and  the  great  receiitacle 
Of  congiegated  waters,  he  called  Seas  ; 
And  saw  that  it  was  good  ;  and  .said,  "Let  tin' 

earth 
Put  forth  the  verdant  glass,  herb  yielding  seed. 
And  fruit-tree  yielding  fruit  after  her  kind, 
Whose  seed  is  in  herself  upon  the  earth." 
He  scarce  had  said,  when  the  bare  earth,  till  then 
Desert  and  bare,  unsightly,  unadorned. 
Brought  forth  the  tender  grass,  whose  verdure 

clad 
Her  universal  face  with  pleasant  green  ; 
Then  herbs  of  eveiy  leaf,  that  sudden  flowered 
Opening  their  various  colors,  and  made  gay 
Her  liosom,  smelling  sweet  ;  and,  these  scarce 

blown, 
Forth  flourished  thick  the  clustering  vine,  forth 

crept 
The  swelling  gourd,  iij)  stood  the  corny  reed 
Embattled  in  her  field,  and  the  humble  shrub. 
And  bush  with  frizzled  hair  implicit :  last 
Rose,  as  in  dance,  the  .stately  trees,  and  spread 
Their  branches  liungwith  copiousfruit,  or  gemmed 


f 


31)4 


POEMS  OF  XATURE. 


--^ 


t& 


Their  blossoms  :  with  high  woods  the  fields  were 

crowned, 
With  tufts  the  valleys,  and  eaeh  fountain-side  ; 
With  Iwalere  long  the  rivei-s  :  that  earth  now 
Seemed  like  to  heaven,  a  seat  whore  gods  might 

dwell, 
Or  wander  witli  delight,  and  love  to  haunt 
Her  sacred  shades  :  though  God  had  yet  not  I'ained 
V  [ion  the  earth,  and  man  to  till  the  ground 
None  was  ;  but  from  the  earth  a  dewy  mist 
Went  up,  and  watered  all  the  ground,  and  each 
riant  of  the  field  ;  which,  ere  it  was  in  the  earth, 
(iod  made,  and  every  herb,  before  it  grew 
On  the  green  stem  ;  God  saw  that  it  was  good : 
So  even  and  morn  recorded  the  third  day. 

Again  the  Almighty  spate,  "Let  there  be  lights 
High  in  the  expanse  of  heaven,  to  divide 
The  day  from  night  ;  and  let  them  be  for  signs. 
For  seasons,  and  for  days,  and  circling  years  ; 
And  let  them  be  for  lights,  as  I  oixlain 
Their  office  in  the  firmament  of  heaven. 
To  give  light  on  the  earth  "  ;  and  it  was  so. 
And  God  made  two  great  lights,  great  for  their 

use 
To  man,  the  greater  to  have  rule  by  day. 
The  less  by  night,  altern  ;  and  made  the  stare, 
.And  set  them  in  the  firmament  of  heaven 
To  illuminate  the  earth,  and  rule  the  day. 
In  their  vicissitude,  and  rule  the  night. 
And  light  from  darkness  to  divide.     God  saw, 
Surveying  his  great  work,  that  it  was  good  : 
For  of  celestial  bodies  firet  the  sun 
A  mighty  sphere  he  framed,  unlightsome  firet. 
Though  of  ethereal  mold  ;  then  formed  the  moon 
Globose,  and  every  magnitude  of  stare, 
And  sowed  with  stars  the  heaven,  thick  as  a  field  : 
Of  light  by  far  the  greater  part  he  took. 
Transplanted  from  her  cloudy  shrine,  and  placed 
In  the  sun's  orb,  made  porous  to  receive 
And  drink  the  liipiid  light ;  firm  to  retain 
Her  gathered  beams,  great  palace  now  of  light. 
Hithci',  as  to  their  fountain,  other  stars 
Repairing,  in  their  golden  urns  drew  light. 
And  hence  the  morning  planet  gilds  her  horns  ; 
By  tincture  or  reflection  they  augment 
Their  small  peculiar,  though  from  human  sight 
So  far  remote,  with  diminution  seen. 
First  in  his  east  the  glorious  lamp  was  seen, 
liegent  of  day,  and  all  the  horizon  round 
Invested  w^itli  bright  rays,  jocund  to  run 
His  longitude  through  heaven's  high  road  ;  the 

gray 
Dawn,  and  the  Pleiades,  before  him  danced. 
Shedding  sweet  influence  :  less  bright  the  moon, 
Uut  opposite  in  leveled  west  was  set. 
His  mirror,  with  full  face  borrowing  her  light 
From  him  ;  for  other  light  she  needed  none 
In  that  aspect,  and  still  that  distance  keeps 


Till  night ;  then  in  the  east  her  turn  she  shines, 
Kevohcd  on  heaven's  great  axle,  and  Iut  ragn 
With  thousand  lesser  lights  dividual  holds. 
With  thousand  thousand  stare,  that  then  appeared 
Spangling  the  hemisphere  :  then  first  adorned 
With  their  bright  luminaries  that  set  and  rose, 
Ghul  evening  and  glad  morn  crowned  the  fourth 

day. 
.'\nd  God  said,  "  Let  the  waters  generate 
Keptile  with  spawn  abundant,  living  soul  : 
.■\nd  let  fowl  fly  above  the  earth,  with  wings 
Displayed  on  the  open  firmament  of  heaven." 
.\nd  God  created  the  great  whales,  and  each 
Soul  living,  each  that  crept,  which  plenteously 
The  waters  genenited  by  their  kinds  ; 
And  every  bird  of  wing  after  his  kind  ; 
And  saw  that  it  was  good,  ami   blesseil  them, 

saying, 
"  He  fruitful,  multii)ly,  and  in  the  seas, 
.\nd  lakes,  and  running  streams,  the  watere  fill ; 
And  let  the  fowl  be  nuiltiplied  on  the  earth." 
Forthwith  the  sounds  and  seas,  each  creek  and 

bay 
With  fry  innumerable  swarm,  and  shoals 
Of  fish  that  with  their  fins,  and  shining  scales. 
Glide  under  the  green  wave,  in  sculls  that  oft 
Bank  the  mid  sea  :  part  single,  or  with  mate. 
Graze  the  sea-weed  their  pasture,  and  through 

groves 
Of  coral  stray  ;  or  sporting  with  quick  glance. 
Shew  to  the  sun  their  waved  coats  dropt  with  gold  ; 
Or,  in  their  pearly  shells  at  ease,  atteiul 
Moist  nutriment :  or  under  rocks  their  food 
In  jointed  armor  watch  :  on  smooth  the  seal 
And  bended  dolphins  play  :  part  huge  of  bulk. 
Wallowing  unwieldy,  enormous  in  their  gait. 
Tempest  the  ocean  ;  there  leviathan, 
Hugest  of  living  creatures,  on  the  deep 
Stretched  like  a  promontory,  sleeps  or  swims. 
And  seems  a  moving  land  ;  and  at  his  gills 
Draws  in,  and  at  his  trunk  sixiuts  out,  a  sea. 
Meanwhile  the  tepid  caves,  and  fens,  and  shores. 
Their  brood  as  nunu^rous  hatch,  from  the  esjg  that 

soon 
Bureting  with  kindly  lupture  forth  disclosed 
Their  callow  young ;  but  feathered  soon  and  Hedge 
They  summed  their  pens  ;  and,  soaring  the  air 

sublime. 
With  clang  despised  the  ground,  under  a  cloud 
In  jirospect ;  there  the  eagle  and  the  stork 
On  cur's  and  cedar-tops  their  eyries  build  ; 
Part  loosely  wing  the  region,  part  more  wise 
In  common,  rang»>d  in  figure,  wedge  their  way. 
Intelligent  of  seasons,  and  set  forth 
Their  aery  caravan,  high  over  seas 
Flying,  and  over  lands,  with  mutual  wing 
Easing  their  flight ;  so  steere  the  prudent  crane 
Her  annual  voyage,  borne  on  winds  ;  the  air 


e-*- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


365 


-r^ 


Floats  as  tliey  pass,  fanueii  witli  unnuiiibfcicd 

pluracs  ; 
From  biaiKjli  to  branch  the  smaller  birds  with 

songs 
Solaced  the  wooibs,  and  spread  their  painted  wings 
Till  even  ;  nor  then  the  solemn  nightingale 
Ceased  warbling,  but  all  night  tuned  hersoft  lays; 
Others,  on  silver  lakes  and  rivers,  bathed 
Their  downy  breast ;  the  swan  with  arched  neck, 
Between  her  white  wings  mantling  proudly,  rows 
Her  state  with  oary  feet ;  yet  oft  they  ^uit 
The  dank,  and,  rising  on  stilf  pennons,  tower 
The  mid  aerial  sky:  others  on  ground 
Walked  firm ;   the  crested  cock  whose  clarion 

sounds 
The  silent  hours,  and  the  other  whose  gay  train 
Adorns  him,  colored  with  the  florid  hue 
Of  rainbows  and  starry  eyes.     The  waters  thus 
With  fish  replenished,  and  the  air  with  fowl, 
Evening  and  morn  solemnized  the  fifth  day.         I 

The  sixth,  and  of  creation  last,  arose 
With  evening  harps  and  matin  ;  wlien  God  said, 
"Let  the  earth  bring  forth  soul  living  in  her  kind. 
Cattle,  and  creeping  things,  and  beast  of  the 

earth, 
Each  in  their  kind."      The  earth  obeyed,  and 

straight 
Opening  her  fertile  womb,  teemed  at  a  birth 
Innumerous  living  creatures,  perfect  forms. 
Limbed  and  full  grown  :  out  of  the  ground  up 

rose. 
As  from  his  lair,  the  wild  beast,  where  he  wons 
In  forest  wild,  in  thicket,  brake,  or  den  ; 
Among  the  trees  in  pairs  they  rose,  they  walked  : 
The  cattle  in  the  fields  and  meadows  green; 
Those  rare  and  solitary,  these  in  flocks 
Pasturing  at  once,  and  in  broad  herds  upsprung. 
The  grassy  clods  now  calved  ;  now  half  appeared 
The  tawny  lion,  pawing  to  get  free 
Hishinder  parts,  then  spri)igs,asbrokefrom  bonds, 
And  rampant  shakes  hisbrindedmane  :  theounce, 
The  libbard,  and  the  tiger,  as  the  mole 
Rising,  the  crumbled  earth  above  them  threw 
In  hillocks  :  the  swift  stag  from  under  ground 
Bore  up  hLs  branching  head  :   scarce  from  his 

mold 
Behemoth,  biggest  born  of  earth,  upheaved 
His  vastness :  lleeced  the  flocks  and  bleating lose, 
As  plants  :  ambiguous  between  sea  and  land 
The  river-horse,  and  scaly  crocodile. 
At  once  came  fortli  whatever  creeps  the  ground. 
Insect  or  worm  :  those  waved  their  limber  fans 
For  wings,  and  smallest  lineaments  cxa<;t 
In  all  the  liveries  decked  of  summer's  pride, 
With  spots  of  gold  and  purple,  azure  and  green  ; 
These  as  a  line  their  long  dimension  drew, 
Streaking  the  ground  with  sinuous  trace ;  not 
aU 


Minims  of  nature  ;  some  of  serpent-kind. 
Wondrous  in  length  and  corpulence,  involved 
Tlieir  snaky  folds,  and  added  wings.     First  crejit 
The  parsimonious  emmet,  provident 
Of  future ;  in  small  room  large  heart  cnclo-sed  ; 
Pattern  of  just  eijuality  |)erhaps 
Hereafter,  joined  in  her  jxipular  tribes 
Of  commonalty  :  swaraiiug  next  appeared 
The  female  bee,  that  feeds  her  husljand  drone 
Deliciously,  and  builds  her  waxen  celbi 
With  honey  stored  :  the  rest  are  numberless. 
And   thou    their   natures  knowest,   and   gavest 

them  names. 
Needless  to  thee  repeat<;d  ;  nor  unknown 
The  ser])ent,  subtlest  Ix-ast  of  all  the  field, 
Of  huge  extent  sometimes,  with  brazen  eyes 
And  hairy  mane  terrific,  though  to  thee 
Not  noxious,  but  obedient  at  thy  call. 

Mll-TOK. 


EACH  AND  ALL. 

Little  thinks,   in   the   field,   yon   red-cloaked 

clown. 
Of  thee,  from  the  hill-top  looking  down  ; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm. 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm  ; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon. 
Deems  not  tliat  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight. 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  you  Alpine  height; 
Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  hough  ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now. 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky  ;  — 
He  sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my  eye. 
The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore  ; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave  ; 
And  the  liellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  feti;hed  my  sea-bom  treasures  home  ; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shor^ 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 
The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid. 
As  mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed. 
Nor  knew  her  Ijeauty's  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  last  .she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Lik(;  the  bird  from  the  woodlandbs  to  the  cage  ;  — 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone. 


i 


[& 


3G6 


POEMS  OF  XATUKE. 


-a 


A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "  1  covet  truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  cliiUlliooti's  cheat ; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  tlie  g-anies  of  youth."  - 

As  1  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-iiine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Uunuing  over  the  ehib-nioss  burrs  ; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs  ; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground  ; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity  ; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  hoard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird  ;  — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  ; 

1  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


t^- 


RETIREMENT. 

INSCKII'TION  IN  A  HP.RMITAGE. 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined, 
I  soothe  to  peace  my  pensive  mind  ; 
And  while,  to  shade  my  lowly  cave. 
Embowering  elms  their  umbrage  wave, 
And  while  the  maple  dish  is  mine,  — 
The  beechen  cup,  unstained  with  wine,  — 
I  scorn  the  gay  licentious  crowd. 
Nor  heed  the  toys  that  deck  the  proud. 

Within  my  limits,  lone  and  still, 
The  blackbird  pipes  in  artless  trill  ; 
Fast  by  my  couch,  congenial  guest. 
The  wren  has  wove  her  mossy  nest : 
From  busy  scenes  and  brighter  skies, 
To  lurk  with  innocence,  she  flies. 
Here  hojies  in  safe  repose  to  dwell. 
Nor  aught  suspects  the  sylvan  cell. 

At  morn  I  take  my  customed  round. 
To  mark  how  buds  yon  shrubby  mound. 
And  every  opening  primrose  count, 
Tliat  trimly  paints  my  blooming  mount ; 
Or  o'er  the  sculptures,  quaint  and  rude. 
That  grace  my  gloon\y  solitude, 
I  teach  in  winding  wreaths  to  stray 
Fantastic  ivy's  gadding  spray. 

At  eve,  within  yon  studious  nook, 

I  ope  my  brass-embossed  book. 

Portrayed  with  many  a  holy  deed 

Of  martyrs,  crowned  with  heavenly  meed ; 

Then,  as  my  taper  waxes  dim. 

Chant,  eve  I  sleep,  my  measured  hymn, 

And,  at  the  close,  the  gleams  behold       n 

Of  parting  wings,  bedropt  with  gold.     • 


While  such  pure  joys  my  liliss  crcjite. 
Who  but  would  smile  at  guilty  state  ? 
Who  but  would  wish  his  lioly  lot 
In  calm  oblivion's  humlile  grot  ? 
Wlio  but  would  cast  his  pomp  away. 
To  take  my  staflT,  and  amice  gray  ; 
And  to  the  world's  tumultuous  stage 
Prefer  the  bhuneless  hermitage  ' 

THOMAS  WARTON, 


COME  TO  THESE  SCENES  OF  PEACE. 

Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace. 
Where,  to  rivers  murmuring. 
The  sweet  birds  all  tlie  summer  sing. 
Where  cares  and  toil  and  sadness  cease  I 
Stranger,  does  thy  heart  deplore 
Friends  whom  thou  wilt  see  no  more  ? 
Does  tliy  wounded  spirit  prove 
Pangs  of  hopeless,  severeci  love  ? 
Thee  the  stream  that  guslies  clear, 
Thee  the  birds  that  carol  near 
Shall  soothe,  as  silent  tliou  dost  lie 
And  dream  of  their  wild  hiUaby  ; 
Come  to  bless  these  scenes  of  peace. 
Where  cares  and  toil  and  sadness  cease. 

WILLIAM  Lisle  Bowles. 


SEE,   0  SEE  I 

See,  0  see  ! 

How  every  tree. 

Every  bower, 

Every  flower, 
A  new  life  gives  to  others'  joys  ; 

While  that  I 

Grief-stricken  lie. 

Nor  can  meet 

With  any  sweet 
But  what  faster  mine  destroys. 
What  are  all  the  senses'  pleasures 
When  the  mind  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

Hear,  0  hear ! 

How  sweet  and  clear 

The  nightingale 

And  water's  fall 
In  concert  join  for  others'  ear  ; 

AVhile  to  me. 

For  harmony. 

Every  air 

Echoes  despair. 
And  every  drop  provokes  a  tear. 
What  are  all  the  senses'  jdeasures 
When  the  soul  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

JOHN  DlGBV.  Earl  of  Bristol, 


^ 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


367 


-a 


ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  DAY. 

0  I'NSKKN'  .S)>irit !   now  a  eulin  divine 

Comes  forth  Iroiu  tlu'e,  ii'joiuiiig  c;ii-tli  iind  air ! 

Trees,  hills,  aud  houses,  all  distiiietly  .shine, 
And  thy  gi-eat  ocean  slumbers  everywhere. 

The  mountain  ridge  against  the  jiuqjle  sky 
Stands  clear  and  strong,  with  darkened  rocks 
and  dells. 

And  elinidless  brightness  ojjens  wide  and  high 
A  home  aerial,  where  tliy  presenee  dwells. 

The  chime  ol'  bells  remote,  the  murmuring  sea, 
The  song  of  birds  in  wliisijering  copse  and  wood, 

The  di.stant  voice  of  children's  thoughtless  glee. 
And  maiden's  song,  are  all  one  voice  of  good. 

Amid  the  leave.s'  green  nuiss  a  sunny  jilay 
Of  llajili  and  shadow  stirs  like  inward  life ; 

The  ship's  white  sail  glides  onward  far  away, 
Uuhaunted  by  a  di-eani  of  storm  or  strife. 

].)UN  sterli.ng. 


INVOCATION  TO  LIGHT. 

FROM   "PAKADISF.  LOST." 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven  first-liorn  ! 
Or  of  the  Kternal  coeternal  beam 
May  I  express  thee  unblamed  ?  since  God  is  light. 
And  nevei'  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee, 
Rright  eltluenee  of  bright  essence  increate  1 
Or  hear'st  thou  rather  pure  ethereal  stream, 
Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  ?     I!efore  the  sun. 
Before  the  heavens,  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 
Of  f!od,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest 
The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep. 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 
Thee  1  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing. 
Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight 
Through  utterand  through  midillcdarknessbonie. 
With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre, 
1  sung  of  f'haos  and  eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  re-ascend. 
Though  hard  and  rare  :  thee  I  revisit  safe. 
And  feel  thy  sovereign  vital  lamp  ;  Init  thou 
Kevisitest  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn  ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their  orbs. 
Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.     Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  1  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  .shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song  ;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath. 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit  :  nor  sometimes  forget 


Those  other  two  ciiualed  with  me  in  f.de. 
So  were  1  eijualed  with  them  iu  renown. 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  l\l;i'oiiii!i  ;. 
And  Tiresias  and  Thineus,  pi  o)  ■bets  nM  : 
Then  feed  on  thoughts  thai  volmiUiiy  move 
Harmonious  numbers  ;  as  the  wakeful  biid 
Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Thus  v.itli  the  year 
Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Uay,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn. 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose. 
Or  (locks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 
Hut  cloud,  instead,  and  evcr-during  dark. 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheei  ful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased. 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  (piite  shut  out. 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  throughall  lierjiowers 
Irradiate;  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  dis|ierse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
or  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 


FROM  THE    "IIVMN  TO   LIGHT." 

Sav,  from  what  golden  quivers  of  the  sky 
Do  all  thy  winged  arrows  fly  ? 
Swiftness  and  Power  by  birth  are  thine  : 
From  thy  great  sire  they  came,  thy  sire,  the  Word 
Divine. 

Thou  in  the  Moon's  bright  chariot,  proud  and 

Dost  thy  bright  wood  of  stars  survey  ; 
And  all  the  year  dost  with  thee  bring 
Of  thousand  flowery  lights  thine  own  nocturnal 
spring. 

Thou,  Scythian-like,  do.st  round  thy  landsabove 
The  Sun's  gilt  tent  forever  move. 
And  still,  ;is  thou  in  pomp  dost  go. 
The  shining  pageants  of  the  world  attend  thy  show. 

Nor  amidst  all  these  triumphs  dost  thou  scorn 
The  humlile  glow-wonns  to  adorn. 
And  with  those  living  spangles  gild 
(Ogreatnesswithoutpride  I)  thebu.shesof  thefield. 

Night  and  her  ugly  subjects  thou  dost  fright. 
And  Sleep,  the  lazy  owd  of  night  ; 
Ashamed,  and  fearful  to  appear. 
They  screen  tln^ir  horrid  sha]ies  with  the  black 
heniisj)herc. 

At  thy  appearance,  Grief  itself  is  said 

To  shake  his  wings,  and  rouse  his  head  : 


-^ 


a- 


308 


POEMS  OF  NATUHE. 


^ 


Aiul  I'loiuiy  I'aro  h«s  ol'teii  took 
A  geutle  beamy  siuilo,  rellootwi  Iroiu  thy  look. 

W  hen,  goiUless,  tliou  lift'st  u|> thy  wiikoiunl  liead 
Dut  of  tho  inoniing's  iiurj>k'  b«l, 
'I'liy  nuiiv  of  binls  alwut  ihee  phiy, 
Ami  all  the  joyful  world  salutes  the  rising  day. 

All  the  world's  bravery,  that  delights  our  eyes. 
Is  but  thy  several  liveries  ; 
Thou  tJie  rieh  dye  on  theui  Iwstow'st, 
Thy  nimble  peueil  i«iuts  this  laiulseaiie  as  thou 
gvi'st.  I 

.\  orinison  giuiueut  in  the  rose  thou  wear'st ; 
.\  crown  of  studded  gold  thou  bear'st  ; 
The  virgin-lilies,  in  their  white, 
Aro  elad  but  with  the  lawn  of  almost  naked  light. 

The  violet,  Spring's  little  infant,  stands 
Girt  in  thy  purple  swaildling-lvauds  ; 
On  the  fair  tulip  thou  dost  dote  ; 
Thou  elotli'st  it  in  a  gay  and  jiarty-eolored  coat. 

Throtigli  the  soft  ways  ol"  Heaven,  and  air,  and 
sea, 
Which  open  all  their  pores  to  thee. 
Like  a  clear  river  thou  dost  glide. 
And  with  thy  living  stream  through  the  close 
chaniu^ls  slide. 

Hut  the  vast  ocean  of  \inlionnded  day, 

In  th'  entpyrean  Heaven  does  stay. 

Thy  rivers,  lakes,  and  springs,  below. 

From  thence  took  first  their  rise,  thither  at  last 

must  How. 

.\BRAtiAM  Cowley. 


DAYBRE.\K. 

.\  \viNi>  eanui  up  out  of  the  sea, 

.'\nd  said,  "  t>  mists,  make  room  for  me  ! ' 

It  luiiled  the  shij>s,  and  cried,  "Sail  on, 
Yc  mariners,  the  night  is  gone!" 

.\nd  hurried  landwaitl  far  away, 
frying,  "  Awake  !  it  is  the  day  !" 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  iKtnners  out  !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bii\Vs  folded  wing, 
.\nd  said,  "0  blixl,  awake  and  sing  !" 

.\nil  o'er  the  farms,  "0  chanticleer. 
Your  clarion  blow  ;  the  day  is  near  ! " 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn  ! ' 


It  sliouted  through  the  bellVy-tower, 
"Awake,  O  bell  !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  clmivhyanl  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet  !  in  ipiiet  lie." 

1U-..NKV  wapswortu  Lo.ngfbllow. 


IT  I  gUlT  THY  BOWER  I 

I'l'  I  ipiit  thy  bower  !  late  wears  the  hour, 
Long  have  the  rooks  cawed  round  the  tower  ; 
O'er  llower  and  tave  loud  hums  the  liee, 
And  the  wiKl  kid  sports  merrily. 
The  sun  is  bright,  the  sky  is  clear  ; 
^Vake,  lady,  wake  I  and  hasten  here. 

Up,  maiden  fair !  and  bind  thy  hair. 

And  rouse  thee  in  the  bive/y  air  ! 

The  lulling  stream  that  soothed  thy  dreiUil 

Is  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam. 

Waste  not  these  hours,  so  frosli,  so  gay  : 

Leave  thy  soft  couch  luid  haste  away  ! 

Up  !    Time  will  tell  the  morning  bell 
Its  service-sound  has  cllim^d  well ; 
The  ag»'d  crone  keejis  house  alone. 
The  retipers  to  the  fields  are  gone. 
Lose  not  these  hours,  so  cool,  so  gay  : 
Lo  !  while  thou  sleep'st  they  haste  away  ! 

Joanna  Baillib. 


MORNINO. 

In  the  liarn  the  tenant  cock, 

t'lose  to  (wrtlet  perched  on  high, 

Briskly  crows  (the  sheplu>r<l"s  clock  !) 
.Jocund  that  the  morning 's  nigh. 

Swiftly  from  the  mountain's  brow. 
Shadows,  nursed  by  night,  retire  : 

And  the  peeping  sunlieam  now. 
Paints  with  giild  the  village  spire. 

Philontel  forsakes  the  thorn. 

Plaintive  whei*  she  prates  at  night ; 
And  the  lark,  to  meet  the  morn. 

Soars  lieyond  the  sheplieixVs  sight 

Fi-om  the  low-roofetl  cottage  ridge. 
Sec  the  chattering  swallow  spring  : 

Parting  through  the  one-ai\-hwl  bridge. 
Quick  she  dips  her  dappled  wing. 

Now  the  pine-troe's  waving  top 
(.5ently  givets  the  morning  gjtle  ; 

Kidlings  now  lH>gin  to  crop 
Daisies,  on  the  dewv  dale. 


-^ 


[& 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


369 


-a 


From  the  baluiy  sweets,  undoyed 
(Restless  till  her  task  be  done), 

Now  the  busy  bee  's  employed 
.Sipping  dew  before  the  sun. 

Trickling  through  the  creviced  rock, 
Where  the  limpid  stream  distills, 

Sweet  refreshment  waits  the  Hock 
When  't  is  sun-drove  from  the  hills. 

Colin  's  for  the  promised  corn 
(Ere  the  harvest  hojies  are  ripe) 

Anxious  ;  —  whilst  the  huntsman's  horn. 
Boldly  sounding,  drowns  his  pipe. 

Sweet,  0  sweet,  the  warbling  throng. 
On  the  white  emblossomed  spray  ! 

Nature's  universal  song 
Echoes  to  the  rising  day. 

JuH.v 


THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS. 

To  claim  the  Arctic  came  the  sun 
With  banners  of  the  burning  zone. 
Unrolled  upon  their  airy  spars, 
They  froze  beneath  the  light  of  stars  ; 
And  there  they  float,  those  streamers  old. 
Those  Northern  Lights,  forever  cold  ! 

BENJAMIN   F.   TAYLOR. 


DAWN. 


The  night  was  dark,  though  sometimes  a  faint 
star 
A  little  while  a  little  space  made  bright. 
The  night  was  long  and  like  an  iron  bar 
Lay  heavy  on  the  land  :  till  o'er  the  sea 
Slowly,  within  the  East,  there  grew  a  light 
Which  half  was  starlight,  and  half  seemed  to  be 
The  herald  of  a  greater.     The  pale  white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  and  up  the  height 
Of  heaven  slowly  climbed.     The  gi-ay  sea  grew 
Rose-coloied  like  the  sky.     A  white  gull  flew 
Straight  toward  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  East, 
Where  slowly  the  rose  gathered  and  increased. 
It  was  as  on  the  opening  of  a  door 
By  one  that  in  his  hand  a  lamp  doth  hold, 
AVhose  flame  is  hidden  by  the  garment's  fold,  — 
The  still  air  moves,  the  wide  room  is  less  dim. 

More  bright  the  East  became,  the  ocean  turned 
Dark  and  more  dark  against  the  brightening  sky,  — 
Sharper  against  the  sky  the  long  sea  line. 
The  hollows  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 
Were  green  like  leaves  whereon  no  sun  doth  shine. 
Though  white  the  outer  branches  of  the  tree. 


From  rose  to  red  the  level  heaven  bunied  ; 
Then  sudden,  as  if  a  sword  fell  from  on  high, 
A  blade  of  gold  flashed  on  the  horizon's  rim. 

RICHAKU  W.  C.IUUER. 


PACK  CLOUDS  AWAY. 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day. 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow  ; 

Sweet  air,  blow  soft ;  mount,  lark,  aloft. 
To  give  my  love  good  morrow. 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark  1  '11  borrow  ; 

Bird,  prune  thy  wing  ;  nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  my  love  good  morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good  morrow, 
Notes  from  them  all  1  '11  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbrea.st. 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good  morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush. 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-spari-ow. 
You  petty  elves,  amongst  yoiii'selves, 

Sing  my  fair  love  gooil  morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good  morrow, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 


Brx  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 
The  wild  brook  liabbling  down  the  mountain- 
side ; 
The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  simjile  bell  ; 
The  pipe  of  earl)'  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley  ;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  clifl's  above  ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide  ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark  ; 
Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid 

sings  ; 
The   whistling   jJowmau   stalks  afield  ;   and, 

hark  ! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon 

rings  ; 
Through   rastling   com   the   hare   astonished 

s]>rings  ; 

Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drow.sy  hour  ; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings  ; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower. 

And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 

James  Bbattie. 


-tf 


[G- 


-f^, 


370 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


t: 


THE  SABBATH  MORNING. 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  moi'n, 
That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ! 
A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  bonie  ; 
A  graver  murmur  gurgles  irom^he  Hll ; » 
And  echo  answers  softer 'from  the  hill  ; 
Ajid  sweeter  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  : 
The  skylark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 
Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  ! 
The  rooks  float  silent  by  in  airy  drove  ; 
The  sun  a  placid  yellow  luster  throws  ; 
The  gales  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove 
Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose  ; 
Tlie  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move,  — 
So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose  ! 
John  Leyde.n. 


REVE  DU  MIDI. 

When  o'er  the  mountain  steeps 
The  hazy  noontide  creeps, 
And  the  shrill  cricket  sleeps 
Under  the  grass  ; 
When  soft  the  shadows  lie. 
And  clouds  sail  o'er  the  sky, 
And  the  idle  wmds  go  by. 
With  the  heavy  scent  of  blossoms  as  they  pass,  — 

Then,  when  the  silent  stream 
Lapses  as  in  a  dream. 
And  the  water-lilies  gleam 
Up  to  the  sun  ; 

When  the  hot  and  burdened  day 
Rests  on  its  downward  way. 
When  the  moth  forgets  to  jilay, 
And  the  plodding  ant  may  dream  her  work  is 
done,  — 

Then,  from  the  noise  of  war 
And  the  din  of  earth  afar. 
Like  some  forgotten  star 
Dropt  from  the  sky,  — 
The  sounds  of  love  and  fear. 
All  voices  sad  and  clear, 
Banished  to  silence  drear,  — 
The  willing  thrall  of  trances  sweet  I  lie. 

Some  melancholy  gale 
Breathes  its  mysterious  tale. 
Till  the  rose's  lips  grow  pale 
With  her  sighs  ; 
And  o'er  my  thoughts  are  cast 
Tints  of  the  vanished  jiast. 
Glories  that  faded  fast. 
Renewed  to  splendor  in  my  dreaming  eyes. 


As  poised  on  vibrant  wings, 
Where  its  sweet  treasure  swings. 
The  honey-lover  clings 
To  the  red  flowers,  — 
So,  lost  in  vivid  light. 
So,  rapt  from  day  and  night, 
I  linger  in  delight, 
Enraptured  o'er  the  vision-freighted  hours. 

Rose  terry  Cooke 


A  SUMMER  NOON. 

Who  has.  not  dreamed  a  world  of  bliss 
On  a  bright  sunny  noon  like  this. 
Couched  by  his  native  brook's  green  maze. 
With  comrade  of  his  boyish  days. 
While  all  around  them  seemed  to  be 
Just  as  in  joyous  infancy  ? 
Who  has  not  loved  at  such  an  hour. 
Upon  that  heath,  in  birchen  bower, 
Lulled  in  the  poet's  dreamy  mood, 
Its  wild  and  sunny  solitude  ? 
While  o'er  the  waste  of  purple  ling 
You  mark  a  sultry  glimmering  ; 
Silence  herself  there  seems  to  sleep. 
Wrapped  in  a  slumber  long  and  deep. 
Where  slowly  stray  those  lonely  sheep 
Through  the  tall  f'o.xglove's  crimson  bloom. 
And  gleaming  of  the  scattered  broom. 
Love  you  not,  then,  to  list  and  hear 
The  crackling  of  the  gorse-flowers  near. 
Pouring  an  orange-scented  tide 
Of  fragrance  o'er  the  desert  wide  ? 
To  hear  the  buzzard's  whimpering  .shrill. 
Hovering  above  you  high  and  still  ? 
The  twittering  of  the  bird  that  dwells 
Among  the  heath's  delicious  bells  ? 
While  round  your  bed,  o'er  fern  and  blade. 
Insects  in  green  and  gold  arrayed, 
The  sun's  gay  tribes  have  lightly  strayed  ; 
And  sweeter  sound  their  humming  wings 
Than  the  proud  minstrel's  echoing  strings. 
WILLIAM  Hown 


Beneath  a  shivering  canopy  reclined. 
Of  aspen-leaves  that  wave  without  a  wind, 
I  love  to  lie,  when  lulling  breezes  stir 
The  spiry  cones  that  tremble  on  the  fir  ; 
Or  wander  mid  the  dark-gxeen  fields  of  broom, 
When  peers  in  scattered  tufts  the  yellow  bloom  ; 
Or  trace  the  path  with  tangling  furze  o'errun, 
When  bursting  seed-bells  ci'ackle  in  the  sun. 
And  pittering  grasshoppers,  confus'dly  shrill. 
Pipe  giddily  along  the  glowing  hill  : 


--& 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


371 


-*-a 


^- 


Sweet  grasshopper,  who  lov'st  at  noon  to  lie 
Serenely  in  the  gi'Sen-ribbed  clover's  eye, 
To  sun  thy  filmy  wings  and  emerald  vest. 
Unseen  thy  form,  and  undisturbed  thy  rest. 
Oft  have  I  listening  mused  the  sultry  day, 
And  wondered  what  thy  chirping  song  might  say, 
When  naught  was  heard  along  the  blossomed  lea. 
To  join  thy  music,  save  the  listless  bee. 

John  Levden. 


THE  MIDGES  DANCE  ABOON  THE  BTTEN. 

The  midges  dauce  aboon  the  burn  ; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa'  ; 
The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's  sang 

Rings  through  the  briery  shaw. 
While,  flitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 

Beneath  the  golden  gloaniin'  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay  ; 
The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains 

To  charm  the  lingering  day  ; 
AVhile  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn. 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves. 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell  ; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragi-ance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry, 
The  simple  joys  that  nature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

Robert  Tannahill. 


THE  EVENING  WIND. 

Spirit  that  breatliest  through  my  lattice  :  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day  ! 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow  ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wOd  blue  waves  till  now. 
Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high 
their  .spray. 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

Nor  I  alone,  —  a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fullness  of  delight ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  w'ind  of  night ; 


And  languishing  to  hear  thy  welcome  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth,  — 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest ; 

Curl  the  stm  waters,  bright  w'ith  stars ;  and  rou.se 
The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest. 

Summoning,  from  the  innumerable  boughs. 
The  strange  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast. 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 
And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the 
grass. 

Stoop  o'er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly  sway 
The  sighing  herbage  by  the  gleaming  stone. 

That  they  who  near  the  churchyard  willows  stray. 
And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom,  alone, 

^Liy  think  of  gentle  souls  that  ]jassed  away. 
Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  unknown, 

Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of  men. 

And  gone  into  the  bouniUess  heaven  again. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep. 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more 
deep  ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep. 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go,  —  but  the  circle  of  eternal  cliauge. 
Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore. 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range. 
Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  nunc. 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea  air,  sweet  and  strange. 
Shall  tell  the  homesick  mariner  of  the  shore  ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 
William  culle.n  Bryant. 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

St.\r  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  laborer  free  ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above. 
Appearing  when  heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
A^Tiilst  the  landscape's  odors  rise. 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard. 
And  songs,  when  toil  is  done. 


^ 


h 


From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 
Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovei-s  on  thee  muse  ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

CAPE-COTTAGE  AT  SUNSET. 

We  stood  upon  the  ragged  rocks, 
When  the  long  day  wa-s  nearly  done  ; 

The  waves  had  ceased  their  sullen  shocks, 
And  lapped  our  feet  with  murmuring  tone. 

And  o'er  the  bay  in  streaming  locks 
Blew  the  red  tresses  of  the  sun. 

Along  the  west  the  golden  bai-s 

Still  to  a  deeper  glory  grew  ; 
Above  our  heads  the  faint,  few  stars 

Looked  out  from  the  unfathomod  blue  ; 
And  the  fair  city's  clamorous  jars 

Seemed  melted  in  that  evening  hue. 

0  svmset  sky  !  0  purple  tide  ! 

0  friends  to  friends  that  closer  pressed  ! 
Those  glories  have  in  darkness  died, 
Aiurye  have  left  my  longing  breast. 

1  could'not  keep  you  by  my  side. 

Nor  fi.x  that  radiance  in  the  west. 

WILLIAM  BELCHER  GLAZIER. 


SUNSET. 

If  .solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore. 
And  thou  hast  lingered  there 
Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seemed  resting  on  the  burnished  wave, 

Thou  must  have  marked  the  lines 
Of  purple  gold  that  motionless 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere  : 
Thou  must  have  marked  the  billowy  clouds, 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 
i'owering  like  rocks  of  jet 
Crowned  with  a  diamond  wreath. 
And  yet  there  is  a  moment. 
When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge. 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold. 
Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 
Like  islands  on  a  dark-blue  sea  ; 
Then  has  thy  fancy  soared  above  the  earth, 
And  furled  its  wearied  wing 
Within  the  Fairy's  fane. 


Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
Gleamii»g  in  yon  flood  of  light. 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
Stretching  o'er  the  sun's  bright  couch, 
Nor  the  burnished  ocean's  waves 

raving  that  gorgeous  dome. 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  Mab's  ethereal  palace  could  atTord. 
Yet  Ukest  evening's  vault,  that  fairy  Hall  ! 
Heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it  spread 
Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 
Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a  silver  sea  ; 
Whilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 
And  pearly  battlements  around 
Looked  o'er  the  immense  of  heaven. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SIIELLBY. 


NIGHTFALL:  A  PICTXJRE. 

Low  burns  the  summer  afternoon  ; 

A  mellow  luster  lights  the  scene  ; 
And  from  its  smiling  beauty  soon 

The  purpling  shade  will  chase  the  sheen. 

The  old,  quaint  homestead's  windows  blaze  ; 

The  cedars  long,  black  pictures  show  ; 
And  broaiUy  slopes  one  path  of  rays 

Within  the  barn,  and  makes  it  glow. 

The  loft  stares  out  —  the  eat  intent. 
Like  carving,  on  some  gnawing  rat  — 

With  sun-bathed  hay  and  rafters  bent, 

Nooked,  coliwebbcd  homes  of  wasp  and  bat. 

The  hartiess,  bridle,  saddle,  dart 

Gleams  from  the  lower,  rough  expanse  ; 

At  either  side  the  stooping  cart, 

Pitchfork  and  plow  cast  looks  askance. 

1  White  Dobbin  through  the  stable-doors 

Shows  his  round  shape  ;  faint  color  coats 
I  The  manger,  where  the  farmer  pours, 
I      With  rustling  rush,  the  glancing  oats. 

'  A  sun-haze  streaks  the  dusky  shed  ; 

Makes  spears  of  seams  and  gems  of  clunks  : 
In  mottled  gloss  the  straw  is  spread  ; 
And  the  gray  grindstone  dully  blinks. 

The  sun  salutes  the  lowest  west 

With  gorgeous  tints  around  it  drawn  ; 

A  beacon  on  the  mountain's  breast, 
A  crescent,  shred,  a  star—  and  gone. 


-4 


POEMS  OF  NATUliE. 


373 


'-n 


h^ 


The  landscape  now  prepares  for  night  : 
A  gauzy  mist  slow  settles  round  ; 

Eve  shows  her  hues  in  every  sight, 
And  blends  her  voice  with  every  sound. 

The  sheep  stream  rippling  down  the  dell, 
Their  smooth,  sliarp  lUfcs  pointed  straight; 

The  pacing  kine,  with  tinkling  bell. 
Come  grazing  through  the  [lastuie-gate. 

The  ducks  are  grouped,  and  talk  in  llts  : 
One  yawns  with  stretcli  of  leg  and  wing  ; 

One  rears  and  fans,  then,  settling,  sits  ; 
One  at  a  moth  makes  awkward  spring. 

The  geese  mai'ch  grave  in  Indian  file, 
The  ragged  patriarch  at  the  head  ; 

Then,  screaming,  flutter  oil'  awhile. 
Fold  up,  and  once  more  stately  tread. 

Brave  chanticleer  shows  haughtiest  air  ; 

Hurls  his  shrill  vaunt  with  lofty  bend  ; 
Lifts  foot,  glares  round,  then  follows  where 

His  scratching,  picking  partlets  wend. 

Staid  Towser  scents  the  glittering  gi'ound  ; 

Then,  yawning,  draws  a  crescent  deep, 
Wheels  his  head-drooping  frame  around 

And  sinks  with  fore-paws  stretched  for  .sleep. 

The  oxen,  loosened  from  the  plow. 

Rest  by  the  pear-tree's  crooked  trunk  ; 

Tim,  standing  with  yoke-burdened  brow, 
Trim,  in  a  mound  beside  him  sunk. 

One  of  the  kine  upon  the  bank 

Heaves  her  face-lifting,  wheezy  roar  ; 

One  smooths,  with  lapping  tongue,  her  flank  ; 
With  ponderous  droop  one  finds  the  floor. 

Freed  Dobbin  tlirough  the  soft,  clear  dark 
(■limmers  across  the  pillared  scene. 

With  the  grouped  geese,  —  a  pallid  mark,  — 
And  scattered  bushes  black  between. 

The  fire-flies  freckle  every  spot 

With  fickle  light  that  gleams  and  dies  ; 

The  bat,  a  wavering,  soundless  blot. 
The  eat,  a  pair  of  prowling  eyes. 

Still  the  sweet,  fragi'ant  dai'k  o'erflows 
The  deepening  air  and  darkening  ground  ; 

15y  its  rich  scent  1  trace  the  rose, 
Tlie  viewless  beetle  by  its  sound. 

The  cricket  scrapes  its  rib-like  bars  ; 

The  tree-toad  purrs  in  whiiring  tone  ; 
And  now  the  heavens  are  set  with  stars. 

And  night  and  ipiiet  reign  alone. 


I  EVENING. 

j  FROM   ■'  DCS  JUAN." 

I  AVF,  Maria  !  o'er  the  earth  and  sea. 
That  heavenliest  hour  of  heaven  is  worthiest  tliee .' 

Ave  Maria  !  blessed  be  the  hour. 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  .spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

.Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft. 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower 

Or  the  faint  dying  day  hymn  stole  aloft. 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air. 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with 
prayer. 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  liour  of  love  ! 
Ave  Maria  I  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  0  that  face  so  fair  ! 

Those   downcast   eyes  beneath  the  Almighty 
dove,  — 
What   though  't   is   but   a   [jjctured   image?  — 

strike,  — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  —  't  is  too  like. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight !  in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Wliich  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood. 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed  o'er 

To  where  the  last  Ciesarean  fortress  stood. 
Evergreen  forest  ;  wliicli  Boccaccio's  lore 

Ami  Diyden's  lay  made  haunted  giound  to  me. 

How  liave  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee  ! 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Were  the  solo  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mini', 
And  vesper  bells  that  rose  the  boughs  along  ; 

The  specter  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

Hishell-dogs,  and  their  chase, and  the  fair  throng 

Which  learned  from  this  e.-caniiile  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover,  — shadowed  my  mind's  ey,. 

0  Hesperus  I  thou  hringest  all  good  tilings,  — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer. 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings. 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabored  steer  ; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
AVhate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear. 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring' st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother'sbreast. 


Soft  hour  !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts 
heart 

Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  fromtheirsweet  friends  aretorn  a]): 

Or  fills  with  love  the  jtilgrim  on  his  way, 


^ 


[& 


374 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


--a 


&^ 


As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  niakes  him  stait, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  deeay  : 
Is  this  a  I'aney  which  our  reason  scorns  ? 
Ah  !  surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns. 

LORD  DYRON. 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  oar, 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales,  — 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  lirighl-haiicd 

Sun 
.Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whoso  cloudy  skirts. 

With  braid  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  whore  the  wcak-oyed  bat, 
With  short,  shrill  shriek  Hits  by  on  leathern 
wing  ; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  bvit  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  inith. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  lurdless  hum  ; 
Now  teach  me,  maid  conipikscxt. 
To  lireathe  some  softened  stiiiin, 

Wlioso  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening 

vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

As,  musing  slow,  1  hail 

Thy  genial,  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp, 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  hor  brows 

with  sedge, 
.■\nd  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still. 

The  pensive  I'leasurcs  sweet, 

I'rcpare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  w'ild  and  heathy  scene  ; 
Or  lind  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religio\is  gleams. 

dr.  if  chill,  blustering  winds,  or  driving  raiii, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain's  side 
^'iews  wilds,  and  swelling  Hoods, 


And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires  ; 
Anil  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  lingers  draw 

The  gradual,  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he 

wont. 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  I 

While  Summer  loves  to  spoit 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves  ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rnddy  rends  thy  robes,  — 

So  long,  regardl'ul  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  inlhunu'o  own. 

And  love  thy  fuvoriti^  nanu'  ! 

WILLIAM  Collins. 


The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night: 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her  ;  a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains  ;  heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  bo 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  w-est. 
Where  the  day  joins  the  past  eternity  ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air,  an  ishuul  of  tlu' 
blest. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  ivmains 
Rolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Khretian  hill. 
As  day  and  night  contending  were  until 
Nature  reclaimed  her  order  :  gently  Hows 
The  deep-dyed  Brcnta,  where  their  hues  instill 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose. 
Which  .streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glassed 
within  it  glows, 

Filleil   with  the   face  of  heaven,   which,   from 

afar. 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters  ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star. 
Their  nuigical  variety  diffuse  : 
And  now  they  change  ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  :  parting  day 
Pies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till  't  is  gone  —  and  all  is 
gray. 


-^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


In-^ 


EVENING  IN   PARADISE. 

Now  caiiiu  still  evening  on,  ami  Iwilight  gray 
Flail  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clail  ; 
Silence  aeuonipanieil  ;  for  heast  and  bird, 
'I'liey  to  tlieii'  grassy  coneli,  these  to  their  nests, 
Were  slnnk,  all  but  the  wakefnl  nightingale  ; 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung. 

Sile was  pleased  :  now  glowed  the  linnament 

Wilh  living  sapphires  ;  Hesperus,  that  led 
'I'lie  starry  host,  rode  bi-ightest,  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  (jueen,  unveiled  her  jieerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  niantl(!  threw. 

When  Adani  thus  to  Kve  :   "  Fair  eonsort,  the 
hour 
Ol'  night,  and  all  things  now  retired  to  rest. 
Mind  us  of  like  repose,  since  God  hath  .set 
Lalicjr  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 
Successive  ;  and  the  timely  dew  of  .sleep, 
Now  falling  with  softslumberons  weight,  inclines 
Our  eyelids.      Other  creatures  all  ilay  long 
Kove  idle,  unemployed,  and  less  ncx'il  rest  ; 
.Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body  or  ndnd 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity. 
And  the  regard  of  Heaven  on  all  his  ways  ; 
While  otiu'r  animals  uiiactive  rang<'. 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 
To-morrow,  ere  fresh  morning  streak  the  east 
With  llrst  ai]proach  of  liglit,  «•<■  nm.st  be  risen, 
And  at  our  pleasant  lalior,  to  reform 
Yon  flowery  arbors,  yonder  alleys  green. 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown. 
That  mock  our  scant  manuring,  and  reipiire 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  their  wanton  growth. 
Those  blossoms  also,  and  those  drojiping  gums. 
That  lie  bestrewn,  unsightly  and  unsniootli, 
Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  wilh  ease  ; 
Meanwhile,  as  Nature  wills,  night  bids  us  rest." 

To  whom  thus  Eve  with  ]ieifpct  beauty  adorned  : 
"  My  autlior  and  dispo.ser,  what  thou  bidd'st 
riiaigucil  I  obey  ;  .so  God  ordains  ; 
(;od  is  thy  law,  thou  mine  ;  to  know  no  more 
Is  wouKin's  happiest  knowdedgo  and  her  prai.sc. 
AVith  thee  conversing  1  forget  all  time  ; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  )ilease  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  fjcr  rising  sweet. 
With  cliarm  of  earliest  birds  ;  jileasant  the  .sun. 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
Ills  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower, 
(ilistering  with  dew  ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  sliowi^vs  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild  ;  then  .silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon. 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  tiain  : 
Hut  neither  breath  of  morn,  when  slie  ascends 
With  charms  of  earliest  birds  ;  nor  lising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land  ;  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower. 


^ 


Glistering  with  dew  ;  nor  fragrance  aftiM. showers, 
Nor  grateful  evening  nnid  ;  norsili'iit  night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  nmon. 
Or  glittering  starlight,  without  thee  is  .sweet." 

Thus  talking,  hand  in  hand  alone  they  passed 
On  to  their  blissful  bower. 

Mn.TON. 


Swii-Ti.Y  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
VVhiu'e,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrilile'aml  dear,  — 

Swill  be  thy  lliglil  ! 

Wrap  thy  fonu  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Stardnwrought  ; 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out ; 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land. 
Touching  all  with  thine  o|iiate  wand,  — 

Come,  long-sought  '. 

When  I  arose  ami  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  the(! ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  her  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  uidoved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee  ! 

Thy  brother  Deatli  canu-,  and  cried, 

"  Wouldst  thou  me?" 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleeji,  the  lilmy-eyi'd, 

Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
"Shall  I  m-stle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouhhst  thou  me  ?" — And  1  replied, 

"  No,  not  thcc  !  " 

Drvilh  will  come  when  Ihou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  .soon,  — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  ; 
Of  neither  would  1  ask  the  boon 
1  a.sk  of  thee,  beloved  Night,  — 
Swift  he  thine  aiiproacliing  flight, 

Gome  soon,  soon  ! 

I'rkcv  IJvssnii  SniiLLnv. 


Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee,  from  report  divine,  and  heard  tliy  name. 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame,  — 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 


-S 


r3« 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


•^ 


Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus,  with  the  host  of  heaven,  came. 
And  lo  !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  con- 
cealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  !  or  who  could  find. 
Whilst  Hy  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed. 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind 
Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife 
If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

Joseph  Blanco  white. 


If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sought,  and  sued  i 
This  is  to  be  alone  ;  this,  this  is  solitude  ' 


'T  IS  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end  : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffied  zeal. 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a 

friend. 
W  ho  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend , 
When  Youthitself  survives  young  Love  andjoy  ? 
Alas  !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend. 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy  ! 
Ah  !  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  he 
a  boy  ? 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side. 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere. 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear. 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed  i 

A  tliought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear ; 
A  flashing  pang  !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 

I 
To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene,  | 

Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion 

dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean,  — 
This  is  not  solitude  ;  't  is  but  to  hold 
Converse  with   Nature's   charms,  and  view  her 
stores  unrolled. 

But  midst  tlie  crowd,  the  hum,  theshock  of  men 
To  hear  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess. 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen. 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless ; 
Minions  of  splendor  slirinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 


Lord  bvron. 


NIGHT. 

HdW  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon 

vault, 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright. 
Through  which  the  moon's  uncloiuled  grandeur 

rolls. 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  has  spread 
To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.   Yon  gentle  hills. 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow  ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend. 
So  stainless  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam  ;  yon  castle  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  timeworn  tower 
So  idly  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace  —  all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness  ; 
Where  silence  undisturbed  might  watch  alone. 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 


The  orb  of  day 
In  southern  climes  o'er  ocean's  waveless  field 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling  :  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruflled  deep  ;  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day ; 
And  vesper's  image  on  the  western  mam 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes  : 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
[  Rolls  o'er  the  blackened  waters  ;  the  deep  roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully ; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinion  o'er  the  gloom 
1  That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge  ;  the  pitiless  fiend, 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks  his  prey  ; 
The  torn  deep  yawns,  —the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulf. 


NIGHT. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest  : 
How  sweet,  when  labors  close. 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 
The  curtain  of  repose. 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay^the  head 

Down  on  our  own  delightful  be  '  ' 


^- 


•  tiie  ueau  , 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-a 


Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  : 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 
When  truth  that  is,  and  truth  that  seems, 

Mix  in  fantastic  strife  ; 
Ah  !  visions,  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil  : 

To  plow  the  classic  field, 
Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 
Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 
That  poets  sang,  and  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  : 

To  wet  witli  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  Memor}',  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  years  ; 
Hopes,  tliat  were  Angels  at  their  birth. 
But  died  when  young,  like  things  of  earth. 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch  : 

O'er  ocean's  dark  e.xpanse. 
To  liail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 
That  brings  into  the  homesick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 


Night  is  the  time  for  care  : 

Brooding  on  hours  misspent, 
To  see  the  specter  of  Despair 

T'ome  to  our  lonely  tent ; 
Like  Brutus,  midst  his  slumbering  host, 
Sunmioued  to  ilie  by  Ciesar's  ghost. 

Niglit  is  the  time  to  think  : 
When,  from  the  eye,  the  soul 

Takes  fliglit ;  and  on  the  utmost  brink 
Of  yonder  starry  ]ioIe 

Discerns  beyond  the  aliyss  of  night 

The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray ; 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away ; 

So  will  his  follower  do,  — 
Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  nntrod. 
And  commune  there  alone  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  Death  : 

When  all  around  is  peace, 
Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath. 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease. 
Think  of  heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends  ;  —  such  death  be  mine. 

JAMKS  MONu;nMHKV 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

'AtTTraCTlI),  TptAAlOTOS. 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  througli  her  marble  halls  ! 
I  saw  her  saljle  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

1  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes. 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

JMy  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

0  holy  Niglit  !  from  thee  1  leam  to  bear 

What  man  has  bonie  before  ! 
Tliou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

-\nd  they  comiilain  no  more. 

Peace!  Peace!  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair. 

The  best-beloved  Niglit ! 

Henry  wausworth  Loncfkllow 


HYMN. 

FRO.\I   "lllE  SEASONS." 

These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields  :  the  softening  air  is  balm  ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest  smiles ; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer  months. 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  tlie  swelling  year ; 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks. 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 
By  brooks  and  groves  in  hollow-wliispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  uiiconfined. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter  awful  thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tenijiest  rolled, 
M.ajestic  darkness  !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bid'st  the  world  adore. 
And  humblest  nature  w'ith  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round  I  whatskill,  whatforcedivine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train. 


-S 


[fi- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


n 


[ZU- 


Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade  ; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole. 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres  ; 
Works   in   the   secret   deep  ;   shoots,   steaming, 

thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'crspreads  the  spring  ; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day  ; 
Feeds  every  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth  ; 
And,  as  on  earth  tills  grateful  change  levolves, 
With  transport  touclies  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend  !  join  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song  !     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe    soft,    whose   spirit    in    your   freshness 

breathes  : 
0,  talk  of  hira  in  solitary  glooms  ; 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar. 
Who  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to 

Heaven 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you 

rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills ; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid,  and  profound  ; 
Ye  softer  Hoods,  that  lead  tlie  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  hi  thysell', 
Sound   his  stupendous  praise,  —  whose  greater 

voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 
Soft  roll  your  incense,   herbs,  and  fruits,  and 

flowers. 
In  mingled  clouds  to  him,  — whose  sun  exalts, 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil 

paints. 
Ye  forests  bend,  ye  harvests  wave,  tn  him  ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  lieart, 
As  home  lie  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 
Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 
Uncoiisricus  lies,  .H'lise  your  mildest  beams. 
Ye  coiisli  ll:itiMii,,  while  your  angels  strike, 
Amid  the  sp:ii]L;lr.l  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 
Oreat  source  uf  day  !  best  image  here  below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide. 
From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round. 
On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  his  praise. 
The  thunder  rolls  :  be  hushed  the  pro.strate  world ; 
While  (doud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  ;  ye  nios.sy  rocks. 
Retain  the  sound  ;  the  broad  responsive  low. 


Ye  valleys,  raise  ;  for  the  great  Shepherd  reigns, 
And  his  unsntfering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake  ;  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves ;  and  when  the  restless  day. 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 
Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The  listening  shades,   and  teach  the  uiglit  his 

praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles. 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all. 
Crown  the  great  hymn  !  in  swarming  cities  vast. 
Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  bass  ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  Increases  each, 
Iiione  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade. 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove, 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  tlie  virgin's  lay. 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  seasons  as  they  roll. 
For  me,  when  I  lorget  the  darling  theme. 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  autumn  gleams. 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east,  — 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 

Should  fate  command  mc  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song,  —  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles,  —  't  isnaught  to  me : 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  where  he  vital  breathes  there  must  be  joy. 
When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come. 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 
I  cheerful  will  obey ;  there,  with  new  powers. 
Will  rising  wonders  sing  :  I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around. 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns  ; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good. 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still. 
In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 
Myself  in  him,  in  light  ineffable  ! 
Come,  then,  exjiressive  Silence,  muse  his  praise, 
James  Thomson. 

THE  FOUR  SEASONS. 

Springe  is  yeomen  in, 
Dappled  larke  singe  ; 

Snowe  melteth, 

Runnell  peltetli, 
Smelleth  wiude  of  iievve  buddiuge. 


Summer  is  yeomen  in, 
Loude  singe  cucku  : 


^ 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


379 


-t] 


Groweth  seede, 

Blowutli  meade, 

And  spiingeth  the  weede  iiewe. 

Autumne  is  yeomen  in, 
Ceres  tilletli  home  ; 
Reaper  swiuketh. 
Fanner  drinketh, 
Creaketh  waine  witli  newe  eorne. 

Winter  is  yeomen  in 
With  stormy  sadde  eheere  ; 

In  tlie  paddocke, 

Whistle  ruddoek, 
Brighte  sparke  in  the  dead  yeare. 


EPIG^A  ASLEEP. 

Arbutus  lies  beneath  the  snows, 
While  Winter  waits  her  brief  repose, 
And  says,  "No  fairer  Hower  grows  !  " 

(Jl' sunny  April  days  she  dreams, 

Of  robins'  notes  and  murmuring  streams, 

And  smiling  in  her  sleep  she  seems. 

She  thinks  her  rosy  buds  expand 
Beneath  the  touch  of  childhood's  hand, 
And  beauty  breathes  throughout  the  land. 

The  arching  elders  bending  o'er 
The  silent  river's  sandy  shore, 
Their  golden  tresses  trim  once  more. 

The  |iussy- willows  in  their  play 
Their  varnished  caps  have  flung  away, 
And  hung  their  furs  on  cx'ery  spray. 

The  toads  their  cheery  nnisic  chant. 
The  squirrel  seeks  his  summer  haunt. 
And  life  revives  in  every  plant. 

"  I  must  awake  !     I  hear  the  bee  ! 

The  butterfly  I  long  to  see  ! 

The  buds  are  bursting  on  the  tree  ! " 

Ah  !  blossom,  thou  art  dreaming,  dear, 
The  wild  winds  howl  about  thee  here, 
—  The  dirges  of  the  dying  year  ! 

Thy  gentle  eyes  with  tears  ai'e  wet ; 
In  sweeter  sleep  these  pains  forget ; 
Thy  merry  morning  comes  not  yet ! 

William  whiima.v  Bailev- 


MARCH. 

Slaver  of  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 
0  welcome,  thou  that  bring'st  the  summer  nigh  ! 
The  l.iitter  wind  makes  not  thy  victory  vain. 
Nor  will  we  mock  thee  for  thy  faint  blue  sky. 
Welcome,  0  March  !  whose  kindly  days  and  dry 
Make  April  ready  for  the  throstle's  song. 
Thou  first  redresser  of  the  winter's  wrong  ! 

Yea,  welcome,  March  !  and  though  I  die  ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee  praise, 
Striving  to  sw-ell  the  burden  of  the  tune 
That  even  now  I  hear  thy  brown  birds  raise. 
Unmindful  of  the  past  or  coming  days  ; 
Who  sing,  "  0  joy  !  a  new  year  is  begun  ! 
What  happiness  to  look  upon  the  sun  !  " 

0,  what  bcgetteth  all  this  storm  of  blis."!, 
Hut  Death  himself,  who,  crying  solemnly, 
Kven  from  the  heart  of  sweet  Forgetful ncss, 
Bids  us,  "  Rejoice  !  lest  pleasurele.ss  ye  die. 
Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 
Stretch  forth  your  open  hands,  and,  while  ye  live. 
Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and  Life  may  give  "  ? 
William  Morkis. 


Dip  downi  upon  the  northern  shore, 
0  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long  : 
Thou  doest  expectant  Nature  wrong  ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days. 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire. 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dashed  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow  ; 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long. 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drowned  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 


-^ 


©- 


380 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  Hocks  are  whiter  down  tlie  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  ; 

AVIiere  now  the  sea-mew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood,  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too  ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  Inuls  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


DIE  DO\rN,   O  DISMAL  DAY  I 

Die  aown,  0  dismal  day,  and  let  me  live  ; 
And  come,  blue  deeps,  magnificently  strewn 
With  colored  clouds, — large,  light,and  fugitive, — 
By  upper  winds  through  pompous  motions  blown. 
Now  it  is  death  in  life,  —  a  vapor  dense 
Creeps  round  my  window,  till  I  cannot  see 
The  far  snow-shining  mountains,  and  the  glens 
Shagging  the  mountain-tops.     0  God  !  make  free 
This  barren  shackled  earth,  so  deadly  cold,  — 
Breathe  gently  forth  thy  spring,  till  winter  flies 
lu  rude  amazement,  fearful  and  yet  bold, 
While  slie  performs  her  customed  charities  ; 
I  weigh  the  loaded  hours  till  life  is  bare,  — 
OGod,  foroneclearday,  a  snowdrop,  and  sweet  air ! 
David  gray. 


43^ 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

Au  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting. 
Waiting  for  the  May,  — 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn-brambles. 
With  the  woodbine  alternating. 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 
AVaiting  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing. 
Longing  for  the  May,  — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study 
To  the  young  face  fair  and  niddy, 
And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  summer's  day. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 
Sighing  for  the  May,  — 
Sighing  for  tlieir  sure  returning. 
When  the  summer  beams  are  burning. 


Hopes  and  flowers  that,  dead  or  dying, 

All  the  winter  lay. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 

Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throl)bing  for  the  May,  — 
Throbbing  lor  the  seaside  billows, 
Or  the  water-wooing  willows  ; 

Where,  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing. 

Glide  the  streams  away. 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing. 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  May  : 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings,  — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings,  — 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 

Life  still  ebbs  away  ; 

Man  is  ever  weaiy,  weary. 

Waiting  for  the  May  ! 

DENIS  FLORENCE  MAC-CARTHY. 


WHEN  THE  HOUNDS  OF  SPRING. 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces. 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 

Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  jilaces 
With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 

And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  as.suaged  for  Itylus, 

For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces  ; 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows   bent   and  with   emptying   of 
quivers. 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might ; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  0  thou  most  fleet. 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet ! 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  nigl  it. 

Where  .shall  we  find  her,  how^  shall  we  sing  to  her. 

Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees  and  cling  ? 
0  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring 
to  her, 

Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring  ! 
For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player  ; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her. 

And  thesouth west-wind  and  the  west- wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over. 
And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins  ; 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


z:rn 


J81 


The  days  divitling  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  tliat  wins  ; 

And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten. 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  Ijegotten, 

And  in  gi-een  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  traveling  foot. 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 

And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire. 

And  tlie  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre. 

Anil  tlie  lioofed  heel  of  a  satyr  cruslies 
The  eliestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  niglil. 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  Heet-lbot  kid, 
FoUow.s  \vith  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Msnad  and  the  Bassarid  ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide. 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide. 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
I  Iver  her  eyebrows  shading  her  eyes  ; 
Tlic  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

liir  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs  ; 
Tlic  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  tliat  flies. 

;  SWINBURNE. 


B-«- 


THE  WINTER  BEING  OVER. 

The  winter  being  over. 
In  order  comes  the  spring, 
Which  doth  green  herbs  discover. 
And  cause  the  birds  to  sing. 
The  night  also  expired. 
Then  comes  the  morning  bright, 
Which  is  so  much  desired 
By  all  that  love  the  light. 

This  may  learn 

Them  that  mourn 
To  put  their  grief  to  flight : 
The  spring  succeedeth  winter. 
And  day  must  follow  night. 

He  therefore  that  sustaineth 
Afllii.-tion  or  distress 
Which  every  member  paineth. 
Ami  fiudeth  no  release.  — 
Ijct  such  therefore  desjiair  not, 
But  on  firm  hope  depend, 


Whose  griefs  immortal  are  not, 
And  therefore  nmst  have  eml. 

They  that  faint 

With  complaint 
Therefore  are  to  blame  ; 
They  add  to  their  afflictions, 
And  amplify  the  same. 

For  if  they  could  w'ith  patience 
Awhile  possess  the  mind, 
By  inward  consolations 
They  might  refreshing  find. 
To  sw'eeten  all  their  crosses 
That  little  time  they  'dure  ; 
So  might  they  gain  by  losses, 
And  sharp  would  sweet  procure. 

But  if  the  mind 

Be  inrlinod 
To  unquietness. 
That  only  may  be  called 
The  worst  of  all  distress. 

He  that  is  melancholy, 
Detesting  all  delight, 
His  wits  by  sottish  folly 
Arc  ruinated  quite. 
Sad  discontent  and  murmurs 
To  him  are  incident ; 
Were  he  possessed  of  honors, 
He  could  not  be  content. 

Sparks  of  joy 

Fly  away  ; 
Floods  of  care  ai'ise  ; 
And  all  delightful  motion 
In  the  conception  dies. 

But  those  that  are  contented 
However  things  do  fall. 
Much  anguish  is  preventeii. 
And  they  soon  freed  from  all. 
They  finish  all  their  labors 
With  much  felicity  ; 
Their  joy  in  trouble  savors 
Of  perfect  piety. 

Cheerfulness 

Doth  express 
A  settled  pious  mind, 
Which  is  not  prone  to  grudging. 
From  murniurinw  refined. 


Thk  Time  hath  laid  liis  mantle  by 
(If  wind  and  rain  and  icy  chill. 

And  dons  a  rich  embioidery 

Of  sunlight  poured  on  lake  and  hill. 


[& 


382 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


-a 


No  beast  or  bird  in  earth  or  sky, 

Whose  voice  dotli  not  with  gladness  thrill, 
For  Time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by 

Of  wind  and  rain  and  icy  chill. 

River  and  fountain,  brook  and  rill, 
Bespangled  o'er  with  livery  gay 
Of  silver  droplets,  wind  their  way. 
All  in  their  new  apparel  vie. 
For  Time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by. 


^ 


RETURN  OF  SPRING. 

God  shield  ye,  heralds  of  the  spring  ! 
Ye  faithful  swallows,  fleet  of  wing, 

Houps,  cuckoos,  nightingales, 
Turtles,  and  every  wilder  bird, 
That  make  your  hundred  chirpings  heard 

Through  the  green  woods  and  dales. 

God  shield  ye,  Easter  daisies  all. 
Fair  roses,  buds,  and  blossoms  small, 

And  he  whom  erst  the  gore 
Of  Ajax  atul  Narciss  did  print. 
Ye  wild  thyme,  anise,  balm,  and  mint, 

I  welcome  ye  once  more  ! 

God  shield  ye,  bi'ight  embroidered  train 
Of  butterflies,  that  on  the  plain 

Of  each  sweet  herblet  sip  ; 
And  ye,  new  swarms  of  bees,  that  go 
Where  the  pink  flowers  and  yellow  gi-ow 

To  kiss  them  with  your  lip  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  times  1  call 
A  hearty  welcome  on  ye  all  ! 

This  season  how  I  love  — 
This  merry  din  on  every  shore  — 
For  winds  and  storms,  whose  sullen  roar 

Forbade  my  steps  to  i-ove. 

From  tlie  French  of  i'lERRF.  RoNSA 


The  cock  is  crowing. 
The  stream  is  flowing. 
The  small  birds  twitter, 
The  lake  doth  glitter. 

The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun  ; 
The  oldest  and  youngest 
Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 
The  cattle  are  grazing, 
Their  heads  never  raising  ; 

There  are  forty  feeding  like  one  ? 

Like  an  ai'my  defeated 
The  snow  hath  retreated, 


And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The  plowboy  is  whooping  —  anon  —  anon  ! 

There 's  joy  on  the  mountains  ; 

There  's  life  in  the  Ibuntains  ; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing. 

Blue  sky  prevailing  ; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone  ! 

WILLl.^.M  WORDSWORTa 


SONG  OF  SPRING. 

Laud  the  first  spring  daisies  : 

Chant  aloud  their  praises  ; 

Send  the  children  up 

To  the  high  hill's  top  ; 

Tax  not  the  strength  of  their  young  hands 

To  increase  your  lands. 

Gather  the  primroses. 

Make  handfuls  into  posies  ; 

Take  them  to  the  little  girls  who  are  at  work  in 

mills  : 
Pluck  the  violets  blue,  — 
Ah,  pluck  not  a  few  ! 
Knowest  thou  what  good  thoughts  from  Heaven 

the  violet  instills  ? 

Give  tlie  children  holidays, 

(And  let  these  be  jolly  days,) 

Grant  freedom  to   the  children  in  this  joyous 

spring  ; 
Better  men,  hereafter, 
Sh.ill  we  have,  for  laughter 
Freely  shouted  to  thewoods,  tillall  theechoesring. 
Send  the  children  up 
To  the  high  hill's  top. 
Or  deep  into  the  wood's  recesses. 
To  woo  spring's  caresses. 

See,  the  birds  together, 

In  this  splendid  weather. 

Worship  God  (for  he  is  God  of  birds  as  well  as 
men)  ; 

And  each  feathered  neighbor 

Enters  on  his  labor,  — 

Sparrow,  robin,  redpole,  fine  li,  thr  linnet,  and  the 
wren. 

As  the  year  advances. 

Trees  their  naked  branches 

Clothe,  and  seek  your  pleasuie  in  their  green  ap- 
parel. 

Insect  and  wild  lieast 

Keep  no  Lent,  but  feast  ; 

Spring  breathes  upon  the  earth,  and  their  joy  's 
increased, 

And  the  rejoicing  birds  break  forth  in  one  loud 
carol. 


^-^ 


POEMS   OF  NATUUE. 


is.^ 


i;^^- 


Ah,  come  and  woo  the  spring  ; 

List  to  tlie  birds  that  sing  ; 

Pluck  the  primroses  ;  pluck  the  violets  : 

Pluck  the  daisies, 

Sing  their  praises  ; 

Friendship  with  the  flowers  some  noble  thought 

begets. 
Come  forth  and  gather  tliese  sweet  elve.- 
(More  witching  are  they  than  the  fays  ol'  old). 
Come  forth  and  gather  them  yourselves  ; 
Learn  of  these  gentle  flowers  whose  worth  is  more 

than  gold. 

Come,  come  into  the  wood  ; 

Pierce  into  the  bowers 

Of  these  gentle  flowers, 

Which  not  in  solitude 

Dwell,  but  with  each  other  keep  society  ; 

And  with  a  simple  piety, 

.\re  ready  to  be  woven  into  garlands  for  the  good. 

Or,  upon  summer  earth. 

To  die,  in  virgin  worth  ; 

Or  to  be  strewn  before  the  bride, 

And  the  bridegroom  by  her  side. 

Come  forth  on  Sundays  ; 

Come  f  >rl]i  on  Mondays  ; 

Come  foilh  on  any  day  ; 

Children,  come  forth  to  play  :  — 

Worship  the  God  of  Nature  in  your  childhood  ; 

Worship  him  at  your  tasks  with  best  en<leavor  ; 

Worship  him  in  your  sports  ;  woiship  him  ever  ; 

Worship  him  in  the  wildwood  ; 

Worship  him  amidst  the  flowers  ; 

In  the  greenwood  bowers  : 

Pluck  the  buttercups,  ami  raise 

Your  voices  in  his  praise  ' 


Ag.^ix  the  violet  of  our  early  days 

Drinks  beauteous  azure  from  the  golden  sun. 

And  kindles  into  fi'agrance  at  his  blaze  ; 

The  streams,  rejoiced  that  winter's  work  is  done, 

Talk  of  to-morrow's  cowslijis,  as  they  run. 

Wild  ap]de,  thou  art  blushing  into  bloom  ! 

Tliy  leaves  are  coming,  snowy-blossomed  thorn! 

Wake,  Imried  lily  !  spirit,  quit  thy  tomb  ! 

And  thou  shade-loving  hyacinth,  be  born  ! 

Then,  haste,  sweet  rose  !  sweet  woodbine,  hymn 

the  morn. 
Whose  dewdrops  shall  illume  with  pearly  light 
Each  grassy  blade  that  thick  embattled  stands 
From  sea  to  sea,  while  daisies  infinite 
Uplift  in  praise  their  little  glowing  hands. 
O'er  every  lull  that  under  heaven  expands. 

Ebenkzer  Elliott. 


SWEETLY   BREATHING,    VERNAL   AIR. 

SwEETT.Y  breathing,  vernal  air. 
That  with  kind  warmth  doth  repair 
Winter's  ruins  ;  from  whose  breast 
All  the  gums  and  spice  of  the  East 
Borrow  their  perfumes  ;  whose  eye 
Gilds  the  morn,  and  clears  the  sky  ; 
Whose  clisheveled  tresses  shed 
Pearls  upon  the  violet  bed  ; 
On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  drest 
Tlie  halcyon  sits  and  builds  her  nest  ; 
Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring 
Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing  .' 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  tlii'ons 
Down  uholr  forests  when  lie  bl.iws. 
With  a  pregnant,  (loweiy  Imtli, 
Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth. 
If  he  nip  the  early  bvtd, 
If  he  blast  what 's  fail-  or  goo<l, 
1  f  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers, 
ir  he  shake  our  halls  or  bowers. 
If  his  rude  lireath  threaten  us. 
Thou  canst  stroke  great  /Eolu.s, 
.\n<l  from  him  the  grace  obtain. 
To  liinil  Idm  in  an  iron  cliain. 


SPRING. 


Lo  I  where  the  rosy-ljosomed  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  ajipcar. 
Disclose  the  long-exp<'(ting  flowers 

And  waki!  the  purjde  year  ! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note. 
The  untaught  harmony  of  spring  ; 
While,  whispering  [ilciisure  as  tliey  fly. 
Cool  zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

AVhere'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  sti'etch 

A  broader,  browner  shade. 
Where'er  the  rude  and  mess-grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade, 
Besiile  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Mu.se  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardor  of  the  crowd. 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud. 

How  indigent  the  great ! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  care  : 

The  panting  herds  repose  : 
Yet  hark,  how  through  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 


-.-^ 


[S- 


384 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-a 


The  insect  youtli  are  on  the  wing, 
Eagei-  to  tiisto  the  honeyed  spring 
Anil  lloat  aniiil  the  liciniil  luiun  ; 
Some  liglitly  n'er  tlie  cinivnt  skim, 
S<inir  show  tlieir  gayly  gilded  trim 
i.Uiiik-glaneing  to  the  sun. 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Sneh  is  the  race  of  man  ; 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly. 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
.Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
liut  lluttoi-  through  life's  little  day, 
In  Foitune's  varying  colors  drest  ; 
Hrushed  by  the  hand  of  vougli  niiscliance 
t)r  I'hilled  by  age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sjiortive  kind  reply  ; 
I'dor  moralist !  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  lly  ! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 
No  painted  plumage  to  display  ; 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  down  ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone,  — 

\\'e  Irolic  while't  is  May. 


SPRING,   THE  SWEET  SPRING. 

SeitiNi:,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant 

king  ; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  aring. 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
Cnckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

Tile  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay. 
Lambs  fri.sk  and  play,  the  sheplu'rds  pipe  all  day, 
.•\ri(l  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet. 

Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a  sunning  sit, 

1  n  every  street  these  tunes  our  oars  do  greet, 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

Spring  I  the  sweet  spring  ! 

Thomas  Nash. 


Heiioi.d  the  young,  the  rosy  Sjuing 
Gives  to  the  breeze  her  scented  wing. 
While  virgin  graces,  warm  with  May, 
Fling  roses  o'er  her  dewy  way. 
The  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep 
Have  languished  into  silent  sleep  ; 


And  mark  !  the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  the  retiecting  wave  ; 
While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  llutter  in  a  kincUn-  sky. 
Now  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  nuirky  clouds  away. 
And  cultured  Held  and  winding  .stream 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  his  beam. 

Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  flowery  bells  ; 
(iemming  shoots  the  olive  twine  ; 
Clusters  bright  festoon  the  vine  ; 
All  along  the  branches  ci'ccping. 
Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping. 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see 
Nursing  into  luxury. 

l-rom  the  Greek  of  ANACREON, 
by  THOMAS  MOORB. 


MAY  MORNING. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  cast,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May  !  that  doth  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire  ; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song. 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


TO  AUREUA. 

Sek,  the  flowery  spring  is  blown. 
Let  us  leave  the  .smoky  town  ; 
From  the  mall,  and  from  the  ring, 
Every  one  has  taken  wing  ; 
Chloe,  Strephon,  Corydon, 
To  the  meadows  all  are  gone. 
W'hat  is  left  you  worth  your  stay  ? 
Come,  Aurelia,  come  away. 

Come,  Aurelia,  come  and  see 
What  a  lodge  I  've  dressed  for  thee  ; 
But  the  seat  you  cannot  see, 
'T  is  .so  hid  with  jessamy. 
With  the  vine  that  o'er  the  walls. 
And  in  every  window  crawls  ; 
Let  ns  there  be  blithe  and  gay  ! 
Come,  Aurelia,  come  away. 

Come  with  all  thy  sweetest  wiles, 
AVith  thy  graces  and  thy  smiles ; 
Come,  and  we  will  merry  be. 
Who  shall  be  so  blest  as  we  ? 


-^ 


POEMH  OF  NATURE. 


38.! 


-a 


We  will  tVolir;  ,ill  the  ilay, 
Huste,  Amelia,  while  we  may  : 
Ay  !  ami  shouM  not  life  be  ^'ay  \ 
Yes,  Amelia,  —  come  away. 

joi 


MAY. 

May,  Ihoii  month  of  rosy  beauty, 
Moiilh  when  pleasme  is  a  ilnty  ; 
Month  of  maids  that  milk  the  kine, 
I'osom  rich,  an<l  health  divini^  ; 
Month  of  he(«  and  month  of  (lowers, 
Month  of  blossom-huleii  bowei'.s  : 
Montli  of  little  hands  with  daisies, 
Lovei'.s'  love,  and  poets'  praises  ; 
I)  thou  merry  month  complete. 
May,  the  very  name  is  sweet ! 
May  w.as  MAiu  in  olden  times, 
And  is  still  in  JSeotti-sh  rhynn^s  — 
May  's  the  month  that 's  laughing  now. 
I  n<j  sooner  write  the  word, 
Than  it  .seems  as  though  it  heard, 
Anil  looks  up  and  laughs  at  me, 
Like  a  sweet  fai;e,  rosily,  — 
Klushing  from  the  paper's  white  ; 
Like  a  bri<ie  that  knows  her  power, 
Startled  in  a  suinuiei-  bower. 

If  the  rains  that  do  us  wrong 
<  'onie  to  kee|)  thi'  winter  long 
And  deny  us  thy  sweet  looks, 
I  can  love  thee,  swe(!t,  in  books, 
l.ove  thee  in  the  poets'  pages. 
Where  they  keep  thee  green  for  ages  ; 
Love  and  read  thee  as  a  lover 
Heads  his  lady's  letters  over, 
lireatfiing  blessings  on  tlie  art 
VVhii-h  eommingles  those  that  |iart. 

'I'h.-re  is  .\l;,y  in  books  forever  : 
.May  will  part  from  Spencer  never  ; 
.May  's  in  Milton,  May  's  in  Prior, 
May  's  in  r'hau<,'cr,  Thomson,  Dyer  ; 
May  's  in  all  the  Italian  books  ; 
.She  has  old  and  modern  nooks, 
W'liere  slie  .sleeps  with  nymphs  and  elves 
In  happy  places  they  call  shelves, 
Aod  will  lise  anil  dress  your  rooms 
With  a  drapiry  thick  with  Ijlooms. 

''onie,  ye  rains,  then,  if  ye  will. 
May  's  at  home  and  with  nie  still  ; 
I'ut  c:ome  rather,  thou  good  weather, 
And  linil  us  in  the  fields  together. 


1  I'nia.  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

'I'he  winds  that  fun  the  Mowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  (ill  the  sjdl. 
Tell  of  serener  hours,  — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unl'ell  uway 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

'I'he  spirit  of  th(^  gentle  80uth*vind  calls 

I'rom  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  whi're  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falln, 
Heauty  is  budding  tliiMe  ; 
'J'he  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

Tlio  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 
A  canojiy  of  leaves  ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  lloats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Kaiiei-  and  biightei'  spreads  the  reign  of  Mav  ; 

'i'he  tres.ses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind  play  ; 
And  the  full-brimnjing  floods, 
As  gladly  to  theij-  goal  they  run, 
JIail  the  returning  sun. 

/AMI'S  r.ATI'S  PnRCIVAI. 


THEYCOMKI  THE  MEKRY  SUMMER  MONTHS. 

TllKY    come  I    the    merry   summer   months    of 

beauty,   song,  and  Itoweis  ; 
They   come  !  the   gladsome   months  that  biing 

thick  Icafiness  to  bowers. 
L'p,  up,  njy  heart !  and  walk  abroad  ;  fling  lark 

and  care  aside  : 
.Seek  sih'Ut  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful 

waters  glide  ; 
Or,   underneath  the  .shadow  vast  of  patriarchal 

tree, 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt 

tranc|uillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to 
the  hand  ; 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  bree/e  is 
sweet  and  bland  ; 

The  daisy  and  the  butt<'rcup  are  nodding  cour- 
t<"Ously  ; 

It  stirs  their  blood  witli  kindest  love,  to  bless 
ami  welcome  thee  ; 

And  m.ark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks  — 
they  now  are  silvery  gray  — 

That  Idissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whisper- 
ing, "  Be  gay  !" 


-^ 


l9' 


386 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


-a 
i 


There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of 

yon  sky 
But  hath   its   own  winged  mariners   to  give  it 

melody  ; 
Tliou  seest   their  glittering   fans   outspread,  all 

gleaming  like  red  gold  ; 
And  hark  !  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry 

course  they  hold. 
God  l)less  them  all,   those  little  ones,   who,  far 

above  this  earth, 
Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a 

nobler  mirth. 

But  soft  !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound,  —  from 

yonder  wood  it  came  ! 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  his 

own  glad  name  ;  — 
Yes,  it  is  he  !  the  hermit  bird,  tliat,  ajiart  from 

all  his  kind, 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to   the   soft 

western  wind  ; 
Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo  !  he  sings  again, —  his  notes  are 

void  of  art ; 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the  deep 

founts  of  tile  heart. 

Good  Lord  !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  tlionght- 
crazed  wight  like  me. 

To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this 
summer  tree  ! 

To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little 
souls  away. 

And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's 
bright  sunmier  day, 

When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reck- 
less, truant  boy 

Wandered  through  greenwoods  all  day  long,  a 
mighty  heart  of  joy  ! 

I  'm  sadder  now,  —  1  have  had  cause  ;  but  0, 

I  'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount,   loveil  of  yore,  1  yet 

delight  to  drink  ;  — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,   valley,   stream,   the 

calm,  unclouded  sky. 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the 

days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round 

me  dark  and  cohl, 
I  '11  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse,  —  a  heart 

that  hath  waxed  old  ! 

\\'1LLIAM  Mot  herwell. 


Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us  ; 
The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in. 


B- 


The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 
We  bargain  for  the  gi'aves  we  lie  in  ; 

At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold. 

Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold ; 
For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 

Bubbles  we  earn  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking  : 
'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 

'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking  ; 

There  is  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  summer. 

And  June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  wliat  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days  ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune. 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen. 
We  hear  life  munnur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  miglit, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reatlies  and  towers 
.'Vnd,  grasping  blindly  above  it  lor  light. 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers  ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  liills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice. 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  liird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

A-tilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves. 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errim 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  : 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings. 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  lireast  flutters  and 

sings  ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature,  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  wluitever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Conies  flooding  hack,  with  a  ripply  clieer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it. 
We  are  luippy  now  because  God  so  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green  : 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell  ; 
We  may  .shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
Tliat  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing  ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear. 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near. 

That   maize   has   sprouted,   that   streams  are 
flowing. 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky. 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  liy ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back. 
For  other  couriers  we  shoulil  not  laclc  ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 


■& 


POEMS  OF  XATURE. 


38 


ra 


And  Iiarlc  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing  ! 
Joy  conies,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 
Everything  is  hapi)y  now, 

Everything  is  upwaid  striving  ; 
'T  is  as  easy  now  ibr  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,  — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living  : 
Who  knows  whither  tlie  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake. 
And  tlie  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  Iieart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache  ; 
The  soul  jiartakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulpliurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth. 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 

jAMiis  Ri  >siiLL  Lowell, 


THE  CHILD'S  WISH  IN  JUNE. 

Mother,  motlier,  tlie  winds  are  at  play, 
Pritliee,  let  me  be  idle  to-day. 
Look,  dear  mother,  the  (lowers  all  lie 
Languidly  under  the  bright  blue  sky. 
See,  how  slowly  the  streamlet  glides  ; 
Look,  liovv  the  violet  roguislily  hides  ; 
Even  the  butterfly  rests  on  the  lose, 
And  scarcely  sips  the  sweets  as  he  goes. 
Poor  Tray  is  asleep  in  the  noonday  snn. 
And  the  flies  go  about  him  one  by  one  ; 
And  pussy  sits  near  with  a  sleepy  grace, 
Without  ever  thinking  of  wa,shing  her  face. 
There  flies  a  bird  to  a  neighboring  tree. 
But  very  lazily  flieth  he. 
Anil  he  sits  and  twitters  a  gentle  note. 
That  scarcely  ruffles  his  little  throat. 

You  bid  me  be  busy ;  but,  mother,  hear 
How  the  humdrum  grasshoppei-  soundeth  near, 
And  the  soft  west-wind  is  so  light  in  its  jday, 
It  scarcely  moves  a  leaf  on  the  spray. 

I  wish,  0,  I  wish  I  was  yonder  cloud, 
That  sails  aliout  with  its  misty  shroud  ; 
Ijdoks  and  work  I  no  more  should  see, 
And  I  'd  come  and  float,  dear  mother,  o'er  thee. 
Caroline  Oilman. 


IN   SUMMER  TIME. 

0  LiMiFA'-TOEKS  !  whose  branches  high 
Shut  out  the  noontide's  sultry  sky. 
Throwing  a  shadow  cool  and  dim 
Along  the  meadow's  grassy  rim. 


How  sweet  in  dreamy  rest  to  lie, 
LTnlieeding  how  the  moments  fly  : 
While  woodland  odors,  faint  and  raie. 
Of  fern  and  wild  rose  scent  the  air,  — 
Ami  liear  tlie  liglit  winds  play  around 
From  leaf  to  leaf  with  rustling  sound,  — 
And  trill  of  bird,  and  insect's  hum. 
And  all  the  lulling  tones  that  conic 
In  summer  tiTiic. 

0  Linden-trees  !  so  mossy-old. 
What  pleasant  memories  you  hold 
Of  early  childhood,  and  its  days 
Of  frolic,  sport,  and  guileless  ways  ; 
A  time  of  joyance,  bright  and  fair, 
Beneath  a  mother's  tender  care. 
And  ever  on,  till  manhood  brought 
JIaturer  aims  and  deeper  thought,  — 
And  Love  arose,  and  life  bccaim? 
All  radiant  with  his  ipienclilcss  flame, 
As  here,  within  your  .shelter  wide, 
We  met  and  lingered  side  by  ^ide, 

In  summer  time. 

0  Linden-trees  !  as  now  once  more 

1  live  those  happy  moments  o'er. 
And,  stretched  at  lasr  upon  the  grass. 
See  picture  altri  piitnn-  pass. 
Another,  brighter  \\s\ni\  stays 

My  backward  thoughts  and  fills  my  gaze 
For  look  !  where  down  yon  shaded  walk 
A  merry  troop,  in  cheerl'ul  talk. 
And  gleeful  laugh,  and  .shout  and  song, 
Maud  and  the  children  pass  along  I 
O  Lindens  !  tell  me  what  could  bo 
More  sweet  to  hear,  or  fair  to  see. 

In  summer  time  ? 


SUMMER  MORNING. 

FROM   -THE  SEASONS" 

Short  is  the  doubtful  em^iire  of  the  night ; 
And  soon,  observant  of  approaching  day, 
The  lueck-eyed  morn  appears,  mother  of  dews, 
At  first  faint  gleaming  in  the  dappled  east,  — 
Till  far  o'er  ether  .spreads  the  widening  glow, 

I  And,  from  before  the  luster  of  her  face, 

I  White  break  the  clouds  away.     With  ipiickened 
step. 
Brown  night  retires.   .Young  day  pours  in  apace, 

i  And  opens  all  the  lawny  jirospect  wide. 
The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  to|i. 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 
Blue,   through  the  ilusk,   the  smoking  curi'euts 

1  .shine  ;  " 

I  And  from  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  bare 


-S 


a-: 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Limps,  awkward  ;  while  along  the  forest  glade 
The  wild  deer  trip,  and  ot'tf  ii  turning  gaze 
At  early  passenger.      Miisii-  awakes, 
The  native  voice  of  luulissenililed  joy  ; 
And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 
Housed  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  peace  he  dwells  ; 
And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 
His  Hock,  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  morn. 

JAMUS  THOMSON. 


& 


SONa  OF  THE  SUMMER  WINDS. 

Ul'  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 

(I'd-  the  meadow  swift  we  tly  ; 
Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 

Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

By  the  gra.ssy-fring6d  river, 

Through  the  murnuuing  reeds  we  sweep ; 
Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  ipiiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 

At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 
While  aside  her  cheek  we  're  rushing, 

Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle. 

Kissing  every  bud  we  pass,  — 
As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle. 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 

O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam. 
Whirling  round  about  the  fountain. 

Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows. 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh  ; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming. 

Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 
Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 

Till  \vc  're  at  our  play  again. 

George  darlev. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  SUMMER  DAY. 

0  PEra'F.CT  Light,  which  sliaid  away 
The  darkness  from  the  light. 

And  si't  a  ruler  o'er  the  day. 
Another  o'er  the  night ; 


Thy  glory,  when  the  day  forth  flies. 

More  vively  does  appear. 
Than  at  midday  unto  our  eyes 

The  shining  sun  is  clear. 

The  shadow  of  the  earth  anon 

Kcnuivcs  and  drawis  by, 
^\'llilc  in  the  east,  when  it  is  gone. 

Appears  a  cleai'er  sky. 

Which  soon  perceive  the  little  larks, 

The  lapwing  and  the  snipe, 
.'Vnd  time  their  songs,  like  Nature's  clerks 

O'er  meadow,  muir,  and  stripe. 

Our  hemisphere  is  polished  clean, 
.Vnil  lightened  more  and  more  ; 

While  everything  is  clearly  seen. 
Which  seem6d  dim  before  ; 

Except,  the  glistening  astres  bright, 
Which  all  the  night  were  clear, 

OtVusked  with  a  greater  light. 
No  longer  do  appear. 

The  golden  globe  incontinent 

Sets  up  his  .shining  head, 
And  o'er  the  earth  and  iirmanient 

Displays  his  beams  abread. 

For  joy  the  birds  with  bouldcn  throata 

Against  his  visage  sheen 
Take  up  their  kindly  music  notes 

In  woods  and  gardens  green. 

The  dew  upon  the  tender  crops. 
Like  pearles  white  and  round, 

Or  like  to  melted  silver  drops, 
Hefrcslu's  all  the  ground. 

The  misty  reek,  the  clouds  of  rain 
From  tops  of  mountains  skails. 

Clear  are  the  highest  hills  and  plain, 
The  vapors  take  the  vales. 

The  ample  heaven,  of  fabric  sure, 

In  cleanness  does  surpass 
The  crystal  and  the  silver  pure. 

Or  clearest  polished  glass. 

The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  still. 

That  nowhere  shall  ye  find. 
Save  on  a  high  and  barren  hill, 

The  air  of  peeping  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear. 
Than  they  were  painted  on  a  wall, 

No  more  they  move  or  steir. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


389 


T^ 


Calm  is  the  deeii  and  purple  sea, 
Yea,  smoother  thau  the  sand  ; 

Tlie  waves,  that  weltering  wont  to  be. 
Arc  stable  like  the  land. 

So  silent  is  the  cessile  air, 

That  every  cry  and  call, 
'J'he  hills  and  dales  and  forest  fair 

Again  repeats  them  all. 

'j'he  nourishes  and  fragrant  flowers, 
Tliroiigh  Phcebus'  fo.stering  heat, 

Kefreshed  with  dew  and  silver  showers, 
Cast  up  an  odor  sweet. 

The  do^'ged,  bu.sy  liuniming-liees. 

That  never  think  to  drone. 
On  flowers  and  flourishes  of  trees, 

(.'oUeet  their  liquor  brown. 

The  sun,  mo.st  like  a  speedy  post. 
With  ardent  cour.se  ascends  ; 

The  beauty  of  the  heavenly  host 
Up  to  our  zenith  tends  ; 

Not  guided  by  a  Phaethon, 

Not  trained  in  a  chair. 
But  by  the  high  and  holy  One, 

Who  does  all  where  empire. 

The  burning  beams  dow7i  from  liLs  face 

So  fervently  can  beat. 
That  man  and  beast  now  .seek  a  place 

To  save  them  I'rom  the  heat. 

Tlie  liiiils  beneath  some  leafy  tree. 
Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie  ; 

Tlie  st.ible  ships  upon  the  sea 
Tend  nil  their  sails  to  dry. 

With  gilded  eyes  and  open  wings, 
Tlie  cock  his  courage  shows  ; 

With  claps  of  joy  his  breast  he  dings. 
And  twenty  times  he  crows. 

The  dove  with  whistling  wings  so  blue, 

The  winds  can  fast  collect. 
Her  purple  pens  turn  many  a  hue 

Against  the  sun  direct. 

Now  noon  is  went ;  gone  is  midday, 
The  heat  does  slake  at  last. 

The  sun  descends  down  west  away. 
For  three  o'clock  is  past. 

The  rayons  of  the  sun  we  see 
Diminish  in  their  strength, 

The  shade  of  every  tower  and  tree 
Extended  is  in  length. 


Great  is  the  calm,  for  everj'where 

The  wind  is  settling  down, 
The  reek  throws  right  up  in  the  air 

From  every  tower  and  town. 

The  gloaming  comes,  the  day  is  spent, 

Tlie  sun  goes  out  of  sight. 
And  painted  is  the  Occident 

With  purple  sanguine  bright. 

The  scarlet  nor  the  golden  thread, 
Who  would  their  beauty  try. 

Are  nothing  like  the  color  red 
Ancl  beauty  of  the  sky. 

Our  west  horizon  circular, 

From  time  the  sun  be  set, 
Is  all  with  mbies,  as  it  were. 

Or  roses  red  o'erfret. 

What  pleasure  were  to  walk  and  see, 

Kndlong  a  river  clear. 
The  perfect  form  of  every  tree 

Within  the  deep  appear. 

0,  then  it  were  a  seemly  thing. 
While  all  is  still  and  calm. 

The  ]iraise  of  Ood  to  play  and  sing 
With  cornet  and  with  siialm  ! 

All"  laborers  draw  home  at  even. 

And  can  to  other  say. 
Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  heaven, 

Which  .sent  this  summer  dav  ! 


SIGNS  OF  RAIN. 

=ORTY  REASONS  FOR   NOT  ACCF.PTING  AN  INVITATION  C 

1  The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow  ; 

2  The  clouds  look  black,  the  glass  is  low, 

3  The  soot  falls  down,  the  spaniels  sleep, 

4  And  spiders  from  their  cobwebs  peep. 

5  Last  night  the  sun  went  pale  to  bed, 

6  The  moon  in  halos  hid  her  head  ; 

7  The  boding  shepherd  heaves  a  sigh, 

8  For  see,  a  rainbow  spans  the  sky  ! 

9  The  walls  are  damp,  the  ditches  smell, 

10  Closed  is  the  pink-eyed  pimpernel. 

11  Hark  how  the  chairs  and  tables  crack  '. 

12  Old  Betty's  nerves  are  on  the  rack  ; 

13  Loud  quacks  the  duck,  the  peacocks  cry 

14  The  di.stant  hills  are  seeming  nigh. 

15  How  restless  are  the  snorting  swine  I 

16  The  busy  flies  disturb  the  kine, 

17  Low  o'er  the  grass  the  swallow-  wings, 

18  The  cricket,  too,  how  sharp  he  sings  I 

19  Puss  on  the  hearth,  with  velvet  paws, 


-^ 


a-- 


390 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-Ri 


b- 


20  Sits  wiping  o'er  her  whiskered  jaws  ; 

21  Through  the  clear  streams  the  fishes  rise, 

22  And  nimbly  catch  the  incautious  flies. 

23  The  glowworms,  numerous  and  light, 

24  Illumed  the  dewy  dell  last  niglit  ; 

25  At  dusk  the  squalid  toad  was  seen, 

26  Hoiii)ing  and  crawling  o'er  the  green  ; 

27  The  whirling  dust  the  wind  obeys, 

28  And  in  the  rapid  eddy  plays  ; 

29  The  frog  has  changed  his  yellow  vest, 

30  And  in  a  russet  coat  is  dressed. 

31  Thougli  June,  the  air  is  cold  and  still, 

32  The  mellow  blackbird's  voice  is  shriU  ; 

33  My  dog,  so  altered  in  his  taste, 

34  Quits  mutton-bones  on  grass  to  feast  ; 

35  And  see  yon  rooks,  how  odd  tlieir  flight ! 

36  They  imitate  the  gliding  kite, 

37  And  seem  precipitate  to  fall, 

38  As  if  they  felt  the  jjiercing  ball. 

39  'T  will  surely  rain  ;  1  see  with  sorrow, 

40  Our  jauiit  must  be  put  off  to-morrow. 

Dr.   EinvARD   IKNNER. 


SUMMER  MOODS. 

1  LOVE  at  eventide  to  walk  alone, 
Down  narrow  glens,  o'erhung  with  dewy  thorn, 
W  here  from  the  long  grass  underneath,  the  snail. 
Jet  black,  creeps  out,  and  sprouts  his  timid  horn. 
1  love  to  muse  o'er  meadows  newly  mown, 
Where  withering  grass  perfumes  the  sultry  air  ; 
Where  bees  search  round,  with  sad  and  weary 

drone. 
In   vain,  for  flowers  that   bloomed  but  newly 

there  ; 
While  in  the  juicy  corn  the  hidden  (|uail 
Cries,    "Wet  my  foot"  ;  .and,  hid  as  thoughts 

unborn, 
The  fairy-like  and  seldom-seen  land-rail 
Utters  "Craik,  craik,"  like  voices  underground. 
Right  glad  to  meet  the  evening's  dewy  veil, 
And  see  the  light  fade  into  gloom  around. 

John  Clare. 

RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

Hnw  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

.\fter  the  dust  and  heat. 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs. 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

.\cross  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 


And  swift  and  wide. 

With  a  muddy  tide. 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again. 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Clonic  the  boys. 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets. 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  tlie  country,  on  every  side. 

Where  far  ami  wide. 

Like  a  leopanl's  tawny  ami  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  [ilain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  o.\en  stand  ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head. 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

Tliey  silently  inhale 

The  rldver-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  l,a'\ge  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees. 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drojis 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these. 

The  Poet  sees  ! 

He  can  behold 

Arniarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  ; 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


391 


^ 


Aiid  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  raiu, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  gi'ain. 

He  can  licholil 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  or  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Folloivs  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  undergi'uuuil ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

( Ipposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear. 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perjietual  round  of  strange. 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth. 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth  ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  foreveiTOore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 

HI-LNRV   WaDSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


SUMMER  STORM. 

Untremulous  in  the  river  clear, 
Toward  the  sky's  iinage,  hangs  the  imaged  bridge ; 

So  still  the  air  that  I  can  hear 
The  slender  clarion  of  the  unseen  midge  ; 

Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a  gathering  creep, 
Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now  decreases, 
Now-  lulls,  now  swells,  and  all  the  while  increases. 

The  huddling  trample  of  a  drove  of  sheep 
Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  gradually  ceases 
In  dust  on  the  other  side  ;  life's  emblem  deep, 
A  confused  noise  between  two  silences. 
Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 
On  the  wide  marsh,  the  purple- blossomed  grasses 
Soak  up  the  sunshine  ;  sleeps  the  brimming 
tide 
Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in  silence  passes 
Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinuous  glide 
Wavers  the  long  gi'een  sedge's  shade  from  side 
to  .side  ; 


But  up  the  west,  like  a  rock-shivered  surge, 
Climbs  a  great  cloud  edged  with  sun-whitened 
spray  ; 

Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o'er  its  verge. 
And  falUngstill  it  seems,  and  yet  itclinibsalway. 

Suddenly  all  the  sky  is  hid 

As  with  tlie  shutting  of  a  lid. 
One  by  one  great  drops  arc  lalling 

Doubtful  and  slow  ; 
Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly  crawling. 

And  the  wind  breathes  low; 
Slowly  the  circles  widen  on  the  river. 

Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all ; 
Heie  and  there  the  .slenderer  Howei's  shiver, 

Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop's  fall. 

Now  on  the  hills  I  hear  the  thunder  mutter. 

The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west  ; 
The  upturned  leaves  first  whiten  and  Mutter, 

Then  droop  to  a  titful  rest  ; 
Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 

Struggles  the  gull  and  floats  away  ; 
Nearer  aud  nearer  rolls  the  thunder-clap,  — 

We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to-day  : 
Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh. 

And  tramples  the  gi-ass  with  terrified  feet. 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh, 

You  canheartlie  quickheartof  thetenijiest  beat. 

Look  !  look  !  that  livid  Hash  ! 
And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thunder, 
As  if  some  cloud-crag,  split  asunder. 

Fell,  splintering  with  a  ruinous  cra.sli, 
On  the  F.arth,  which  crouches  in  silence  under  ; 

And  now  a  solid  gi'ay  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  off  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile ; 

For  a  breath's  space  I  see  the  blue  wooil  again. 
And,  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind-hurled  pile. 
That  seemed  but  now  a  league  aloof. 
Bursts  crackling  o'er  the  sun-parched  roof; 
Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes  dashing. 
Through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears  crashing, 
The  blue  lightning  flashes. 
The  rapid  hail  clashes. 
The  white  waves  are  tumbling. 

And,  in  one  baffled  roar. 
Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling 

A  rock-bristled  shore. 
The  thunder  is  rumbling 
And  crashing  and  crumbling,  — 
Will  silence  return  nevermore  ? 

Hush  !     Still  as  death. 
The  tempest  holds  his  breath 
As  from  a  sudden  will  ; 
The  rain  stops  short,  but  from  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  th"  leaves, 
All  is  .so  bodingly  still  ; 


--& 


a- 


392 


POEMS  OF  XATUEE. 


■^a 


Again,  now,  now,  again 
Plashes  tlie  rain  in  lieavy  gouts, 
Tlie  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening, 
And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 

His  battle-song,  — 
One  quivering  flash. 
One  wildering  emsh. 
Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 
As  if  the  clouil,  let  go. 
Leapt  bodily  below 
To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  overtlu'ow, 
And  then  a  total  lull. 

Gone,  gone,  so  soon  ! 
No  more  my  half-crazed  fancy  there 
Can  shape  a  giant  in  the  air. 
No  more  I  see  his  streaming  hair, 
The  WTithing  portent  of  his  form  ;  — 
The  pale  and  quiet  moon 
Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare. 
And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm. 
Like  shattered  rigging  from  a  fight  at  sea. 
Silent  and  few,  are  drifting  over  me. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  STORM. 

FROM  "  LEONORE." 

While  yet  the  feeble  accents  hung 
Unfinished  on  his  faltering  tongue. 
Through  the  tall  arches  flashing  came 
A  broad  and  livid  sheet  of  flame. 
Playing  with  fearful  radiance  o'er 
The  upraised  features  of  Leonore, 
The  shrinking  form  of  her  trembling  sire, 
The  bridegroom's  face  of  scowling  ire. 
And  the  folded  hands  and  heaving  breast. 
And  prophet-like  mien  of  the  aged  priest ! 

'T  was  a  breathless  pause,  —  but  a  moment  more. 
And  that  fierce,  unnatural  beam  was  o'er. 
And  a  stunning  crash,  as  if  earth  were  driven 
On  thundering  wheels  to  the  gates  of  heaven, 
Bui-st,  pealed,  and  muttered  long  and  deep, 
Then  sinking,  growled  itself  to  sl^ep. 
And  alt  was  still. 

MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


t 


AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright 
Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie  ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight. 
Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky  ! 


In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 
The  general  blessing  ;  fresh  and  fair. 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves. 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 

A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  jjale  ; 
The  wind  flows  cool ;  the  scented  ground 

Is  breathing  odoi-s  on  the  gale. 

Mid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 
Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 

Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  awhile, 
Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth  ;  from  oft'  the  scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung  ; 

And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 
With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  Nature,  — yet  the  same,  — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fanned, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came. 

Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice. 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above  ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice. 

And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence  ;  low-born  care, 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire. 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air. 
And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


A  DROP  OF   DEW. 

See  how  the  orient  dew. 
Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 
(Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new 
For  the  clear  region  where  't  was  born) 
Round  in  itself  encloses. 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 

How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight. 

Scarce  touching  where  it  lies  ; 
But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies. 
Shines  with  a  mournful  light. 
Like  its  own  tear. 
Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphere  ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  unsecure, 

Trembling,  lest  it  gi-ow  impure. 

Till  the  warm  sun  pities  its  pain, 

And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  hack  again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray 


-^ 


"  /«  grate/ul  silciuc  e.irih  reicirTs 

The  gv„cral  Mcsslug:  /re^h  and  /.,ir 
Each  fo'Mcr  cxpatuls  its  little  1,-avts, 
As  glad  the  common  good  to  share. 

•'  The  so/tencd  sutibcams  four  around 
A  /airy  light,  uncertain,  pale: 
The  tvind  Idoivs  cool,  the  scented  ground 
Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale." 


'\l-'T^^- 


f 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


393~^ 


Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 
t'ould  it  within  the  human  flower  lie  seen, 
HememberlMf;  still  its  former  height, 
Shuns  IIk'  swuct  leaves  and  blossoms  green. 
And,  ri'coUci'tiiig  its  own  light, 
Does,  in  its  fiure  and  circling  thoughts,  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  wound, 
Every  way  it  turns  away  ; 
So  the  world  excluding  round. 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day. 
Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above  ; 
Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 
How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go  ! 
How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend  ! 
Moving  but  on  a  point  below. 
It  all  about  does  uj)Wards  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  distill, 
White  and  entire,  although  congealed  and  chill, — 
Congealed  on  earth,  but  does,  dissolving,  run 
Into  the  glories  of  the  Almighty  sun. 


A  SITMMER  EVENING'S  MEDITATION. 

"One  sun  by  day,  by  night  ten  thousaiul  shine."  — VoUNG. 

'T  IS  past,  —  the  sultry  tyrant  of  the  South 
Has  spent  his  short-lived  rage  ;  more  grateful  hours 
Move  silent  on  ;  the  skies  no  more-repel 
The  dazzled  sight,  but,  witli  milil  maiden  beams 
Of  tempered  luster,  eoui't  the  cherished  eye 
To  wander  o'er  their  sphere  ;  where,  hung  aloft, 
Dian's  bright  crescent,  like  a  silver  bow, 
New  striin:,'  in  lic:ivi  ii,  lifts  its  beamy  horn.s 
Impatient  l.ii  III.   niulit,  and  seems  to  push 
Her  brotliir  down  the  .sky.      Fair  Venus  shines 
Even  in  the  eye  of  day  ;  with  sweetest  beam 
Propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood 
Of  softened  radiance  with  her  dewy  locks. 
The  .shadows  spread  apace  ;  while  mei.'kened  Eve, 
Her  idieek  yet  warm  with  blushes,  slow  retires 
Tlirough  the  Hes]ierian  gardens  of  the  West, 
And  shuts  the  gates  of  Day.     'T  is  now  the  hour 
When  Contemplation,  from  her  sunless  haunts. 
The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  the  lonely  depth 
Of  un])ierced  woods,  where  rapt  in  solid  shaile 
She  mused  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 
And  fed  on  thoughts  unrijiened  by  the  sun, 
Moves  forward  and  with  radiant  finger  points 
To  yon  blue  concave  swelled  by  bieath  divine. 
Where,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heaven 
Awake,  quick  kindling  o'er  the  face  of  ether 
One   boundless  blaze  ;   ten   thousand    trcmliliug 

fire.s, 
And  dancing  lusters,  where  the  unsteady  eye. 
Restless  and  dazzled,  wanders  uneonfined 
O'er  all  this  field  of  glories  ;  spacious  field. 


And  woi  thy  of  the  Master,  —  He  whose  hand 
With  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Nile; 
Inscril)ed  the  mystic  tablet,  hung  on  high 
To  public  gaze,  and  said.  Adore,  0  man  ! 
The  finger  of  thy  God.     From  what  pure  wells 
Of  milky  light,  what  soft  o'erllowing  urn. 
Are  all   these  lamps  so  filled?  —  these  friendly 

lamps, 
Forever  streaming  o'er  the  azure  dee]) 
To  point  our  path,  and  light  us  to  our  home. 
How  soft  they  sliilc  along  their  lueiil  spheres, 
And,  silent  a.s  the  foot  of  Time,  fulfill 
Their  destined  courses  !     Nature's  self  is  hushed, 
And  but  a  scattereil  leaf,  which  rustles  through 
Till'  thick-wove  foliage,  not  a  sound  is  heard 
To  break  the  midnight  air;  though  the  raised  ear, 
Intently  listening,  drinks  in  every  breath. 
How  deep  the  silence,  yet  how  loud  the  praise  ! 
But  are  they  silent  all  ?  or  is  thei'e  not 
A  tongue  in  every  star  that  talks  with  man. 
And  wooes  him  to  be  wise  >  nor  wooes  in  vain  ; 
This  di'ad  of  midnight  is  the  noon  of  thought, 
And  Wisdom  mounts  her  zenith  with  the  stars. 
At  this  still  hour  the  self-i'ollected  soul 
Tmns  inward,  and  beholds  a  stranger  there 
Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  mortal  rank  ; 
An  embryo  C.od  ;  a  spark  of  fire  divine, 
Which  nnist  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sun 
(Fail-  transitory  creature  of  a  day  !) 
Has  closed  his  golden  eye,  and,  wrapt  in  shades. 
Forgets  his  wonted  journey  through  the  East. 

Ye  citadels  of  light,  and  seats  of  gods  ! 
Perhai)s  my  future  home,  from  whence  the  soul, 
Hevolving  periods  ])a.st,  may  oft  look  back. 
With  recollected  tenderness,  on  all 
The  various  busy  scenes  she  left  below. 
Its  deep-laid  projects  and  its  strange  events, 
As  on  some  fond  and  doting  tale  that  soothed 
Her  infant  hour.s,  —  0,  be  it  lawful  now 
To  tread  the  luillowed  circle  of  your  courts. 
And  with  tnute  wonder  and  delighted  awe 
Approach   your   burning    confines  !     Seized    in 

thought. 
On  Fancy's  wild  and  roving  wing  I  sail. 
From  the  green  borders  of  the  peopled  earth. 
And  the  pale  tnoon,  her  duteous,  fair  attendant  ; 
From  solitary  Mars  ;  from  the  vast  orb 
Of  .lupiter,  whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 
Dances  in  ether  like  the  lightest  leaf. 
To  the  dim  verge,  the  suburbs  of  the  system. 
When'  (-heerless  Saturn  midst  his  Wiitery  mo(jns 
Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp. 
Sits  Iik(\  an  exiled  monarch  :  fearless  thence 
I  launi'h  into  the  trackless  deeps  of  .space. 
Where,  bm-ning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appeal', 
Of  elder  beam,  which  ask  no  leave  to  shine 
Of  our  terrestrial  star,  nor  borrow  light 
From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day  ; 


e- 


394 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


-a 


Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born  of  creation, 
And  only  less  than  Him  who  marks  their  track 
And  guides  their  fiei-y  wheels.    Here  must  I  stop, 
Or  is  there  aught  beyond  ?     What  hand  unseen 
Impels  me  onward  through  the  glowing  orbs 
Of  habitable  nature,  far  remote. 
To  the  dread  confines  of  eternal  night, 
To  solitudes  of  waste  unpeopled  space. 
The  deserts  of  creation,  wide  and  wild  ; 
Where  embryo  systems  and  unkindled  suns 
Sleep  in  the  womb  of  chaos  ?     Fancy  droops. 
And  Thought,  astonished,  stops  her  bold  career. 
But,  0  thou  mighty  Mind !  whose  powerful  word 
Said,    "Thus  let  all  things  be,"  and  thus  they 

were, 
Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presence  ?  how  unblamed 
Invoke  thy  dread  perfection  ? 
Have  the  broad  eyeUds  of  the  mom  beheld  thee? 
Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Orion 
Support  thy  throne  ?    0,  look  with  pity  down 
On  erring,  guilty  man  ;  not  in  thy  names 
Of  terror  clad  ;  not  with  those  thunders  armed 
That  conscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appalled 
The  scattered  tribes  ;  thou  hast  a  gentler  voice, 
That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart. 
Abashed,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker ! 
But  now  my  soul,  unused  to  stretch  her  powers 
In  flight  so  daring,  drops  her  weary  wing. 
And  seeks  again  the  known  accustomed  spot, 
Drest  up  with  sun  and  shade  and  lawns  and 

streams, 
A  mansion  fair  and  spacious  for  its  guests, 
And  all  replete  with  wonders.     Let  mc  here. 
Content  and  gi'ateful,  wait  the  appointed  time. 
And  ripen  for  the  skies  :  the  hour  will  come 
When  all  these  splendors  bui'sting  on  my  sight 
Shall  stand  unveiled,  and  to  my  ravished  sense 
Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unknown. 

ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 


^- 


A  SUMMER  EVENING. 

Howfinehasthedaybeen !  how  bright  was  the  sun! 
How  lovely  and  joyful  the  course  that  he  run. 
Though  he  rose  in  a  mist  when  his  race  he  begun, 

And  there  ibllowed  some  droppings  of  rain  ! 
But  now  the  fair  traveler 's  come  to  the  west. 
His  rays  are  all  gold,  and  his  beauties  are  best  : 
He  paints  the  sky  gay  as  he  sinks  to  his  rest, 

And  foretells  a  bright  rising  again. 

Just  such  is  the  Christian  ;  his  course  he  begins, 
Like  the  sun  in  a  mist,  whenhemournsforhissins. 
And  melts  into  tears  ;  then  he  breaks  out  and 
shines. 


And  travels  his  heavenly  way  : 

But  when  he  comes  nearer  to  finish  his  race. 

Like  a  fine  setting  sun,  he  looks  richer  in  grace, 

And-  gives  a  sure  hope,  at  the  end  of  his  days, 

Of  rising  in  brighter  aiTay. 

ISAAC  Watts. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  ; 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began. 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old. 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

William  Wordsworth. 


MOONLIGHT  IN  SUMMER. 

Low  on  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  siglit. 
The  rising  vapors  catch  the  silver  light  ; 
Thence  fancy  measures,  as  they  parting  fly. 
Which  first  will  throw  its  shadow  on  the  eye, 
Passing  the  source  of  light ;  and  thence  away, 
Succeeded  quick  Ijy  brighter  still  than  they. 
For  yet  above  these  wafted  clouds  are  seen 
(In  a  remoter  sky  still  more  serene) 
Others,  detached  in  ranges  through  the  air. 
Spotless  as  snow,  and  countless  as  they  're  fair  ; 
Scattered  immensely  wide  from  east  to  west, 
The  beauteous  semblance  of  a  flock  at  rest. 
These,  to  the  raptured  mind,  aloud  proclaim 
Their  mighty  She]iherd's  everlasting  name  ; 
And  thus  the  loiterer's  utmost  stretch  of  soul 
Climbs  the  still  clouds,  or  passes  tliose  that  roll, 
And  loosed  imagination  soaring  goes 
High  o'er  his  home  and  all  his  little  woes. 

Robert  bloomfield. 


SEPTEMBER 

Sweet  is  the  voice  that  calls 

From  babbling  waterfalls 
In  meadows  where  the  downy  seeds  are  flying  ; 

And  soft  the  breezes  blow. 

And  eddying  come  and  go 
In  faded  gardens  where  the  rose  is  dying. 

Among  the  stubbled  com 

The  blithe  (|uail  pipes  at  morn. 
The  merry  partridge  drums  in  hidden  places, 

And  glittering  insects  gleam 

Above  the  reedy  stream, 
Where  busy  spiders  .spin  their  filmy  laces. 


-^ 


[& 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


395 


ft-.- 


At  eve,  cool  shadows  fall 

Across  the  garden  wall, 
Aud  on  the  clustered  grapes  to  purple  turning ; 

And  pearly  vapors  lie 

Along  the  eastern  sky. 
Where  the  broad  harvest  moon  is  redly  burning. 

Ah,  soon  on  field  and  hill 
The  wind  shall  whistle  chill, 

And  pati'iarch  swallows  call  their  flocks  together, 
To  fly  from  frost  and  snow, 
Aud  seek  for  lands  where  blow 

The  fairer  Ijlossoms  of  a  balmier  weather. 

The  cricket  chirps  all  day, 

' '  0  fairest  summer,  stay  ! 
The  squirrel  eyes  askance  the  chestnuts  browning; 

The  wUd  fowl  fly  afar 

Above  the  foamy  bar. 
And  hasten  southward  ere  the  skies  are  frowning. 

Now  comes  a  fragrant  breeze 

Through  the  dark  cedar-trees. 
And  round  about  my  temples  fondly  lingei'S, 

In  gentle  playfulness. 

Like  to  the  soft  caress 
Bestowed  in  happier  days  hy  loving  fingers. 

Yet,  though  a  sense  of  grief 

Comes  with  the  falling  leaf. 
And  memory  makes  the  summer  doubly  pleasant, 

In  all  my  autumn  dreams 

A  future  summer  gleams, 
Passing  the  fairest  glories  of  the  present ! 

George  Arnold. 


The  autumn  is  old  ; 
The  sear  leaves  are  flying  ; 
He  hath  gathered  up  gold. 
And  now  he  is  dying  : 
Old  age,  begin  sighing  ! 

The  vintage  is  ripe  ; 
The  harvest  is  heaping  ; 
But  some  that  have  sowed 
Have  no  riches  for  leaping  : 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a-\veeping  ! 

The  year  's  in  the  wane  ; 
There  is  nothing  adorning  ; 
The  night  has  no  eve. 
And  the  day  has  no  morning 
Cold  winter  gives  warning. 


The  rivers  run  chill  ; 
The  red  sim  is  sinking  ; 
And  I  am  grown  old, 
An<l  life  is  fa.st  shrinking  ; 
Here  's  enow  for  sad  thinking  ! 

THoM-\s  Hood, 


THE  LATTER  KAIN. 

The  latter  rain,  —  it  falls  in  an.\ious  haste 
Upon  the  sun-dried  fields  and  branches  bare. 
Loosening  with  searching  drops  the  rigid  waste 
As  if  it  would  each  root's  lost  strength  repair  ; 
But  not  a  blade  grows  green  as  in  tlie  spring ; 
No  swelling  twig  puts  forth  its  thickening  leaves  ; 
The  robins  only  mid  the  harvests  sing. 
Pecking  the  grain  that  scatters  from  the  sheaves  ; 
The  rain  falls  .still,  —  the  fruit  all  ripened  drojis. 
It  pierces  chestnut-burr  and  walnut-shell  ; 
The  furrowed  fields  disclose  the  yellow  crops  ; 
Each  bui'sting  pod  of  talents  used  can  tell  ; 
And  all  that  once  received  the  early  rain 
Declare  to  man  it  was  not  sent  in  vain. 


AUTUMN. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing ;  the  bleak   wind   is 

wailing  ; 
The  bare  houghs  are  sighing  ;  the  pale  flowers 
are  dying  ; 
And  the  Year 
On  the  earth,  her  death-bed,  in  shroud  of  leaves 
dead. 
Is  lying. 
Come,  months,  comi^  away, 
From  November  to  May ; 
In  your  saddest  array 
Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepuleher. 

The   chill   rain  is   falling ;    the   nipt   worm    is 

crawling  ; 
The  livers  are  swelling  ;  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  Year  ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards 
each  gone 
To  his  dwelling  ; 
Come,  months,  come  away  ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray  ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play,  — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 
PERCY  BvssHE  Shelley. 


-3 


f 


396 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


n 


THE  AUTUMN. 

The  autumn  time  is  with  us  !     Us  apijroach 
Wa3  heralded,  not  many  days  ago, 
By  hazy  skies  that  veiled  the  bnizen  sun, 
And  sea-like  murmurs  from  the  rustling  corn, 
And  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drowsily 
By  purpling  clusters  of  the  juicy  grape, 
Swinging  upon  the  vine.     And  now,  't  is  here, 
And  what  a  change  hath  passed  upon  the  face 
Of  Nature,  where  thy  waving  forests  spread. 
Then  robed  in  deepest  green  !     All  through  the 

night 
The  subtle  frost  hath  plied  its  mystic  art. 
And  in  the  day  the  golden  sun  hath  wrought 
True  wonders  ;  and  the  wings  of  morn  and  even 
Have  touched  with  magic  breath  the  changing 

leaves. 
.\nd  now,  as  wainln^  th.'  dilating  eye 
Atlnvart  the  v;iii.d  Ini.Ui  .i|ii>  circling  far, 
What  gorgeousnrss,  what  blazonry,  what  pomp 
Of  colors,  bursts  upon  the  ravished  sight  ! 
Here,  where  the  maple  rears  its  yellow  crest, 
A  golden  glory  ;  yonder,  where  the  oak 
Stands  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  ash 
Is  girt  with  flame-like  parasite,  and  broad 
The  dog-wood  spreads  beneath  a  rolling  field 
Of  deepest  crimson  ;  and  afar,  where  looms 
The  gnarlfed  gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red  ! 

William  d.  Gallagher. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

There  is  a  time,  just  when  the  frost 
Begins  to  pave  old  Winter's  way. 

When  Autumn,  in  a  revery  lost, 
The  mellow  daytime  dreams  away ; 

When  Summer  comes,  in  mnsing  mind. 
To  gaze  once  more  on  hill  and  dell. 

To  mark  how  many  sheaves  they  bind. 
And  see  if  all  are  ripeneil  well. 

With  balmy  breath  she  whispers  low  ; 

The  dying  flowers  look  up  and  give 
Their  sweetest  incense  ere  they  go. 

For  her  who  made  their  beauties  live. 

She  ent<;rs  'neath  the  woodland  sh.ade, 
Her  zephyrs  lift  the  lingering  leaf, 

And  bear  it  gently  where  are  laid 
The  loved  and  lost  ones  of  its  grief. 

.'Vt  last,  old  Autumn,  rising,  takes 
.\gain  his  scepter  and  his  throne  : 

AVith  boisterous  hand  the  tree  he  shakes. 
Intent  on  gathering  all  his  own. 


Sweet  Summer,  sighing,  flies  the  plain. 
And  waiting  Winter,  gaunt  and  grim, 

Sees  miser  Autumn  hoard  his  grain, 
And  smiles  to  think  it  's  all  for  him. 

A.NO.WMOOS. 


ECHO  AND  SILENCK. 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly, 
And  Autumn  in  her  lap  the  store  to  strew 
As  mid  wild  scenes  I  chanced  the  Muse  to  woo. 

Through  glens  untrod,  and  woods  that  frowned 
on  high. 

Two  sleeping  nymphs  with  wonder  mute  I  spy  ! 
And  lo,  she  's  gone  !  In  robe  of  dark  green  hue 
'T  was  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence  flew. 

For  ijuick  the  hunter's  horn  resounded  to  the  sky  1 

In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away. 

Not  so  her  sister.     Hark  !  for  onward  still. 

With  far-heard  step,  she  takes  her  listening  way, 
Bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  and  hill  to  hill. 

Ah,  mark  the  merry  majd  in  mockfnl  play 

With  thousand  mimic  tones  the  laughing  forest  fill ! 

SIR  EGEkTON   BRYDGES. 

INDIAN  SUMMER. 

When  leaves  growsear  all  things takesomber hue ; 
The  wild  winds   waltz  no  more  the  woodside 

through. 
And  all  the  faded  gi-ass  is  wet  with  dew. 

A  gauzy  nebula  films  the  pensive  sky. 

The  golden  bee  supinely  buzzes  by. 

In  silent  flocks  the  bluebirds  southward  fly. 

The  forest's  cheeks  are  crimsoned  o'erwith  .shame, 

The  cynic  frost  enlaces  every  lane. 

The  ground  with  scarlet  blushes  is  aflame  ! 

The  one  we  love  grows  lustrous-eyed  and  sad, 
With  sympathy  too  thoughtful  to  lie  glad. 
While  all  the  colore  round  are  running  mad. 

Tlu-  sunbeams  kiss  askant  the  somber  hill. 
The  naked  woodbine  climbs  the  window-sill, 
The  breaths  that  noon  exhales  are  faint  and  chill. 

The  ripened  nuts  drop  downward  day  by  day. 
Sounding  the  hollow  tocsin  of  decay. 
And  bandit  squiiTels  smuggle  them  away. 

Vague  sighs  and  scents  pervade  the  atmosphere. 
Sounds  of  invisible  stirrings  hum  the  ear. 
The  morning's  lash  reveals  a  frozen  tear. 

The  hermit  mountains  gird  themselves  with  mail. 
Mocking  the  threshers  with  an  echo  flail, 
The  w-hile  the  afternoons  grow  crisp  and  pale 


J 


f 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


o97 


n 


Inconstant  Suninier  to  the  trojiics  llees. 

And,  as  her  rose-sails  (.-iiteli  tlie  amorous  hreezu,  i 

Lo!  bare,  brown  Autumn  trembles  to  her  knees! 

Tlie  stealthy  nights  eneroaeli  ujpun  the  days, 
The  earth  with  sudilen  whiteness  is  ablaze, 
And  all  her  paths  are  lost  in  crystal  maze  ! 

Tread  lightly  where  the  dainty  violets  blew, 
Wheie  the  spring  winds  their  soft  eyes  open  Hew  ; 
Sal'ely  they  sleep  the  churlish  winter  through. 

Though  all  life's  [loilals  ale  indieed  with  woe, 
And  liozen  pearls  are  all  the  world  can  show. 
Feel  !  Nature's  breath  is  wanu  beneath  the  snow. 

Look  up,  dear  mourners !    Still  the  lilue  expanse, 
Serenely  tender,  bends  to  catch  thy  glance  ; 
Within  thy  tears  sibyllic  sunbeams  dance  I 

With  lilooms  full-sapped  again  will  smile  the  land  ; 
The  fall  is  but  the  folding  of  His  hand. 
Anon  with  fuller  glories  to  expand. 

The  dumb  heart  hid  beneath  the  pulseless  tree 
Will  throb  again  ;  and  then  the  toi-pid  bee 
Upon  the  ear  will  drone  his  drowsy  glee. 

So  shall  the  tru-int  liluebirds  backward  fly. 
And  all  loved  things  that  vanish  or  that  die 
Return  to  us  in  some  sweet  By-and-By. 

Anonymous. 


WINTER  SONG. 

SuMMKR  joys  are  o'er; 

Flowerets  bloom  no  more, 
Wintry  winds  are  sweejiing : 
Through  the  snow-drifts  peeping 

Cheerful  evergi'een 

Rarely  now  is  seen. 

Now  no  plumed  throng 
Charms  the  wood  with  song  ; 

Ice-bound  trees  are  glittering  ; 

Merry  snow-birds,  twittering, 
Fondly  strive  to  cheer 
Scenes  so  cold  ami  di'ear. 

Winter,  still  I  see 
Many  charms  in  thee,  — 
Love  thy  chilly  greeting, 
Snow-storms  fiercely  beating, 
And  the  dear  delights 
Of  the  long,  long  nights. 


^ 


NOl 

Nu  sun  —  no  Uioon  ! 

No  morn  —  no  noon  — 
No  dawn  —  no  dust  —  no  proper  time  of  day — 

No  sky — no  earthly  view  — 

No  distance  looking  blue  — 
No   road  —  no   street  —  no    "t'other    side    thi 
way  "  — 

No  end  to  any  Row — 

No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go- 
No  top  to  any  steeple  — 
No  recognitions  of  familial-  jieople  — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em  — 

No  knowing  'em  ! 
No  traveling  at  all  —  no  locomotion. 
No  inkling  of  the  way  —  no  notion  — 

"  No  go  "  —  by  land  or  ocean  — 

No  mail  —  no  jiost  — 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast  — 
No  park  —  no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility  — 

No  company  —  no  nobility  — 
No  wai-mth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 
No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member  — 
No  shade,  no  shine,  no  buttertlies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  llowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 
November ! 


WINTER. 

I-ROM   "THEf  WINTER   MORNING  WALK." 

'T  is  morning  ;  and  the  snii,  w'itli  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  the  horizon  ;  while  the  clouds 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind. 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze. 
Seen  through   the  leafless  wood.     His 


slautii: 


ray 


Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 
Ami,  tingeing  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue. 
From  every  herb  and  eveiy  sjiiry  blade 
Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field. 
Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense. 
In  s]>ite  of  gi'avity,  and  sage  remark 
That  1  myself  .am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 
I'rovokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askame 
I  view  the  muscular  proportioned  limb 
Tran.sfonned   to  a  lean   shank.      The   sliap.lc 

pair. 
As  they  designed  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step  ;  and,  as  I  near  a]i]iroach 
The  c.'ottage,  walk  along  the  plastered  wall, 
Preiiosterous  sight  !  the  legs  without  the  man. 
The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge  ;  and  the  bents. 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest, 


^ 


fl- 


598 


FOE  MS   OF  NATURE. 


L 


Of  late  unsiglitly  and  unseen,  now  sliine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apiiarel  clad, 
And,  fledged  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 
The  cattle  mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleeji 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Tlieir  wonted  fodder  ;  not,  like  hungering  man. 
Fretful  if  unsupplied  ;  but  silent,  meek, 
And  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain's  delay. 
He  iroin  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustomed  load, 
Deep  plunging,  and  again  deep  plunging  oft. 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass  : 
Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands. 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away  :  no  needless  care 
Lest  storms  should  ovei-set  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight. 
Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcerned 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  men,  —  to  wield  the  ax 
And  drive  the  wedge  in  yonder  forest  drear. 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy  and  lean  and  shrewd  with  pointed  ears. 
And  tail  cropped  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur, 
His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behiml  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow  ;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk 
Wide-scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  ivory  teeth,  or  plows  it  with  his  snout ; 
Then  shakes  his  powdei'ed  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighboring  pale, 
Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossiped  side  by  side. 
Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known  call 
The  feathered  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing. 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood. 
Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 
The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves 
To  .seize  the  fair  occasion.     Well  they  eye 
The  scattered  grain,  and,  thievishly  resolved 
To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared 
As  oft  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind. 
Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 
Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 
Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resigned 
To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 
His  wonted  strut,  and,  wading  at  their  head 
With  well-considered  steps,  seems  to  resent 
His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  retrenched. 
How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 
The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 
Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 
Earth  yields  them  naught ;  the  imprisoned  worm 

is  safe 
Beneath  the  frozen  clod  ;  all  seeds  of  herbs 
Lie  covered  close  ;  and  beny-bearing  thorns, 
That  feed  the  thrush  (whatever  some  suppose), 
Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 
The  long  ]u-otracted  rigor  of  the  year 


Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.      In  chinks  and 

,        holes 

Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end. 

As  instinct  prompts  ;  self-buried  ere  they  die. 


NEW  ENGLAND  IN  WINTER. 

FROM  "SNOW-BOUND." 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat. 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout. 

Of  homespun  stuff'  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold. 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-lilood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east :  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore. 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors. 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Kaked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows  ; 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn  ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  hom  on  hom. 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows  ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm. 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow  : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  «-indow-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Lookeil  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun  ; 
In  tiny  spher-ule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature's  geometric  signs. 
In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle. 
All  day  the  hoary  meteor  feU  ; 


-^ 


[& 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


39'.i 


:r^ 


And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown. 

On  nothing  we  eould  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  lirmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvelous  shapes ;  strange  domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood. 

Or  garden  wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 

With  loose-flimg  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

Tlie  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof ; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof. 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :   "  lioys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  sunmions  less  thaji  joy  ? ) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew  ; 
With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low, 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal ;  we  had  read 
Of  rare  .Vladdin's  wondrous  cave. 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave. 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  poweis. 
We  reaclied  the  barn  with  merry  din. 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out. 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 
The  cock  liis  lusty  greeting  said. 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked. 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  shee]>, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep. 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 


All  day  tlie  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before  ; 
Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 
The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 
No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 
A  solitude  made  more  intense 
By  dreary-voiced  elements, 
T         The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind. 


^~ 


The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 
We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 
The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 
The  music  of  whose  liipiid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship. 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  giown 
To  have  an  almosst  luiman  tone. 
As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  tlie  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  tlie  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveler,  ,^allk 
From  sight  beneath  the  smollieriiig  lank. 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  niglitly  .stack 
Of  wood  against  the  cliinincy-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  gi'een,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick  ; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart. 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  raggeil  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  ap]iear, 
Heard  the  sharp  erackh',  cauglit  the  glean 
On  whitewa.shed  wall  and  sa;.'giiig  ):eain. 
Until  the  old,  rude-furiiislied  room 
Burst,  tlower-like,  into  ro.sy  bloom  ; 
While  radiant  with  a  miniie  flame 
Outside  tlie  sparkling  chift  became. 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 
The  crane  and  jieudent  tiammels  showed  ; 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  tlie  miracle. 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "  Under  the  tree. 
When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  the  tritehes  are  matinij  leu." 

The  moon  above  the  cnstcrn  wood 
Shone  at  its  full  ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood. 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen. 
Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp -ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  somber  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Sliut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  health  about. 
Content  to  let  the  north-wiu'l  roar 
In  bafHed  rage  at  pane  and  door, 


-^ 


a-: 


400 


POKMS  OF  NATURE. 


-^ 


Whilo  the  rod  lugs  belbru  us  lirat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tiojiic  lieat ; 
And  evei-,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shoiik  beam  and  rafter  as  it  jiassed, 
The  Tnerrier  uj)  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  tliroat  of  the  ehiniuey  laughed  ; 
The  house-dog  on  his  jiaws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
Tlie  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couehant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Hetween  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
Tlie  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  l)rn\vn  October's  wood. 

John  grf.enleaf  whittier. 


WINTER   WALK  AT  NOON. 

Tr[E  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood, 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.      But  now  at  noon 
L' pon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage. 
And  lias  tlie  warmtli  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzling  splendor  of  the  scene  below. 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale  ; 
And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled  tower, 
Wlience  all  the  music.      1  again  perceive 
The  .soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains. 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms. 
Whose  outspread  brandies  overarch  the  glade. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 
The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 


than  half  .sup- 
it  ting  light 
lists  he  .shakes 

ll..|.soficc, 
■s   below. 


With  slender   notes,  and   mori 

jiressed  : 
Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and 
From  spray  to  spray,  wIhh  '.  i  1 
From  many  a  twig  tlic  p  nl.  ui 
That  tinkle  in  the  willuird  Ka 
Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft. 
Charms  more  than  silence.     Meditation  liere 
May  tliink  down  hours  to  moments.     Here  the 

heart 
May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 
And  Learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

Wii.l:a,m  Cowper. 


Till!  day  had  been  a  c;din  and  sunny  day, 
Anil  tinged  with  amber  was  the  sky  at  even  ; 

The  fleecy  clouds  at  length  had  rolled  away, 
.^nd  lay  in  furrows  on  the  eastern  heaven  ;  — 


The  moon  arose  and  shed  a  glimmering  ray, 
And  rinind  her  orb  a  misty  circle  lay. 

The  hoar-frost  glittered  on  the  naked  heath. 
The  roar  of  distant  winds  was  loud  and  deep, 

The  dry  leaves  rustled  in  each  passing  breath. 
And  the  gay  world  was  lost  in  (juiet  sleep. 

Such  was  the  time  when,  on  the  landscape  brown. 

Through  a  December  air  the  snow  came  down. 

The  morning  came,  the  dreary  morn,  at  last. 
And  showed  the  whitened  waste.     The  shiv- 
ering herd 
Lowed  on  the  hoary  meadow-ground,  and  fast 

Fell  the  light  flakes  upon  the  earth  unstirred  ; 
The  forest  firs  with  glittering  snows  o'erlaid 
Stood  like  hoar  priests  in  robes  of  white  arrayed. 
John  II.  brvam. 


WINTER  PICTURES. 


Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  niouiitain 
peak. 

From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  ohl  ; 
On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 

It  had  gathered  all  the  cohl. 
And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek  ; 
1 1  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleafed  bouglis  and  pastures  bare ; 
The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winti'i-iirool' ; 
All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 
He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams  ; 
Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 
As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars  : 
He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 
Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 
Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-erypt, 
Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 
Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze  ; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew  ; 
Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 
With  ipiaint  arabesciues  of  ice-fern  leaf; 
Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 
For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and 

here 
He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tojis 
And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops. 
Which  crystaled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 
And  made  a  star  of  every  one  : 
No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 
Co\ild  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice  ; 
'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 
In  his  depths  serene  through  the  suinmi'r  day. 


-^ 


fl- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


401 


-a 


Each  flitting  shadow  of  earth  anil  sky, 
Lost  the  liappy  model  should  be  lost, 

Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 
liy  111''  cllin  linildcrs  of  tlie  IVost. 

Witliin  tlie  hall  arc  song  and  laughter. 

The  clieeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

Willi  the  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly  ; 
Tliruugh  tlic  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 
Wallows  the  Yuledog's  roaring  tide  ; 
'I'll.'  Iiroad  Hame-pennons  droop  and  llai) 

Anil  belly  and  tug  as  a  Hag  in  the  wind  ; 
I.ikr  a  luriLst  slirills  tlic  iiiiprisoucd  saji, 

lliuiliil  (n  death  in  its  galleries  blind  ; 
And  swift  little  troojis  of  silent  sjiarks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
do  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

hike  herds  of  startled  deer. 

Hut  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  .sh.arp. 
Of  .Sir  Launful's  gray  liair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings. 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  I  'liristmas  carol  of  its  own. 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 
Was — "Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless!" 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  .shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch. 
And  lie  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Til  rough  the  wiiiilow-.slits  of  the  castle  old. 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  tlie  drift  of  the  cold. 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree. 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly  ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  .speak. 

For  the  frost's  swift  shuttles  its  .shroud  had 
spun  ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-to|i  lileak 

From  his  shining  fciithers  shed  cilf  the 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  .shrunk  and 
As  if  her  veins  were  sajiless  and  old. 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  iliiu  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

JAMRS  Ri-ssei.i. 


old  sun ; 
old. 


e 


WTNTER   SCENES. 

TiiK  keener  tempests  ri.se  ;  and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  livid  east,  or  piercing  north, 
Thick  idoiuls  ascend  ;  in  whose  ca|)acious  womb 
A  vapory  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along  ; 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathereil  stonn. 


Through  the  hushed  air  the  whiuning  shower 

descen<ls 
At  first  thin  wavering  ;  till  at  last  the  flakes 
l''all  broad  and  wide  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 
With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields 
I'ut  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white. 
'T  is  brightness  all  ;  save  wliere  the  new  snow 

melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low  the  woods 
I'.ow  their  hoar  head  ;  and,  ere  the  languid  sun 
l-'aint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid  and  chill. 
Is  one  wide  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.     Droojiing,  the  laborer-ox 
.Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  tlie  Utile  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone. 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods. 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky. 
In  joyless  fields  and  tliorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.     Half  afniid,  he  first 
Against  tlie  window  beats  ;  then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  wann  hearth  ;  then,  hojijiingo'er  the  floor. 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 
And  peeks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is  : 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
I'our  forth  their  brown  inhabitant.s.     The  h;iie, 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  be.sct 
By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares,  and  dogs, 
And  more  unpitying  man,  the  garden  seeks. 
Urged  on  by  fearless  want.     Tlic  bleating  kind 
Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  ne.\t  the  glistening 

earth. 
With  looks  of  dumb  despair  ;  then,  sad  dispersed, 
Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow 


WHEN  ICICLES  HANG  BY  THE  WALL. 

I-KO.\I  "LOVK'S  LAUOK  "S  LOSr," 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall. 

And  Dick  the  sliepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall. 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 
When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  he  foul, 
Then  nightlv  sings  the  staring  o«d, 

To-who  ; 
To-wliit,  to-who,  a  meriy  note, 
While  greasy  .loan  doth  keel  the  ]iot. 

Wlieii  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow. 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 


■-^ 


a- 


402 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


ti 


When  rousted  crabs  liiss  in  the  bowl, 
riien  iiiglitly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who  ; 
To-wliit,  to-who,  a  mcnv  note, 
■While  greasy  ,Ioaii  doth  keel  the  pot. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 

ANNorNCKi)  by  all  the  tniinpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow  ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields. 
Seems  nowhere  to  idight  ;  the  whitcd  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heavou, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveler  stopped,  the  eourier's  feet 
Delayed ,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry  ! 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  tierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door  ; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage  ;  naught  cares  he 
l''or  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths  ; 
.\  swan-like  form  invests  tlie  hidden  thorn  ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Manger  the  farmer's  sighs  ;  and  at  the  gate 
A  tajiering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
.•\nd  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not. 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appeare,  astonished  Art 
'I'o  niinue  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
I'liiilt  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work. 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


THE  SNOW-SHOWER. 

ST.\N'n  here  by  my  side  anil  turn,  I  pray, 
t")n  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 

The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 
And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies  ; 

And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 

In  wavering  Hakes  licgins  to  How  ; 

Flake  after  flake 

They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 

From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil ; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 

Hush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 

.\11,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow. 

Meet,  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below  ; 
Flake  after  Hake 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


©-^ 


I  Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud. 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 
Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowd 

That  whiten  by  night  the  Milky  Way  : 
There  broader  and  builier  masses  fall  ; 
The  sullen  water  buries  tlicin  all,  ^ 

Flake  after  Hake,  — 
.\11  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

.■\nd  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 
From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray. 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side. 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteaily  way  ; 

As  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife. 

Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life  ; 
Kach  mated  flake 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Lo  !  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 

Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white. 
As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased. 

They   fling  themselves  from    their  shadowy 
height. 
The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky. 
What  speed  they  nnike,  with  their  grave  so  nigh  ; 

Flake  after  Hake 
To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake  ! 

I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear  ; 

They  turn  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought  ; 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear. 

Who  were  for  a  time,  and  now  are  not ; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  clouil  and  frost. 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost,  — 

Flake  after  flake,  — 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Yet  look  agiiin,  for  the  clouds  divide  ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies  ; 
.\nd  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 
But  the  hurrying  ho.st  that  flew  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water  no  more  is  seen  ; 

Flake  after  flake 
At  rest  in  the  dark  ami  silent  lake. 

William  CULLE.N  Bryant 


SNOW. —  A  WINTER  SKETCH. 

The  blessed  morn  has  come  agivin  ; 

The  early  gray 
Taps  at  the  sluniberer's  window-pane. 

.\nd  seems  to  say. 
Break,  break  from  the  enchanter's  chain 

Away,  away  ! 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


403 


-a 


'T  is  winter,  yet  tliere  is  no  sound 

Along  the  air 
Of  winds  along  their  battle-ground  ; 

But  gently  there 
The  snow  is  falling,  —  all  around 

How  lair,  how  fair  ! 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  gannents  shaken, 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  Ijare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
.Silent  and  soft  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 

Even  as  our  cloudy  I'ancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession. 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair. 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bo.som  hoarded. 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 

Henry  Wadswohth  Loncff.llow. 


THE  MOTHER'S  SACRinCE. 

The  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain's  height. 
And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 

And  mid  the  cheerless  liours  of  night 
A  mother  wandered  with  her  child  : 

As  through  the  ilrifting  snow  she  pressed. 

The  baVje  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow. 
And  darker  horn's  of  night  came  on. 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow  : 

Her  limbs  were  chilled,  her  strength  was  gone. 

"  0  God  ! "  she  cried  in  accents  wild, 

"  If  I  must  peri.sh,  save  my  child  I " 

She  stripjied  her  mantle  from  her  brea.st. 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm. 

And  round  the  child  she  wrapped  the  vest, 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

With  one  cold  kiss,  one  tear  .she  slied. 

And  sunk  upon  her  snowy  bed. 


At  dawn  a  traveler  passed  by, 
And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil ; 

The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye. 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale. 

He  moved  the  rolje  from  oil' the  child,  — 

'I'he  babe  looked  up  and  sweetly  smiled  ! 

SEUA  SMITl 


A  SNOW-.STORM. 


"f  IS  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time, 

As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be  ; 
The  roar  of  the  blast  is  heard  like  the  chime 

Of  the  waves  on  an  angry  sea. 
The  moon  is  full ;  but  her  silver  light 
The  storm  diishcs  out  with  its  wings  to-night ; 
And  over  the  sky  from  south  to  north 
Not  a  star  Is  seen,  as  the  wind  comes  forth 

In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 

All  day  had  the  snow  come  down,  —  all  day 

As  it  never  came  down  before  ; 
And  over  the  hilLs,  at  sunset,  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet,  or  more  ; 
The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone  ; 
Till!  windows  blocked  and  the  wcll-curlis  gone  ; 
The  haystack  had  grown  to  a  mountain  lift, 
And  the  wood-pile  looked  like  a  monster  drift, 

As  it  lay  by  the  fanner's  door. 

The  night  sets  in  on  a  world  of  snow, 

While  the  air  grows  sharj)  and  chill. 
And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful  blow 

Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill ; 
Anil  the  norther,  see  !  on  the  mountiiiu  jwak 
In  Ills  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and  shriek  ! 
He  shouts  on  the  plain,  ho-ho  !  ho-ho  I 
He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow, 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found  abroad. 

In  the  drifts  and  the  freezing  air. 
Sits  a  shivering  dog,  in  the  field,  by  the  road. 

With  the  snow  in  his  shaggy  hair. 
He  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  wind  and  growls  ; 
He  lifts  his  head,  and  moans  and  howls  ; 
Then  crouching  low,  from  the  cutting  sleet. 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  ijuivering  feet,  — 

Pray,  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 

A  fanner  came  from  the  village  plain,  — 

But  he  lost  the  traveleil  way : 
And  for  hours  he  trod  witli  might  and  main 

A  path  for  his  hoi-se  and  sleigh  ; 
But  colder  still  the  cold  winds  blew. 
And  deeper  still  the  deep  drifts  grew. 


..4 


a^- 


-tO-J 


POEMS  OP  NATURE. 


-^ 


And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan  brown, 
At  last  in  her  struggles  floundered  down. 
Where  a  log  in  a  hollow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a  neigh  and  a  frenzied  snort. 

She  plunged  in  the  drifting  snow. 
While  her  master  urged,  till  his  breath  grew  short, 

With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow  ; 
But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs  were  tight ; 
His  hands  were  numb  and  had  lost  their  might ; 
So  he  wallowed  back  to  his  half-filled  sleigh. 
And  strove  to  shelter  himself  till  day, 

With  his  coat  and  the  buffalo. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein. 

To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed  ; 
Ami  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain 

For  help  in  his  master's  need. 
For  a  while  he  strives  with  a  wistful  cry 
To  catch  a  glance  from  his  drowsy  eye, 
And  wags  liis  tail  if  the  rude  winds  flap 
Till!  skirt  of  the  buflalo  over  his  lap. 

And  whines  when  he  takes  no  heed. 

The  wind  goes  down  and  the  storm  is  o'er,  — 

'T  is  the  hour  of  midnight,  past ; 
The  old  trees  writhe  and  bend  no  more 

In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast. 
The  silent  moon  with  her  peaceful  light 
Looks  down  on  the  hills  with  snow  all  white. 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump," 
The  blasted  pine  and  the  ghostly  stump. 

Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 

But  cold  and  dead  by  the  hidden  log 

Ai'e  they  who  came  from  the  town,  — ■  I 

The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faithful  dog. 

And  his  beautiful  Morgan  brown,  — 
In  the  wide  snow-desert,  far  and  grand, 
With  his  cap  on  his  head  and  the  reins  in  his 

hand,  — 
The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  feet. 
And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the  crusted  sleet, 

Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 

i  GAMAGE  Eastman. 


And  the  eternal  moon,  what  time  she  fills 
Her  orb  with  ai'gent,  treading  a  soft  measure, 
Witli  iiueeuly  motions  of  a  bridal  mood. 
Through  the  white  spaces  of  infinitude. 


VIEW  FROM  THE  EUGANEAlf  HILLS,'  NORTH 
ITALY. 

Ma.sy  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery. 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan. 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day. 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way. 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 

Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky. 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 

And  behind,  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet. 

Riving  sail  and  cord  and  plank 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'erbrimniing  deep  ; 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  througli  eternity ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun. 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 


e^- 


O  WINTER!   WILT  THOU  NEVER  GOV 

(I  wiNTKR  !  wilt  thou  never,  never  go  ? 
O  smnmer  !  but  I  weary  for  thy  coming, 
Jjonging  once  more  to  hear  the  Luggie  flow, 
And  frugal  bees,  laboriously  humming. 
Now  the  east-wind  diseases  the  infirm, 
'And  must  crouch  in  corners  from  rough  weather  ; 
Sometimes  a  winter  sunset  is  a  charm,  — 
When  the  fired  clouds,  compacted,  blaze  together. 
And  the  large  sun  dips  red  behind  the  hills. 
1,  from  my  window,  can  behold  this  pleasure  ; 


Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 

—  Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 

I  stood  listening  to  the  poean 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical : 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar. 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even. 

Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky. 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain. 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain. 

Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail ; 


-^ 


rt-t- 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


405 


r^ 


And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright  and  clear  and  still 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Hounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
ULiu.l.'d  bv  .ities  fair; 
rndriiMMtli  (l.iy's  azure  eyes, 
(_)ri:iii's  iiuiNhng,  Venice,  lies,  — 
A  [ieoi>led  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amjihitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  jtaves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind. 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  ([uivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 
As  the  Hames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise. 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  ApoUo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  city !  thou  hast  been 

Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  cjueen  ; 

Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 

And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 

I  f  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 

Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 

A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 

With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 

Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 

From  thy  throne  among  the  waves. 

Wilt  thou  be  when  the  sea-mew 

Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 

O'er  thine  isles  depopulate. 

And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state. 

Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 

With  green  sea-flowers  overgi'own 

Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 

Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 

As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 

The  fisher  on  his  watery  way 

Wandering  at  the  close  of  day 

Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 

Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore. 

Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 

Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 

Lead  a  rapid  mask  of  death 

O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 


43-^- 


Xoon  descends  around  me  now  : 

'T  is  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 

When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 

Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 

(.)r  an  air-dissolved  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky ; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet, 

Whose  l.iright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines 

Piercing  with  their  trelliscd  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  ; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air  ;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandaleil  Apennine 

In  the  .south  dindy  islanded  ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  s])read 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun  ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song,  — 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky  ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

n.lor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  tliis  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  uidverse. 

Noon  descends,  anfl  after  noon 

.'\utumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  infantine  moon 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  biings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  .soft  dreams  of  the  mom 

(Which  like  winged  w'inds  had  home 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

Mid  remembered  agonies. 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing. 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Otlier  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony; 

Other  s[)irits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf  ;  even  now,  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

With  folding  winds  they  waiting  sit 


^ 


e-^ 


•406 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


fb 


For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  mid  lawny  hills, 

Wliicli  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills. 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

(If  old  forests  eclioing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  Howers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

—  We  may  live  so  happy  there. 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Kn  vying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  ])olluting  multitude  ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  elime  divine  and  calm. 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  whiidi  the  bright  sea  heaves  ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies  ; 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotluniiood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  aiul  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain. 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again  ! 

Percy  Bvsshe  shellev. 


&- 


GRONOAR  HILL. 

[The  Vale  of  the  Towy  embraces,  in  its  winding  course  of  fifteen 
miles,  some  of  tlie  lovchesl  scenery  of  South  Wales.  If  it  be  less 
cullivated  than  the  Vnic  of  Usk.  its  woodland  views  arc  more  ro- 
mantic and  frequent.  The  neighborhood  is  historic  and  poetic 
^ound.  From  C.rongar  Hill  the  eye  discovers  traces  of  a  Ronun 
camp  ;  Golden  Grove,  the  home  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  is  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  river ;  Merlin's  chair  recalls  Spenser :  ,ind  a  farm- 
house ne.ir  the  foot  of  Llangumnor  Hill  brinijs  back  the  memory 
of  its  once  Kenial  occupant.  Richard  Steele.  Spenser  places  the 
cave  of  .Merlin  anions  the  dark  woods  of  Dincvawr] 

Sii.KXT  nymph,  with  curious  eye, 
Who,  the  purple  even,  dost  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man, 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 
AVliile  the  yellow  linnet  sings. 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale,  — 
Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues. 
Come,  and  aiil  thy  sister  Muse. 
Now,  while  I'luebus,  riding  high, 
Gives  luster  to  the  laml  and  sky, 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song,  — 


Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong  ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 

Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells  ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made, 

So  oft  1  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill. 

Sat  upon  a  Howery  bed. 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 

While  str.ayed  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood. 

Over  mead  and  over  wood. 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  liill, 

Till  Contemplation  had  her  till. 

Atiout  his  checkered  sides  I  wind, 
."Vud  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  bchinil. 
And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I  lay. 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal. 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  1 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies. 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
.\dds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads  ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 
And  sinks  the  newly  risen  hill. 

Now  1  gain  the  mountain's  Ijiow  ; 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapors  inter\'ene  ; 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  liow  ! 
And,  swelling  to  embracer  the  light, 
Spreails  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliH's  arise. 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies  ; 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  ; 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads. 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  lloeks. 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise. 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue. 
The  yellow  beeeh,  the  sable  yew. 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows. 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs  ; 
And  beyond,  the  purple  grove. 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love  ! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  aiuf  level  l.awn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high. 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye  ; 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood  ; 
His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood  ; 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 


^ 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


40 


r^ 


h^ 


Tliat  Liist  an  awful  look  below  ; 

WliDst!  ivigged  walls  the  ivy  crceiis, 

Anil  with  her  arms  i'roin  i'liUiiig  keeps  ; 

So  Ipotli  a  safety  from  the  wind 

111  mutual  tk'iiendence  find. 

"I'is  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode  ; 

"r  is  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad  ; 

And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds  ; 

And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 

I  'oiieealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds  ; 

While,  ever  and  anon,  there  fall 

Jlujje  heaps  of  hoary,  moldered  wall. 

Yet  Time  has  seen,  —  that  lifts  the  low 

And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow, — 

II lis  .si'eu  this  broken  pile  complete, 

IIIl;  with  the  vanity  of  state. 

Hut  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  ! 

A  liule  rule,  a  little  sway, 

.A  suiilieam  in  a  winter's  day, 

I.s  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 

Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers,  how  they  run 
Tlirongh  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow,  — 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep  ! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  slic  ilresses  gi'een  and  gay 
Til  dispiTsr  our  cares  away. 

I'^viT  charming,  ever  new. 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  tlie  view  ! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow  ; 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low  ; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ; 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower  ; 
The  town  and  village,  dome  and  fann,  — 
Each  gives  each  a  double  charm. 
As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountainji  southern  side. 
Where  tlie  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide, 
Hiiw  rinse  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ! 
What  streaks  of  meadow  cross  the  eye  ! 
A  stcii,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream. 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem  ; 
So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face. 
Eyed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass  ; 
As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair, 
Clad  in  colors  of  the  air. 
Which,  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear  ; 
Still  we  tread  the  .same  coarse  way,  — 
The  present 's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

0,  may  I  with  myself  agree, 


And  never  covet  what  I  see  ; 
Content  me  with  a  humble  shade. 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid  ; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  ([uiet  from  the  soul. 
'T  is  thus  the  busy  heat  the  air, 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie  ; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings  ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  dee]i  ; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep  ; 
Wliile  the  birds  unbounded  Hy, 
And  with  nmsic  lill  the  sky,  — 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts  ;  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  I'eace  with  all  your  skill  ; 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  lier  on  the  marble  floor  : 
In  vain  you  search  ;  she  is  not  there  ! 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care  ! 
Grass  and  Howers  Quiet  troa<ls. 
On  the  meads  and  mountaindieads, 
Along  with  Pleasure,  —  close  allied, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side,  — 
And  often,  by  tlie  murmuring  rill. 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 


DOVER  CLIFF. 

Cd.ME   on,    sir;  here's   the   place:  sland   htill  ! 

How  fearful 
And  dizzy  't  is,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low ! 
The  crows  and  choughs  that  wing  the  midway  air 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles  :  half-way  down 
Hangs  one    that   gathers    samjihire,  —  dieadfu! 

trade  ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  biggei-  than  his  head  ; 
Tlie  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
A|i]iear  like  mice  ;  and  yon  tall  anchoring  bark. 
Diminished  to  her  cock  ;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight :  the  murmuring  surge. 
That  on  the  unnumbered  idle  pebbles  chafes. 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high.  —  I  '11  look  no  more  ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 


ALPINE  HEIGHTS, 

On  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  God  is  shed  ; 
He  paints  the  morning  red, 
The  flowerets  white  and  blue. 
And  feeds  them  with  his  dew. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 


f 


408 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-H} 


& 


Ou  Alpine  heiglits,  o'er  miiiiy  a  I'ragniut  heath, 
The  liiveliest  breezes  breathe  ; 
So  tree  and  pure  the  air, 
Mis  breath  seems  Moating  there. 

Ou  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  ihvells. 

Ou  Alpine  heights,  beneath  liis  niikl  bhio  eye. 

Still  vales  and  meadows  lie  ; 

The  soaring  glacier's  ice 

(!leams  like  a  paradise. 
On  .Vlpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

Down  .'Mpine  heights  the  silvery  streamlets  flow  ; 
There  the  bold  chamois  go  ; 
On  giddy  erags  they  stand. 
And  drink  from  his  own  hanil. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  in  troops  all  white  as  snow, 
The  sheep  and  wihl  goats  go  ; 
There,  in  the  solitude, 
lie  fdls  their  hearts  with  food. 

( >n  .Mpine  heights  a  loving  Father  ilwells. 

On  Alpine  heights  the  herdsman  tends  his  herd  ; 

His  Shepherd  is  the  Lord  ; 

For  he  who  feeds  the  sheep 

Will  sure  his  otl'spring  keep. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

From  the  German  of  KRUMMACHER, 

by  Charles  T.  Brooks. 


THE  GREAT  ST.   BERNARD. 

NuMiT  was  again  descending,  when  my  nuile, 
That  all  day  long  had  climbed  among  the  clouds, 
Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 
Let  down  from  heaven  itself,  transporting  nus 
Stopped,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door 
So  near  the  summit  of  the  G  reat  St.  Bernard  ; 
That  door  which  ever  on  its  hinges  moved 
To  them  that  knocked,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch. 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me. 
All  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  of  limb ; 
.■\nd  a  lay-brother  of  the  Hospital, 
Who,  as  we  toiled  below,  had  heard  by  tits 
The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear. 
Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  liis  hand. 
While  1  alighted. 

Ou  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church, 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity  ; 
The  vesper-bell,  for  't  was  the  vesper-hour. 
Duly  iiroclaiming  through  the  wiMernoss, 
"  All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  yoiu-  work. 
Stop  for  an  instant,  —  move  your  lips  in  prayer ! " 


And  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale,  — 

If  dale  it  might  be  called  so  near  to  heaven,  — 

A  little  lake,  where  never  tish  leaped  up, 

Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow ; 

A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky. 

On  its  dead  surlace  glinnucring.     'T  was  a  scene 

Resembling  nothing  1  hail  left  behind. 

As  though  all  worldly  tics  were  now  dissolved  ;  — 

And  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought. 

To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 

Under  a  bei-tling  clilf  stood  half  in  shadow 

A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead. 

For  such  as,  having  wamlered  from  their  way, 

Had  perished  miserably.     Side  by  side. 

Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company 

All  in  tlndr  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them  ; 

Their  features  full  of  life,  yet  motionless 

In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  sutfer  cliange. 

Though  the  barred  windows,  barred  against  the 

wolf, 
Are  always  open ! 


THE  DESCENT. 

Jlv  mule  refreshed,  his  bells 
Jingled  once  more,  the  signal  to  depart. 
And  we  set  out  in  the  gray  light  of  dawn. 
Descending  rapidly,  —  by  waterfalls 
Fast  frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 
That  in  their  long  career  had  stopt  midway ; 
At  length,  unchecked,  unbidden,  he  stood  still. 
And  all  his  bells  were  nmflled.     Then  my  guide. 
Lowering  his  voice,  addressed  me  ; —  "  Through 

this  chasm 
On,  and  say  nothing,  —  for  a  word,  a  breath. 
Stirring  the  air,  may  loosen  and  bring  down 
A  winter's  snow,  —  enough  to  overwhelm 
The  horse  and  foot  that,  night  and  day,  defilcil 
Along  this  path  to  conquer  at  Marengo." 

Samuel  Rogers. 


SONG  OK  THE  BROOK. 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  : 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern. 

To  bir-ker  down  a  valley. 

liy  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down. 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town. 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


-4J 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


409 


-a 


I  chattel-  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  shai-ps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout. 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots  : 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance. 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  m.ake  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows  ; 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

THE  RHINE. 

FROM  "CHILDE  HAROLD." 


The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  .ind  winding  Rluue, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine. 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  com  and  wine. 


And  scattered  cities  crowning  these. 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy,  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant-girls,  with  deep-blue  eyes. 

And  hands  which  ofter  early  flowers. 
Walk  snuling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 

Aliove,  the  frecpient  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray. 

And  many  a  rock  which  stec])ly  lowers. 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay. 

Look  o'(!r  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,  — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  ! 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me. 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be,  — 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  sucli ; 
For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear. 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
Anil  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here. 

When  thou  behold'st  them  droojjing  nigh, 
And  know'st  them  gathered  by  the  Kliine, 
Anil  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine  ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows. 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  vai-ying  round  : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  boimd 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here  ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  sjiot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  .so  dear. 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ? 

Lord  ijvron. 


ON  THE  RHINE. 

'T  WAS    mom,    and    beautiful    the    mountain's 
brow  — 
Hung  with  the  clusters  of  the  bending  vine  - 
Shone  in  the  early  light,  when  on  the  Rhine 
We  sailed  and  heard  the  waters  round  the  ]irow 
In  muraiurs  parting ;  varying  as  we  go. 
Rocks  after  rocks  come  forward  and  retire, 
As  some  gray  convent  wall  or  sunlit  spire 
Starts  up  along  the  banks,  unfolding  slow. 
Here  castles,  like  the  prisons  of  despair. 

Frown  as  we  pass  ;  —  there,  on  the  vineyard's 

side, 
Tlie  bursting  sunshine  pours  its  streaming  tidi' ; 
While  Grief,  forgetful  amid  scenes  so  fair. 
Counts  not  the  hours  of  a  long  summer's  day. 
Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  awa 
William  Lisi.r  Bow 


-^ 


[& 


41 U 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


■a 


h 


THE  VALLEY   BROOK. 

Fkesh  IViim  the  louiitiiins  of  tho  wooil 

A  rivvilot  of  the  valley  came. 
Ami  glideil  on  for  luiiiiy  a  rood, 

Fhished  with  the  morning's  ruddy  llame. 

The  air  was  fresh  and  soft  and  sweet ; 

The  slopes  in  spring's  new  verdure  lay. 
And  wet  with  dew-drops  at  my  feet 

Bloomed  the  young  violets  of  May. 

No  sound  of  busy  life  was  heanl 
.Xmid  those  pa.stures  lone  and  still, 

Save  the  faint  chirp  of  early  bird, 
Or  bleat  of  flocks  along  the  hill. 

1  traced  that  rivulet's  winding  way  ; 

New  scenes  of  beauty  opened  round, 
AVhere  meads  of  brighter  verdure  lay, 

And  lovelier  blossoms  tinged  the  ground. 

"Ah,  liappy  valley  stream  !  "  I  said, 

"Calm  glides  thy  wave  amid  the  flowers, 

Whose  fragrance  round  thy  path  is  shed 
Through  all  tlie  joyous  summer  hours. 

"0,  could  my  years,  like  thine,  be  passed 
In  sonu'  remote  and  silent  glen, 

■Where  1  conld  dwell  and  sleep  at  last. 
Far  from  the  tmstling  haunts  of  men  ! " 

But  what  new  eclioes  greet  my  ear  ? 

The  village  school-boy's  merry  call ; 
And  mid  the  village  hum  I  hear 

The  nuirmur  of  the  waterfall. 

I  looked  ;  the  widening  vale  betrayed 
A  pool  that  shone  like  burni.shed  steel. 

Where  that  bright  valley  strciuii  was  stayed 
To  turn  the  miller's  ponderous  wheel. 

Ah  !  why  should  1,  I  thought  with  shame. 

Sigh  for  a  life  of  solitude, 
When  even  this  stream  without  a  name 

Is  laboring  for  the  common  good. 

No  longer  let  me  shnn  my  part 

Amid  the  busy  scenes  of  life. 
But  with  a  warm  and  generous  heart 

Press  onward  in  the  glorious  strife. 

JOH.N  Howard  Brvant. 


AFTON  WATER. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes ; 
Flow  gently,  1  "11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  pnvise ; 
My  Mary  "s  asleep  by  thy  nmrmuring  stream, 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream.  I  1  fling  the  hours  away. 


Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  through 
the  glen. 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  lU'n, 

Thou  givcn-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  for- 
bear ; 

1  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Alton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clearwinding  rills ! 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  tlocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ! 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  .M'ton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 
How  wanton  thy  wateis  her  snowy  feet  lave. 
As,  gathering  sweet  tlov;ercts,  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave  ! 

Flow  gently,  sweet  .-Xftmr,  among  thy  green  braes  ; 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 
My  Mary  's  asleep  by  thy  murnmring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

K.Uir.KT  Bl'R.\S 


THE  SHADED  WATER. 

When  that  my  mood  is  sad,  and  in  the  noise 
And  bustle  of  the  crowd  I  feel  rebuke, 

1  turn  my  footstejis  from  its  hollow  joys 
And  sit  mc  down  beside  this  little  brook  ; 

The  waters  have  a  music  to  mine  ear 

It  glads  me  much  to  hear. 

It  is  a  quiet  glen,  as  you  may  see. 
Shut  in  from  all  intrusion  by  the  trees. 

That  s]iread  their  giant  branches,  broad  and  free. 
The  silent  growth  of  many  centuries  ; 

And  make  a  hallowed  time  for  hapless  moods, 

A  sabbath  of  the  woods. 

Few  know  its  quiet  .-ihelter,  —  lume,  like  me, 
Do  seek  it  out  with  svich  a  fond  desire. 

Poring  in  idlesse  mood  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  listening  as  the  voiceless  leaves  respire,  — 

When  the  far-traveling  breeze,  done  wandering, 

Kests  here  his  weary  wing. 

And  all  the  day,  with  fancies  ever  new. 

And  sweet  comjianions  from  tlieir  boundless 
store. 

Of  merry  elves  bespangled  all  with  dew. 
Fantastic  ereatui'es  of  the  old-time  lore, 

Watching  their  wild  but  unobtrusive  phiy. 


-S 


£h- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


411 


^a 


«-. 


A  gia<;ious  couch  —  the  root  of  an  old  oak 
Whose  brandies  yield  it  moss  and  canopy  — 

Is  mine,  and,  so  it  be  from  woodman's  stroke 
Secure,  shall  never  be  resigned  by  nic  ; 

It  hangs  above  the  stream  that  idly  Hies, 

Heedless  of  any  eyes. 

There,  with  eye  sometimes  shut,  but  upward  bent. 
Sweetly  I  muse  througli  many  a  i|uiet  lioui-. 

While  every  sense  on  earnest  mission  sent, 
Ketui'ns,  thought-laden,  back  witli  bloom  and 
flower ; 

Pursuing,  though  rebuked  by  those  who  moil, 

A  ijiohtuble  toil. 

And  still  the  waters,  trickling  at  my  feet, 
Wind  on  their  way  with  gentlest  melody. 

Yielding  sweet  music,  which  the  leavi-s  repeat, 
Above  them,  to  the  gay  breeze  gliding  by,  — 

Yet  not  so  rudely  as  to  send  one  sound 

Through  the  thick  cop.se  around. 

Sometimes  a  brighter  cloud  than  all  tlie  rest 
Hangs  o'er  the  aichway  opening  through  the 
trees. 

Breaking  the  spell  that,  like  a  slumt>er,  pressed 
On  my  worn  sj)irit  its  sweet  lu.xuries,  — 

And  with  awakened  vision  upward  bent, 

1  watch  the  firmament. 

How  like  its  sure  and  undisturbed  retreat  — 
Life's  sanctuary  at  last,  secure  from  stoi-m  — 

To  the  pure  waters  trickling  at  my  feet 

The  bending  trees  that  overshade  my  form  I 

So  far  as  sweetest  things  of  earth  may  seem 

Like  those  of  which  we  dream. 

Such,  to  my  mind,  is  the  ]>hilosoi)hy 
The  young  bird  teaches,  who,  with  suilden  flight. 

Sails  far  into  the  blue  that  spreads  on  high, 
Until  I  lose  him  from  my  straining  sight,  — 

With  a  most  lofty  discontent  to  fly 

Upward,  from  earth  to  sky. 

WlI.tJAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 


TO  SENECA  LAKE. 

Ox  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake. 
The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail. 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break. 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream. 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far. 

And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam. 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 


The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  noith-wind,  heave  their  foam. 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 
A.S  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide. 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below. 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon. 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

0,  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar. 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake. 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er  ! 


THE  BUGLE. 

FROM  "THE  PRINCESS," 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  acioss  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  <lying,  dying,  dying. 

0  hark  !  0  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  ami  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  rcjilying  : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  an-swer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying, 
Alfred  Tennvson. 


THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 

Thk  thoughts  arc  .strange  that  crowd  into  my 

brain, 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.      It  would  .seem 
As  if  (!od  poured  thee  from  his  hollow  hand, 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front. 
And  s|iokc  in  that  loud  voice  which  seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  .sake 
The  sound  of  many  waters  ;  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  l>ack. 
And  notch  his  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks 


^ 


p 


411: 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


^ 


h^- 


Det'ii  fiilk'th  unto  dci'i).     Ami  what  are  wo, 
That  hcai'  tlio  iiuestiou  ol'  that  voice  sublime  ! 
0,  wliat  lire  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side  ? 
Yea,  what  is  nil  the  riot  man  eun  make 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar  ! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  wdiat  art  thou  to  Him 
Wlio  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  lol'tiesl  mountains  ( —  a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might 

John  C.  C.   BKAINAKD. 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORK. 

OUSCKIUED  IN  RUVMUS  FOR  TUB  NURSIiRY. 

"  How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore  ? " 
My  little  boy  asked  mo 
Thus,  once  on  a  tinu'  ; 
And  moreover  he  tasked  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 
Anon  at  the  word, 
There  tirst  came  one  daughter, 
And  then  came  another. 
To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother. 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 
For  of  rhymes  1  had  store  ; 
And  't  was  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing  ; 
Because  1  was  Laureate 
To  tlrem  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell  ; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains. 
Its  rills  and  its  gills  ; 
Throvigh  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 
In  its  own  little  lake. 
.\nd  thence  at  departing, 
Awakening  and  stiirting. 
It  runs  through  the  reeds, 
And  away  it  proceeds. 
Through  meadow  and  glado, 

In  sun  and  in  shailc. 
And  through  the  wood-shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  Hurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Ilurry-skurry. 


Here  it  comes  sparkling. 

And  there  it  lies  darkling  ; 

Now  smoking  and  frothing 

Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 

Till,  in  this  rapid  race 

l)n  W'hich  it  is  bent. 

It  reaches  the  place 

Of  its  steep  descent. 

Tile  cataract  strong 
Tlien  plunges  along. 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among  ; 
Uising  and  leaping, 
Sinking  and  creeping, 
Swelling  and  sweeping, 
Showering  and  springing, 
Flying  and  Hinging, 
Writhing  and  ringing, 
Kddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking. 
Turning  and  twisting, 
.■\round  and  around 
With  endless  rebound  : 
Smiting  and  lighting, 
A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 
Confounding,  astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  w  ith  its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding. 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  piuting. 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  drip|>ing  and  skipping. 
And  hitting  and  splitting. 
And  shining  and  twining. 
Ami  rattling  and  battling, 
Aiul  shaking  and  qnaking, 
And  pouring  and  roaring. 
And  waving  and  raving. 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  (lowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning. 
And  foaming  and  roaming. 
Ami  dinning  and  spinning. 
And  dropping  and  hopping. 
And  working  and  jerking. 
And  gnggling  and  struggling. 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning  ; 

And  i;littcriiig  and  frittering. 
And  gathering  and  feathering. 
And  whitening  and  brightening. 
And  (piivering  atui  shivering, 


i 


[fi-^- 


FOEMU  OF  NATURE. 


413 


-a 


B-^ 


Anil  ImiTyiiif;  iiiid  skurrying, 
And  tliiiiiiliiiiig  and  lluiind«ring  ; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding, 

And  Tailing  and  brawling  and  si)rawling, 

And  driving  and  riving  aud  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wiinkling. 

And  sounding  and  bounding  aud  rounding. 

And  bubbling  ami  trouliling  aud  doubling, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling, 

Aud  clattering  and  battering  and  sliatteriug  ; 

Kctreating  and  beating  and  muetiug  aud  sheeting, 
I  iilaying  and  straying  aud  playing  aud  spraying. 
Advancing  aud  prancing  and  glancing  and  dan- 
cing, 
Hccoiling,  tunuoiliug  aud  toiling  aud  Iwiling, 
And  gleaming  aud  streaming  aud  steaming  aud 

beaming. 
And  rushing  aud  Hushing  and  brushing  audgush- 

iiig. 
And  Happing  aud  rapping  and  clapping  and  slap- 

1 ''■'«. 
And    curling    and    whirling    aud    purling   and 

twirling, 
And  thuui])ing  and  j>lumpiug  and  bnm]iing  and 

jumping, 
And    (lashing   aud  Hashing  and   splashing   aud 

clashing  ; 
y\i]d  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending. 
Sounds  and  motions  for  ever  and  ever  are  blending 
All  at  onco  aud  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  ujjroar,  — 
And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEV. 


WHAT  THE  WINDS   BRING. 

Wrpioii  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  cold  ? 

The  nortli-vvind,  Freddy,  and  all  the  snow  ; 
Aud  the  sheep  will  scamper  into  tlie  fold 

WIhm  the  north  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  heat  ? 

The  south-wind,  Katy  ;  and  corn  will  glow. 
Anil  pcTchcB  redden  for  you  to  eat. 

When  the  south  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  bi'ings  the  rain  ? 

The  cast-wind,  Arty  ;  and  farmers  know 
Th.it  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane 

When  the  east  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  flowers  ? 

Th(!  west-wind,  Bessy  ;  and  soft  and  low 
Tlic  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours 

Whi'U  tlie  west  begins  to  blow. 

EDMUND  Cl.ARENCU  STEOMAN 


THE  ORIENT. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  arc  done  in  their 

clime ; 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the 

turtle. 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine. 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever 

shine  ; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oiipresscd  with 

|>erfume, 
Wa.x  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom  ? 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
Aud  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute  ; 
Where  t  he  tintsoftheearth,  and  the  lines  of  the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
Aud  the  pur|)le  of  ocean  i.s  deepest  in  dye  ; 
1  Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  tlie  ro.scs  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man.  Is  divine  ? 
'T  is  the  clime  of  the  East ;  't  is  the  land  of  the 

Sun,  — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  liis  children  liave 

done  '. 
0,  wild  as  the  accents  of  lover's  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear  and   the  talen 

wliich  they  tell ! 


FROM  "PARADISE  AND  THE  PERI." 

Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
Softly  the  light  of  eve  roiroses, 
Anil,  like  a  gloiy,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon, 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  tow.jrs, 

Aud  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowei-s. 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one  who  lookf-'  from  upjier  air 
O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there. 
How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow. 
The  life,  how  spai-kling  from  below  ! 
Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 
Of  golden  melons  on  their  bank.s. 
More  golden  where  the  sunliglit  falls  ; 
flay  lizards,  glittering  on  the  walls 
Of  ruined  shrines,  }>usy  aud  bright 
As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 
And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 
Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks, 
With  their  rich  restless  wings,  that  gleam 
Variou.sly  in  the  erim.son  beam 
or  the  warm  west,  —  as  if  inlaid 


.4 


eO- 


414 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-^ 


e- 


Witli  brilliimts  tVom  the  mine,  or  nuule 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  sucU  us  span 

The  unuloiuled  skies  of  reristaii  ! 

And  then,  the  mingling  soiinils  that  come, 

Of  sheplienl's  ancient  reed,  with  hum 

Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Bamiuetiiig  through  the  Howery  vales  ;  — 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine. 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales  ! 

TnOMAS  MOORE. 


THE  VALE  OF   CASHMERE. 

FROM    "THE  LIC.HI    OF  THF   HARFM." 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  ('ashniero. 
With  its  roses  the  brighti'st  that  earth  evergave. 

Its  temj-ilos,  and  grottoes,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their 
wave  ? 

0,  to  see  it  at  sunset,  —  when  warm  o'er  the  lake 
Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws. 

Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  lingering  to 
take 
\  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she 

When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleam- 
ing half  shown, 
Aud  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its 

own. 
Here  the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret  swells. 
Here  the  Magian  his  uru  full  of  perfume  is 

swinging. 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 
Kound  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is 

ringing. 
Or   to   see   it   by  moonlight,  —  when   mellowly 

shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines ; 
When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall  of 

stars. 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn    from   the    Isle  of 

Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool  shining  walks  where  the  young 

people  meet. 
Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute  as  slowly  it  breaks. 
Hills,  cupolas,  foimtains,  called  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  they  were  just  born  of  the 

sun  ; 
When  the  spirit  of  fragrance  is  \\\i  with  the  day. 
From  his  harem  of  night-llowers  stealing  away  ; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos  like  a 

lover 
The  young  aspen-trees  till  they  tremble  all  over ; 


When  the  east  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  lirst 

hojies. 

And  day,  with  its  banner  of  radiance  unfurled, 

Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that 

opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  valley  of  bliss  to  the  world ! 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


A  FOREST  HYMN. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.    Ere  man 
learned 
To  liew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them,  —  ere  he  fi'amed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  hick 
The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  aiul  silence,  he  knelt  down. 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     Foi-  his  simple  heart 
Miglit  not  resist  the  sacred  intluences 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  jilace, 
Aud  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
Aud  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
(lod's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  ourfrail  hands  have  raised  ?   Let  me,  at  least, 
Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood. 
Offer  one  hymn,  —  thrice  happy  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hatli  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Pidst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look 

down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and  forthwith  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  thy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  theirgreenleavesin  thy  breeze. 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  eentury-liring 

crow. 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till  at  last  they  stooil. 
As  now  they  stand,  massy  and  tall  and  dark. 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshiper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults. 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Keport  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boa.st  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here,  — thou 

fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  ti-ces 
In  music  ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 


^ 


.a- 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


415  '— ' 


That  from  the  inmost  darkii.    ^'1  Up    ilhi' 

Comes,  scarcely  felt;  tlie  bail,;  !i     i^  -louud, 

Tlic  fresh  moist  ground,  arc  :ili  m  '  i:p  i  a  m  h  thee. 

Jlere  is  continual  worship  ;  —  mtlure,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love. 

Enjoys  thy  presence.      Noiselessly  around. 

From  perch  to  pei'ch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  hc'rbs. 

Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps  the  roots 

()f  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

<-)f  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades. 

Of  thy  perfections.    Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.    This  mighty  oak,  — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated,  —  not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep. 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  llowcr 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile. 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mold. 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visilile  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  a\ved  within  mc  wlim  1  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me,  —  the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die  ;  but  see  again. 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses,  — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  fomis.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Molder  beneath  them.     0,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  Earth's  charms  !  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
Aftir  I  111'  flight  of  untold  centuries. 
The  fi'csliiiess  of  her  far  beginning  lies. 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy  Death,  —  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne,  the  sepulchcr. 
And  of  the  trhimphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  them.selves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  out- 
lived 
The  generation  bom  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  lioary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ;  —  and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 


But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
lietire,  and  in  thy  presence  ica.^sure 
My  feeble  virtue.      Here  its  enemies. 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble,  and  are  still.     O  God  !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  hn- 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament. 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uinoots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities,  —  who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  sti'il'es  and  follies  by? 
O,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
(Jf  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  nieditJite, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty. 
And  to  the  beavitiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  ordei-  of  our  lives. 


TIIK  PRIMEVAL  KOKKST. 

Tjii.s  is   the  forest   primeval.     The  mumiuring 

pines  and  the  hemlocks. 
Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  gannents  green,  in- 

di.stinet  in  the  twilight. 
Stand  like  Druids  of  old,   witli  voices  sad  and 

proiihctic. 
Stand  like  hui'iiers  hoar,   with  beards  that  rest 

on  their  bosoms. 
Loud  from    its   rocky  caverns,   the   deep-voiced 

neighboring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the 

wail  of  the  forest. 
This  is  the  forest  primeval  ;  but  where  are  the 

hearts  that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  wood- 
land the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 

Hr.-NRV  W.   LONGFELLOW. 


SONG  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Of  all  the  garden  flowers. 

The  fairest  is  the  rose ; 
Of  winds  that  stir  the  bowers, 

O,  there  is  none  that  blows 
Like  the  south,  the  gentle  south  ; 

For  that  balmy  breeze  is  ours. 

Cold  is  the  frozen  Noi-t.h, 

In  its  stern  and  savage  mood  ; 


^- 


•416 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


n 


Mid  the  gales  come  drifting  forth 
lileak  snows  and  drenching  flood  ; 

Hut  the  South,  the  gentle  South, 
Thaws  to  love  the  willing  blood. 

Bethink  thee  of  the  vales, 

Witli  their  birds  and  blossoms  fair,  — 
Of  tlu>  ihirkling  nightingales, 

'I'luit  cliarm  the  starry  air, 
hi  the  South,  the  gentle  South  ; 
Ah  !  our  own  dear  home  is  there  ! 

Where  doth  beauty  brightest  glow 
With  each  rich  and  radiant  charm, 

Eyes  of  night  and  brow  of  snow. 
Cheery  lips,  and  bosom  warm  ? 

In  the  Sotith,  the  gentle  South,  — 
There  she  waits  and  works  her  harm. 

Say,  shines  the  star  of  love 

From  the  clear  and  cloudless  sky, 

The  shadowy  groves  above. 

Where  the  nestling  ring-doves  lie  ? 

From  the  South,  the  gentle  South, 
Gleams  its  lone  and  lucid  eye. 

Tlien  turn  ye  to  the  home 

Of  your  brethren  and  your  bride  ; 

Far  astray  your  steps  may  roam, 
And  more  joys  for  thee  abide 

In  the  South,  our  gentle  South, 
Than  in  all  the  world  beside. 

David  M.  Moir 


THE  GREENWOOD. 

0,  WHEN  'tis  summer  weather. 

And  the  yellow  bee,  with  fairy  sound, 

Tlu>  waters  clear-  is  humming  round, 

And  the  cuckoo  sings  unseen. 

And  tlie  leaves  are  waving  green,  — 

O,  then  't  is  sweet. 

In  some  retreat. 
To  hear  the  murmuring  dove, 
With  those  whom  on  earth  alone  we  love. 
And  to  wind  through  the  greenwood  together. 

But  when  't  is  winter  weather, 

And  crosses  grieve. 

And  friends  deceive, 

And  rain  and  sleet 

The  lattice  beat,  — 

0,  then  'tis  sweet 

To  sit  and  sing 
Of  the  friends  with  whom,  in  the  days  of  spring 
We  roamed  through  the  greenwood  together. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


THE  BRAVE  OLD  OAK. 

A  SONG  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak. 
Who  hath  ruled  in  the  greenwood  long  ; 

Here 's  health  and  renown  to  his  broad  gi-eencrown, 
j     And  his  fifty  arms  so  strong. 

There's  fear  in  his  frown  when  the  suu  goes  down. 
And  the  lire  in  the  west  fades  out ; 

And  he  showeth  his  might  on  a  wild  midnight. 
When  the  storm  through  his  branches  shout. 

Then  here  's  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak, 
Who  stands  in  his  pride  alone  ; 

And  still  flourish  he,  a  hale  green  tree. 
When  a  hmidred  years  are  gone  ! 

In  the  days  of  old,  when  the  spring  with  cold 

Had  brightened  his  branches  gray. 
Through  the  grass  at  liis  feet  crept  maidens  sweet, 

To  gather  the  dew  of  May. 
And  on  that  day  to  the  rebeck  gay 

They  frolicked  with  lovesome  swains  ; 
They  are  gone,  they  are  dead,  in  the  churchyard 
laid. 

But  the  tree  it  still  remains. 
Then  here  's,  etc. 

He  saw  the  rare  times  when  the  Christmas  chimes 

Were  a  merry  sound  to  hear. 
When  the  squire's  wide  hall  and  the  cottage  small 

Were  filled  with  good  English  cheer. 
Now  gold  hath  the  sway  we  all  obey, 

And  a  ruthless  king  is  he  ; 
But  he  never  shall  send  our  ancient  friend 

To  be  tossed  on  the  stormy  sea. 
Then  here  's,  etc. 

HENRV  F.   CHORLEV. 


THE  ARAB  TO  THE  PALM. 

Next  to  thee,  0  fair  gazelle, 

0  Beddowee  girl,  beloved  so  well ; 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 

Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to  thee ; 

Next  to  ye  both,  I  love  the  palm, 

With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of  balm  ; 

Next  to  ye  both,  I  love  the  tree 
Whose  fluttering  shadow  wraps  us  three 
With  love  and  silence  aiul  mystery ! 

Our  tribe  is  many,  onr  poets  vie 
With  any  under  the  Arab  sky  ; 
Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  palm  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 


-^ 


[& 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


417 


-a 


^ 


He  lifts  hiiJ  leaves  in  the  sunbeam's  glance, 
As  the  Almehs  lift  their  arms  in  dance,  — 

A  slumberous  motion,  a  passionate  sign, 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood  like  wine. 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
Dreaming  where  the  beloved  may  be  ; 

And  when  the  warm  south-winds  arise. 
He  breathes  his  longing  in  fervid  sighs, 

Quickening  odors,  kisses  of  balm. 

That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  j)alra. 

The  sun  may  flame,  and  the  sands  may  stir, 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches  her. 

O  tree  of  love,  by  that  love  of  thine. 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine  ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won  ! 

If  I  were  a  king,  O  stately  ti'ec, 
A  likeness,  glorious  ,'us  might  be. 
In  the  court  of  my  palace  1  'd  build  for  thee ; 

With  a  shaft  of  silver,  burnished  blight. 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite  ; 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  ablaze. 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chi-ysoprase  ; 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise. 

Should  night  and  morning  frame  new  lays,  — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine  ; 
But  none,  0  palm,  should  equal  mine  ! 

Bavard  Taylor. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm. 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ? 

Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm  ? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath. 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark  sheath. 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails. 

Fibers  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails. 

And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  traUs  ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so  well  ? 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 


What  are  its  jars,  so  smoolli  and  tine. 

But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  ami  wine, 

And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the  Line  ? 

Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and  calm  ? 

The  master,  whose  cunning  and  skill  could  charm 

Cargo  and  ship  from  the  Vjounteous  palm. 

In  the  cabin  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat  solt, 
Kiom  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is  quaffed. 
And  a  palm  thatch  shields  from  tlie  sun  aloft  ! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands. 

And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his  hands, 

Traced  with  tlie  Prophet's  wise  commands  ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 

Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm-leaf  braid. 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was  made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
Whereon  he  kneels  wlien  the  day  is  done. 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed  as  one  ! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wlierein  all  u.ses  of  man  combine,  — 
House  and  raiment  and  food  and  wine  ! 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release. 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in  peace. 

"  Allah  il  Allah  !  "  he  sings  his  psalm 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ; 
"Thanks  to  Allah,  who  gives  the  palm  !  " 

JOHN  CREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

0  KE.VDER  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly-tree ' 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 
Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

Wrinkled  and  keen  ; 
No  g|-azing  cattle,  through  their  prickly  round, 

( 'an  reach  to  wound  ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear. 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1  love  to  riew  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralize  ; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblems  see 
Wherewith,  perchance,  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme. 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 


-^ 


e^- 


418 


POEMS  OF  N ATI' HE. 


■^ 


Thus,  thovigh  iiluvail,  i>uivliimoo,  1  miglit  nppwu' 

llivisli  mill  imsloiv  ; 
To  thoso  who  on  my  U'isinv  \voi\Ul  iutnuU', 

Ivosorvoil  iiiul  nuio  ; 
liciitU'  nt  homo  lUiiul  my  iVioiuls  1   ,1  Ih', 
l.ikt>  the  hij;h  h'avos  mum  llio  ho\lytivo. 

Ami  should  my  youth  —  as  youl h  U  upt,  1  know  — 

Somo  hmsUuoss  show, 
All  viiiu  Hsiioiitics  I,  day  by  day, 

Would  wear  away, 
Till  tlio  smooth  (ouipor  of  my  ng«  should  be 
l.iki'  tlio  high  U'livos  upon  the  hoUy-tivo. 

And  as,  wlu'M  all  tlio  sumuu'i'  tivos  aiv  swu 

So  bright  and  givon, 
Tlio  hoUyloavos  tlioii-  I'adeloss  hues  display 

Loss  bviglit  thau  thoy  ; 
liut  whou  tho  l>iiu'  and  wintiy  woods  wo  soo, 
^Vllat  thou  so  ohooiful  ns  tho  hoUy-tivo  ! 

So,  serious  should  u\y  youth  appear  auioiig 

The  thoughtless  thiviig  ; 
So  would  I  seem,  amid  the  yoxiug  aud  gay, 

Moiv  gmve  than  they  ; 
That  iu  my  ag<'  as  eheert'ul  1  might  Ih> 
As  the  given  winter  of  the  liolly-tlx>e. 

ROllURT  SlH'THEY. 


THE  srU'E-TKiUS. 

TliK  spieo-tre*"  lives  iu  the  gai\len  git>en  ; 

Ueside  it  the  fountain  tlows  ; 
And  a  fair  bii\l  sits  the  Iwughs  Ivtween, 

Aiul  sings  his  melodious  wws, 

N  o  giveuer  giuxleu  e'er  was  known 
Within  the  Innnuls  of  an  earthly  king  ; 

N  0  lovelier  skies  have  over  shone 
Thau  those  that  illumine  its  eonstaut  spring. 

That  eoil-bouud  stem  has  branehes  three  : 
On  eaoh  a  thousand  blossoms  grow  ; 

And,  old  as  nught  of  time  ean  Ih<, 
The  root  stands  last  in  the  rwks  Mow. 

In  the  spiey  shade  ne'er  seems  to  tiro 
The  fount  that  builds  a  silvery  dome  ; 

Aud  tlakes  of  purple  ami  ruby  fnv 
tiush  out,  imd  siVH'kle  amid  the  tVvun. 

The  fair  white  biwl  of  flaming  eivst, 
And  asm*  wings  Knirojit  with  gold, 

>>e"er  has  he  known  a  pause  of  ivst, 

Uut  sings  tho  lament  tliat  he  fi-anved  of  old  ; 


h. 


"  0  prineess  bright  !  how  long  tlie  night 
Sinee  thou  art  sunk  in  tlu>  w»tors  elear  ! 


How  sadly  tliey  How  fixun  the  depth  below,  — 
How  long  \nust  I  sing  and  thou  wilt  not  hoar  I 

"  The  watei's  play,  and  the  llowera  are  gay. 

Ami  the  skies  aiv  sunny  above  ; 
I  would  that  all  eould  fade  and  fall, 

Aud  1,  too,  eease  to  mourn  my  love, 

"  t\  many  a  year,  so  wakeful  and  divar, 

1  have  sorrowed  and  watehed,  beloved,  for  lliee  ! 

l!ut  tlieiv  oomes  no  bivath  fixiui  the  ehauibei's  of 
death. 
While  the  lifeless  fount  gushes  under  the  troo." 

Tho  skies  grow  dark,  and  they  glaro  with  red  ; 

The  troe  shakes  oil"  its  spiey  bloom  ; 
Tho  waves  of  the  fount  iu  a  blaek  pool  spivad  ; 

Aud  in  thunder  sounds  the  gaixlen's  doom. 

Down  springs  the  biitl  with  a  long  shrill  cry. 

Into  the  sable  aud  angry  Hood  ; 
Anil  the  faee  of  the  pind,  as  he  falls  from  high, 

I'unlles  in  eiivling  stains  of  blood. 

Uut  sudden  again  ni>swells  the  fount  ; 

Higher  and  higher  the  watei's  How,  — 
In  a  glittering  diiunoiid  aivli  they  mount. 

And  round  it  the  eolors  of  mornini;  glow. 

Finer  and  finer  the  watery  mound 
Softens  and  melts  to  a  thin-spun  veil. 

And  tones  of  musie  eirole  around. 
And  liear  to  tlio  stars  the  fountain's  tale. 

And  swift  the  eddying  rainKiw  seiven 

Kails  in  dew  on  the  grassy  floor  : 
I'  nder  the  spiee-treo  the  giuxlen's  queen 

Sits  by  her  lover,  who  wails  no  moiv. 

lOllN  STERLING. 


THE  GRAPE-VINE  SWING. 

LlTiiK  and  long  as  the  seqiont  tniin. 

Springing  aud  elinging  from  tive  to  tree. 
Now  darting  upwar>l,  now  down  again. 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl  that  aiv  stnuige  to  -see  : 
Never  took  serpent  a  deadlier  hold. 

Never  the  eongar  a  wilder  spring. 
Strangling  the  oak  with  the  Ih«'s  fold, 

S|vuuiing  the  bweh  with  the  oondor's  wing. 

Yet  no  foo  that  we  fear  to  seek,  — 

The  lH>y  leajw  wild  to  thy  rude  embr!UH> ; 
Thy  bulging  arms  Iwir  as  soft  a  eheek 

As  ever  on  lover's  broast  found  place  ; 
On  thy  waving  train  is  a  playful  hold 

Thou  shalt  never  to  lighter  grasp  persuade  ; 
AVhile  a  u>aiden  .sits  in  thy  drooping  fold. 

And  swings  and  sings  iu  the  noonday  sliade  ! 


-^ 


I'OJiMS  OF  NATURE. 


419 


,r^ 


0  giant  straiigi;  of  our  ijOut)ic.-iii  woods  ! 

I  dream  of  t)if:(;  still  in  tUo  well-known  s[K>t, 
Though  our  vessel  strains  o'er  the  oeean  lloodu, 
And  the  northern  forest  beholdn  thee  not ; 

1  think  of  thee  still  with  a  sweet  regret, 

As  the  corilage  yields  to  my  playful  grasj),  — 

Dost  thou  Sluing  and  cling  in  our  woodlancls  yet  ? 

Docs  the  niaideu  still  swing  in  thy  giant  elasp  I 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Faiu  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast ! 

Your  date  is  not  so  pa«t 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 

To  blush  and  gently  sniile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What  !  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  gooil  night  ? 

'T  is  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth, 
Merely  to  show  your  worth. 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 

And  aft^ir  they  liave  shown  their  pride 
Like  you  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

ROBERT  hk 


ALMOND  BLOSSOM. 

Blossom  of  the  almond-trees, 
April's  gift  to  April's  bees, 
Birthday  ornament  of  spring. 
Flora's  fairest  daught<-rling  ;  — 
f'orning  when  no  flowerets  dare 
Trust  the  cruel  outer  air. 
Whin  the  royal  king-cup  bold 
Dares  not  don  his  coat  of  gold. 
And  the  sturdy  blaekthorn  spray 
Keeps  his  silver  for  the  May  ;  — 
Coming  when  no  flowerets  would, 
Save  thy  lowly  sisterhood,  / 

Early  violets,  blue  and  white,/ 
Dying  for  their  love  of  light. 
Almond  blossom,  sent  to  teach  us 
That  the  spring  days  soon  will  reach  us. 
Lest,  with  longing  over-tried. 
We  die  as  the  violets  died,  — 
Blossom,  clouding  all  the  tree 
With  thy  crimson  broidery. 


Long  before  a  leaf  of  green 

On  the  bravest  bough  is  seen,  — 

Ah  !  when  winter  winiLt  are  swinging 

All  thy  re<i  bells  into  ringing. 

With  a  bee  in  every  bell, 

Almond  bloom,  we  greet  thee  well  ! 

Edwin  ar.'.-old. 


THE  PLANTING  OK  THK  APPLE  TKEE. 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade  ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  Ix.-d  1«;  maije  ; 
There  gently  Lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mold  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  t4;nderly. 
As  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-shc<:t ; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

Wliat  plant  we  in  this  apple-trcc  ? 
Bud.s,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush  with  criuison  breast. 
Shall  haunt,  and  sing,  and  hide  her  nest ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shaiJoV  lor  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  thus  aijple-trcc  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  tlowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard  jow,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  througfi  our  open  doors  ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  l«e. 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  .■iilent  room. 
For  the  glad  infant  sjirigs  of  bloom. 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  wc  in  this  apple-tree  ! 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon. 
And  drop,  when  gentle  aii-s  come  by. 
That  fan  tlie  blue  September  sky. 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee. 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragi-ant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-trcc, 
The  winter  stare  are  <|uivering  bright. 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night. 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage  hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  sliall  sec, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 


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e- 


420 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


^^ 


Ami  ftoldi'U  oiango  ol'  tho  Lino, 
Tlic  I'niit  ol'  tlio  iiiiiilo-troo. 

'I'lio  iViiitaiic  of  this  iijiiilc-trco 
Wiiuls  iiini  mir  Mug  of  stri[io  and  stai- 
Sliall  Ileal-  to  coasts  tliat  lio  afar, 
Wlu'i'o  men  sliall  woiulor  at  tlio  view, 
Ami  ask  in  what  lair  gi-ovos  tlioy  grew  ; 

Ami  sojoiiniei's  beyoml  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  ehihlhood's  careless  day 
And  long,  long  houi-s  of  suiniuer  play, 

In  tho  shade  of  the  apjile-treo. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apide-treo 
A  hroader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom. 
And  loosen,  when  tho  frost-clouds  lower. 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  wu 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie. 
The  suiiimci's  songs,  tho  autumn's  sigh, 

111  I  lie  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

.\nd  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tivo. 
O,  when  its  aged  biiiiiches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below. 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Opiiress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  l 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be. 
Amid  the  toils,  tho  strifes,  the  teal's 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  ofycai's 

Is  wasting  this  appUi-trco  ? 

"  Who  planted  this  old  applo-treo  ?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say  ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem. 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  thom  : 

"  A  poet  of  tho  land  was  he, 
l?orn  in  tho  rude  but  good  old  times  ; 
'T  is  said  he  made  some  ipiaint  old  rhymes 

On  planting  tho  apple-tivo." 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


h 


THE  MAIZE. 


A  SONG  for  the  plant  of  my  own  native  West, 

Whoro  nature  and  freedom  reside. 
By  plenty  still  crowned,  and  by  peace  ever  blest. 

To  the  corn  !  the  green  corn  of  her  ]>ride  ! 
In  climes  of  the  East  has  the  olive  been  sung. 

And  the  grape  Vieen  the  theme  of  their  lays. 
But  for  thee  shall  a  harp  of  tho  backwoods  he 
strung. 

Thou  blight,  over  beautiful  maize  ! 


Afar  in  the  forest  the  rude  cabins  rise, 

And  send  up  their  pillars  of  smoko. 
And  the  topsof  their  columns  are  lost  in  the  skios, 

O'er  tho  heads  of  the  cloud-kissing  oak  ; 
Xetir  the  skirt  of  the  grove,  where  the  sturdy  arm 
swings 

The  ax  till  tho  old  giant  sways, 
.\nd  echo  repeats  every  Ijlow  as  it  rings. 

Shoots  the  green  and  the  glorious  maize  I 

There  buds  of  tho  buckeye  in  spring  arc  tho  lirst, 

And  the  willow's  gold  hair  then  appears. 
And  snowy  the  cups  of  the  dogwood  that  burst 

Hy  the  rcil  biul,  with  pink-tinted  tears. 
.\iid  striped  thi'  bolls  which  the  poppy  holds  up 

For  the  dew,  and  the  sun's  yellow  rays, 
.\iid  brown  is  the  pawpaw's  shade-blossoming  clip, 

In  the  wood,  near  the  sun-loving  maize  ! 

When  through  the  dark  soil  the  bright  steel  of 
the  plow 

Turns  the  mold  from  its  unbroken  bed 
Tho  plowman  is  cheered  by  the  lincli  on  the 
bough. 

And  the  blackbird  doth  follow  his  tread. 
And  idle,  afar  on  tho  landscape  descried. 

The  deep-lowing  kino  slowly  graze, 
.'Viul  nibbling  the  grass  on  the  sunny  hillside 

Are  the  sheep,  hedged  away  from  the  maize. 

AVith  springtime  ami  cultiui',  in  iiKirtial  array 

It  waves  its  green  broadswoiils  on  high, 
.Viid  lights  with  the  giile,  in  a  Huttering  fray, 

.\nd  the  sunbeams,  which  fjill  from  the  sky  ; 
It  strikes  its  green  blades  at  the  zephyi's  at  noon, 

And  at  night  at  the  swift-Hying  fays. 
Who  ride  through  tho  darkness  the  beams  of  tho 
moon, 

Through  the  spears  and  the  flags  of  tho  maize  ! 

When  till'  summer  is  tienw  -still  its  banners  are 
green,  j 

Each  warrior's  long  beaixl  growoth  ri'd. 
His  omerald-bright  swoni  is  sharp-pointed  and 
keen. 
And  golden  his  tflssel-plumed  head. 
.'\s  a  host  of  armed  knights  set   a  monarch  at 
naught. 
That  defy  the  day-god  to  his  gnze. 
And,  revived  every  morn  from  the  battle  that's 
fought, 
Fre-sh  stand  the  green  ranks  of  the  maize  ! 

Hut  brown  comes  the  autumii,  and  sear  grows 
the  I'orii, 

.\iid  the  woods  like  a  rainbow  ai-e  ilrcssed, 
.\iid  but  for  the  cock  and  the  noontide  horn 

Old  Time  would  be  tempted  to  rest. 


-ff 


rt-t- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


421 


r^ 


Tier'  Iinniming  tieo  fans  olF  a  shower  of  gold 
Fioiii  the:  inuUeiii'a  long  rod  as  it  sways, 

All'!  dry  gi'ow  the  loaves  which  protecting  infold 
The  ears  of  the  well-ri|)cned  maize  ! 

At  l(!ngth  Indian  Summer,  the  lovely,  cloth  come,  I 

With  its  blue  frosty  niglits,  and  days  still,        j 
When  distantly  clear  sounds  the  waterfall's  hum, 

And  the  sun  smokes  ablaze  on  the  hill  ! 
A  dim  veil  hangs  over  the  landscape  and  flood. 

And  the  hills  are  all  mellowed  in  haze, 
While  Fall,  creeping  on  like  a  monk  'neath  his 
hood, 

Plucks  the  thick-rustling  wealth  of  the  maize. 

And  the  heavy  wains  creak  to  the  bams  large 
and  gray. 

Where  the  treasure  securely  we  hold. 
Housed  safefrom  the  tempest,  dry-sheltfucdaway, 

1)111-  blessing  more  precious  than  gold  ! 
And  long  for  this  manna  that  springs  from  the 
sod 

Shall  we  gratefully  give  Him  the  praise, 
The  source  of  all  bounty,  our  Father  and  God, 

Who  sent  ua  from  heaven  the  maize  ! 

WILLIAM   W,    KOSDICK, 


THE  POTATO. 

I  ',\i  a  careless  potato,  and  care  not  a  pin 

How  into  existence  I  came  ; 
If  they  planted  me  drill-wisi:  or  dibbled  me  in. 

To  me  'tis  exactly  the  same. 
The  bean  and  the  pea  may  more  loftily  tower. 

Hut  I  care  not  a  l)utton  for  them  ; 
Defiance  I  nod  with  my  beautiful  fhjwer 

When  the  earth  is  hoed  up  to  my  stem. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  PUMPKIN. 


When  till-  gray-haired  New-Knglauder  sees  round 

his  boarrl 
The  old  broken  links  of  all'ei-tion  restored, 
When    the  care-weaiied  man  seeks  his  mother 

oii'-e  more. 
Anil  Ihi:  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled 

before. 
What  moistens  thelip,  an<!  what  biightens  the  eye  ? 
What  calls  back  the  past  like  the  rich  pumjikiii- 

pie  ', 

(I,  fruit  loved  of  boyhood  1  the  old  days  recalling, 
When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts 

were  falling  ! 
When  wihl,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 
Olaringoutthroughthedark  witha camlle  within  ! 
When   we   laughed  round   the  (•oin-hca[i,   with 

hearts  all  in  tune, 
Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  our  lantern  the  moon. 
Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  traveled  like  steam 
In  a  puni])kin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her 

team  ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present !  —  none  sweeter  or 

better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter  ! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  jiastry  mori'  fini'. 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking,  than 

thine  ! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to 

express. 
Swells  my  heart  thatthy  shadow  may  never  he  less. 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  h(^  lengthenerl  ludow, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin-vine 

grow. 
And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  pumjikin-jiiit ! 
John  Grkrnli  af  Whittihr. 


HYMN  TO   THE    FLOWERS. 


ONthebar.ksoftheXenil,thedarkSpanishmaiden  Day-staks  !    that   ope   your  frownless   eyes  to 

Comes  up  with  the  fniit  of  the  tangled  vinc^  laden  ;  twinkle 

And  the  Creole  of  (Juba  laughs  out  to  beliold  p^om  rainbow  galaxies  of  eaitli's  creation. 

Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad  spheres  .^,,,1  ,lew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 


of  gold  ; 

Yet  with  dearerdelight  fromhishome  in  the  North, 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee  looks  forth. 
Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yellow  fruit 

shines, 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on  his  vines. 


As  a  libation. 

Ye  matin  worshipers  !  who  bending  lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 


t. 


Ah  :  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  from  East  and  y,  ,„.i„ht  mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty, 
from  West,  ,        .,     .  The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tesselate. 

From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgnm  !  ^^.,^^j  „„„,«„„«  emblems  of  instrnctive  dutv 
"'"^S"^'*''  I  Your  fonns  create ! 


^ 


[&-. 


422 


PUEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-^ 


& 


'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  tkmxl  bell  that 
swingeth 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  piwsinj;  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  tields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  tluHlonics  wluMo  criiiubling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  reclilcnoss  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn. 
Which  God  hath  planned  ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boumUess  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  (juenchlcss  lamps  the  sun  and  moon 
supply  ; 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the 
sod. 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  tiowcrs  !  are  living  preach- 

Eacli  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book. 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles  !  that  in  dewy  s]ilendor 

"  Wci'p   without    woe,   and   lilush   without  a 
crime," 
0,  may  I  deeply  le^un,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime  ! 

"Thou  wert  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory. 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "in  robes  like  ours  ! 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  transitory 
Are  liunum  dowel's  !  " 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  artist. 
With  whicli  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide-spread 
hall. 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all  ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers !  though  made  for 
pleasure  ; 
Bloomingo'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and  night. 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages  !  wliat  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  caly.x  a  memento  mori, 
Y'et  fount  of  hope. 


Posthumous  glories  !  angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraiseii  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  iu  earth, 
Yo  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I  iu  churchless  solitudes  remaining, 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  and  divines. 
My  soul  would  fnid,  iu  flowers  of  God's  ordaining. 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines  I 

HOKACH  SMITH. 


I  wiLi,  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 

Whose  head  is  turned  by  the  sun  ; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  ((uean, 

Whom,  therefore,  1  will  shun  ; 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  wench, 

The  violet  is  a  nun  ;  — 
But  1  will  woo  the  dainty  rose. 

The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch, 

Iu  too  much  haste  to  wed, 
.\nd  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand  ; 

The  wolfsbane  1  should  dread  ; 
Nor  will  1  dreary  rosemarye. 

That  always  mourns  the  dead  ;  — 
But  1  will  woo  the  dainty  rose. 

With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a  saint. 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me  ; 
And  the  ilaisy's  dieek  is  tipped  with  a  blush. 

She  is  of  such  low  degree  ; 
Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves, 

And  the  broom's  betrothed  to  the  bee  ;  — 
But  1  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose. 

For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 

Thomas  Hood. 


PROM  "HASSAN  BEN  KHALED." 

Then  took  the  generous  host 
A  basket  filled  with  roses.     Every  guest 
(-'ried,  "Give  me  roses  !"  and  he  thus  addressed 
His  words  to  all  :  "  He  who  exalts  them  most 
In  song,  be  only  shall  the  roses  wear." 
Then  sang  a  guest  :  "The  rose's  cheeks  are  fair  ; 
It  crowns  the  purple  bowl,  and  no  one  knows 
If  the  rose  colors  it,  or  it  the  rose." 
And  sang  another  :  "  Crimson  is  its  hue. 
And  on  its  breast  the  morning's  crystal  dew 
Is  changed  to  rubies."     Then  a  third  replied  : 
"  It  blushes  in  the  sun's  enamored  sight, 
As  a  young  virgin  on  her  wedding  night. 


^ 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


423 


•a 


Wlifiii  tVorii  her  face  the  IjiiiJcgrooinlirttttlie  veil." 
WIk.ii  M  had  sung  tlieir  songs,  I,  Jluitsaii,  tried. 
"'I'hi,'  rijw,-,"  I  Hang,  "  in  either  red  or  iiale, 
l.iki-  maidens  whom  the  llaiiic  of  passion  bums, 
Aii'l  love  or  jeahjusy  controls,  Ijy  turns. 
Its  Imds  are  lijis  i)re]iaring  for  a  kiss  ; 
Us  open  flowers  are  like  tlie  blush  of  blLss 
On  lovers'  cheeks  ;  the  thorns  its  armor  an-, 
Arid  in  its  center  shines  a  golden  star, 
iVs  on  a  favorite's  cheek  a  seijiiin  glows  ;  - 
And  thus  the  garden's  favoi-ite  is  the  rose." 
The  niastei'  from  his  open  Irnsket  shook 
The  roses  on  my  liead. 


'I'm:   rose  had   been  waslied,  just  washed   in  a 
shower. 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  conveyed, 
The  plentiful  moisture  encumbered  the  flower, 

And  weighed  down  its  beautiful  head. 

The  cup  was  all  fdled,  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet. 

And  it  seemed,  to  a  fanciful  view. 
To  weeji  for  the  buds  it  had  left  witli  regret. 

On  the  flourishing  bush  where  it  grew. 

I  hastily  seized  it,  unfit  as  it  wxs 
For  a  nosegay,  so  drijiping  and  drowned, 

And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas  ! 
1  snapped  it,  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

And  such,  I  exclaimed,  is  the  pitiless  part 

.Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind, 
Regardless  of  wringing  and  breaking  a  heart 

Already  to  sorrow  resigned. 

This  I'legant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less, 

Might  have  bloomed  with  its  owner  awhile  ; 

And  the  tear  that  is  wiped  with  a  little  address, 
May  be  followed  perhaps  by  a  smile. 

William  cowper. 


THE  MOSS  ROSE. 

TiiK  angel  of  the  flowers,  one  day, 
liineath  a  rose-tree  sleeping  lay,  — 
That  Bjiirit  to  whosf;  charge  't  is  given 
To  bathe  young  buds  in  dews  of  heaven. 
Awaking  from  his  light  repose. 
The  angel  whispered  to  the  rose  : 
"0  fondest  object  of  my  care. 
Still  fairest  found,  where  all  are  fair  ; 
For  the  sweet  shade  thou  giv'st  to  me 
Ask  what  thou  wilt,  't  is  granterl  thee." 
"  Then,"  said  the  rose,  with  deepened  glow, 
"  (Jn  me  another  grace  bestow." 


The  s[iirit  paused,  in  silent  thought,  — 
What  grace  was  there  that  flowi:r  had  not  I 
"V  was  but  a  moment,  —  o'er  the  rose 
A  veil  of  moss  the  angel  throws, 
And,  robed  in  natuie's  simplest  weed. 
Could  theie  a  flower  tliat  rose  exceed  ? 

From  the  Ocmun  of  KRUMUACHfIR 


THE  ROSE. 

PROM  •TJIE  LADV  OP  THE  LAKP.  • 

"The  rose  is  fairest  when  't  is  budding  new. 
And  hope  is  brighli'sl  when  it  dawns  from  fears ; 

The  rose  is  sweetest  washeil  with  morning  drw. 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalmed  in  tears. 

O  wilding  rose,  whom  fancy  thus  endears, 
1  bid  your  blossoms  in  my  txinnct  wave, 

Emlilem  of  hope  and  love  through  future  years  I" 
Thus  spoke  young  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
What  time  the  sun  arose  on  Vennachar's  bioad 
wave. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


TO  PRIMROSES,   FILLED  WITH  MORNINO 
DEW. 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  ?     Can  tears 
.Speak  gi'ief  in  you. 
Who  were  but  Iwrn 
.lust  as  the  modest  morn 
Teemed  her  refreshing  dew  ? 
Alas  !  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower. 
Nor  felt  the  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind  ; 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years, 

Or  warjied  an  we, 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  oiiihans  young, 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Sjieak,  whimp'ring  younglings,  and  make  known 
The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep  ; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby  ? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet  ? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweet  heart  to  this  1 
No,  no  ;  this  sorrow  shown 

liy  your  tears  shed. 
Would  have  this  lecture  read,  — 
"That  things  of  greatest,  bo  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceived  with  giief  arc,  and  with  tears  brought 
forth." 

KOBEKT  HERklf.K 


-ff 


a- 


424 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


■^-a 


4 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

Tuol'  blossom,  luight  with  uutuiim  ilow, 
Ami  ooloitxl  with  the  hoavou's  own  bUio, 
That  oponest  when  the  iiuiot  liglit 
Siicfoeiis  the  keen  luul  ffosly  iiij;ht  ; 

Thou  oomest  uot  when  vioU'ts  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  ami  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  ilivsseil, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-binl's  liidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  ooni'st  alone. 
When  woods  are  luvre  and  biiils  aiv  llown. 
And  frosts  and  sliortening  days  porteml 
The  aged  Yeju-  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
l-ook  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky. 
Blue  —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  Hower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

1  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
Tlie  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  nie, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart. 
May  look  to  heaven  as  1  depart. 

William  cullen  Bryant. 


THE  PRIMROSE. 

Ask  me  why  1  send  you  here 
Tliis  sweet  Infanta  of  the  yeere  ? 

Ask  nie  why  1  send  to  you 
This  l'riuiix>se,  thus  bepearled  with  dew  ? 

1  will  whisi>er  to  your  eaivs. 
The  sweets  of  love  aro  mixt  with  tears. 

Ask  me  why  this  (lower  does  show- 
So  yellow-gi-een  and  sickly  too  < 

Ask  me  wliy  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  Ix'uding,  yet  it  doth  not  bn-ak  > 

1  will  answer,  these  discover 
What  fainting  hopes  are  in  a  lover. 

Robert  Hekrick. 


THE  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mild  oftspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
WHiose  modest  form,  so  delicately  tine. 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  iiuestioned  Win- 
ter's sway. 
And  dared  the  st>u\ly  blusterer  to  the  fight. 

Thee  on  this  l>ank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 


In  this  low  vale  tlie  promise  of  tlie  year, 
Soruue,  tliou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

I'nnoticiil  and  alone. 

Thy  tender  elegiuice. 

So  Virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  advei-sity  ;  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  real's  her  head, 

l_Uiscure  and  unobserved  ; 

\\'hile  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  liear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

MKNKv  KiKKE  White. 


THE  RHODORA. 

UNBS  ON  BEING  ASKIiU,  wmiNCb  IS  THE  FLOWERt 

I  s  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
1  found  the  fresh  ihodora  in  the  woods. 
Spreading  its  leatless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook  : 
The  purple  pet;Us  fallen  in  the  pool 

Made  the  black  watei-swith  their  beauty  gay,  — 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 

And  court  the  tlower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Khodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  mai-sh  and  sky. 
Dear,  tell  them,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing. 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose  I 
I  never  thought  to  ask  ;  1  never  knew. 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance  suppose 

The  selfsame  Power  tliat  brought  me  there  brought 

you. 

RAi  I'M  Waldo  emekson. 


THE  BROOM-FLOWER. 

0,  THE  broom,  the  yellow  broom! 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it. 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  daj-s 

To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

1  know  the  realms  where  people  sjiy 
Tlie  tlowers  have  not  their  fellow ; 

1  know  where  tliey  sliine  out  like  suns. 
The  crimson  and  the  yellow. 

1  know  where  ladies  live  enchained 

In  luxury's  silken  fetters. 
And  flowei-s  as  bright  as  glittering  gems 

Are  used  for  written  letter. 

But  ne'er  was  flower  so  fiiir  as  this. 
In  modern  davs  or  olden  ; 


-»-[J 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


:r9i 


425 


It  groweth  on  its  nodding  stem 
Like  to  a  gailand  golden. 

And  all  about  my  mother's  door 
Shine  out  its  glittering  bushes, 

And  ilown  the  glen,  where  clear  as  light 
The  mountain-water  gushes. 

Take  all  the  rest ;  but  give  me  this, 
And  the  bird  that  nestles  in  it,  — 

I  love  it,  lor  it  loves  the  broom,  — 
The  green  and  yellow  linnet. 

Well,  call  the  rose  the  nueen  of  llowers, 

And  boast  of  that  of  Sharon, 
Of  lilies  like  to  marble  cups, 

And  the  golden  rod  of  Aaron  : 

I  care  not  how  these  flowers  may  be 

15eloved  of  man  and  woman  ; 
The  Ijroom  it  is  the  flower  for  me, 

That  growelh  on  the  common. 

0,  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom  ! 

The  ancient  jioet  sung  it, 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

MARY  HOWITT. 


VIOLETS. 

Welco.me,  maids  of  honor  ! 

You  do  bring 

In  the  Spring, 
And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  virgins  many, 

Fresh  and  fair  ; 

Yet  you  are 
More  sweet  than  any. 

Y'  are  the  maiden  Posies, 

And,  so  gi-aced. 

To  be  placed 
'Fore  damask  roses. 

Yet  though  thus  respected. 

By  and  by 

Ye  do  He, 
Poor  girls,  neglected. 

ROBKRT  HERRICK. 


THE  VIOLET. 

■O  FAINT,  delicious,  springtime  violet ! 

Thine  odor,  like  a  key, 
Turns  noiselessly  in  memory's  wards  to  let 

A  thought  of  sorrow  free. 


The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my  brow 
Blows  through  that  open  door 

Thcsound  of  wind-fjorne bells,  more sweetand low. 
And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It  comes  afar,  from  that  l>eloved  place. 

And  that  beloved  hour. 
When  life  hung  ripening  in  love's  golden  grace, 

Like  grajies  above  a  bower. 

A  spring  goes  singing  through  its  reedy  gra.ss  ; 

The  lark  sings  o'er  my  head. 
Drowned  in  the  sky  —  0,  pass,  ye  visions,  pass! 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  — 

Why  luist  thou  opened  that  forbidden  door, 

From  which  I  ever  flee  > 
O  vanished  joy  !     O  love,  that  art  no  more, 

Let  my  vexed  sjiirit  be  ! 

0  violet  !  thy  odor  through  my  brain 

Hath  searched,  and  stung  to  grief 

This  sunny  day,  as  if  a  curee  did  stain 
Thy  velvet  leaf. 


TO  A  MOtTNTALN   DAISY. 


VITH  THH  VU 


Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou 's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour. 
For  I  maun  cru.sh  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem  ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Al.xs  I  it 's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonny  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blithe  to  greet 

Tlie  purpling  east. 

C'auld  blew  the  bitter-liiting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield. 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield  : 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

0'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  hi.stie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  suawie  bosom  sunward  spread. 


^ 


[& 


426 


POEM  a   OF  NATURE. 


■a 


Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  ; 
But  now  the  share  upteai's  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

(.)u  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred  ! 

Unskillful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er  ! 

Such  fate  to  sufTering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  di'iven 

To  misery's  brink, 
Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink  ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine,  —  no  distant  date  : 
Stern  Ruin's  plowshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 

Robert  Burns, 


THE  DAISY. 

Star  of  the  mead !  sweet  daughter  of  the  day. 
Whose  opening  flower  invites  the  morning  ray. 
From  the  moist  cheek  and  bosom's  chilly  fold 
To  kiss  the  tears  of  eve,  the  dew-drops  cold ! 
Sweet  daisy,  flower  of  love !  when  birds  are  paired, 
'T  is  sweet  to  see  thee,  with  thy  bosom  bared, 
Smiling  in  virgin  innocence  serene. 
Thy  pearly  crown  above  thy  vest  of  green. 
The  lark  with  sparkling  eye  and  rust-ling  wing 
Kejoins  his  widowed  mate  in  early  spring, 
And,  as  he  prunes  his  plumes  of  russet  hue. 
Swears  on  thy  maiden  blossom  to  be  true. 
Oft  liave  I  watched  thy  closing  buds  at  eve, 
Which  for  the  parting  sunbeams  seemed  to  grieve  ; 
And  when  gay  morning  gilt  the  dew-bright  plain. 
Seen  them  unclasp  their  folded  leaves  again  ; 
Nor  he  who  sung  "The  daisy  is  so  sweet !  " 
More  dearly  loved  thy  pearly  form  to  greet. 
When  on  his  scarf  the  knight  the  daisy  bound, 
And  dames  to  tourneys  shone  with  daisies  crowned. 
And  fays  forsook  tlffe  purer  fields  above. 
To  hail  the  daisy,  flower  of  faithful  love. 

John  LeydhN- 


B-- 


THE  SUNFLOWER. 

Ah,  sunflowei' !  weary  of  time. 
Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun. 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime. 
Where  the  traveler's  journey  is  done  ; 

Where  the  youth  pined  away  with  desire, 
And  the  pale  virgin  shrouded  in  snow. 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go. 

WILLIAU    BLAKE. 


THE   DAISY. 

There  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye. 

That  welcomes  every  changing  hour. 
And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field 
In  gay  but  quick  succession  shine  ; 

Race  after  race  their  honors  yield, 
They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  Nature  dear. 
While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 

Inwreathes  the  circle  of  the  year. 
Companion  of  the  sun. 

It  smiles  upon  the  lap  of  May, 

To  sultry  August  spreads  its  charm, 

Lights  pale  October  on  his  way. 
And  twines  December's  arm. 

The  jiurple  heath  and  golden  broom 
On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale  ; 

O'er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume. 
The  violet  in  the  vale. 

But  this  bold  floweret  climbs  the  hill, 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 

Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill. 
Peeps  round  the  fo.x's  den. 

Within  the  garden's  cultured  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation's  bed  ; 

And  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honor  of  the  dead. 

The  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem  ; 

The  Willi  bee  murmurs  on  its  breast ; 
The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem 

Light  o'er  the  skylark's  nest. 

'T  is  Flora's  page,  —  in  every  place, 
In  every  season,  fresh  and  fair  ; 

It  opens  with  perennial  grace. 
And  blossoms  everywhere. 


-4 


[& 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


42'; 


-t] 


On  waste  and  woodland,  rock  and  plain, 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise  ; 

The  rose  lias  but  a  summer  reign  ; 
The  daisy  never  dies  ! 


DAFFODILS. 


;  Montgomery. 


1  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd,  — 
A  host  of  golden  daffodils 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I,  at  a  glance. 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  ; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company  ; 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  nie  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie. 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

wiLLi.AM  Wordsworth. 


y-.- 


DAFFODILS. 

Fair  daflbdils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early -rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  its  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hastening  day 
Has  run 

B\it  to  the  even-song  ; 
And.  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you. 

We  have  as  short  a  spring  ; 
As  quick  a  growth,  to  meet  decay. 
As  you  or  anything. 

We  die. 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 


Like  to  the  summer's  rain. 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

ROBERT  hef 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 

By  the  dusty  roadside. 

On  the  sunny  hillside. 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook. 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  everywhere  ; 

All  round  the  open  door. 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor  ; 

Here  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you  'II  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 

Toiling  his  busy  part,  — 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming  ; 
For  in  the  starry  night. 
And  the  glad  moniing  light, 

I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 
More  welcome  than  the  flowers 
In  summer's  pleasant  hours  ; 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad. 

To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everjTvhere  ; 
When  you  're  numbered  with  the  dead 
In  your  still  and  naiTow  bed. 
In  the  happy  spring  I  '11  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home,  — 

Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 

My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  joyfully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 


^^ 


[& 


428 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-^ 


THE  lATY  GREEN. 

0,  A  DAINTY  [ilaut  is  the  ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 
Of  riglit  choice  food  uiv  his  meals,  1  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  walls  must  be  crumbled,  the  stones  decayed. 

To  (ilea-sure  his  dainty  whim  ; 
.\nd  the  moldering  dust  that  yeai-s  have  made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Crecjiing  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  jdaut  is  the  ivy  green. 

F.ast  he  stealeth  on,  though  ho  weal's  no  wings. 

And  a  stanch  old  heart  has  he  ! 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak-tree  ! 
.\nd  slyly  he  ti'aileth  along  the  gi'ound, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves. 
And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 

The  rich  mold  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed. 

And  nations  have  scattered  been  ; 
But  the  stout  old  ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  d.ays 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  p:vst  ; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  i\-y's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Charles  Dickens. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

The  luelancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of 
the  year. 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  aiul  meadows 
brown  and  sear. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn 
leaves  lie  dead  ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rab- 
bit's tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the 
shrubs  the  jay. 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all 
the  gloomy  day. 

^\'llere  are  the  flowere,  the  fair  young  tlowci-s,  that 

lately  sprang  and  stood 
In   brighter  light  and  softer  airs,   a  Iieauteous 

sisterhood  ? 
Alas  I  they  all  aiv  in  their  graves  ;  the  gentle  race 

of  flowers 


Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds  with  the  fair  and 

good  of  oui-s. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ;  but  the  cold 

November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely 

ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long 

.\ud  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  andd  the 
summer  glow  ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in 
the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  au- 
tumn beauty  stood. 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as 
falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from 
upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still 

such  days  will  conic. 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 

winter  home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heanl,  though 

all  the  trees  are  .still. 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the 

rill : 
The  south-wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose 

fragrance  late  he  bore. 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the 

stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 

beauty  died. 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  aiul  faded 

by  my  side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the 

forests  cast  the  leaf. 
And  we  wept  that  one  -so  lovely  should  have  a 

life  .so  brief ; 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young 

friend  of  ours. 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the 

flowers. 

WILMAM  CL't.LEN  BRYANT. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 

Gop  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

F.nough  for  great  and  small. 
The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree. 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 
We  might  have  had  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours. 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

.•\nd  vet  have  had  no  flowers. 


!&- 


^ 


[fl- 


I'OKMH  OF  NATUllK. 


429 


-^ 


y- 


Tlien  wliiMoforo,  wlicrnlVin^  were  tlioy  made, 

AH  (lycil  witli  rainbow  light, 
All  I'uHliioiK'd  with  supreinuBt  grace 

lJlis]iiin(;;ing  ilay  and  night  :  — 
.S]iringing  in  valleys  gi'eeii  and  low, 

And  on  the  mountains  high. 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  no  man  passes  l)y  ? 

Our  outward  life  I'equires  them  not,  — 

Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ?  — 
To  minister  deliglit  to  man, 

To  beautify  the  earth  ; 
To  eonifoi-t  man,  — to  wliisiicr.liopo. 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim. 
For  who  so  eareth  for  the  flowers 

Will  eare  mueh  mori-  for  him  ! 


BETROTH  KI)   ANBIW. 

TllK  sunlight  nils  the  trembling  air, 
And  balmy  days  their  giierdi>ns  bring  ; 

Tlie  I'lartJi  again  is  young  and  fair. 
And  amorous  with  nuisky  Sjiring. 

The  golden  nurslings  of  the  May 

In  splendor  strew  the  sjiangled  gl'een, 

And  lines  of  tender  beauty  jday, 
iMitiingle.l  wli.'rc  tin'  willows  lean. 

Mark  how  the  ri[ipled  •■urrents  flow  ; 

What  lusters  on  the  meadows  lie  ! 
And  hark  !  the  Kongst^M's  eomc  and  go, 

Aii.l  trill  between  the  earth  and  sky. 

Who  tol.l  us  that  til.'  years  had  lied, 
<  Ir  borne  alar  our  lilissful  y<aitli  ' 

Suili  joys  are  nil  about  us  spread  ; 
We  know  t,he  wliis]ier  was  not  truth. 

Till'  birds  that  break  from  grass  and  grove 
Sing  every  earol  that  they  sung 

When  first  our  veins  were  rirh  with  love. 
And  May  her  mantle  round  ns  (lung. 

< )  fresh-lit  dawn  !  immortal  life  ! 

0  Earth's  betrothal,  sweet  and  true. 
With  whose  delights  onr  souls  are  i-ifc, 

And  aye  their  vernal  vows  renew  ! 

Tlien,  darling,  walk  with  me  this  morn  ; 

Let  your  brown  tresses  driidt  its  slieen  ; 
Tliese  violets,  within  them  worn, 

Of  floral  fays  siiall  make  you  (jneen. 

Wliat  though  there  comes  a  time  of  pain 
When  autumn  winds  forbode  decay  ? 


The  <lays  of  love  are  boni  again  ; 
That  fabled  time  is  far  away  ! 

And  never  seemed  the  land  so  fair 
As  now,  nor  birds  sueli  notes  to  sing. 

Since  first  within  your  shining  hair 
I  wove  the  blo.ssoms  of  the  spring. 

EDMUND  CLAKENCU  SlIlOHi 


THE  LION'S  KIDK. 

Til r.  lion  is  the  desert's  king;  through  liis  do- 
main SO  wide 

Kiglit  swiftly  and  right  royally  this  night  he 
means  to  ride. 

I5y  the  sedgy  brink,  where  the  wild  herds  drink, 
(dose  eoiiehes  the  grim  chief  ; 

The  trembling  sycamore  alx)Ve  whispers  with  evi'ry 
h'af. 

At  evening,  on  the  Table  Mount,  when  ye  can 

see  no  nioi'e 
Theiihangi'ful  play  of  signals  gay  ;  when  the  gloom 

is  speckled  o'er 
Witli  kriml  fires  ;  when  the  f 'affre  wends  home 

through  tlie  lone  karroo  ; 
Wlien  the  boshbok  in  the  thicket  sleeps,  and  by 

tlic^  stream  the  gnu  ; 

Then  bend  your  gaze  across  the  waste,  —  what 

sect  ye  ?     'I'he  giraffe, 
Majestic,  stalks  towards  the  lagoon,  the  turbid 

IjTnph  to  ipLaff; 
Witli  outstretched   ner-k   an<l   tongue  adust,   he 

kneels  him  d.iwn  to  cool 
His  hot  thirst  with  a  welcome  draught  from  the 

foul  and  brackish  pool. 

A  nistling sound,  a  roar,  a  bound,  --  tin-  lion  sits 

astride 
tTpon  his  giant  courser's  bai'k.    Did  ever  king  so 

ride  ? 
Had  ever  king  a  steed  so  rare,  caparisons  of  state 
To  m.-itrh  the  da]>iiled  skin  whereon  that  ridi'rsits 

elate  ' 

In  the  muscles  of  the  neck  his  teeth  are  ]ilunged 

with  ravenous  greed  ; 
His  tawny  mane  is  tossing  round  the  withers  of 

the  steed. 
Up  lea|ting  with  a  hollow  yell  of  anguish  and  siir- 


Away,  away,  in  wild    dismay,    the 
flies. 


elojiard 


His  feet  have  wings  ;  see  how  he  sjirings  across 

the  moonlit  jdain  ! 
As  from  theirsoekets  they  would  tmrst,  bis  glaring 

eyeballs  strain  ; 


--3 


a- 


430 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


-a 


^- 


In  thick  black  sti'eanis  of  piirUug  Ijloud,  full  fast 
lu3  life  is  fleeting  ; 

The  stillness  of  the  desert  hears  his  heart's  tu- 
multuous beating. 

Like  the  cloud  that,  through  the  wilderness,  the 

path  of  Israel  traced,  — 
Like  an  airy  phantom,  dull  and  wan,  a  spiiit  of 

the  waste,  — 
From  the  sandy  sea  uprising,  as  the  water-simut 

from  ocean, 
A  whirling  cloud  of  dust  keeps   pace  with  the 

courser's  fiery  motion. 

Croaking  companion  of  their  flight,  the  vulture 

whirs  on  high  ; 
Below,  the  terror  of  the  fold,  the  panther  fierce 

and  sly, 
And  hyenas  foul,  round  gi-aves  that  prowl,  join 

in  the  horiid  race  ; 
By  the  footprints  wet  with  gore  and  sweat,  their 

monareli's  course  they  trace. 

They  see  him  on  his  living  throne,  and  quake  with 

fear,  the  while 
With  claws  of  steel  hetearspieoemeal  hiscushion's 

painted  pile. 
On  !  on  !  no  pause,  no  rest,  giraffe,  while  life  and 

strength  remain  ! 
The  steed  by  such  a  rider  backed  may  madly  plunge 

in  vain. 

Reeling  upon  the   desert's  verge,  he  falls,  and 

breathes  his  last  ; 
The  courser,  stained  with  dust  and  foam,  is  the 

rider's  fell  repast. 
O'er  Madagascar,   eastward  far,   a  faint  flush  is 

descried  :  — 
Thus  nightly,  o'er  his  Ijroad  domnin,  the  king  of 

beasts  doth  ride. 

From  the  German  of  FERDINAND  FREILICRAI  H. 


THE  BLOOD  HORSE. 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed. 

Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed. 

Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone. 

With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known  ; 

Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 

But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within  ! 

His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing. 

And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 

In  the  <larkness  of  the  night, 

And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look,  — how  round  his  straining  throat 
Grace  and  .shifting  beauty  float ; 


Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins, 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins : 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire,  — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself ! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn. 

But  his  famous  fatliers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab-bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  gi'eat  line 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine  ! 

And  yet,  —  he  was  but  friend  to  one 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun 

By  some  lone  fountain  fiinged  with  gi'eeu  ; 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day). 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands. 

Bryan  w,  Procter  (Barrv  Cornwall). 


THE  TIGER, 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright. 
In  the  forests  of  the  night  ; 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thine  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  ?  and  what  dread  feet  f 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
Wliat  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  .' 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears. 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He,  who  made  the  Lamb,  make  thee  ? 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright, 
I  u  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  .' 


^ 


e- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


431 


rn 


TO  A  MOUSE, 


Wee,  sleekit,  cow'riu',  tim'rous  beastie, 
0,  what  a  panic  's  iu  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  tliee, 

Wi'  niurd'ring  pattle  ! 

I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
Au'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion. 

An'  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
AVhat  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request ; 
I  '11  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  laive, 

And  never  miss  't  ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
An'  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane 

0'  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  wear}'  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast. 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till,  crash  !  the  cmel  coulter  past 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou 's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble. 

But  house  or  bald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble. 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  naught  but  grief  and  pain, 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear  ; 
An'  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 


tj-^- 


Robert  Burns 


LAMBS  AT  PLAY. 

Say,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  fdt  and  seen 
Spring's    morning   smiles,    and    suul-cnlivcniiij; 

green, — 
Say,  did  you  give  the  thrilling  transport  way. 
Did  your  eye  brighten,  when  young  lambs  at  play 
Lcajicd  o'er  your  path  with  animated  [iride, 
Or  gazed  iu  merry  clusters  by  your  side  ? 
Ye  who  can  smile  —  to  wisdom  no  disgrace  — 
At  the  arch  meaning  of  a  kitten's  face  ; 
If  spotless  innocence  and  infant  mirth 
Excites  to  praise,  or  gives  rellectiou  hirth  ; 
In  shades  like  these  pursue  your  favorite  joy. 
Midst  nature's  revels,  sports  that  nevei'  cloy. 
A  few  bi-gin  a  short  but  vigorous  race, 
.'\ud  indolence,  abashed,  soon  Hies  the  place  : 
Thus  challenged  forth,  see  thither,  one  by  one, 
From  every  side,  a.s.sembling  playmates  run  ; 
A  thousand  wily  antics  mark  their  stay, 
A  starling  crowd,  impatient  of  ilelay  ; 
Like  the  fond  dove  from  fearful  prison  freed. 
Each  seems  to  say,  "Come,  let  us  try  our  speed"  ; 
Away  they  scour,  impetuous,  ardent,  strong. 
The  green  turf  trembling  as  they  bound  along 
Adown  the  slope,  then  up  the  hillock  climb, 
Where  every  mole-hill  is  a  be<l  of  thyme. 
Then,  panting,  stop ;  yet  scarcely  can  refrain,  — 
A  bird,  a  leaf,  will  set  them  o(f  again  : 
Or,  if  a  gale  with  sti'ength  unusual  blow, 
Scattering  the  wild-brier  roses  into  snow, 
Their  little  limbs  increasing  elTorts  try  ; 
Like  the  torn  (lower,  the  fair  assemblage  (ly. 
Ah,  fallen  rose  !  sad  emblem  of  their  doom  ; 
Frail  as  thyself,  they  perish  while  they  bloom  ! 


FOLDING  THE  FLOCKS. 

Shepheuds  all,  and  maidens  fair. 
Fold  your  flocks  up  ;  for  the  air 
'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is  ; 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 
Like  a  string  of  crystal  beads. 
See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling 
And  bright  Hasperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  underground  ; 
At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound. 
Damps  and  vapors,  fly  apace, 
And  hover  o'er  the  smiling  face 
Of  these  pastures  ;  where  they  come. 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 
Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 
Every  one  his  loved  (lock  ; 


-^ 


©-- 


4:3:2 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-a 


Ami  let  youi'  ilogs  lit'  loose  witlioiit, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 

From  the  luountaiu,  and  eie  day, 

Ikar  a  lamb  or  kid  away  ; 

Oi-  the  crafty,  thievish  fox. 

Break  upon  your  simple  (locks. 

To  secure  yourself  fron\  these, 

He  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  master's  love. 

Now,  good  night!  may  sweetest  slurabere 

And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 

On  yom-  eyelids.     So  farewell  : 

Thus  I  end  my  evenini;  knoll. 

Ul-.AUMONT  .1111.1   I-LETCHER, 


THE  SONGSTERS. 


The  finely  checkered  duck  before  her  train 
Rows  gimulous.     The  stately-sailing  swan 
Gives  out  her  snowy  plumage  to  the  gale  ; 
And,  arehing  proud  his  neck,  with  oary  feet 
Beat's  forwaiil  lioive,  and  guards  his  osier-isle, 
I'rotcctive  of  his  young.     The  turkey  nigh. 
Loud-threatening,   reddens;  while    the    peacock 

spreads 
His  cvcry-colored  glory  to  the  sun. 
And  swims  in  radiant  majesty  along. 
O'er  the  whole  homely  scene,  the  cooing 
Flies  thick  in  amorous  chase,  and  wanton  rolls 
The  glancing  eye,  and  turns  the  changeful  neck. 

jAMtS  THOMSON. 


;  dove 


\Jv  springs  the  lark. 
Shrill- voiced  and  loud,  the  messenger  of  morn. 
Ere  yet  the  shadows  Hy,  he  mounted  sings 
Amid  the  dawning  clouds,  and  from  their  haunts 
falls  up  the  tunehd  nations.     Every  copse 
neep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Bending  with  dewy  moisture,  o'er  the  heads 
Of  the  coy  nuivistcrs  that  lodge  within. 
Are  prodig.il  of  harmony.     The  thrush 
And  woodlark,  o'er  the  kind-contending  throng 
Superior  heard,  run  through  the  sweetest  length 
or  notes  ;  when  listening  rinlomela  deigns 
To  let  them  joy,  and  purposes,  in  thought 
Elate,  to  make  l\er  night  excel  their  day. 
The  blackbird  whistles  from  the  thorny  brake  ; 
The  mellow  bullfinch  answoi-s  from  the  grove  ; 
Xor  are  the  linnets,  o'er  the  llowering  furze 
Po\ucd  »ut  profusely,  silent  :  joined  to  these, 
Innumerous  songsters,  in  the  freshening  shade 
0(  new-sprung  leaves,  their  modulations  mix 
.McUilluous.     The  jay,  the  rook,  the  daw, 
.Vud  each  luu-sh  pipe,  discordant  heard  alone, 
Aid  the  full  concert :  while  the  stockdove  bi'cathe: 
A  melancholy  murmur  through  the  whole. 

'T  is  love  creates  their  melody,  and  all 
This  waste  of  music  is  the  voice  of  love  ; 
That  even  to  birds  and  beasts  the  tender  arts 
Of  pleasing  teaches. 

James  Thomson. 


DOMESTIC  BIRDS. 

FROM   '■  THR  SEASONS." 

TiiK  careful  hen 
Calls  all  her  chirping  family  around. 
Fed  and  defended  by  the  fearless  cock. 
Whose  brea.'it  with  ardor  llames,  as  on  he  walks 
Graceful,  and  crows  defiance.     In  the  pond 


CHORUS  OF  ENGLISH  SONGSTERS. 

l-KOM   THE  *■  PARADISE  OV  IllkOS." 

In  the  springtime,  chaflineh  gay,  — 

"  Vanished  is  the  winter  suow  ; 
Days  grow  longer"  (you  shall  s;iy) ; 

"Apple-blossoms  soon  will  blow. 
Haste,  yc  wingless  lovei-s,  then. 

Take  your  pleasure  ere  't  is  late, 
Birds  arc  building,  maids  and  men. 

Every  one  selects  his  mate. 
Now  St.  Valentine  is  past, 

April  will  in  time  be  May ; 
Youth  that  liugei-s  will  not  last ; 

There  's  a  sunset  every  day. 
Birds  and  poets  both  have  sung, 
'  Love  comes  only  to  the  young."  " 

Sing,  0  nightingale,  in  June  : 

•'  Now  it  is  tlie  shortest  night. 
And  to-morrow's  sun  by  noon 

Will  have  climbed  his  yearly  height. 
Rarer  soumls  the  blackbird's  pipe  ; 

Redder  grows  the  apricot ; 
Everything  is  still  and  ripe  ; 

From  to-morrow  all  things  rot. 
Life  's  climacteric  of  power 

Is  the  half-way  house  of  Heath  ; 
Man's  decline,  like  bird  aiul  (lower, 

Oates  from  jiarting  of  a  breath. 
Night  must  now  shift  hands  with  day  ; 
Fullest  ripeness  brings  decay." 

Swallow,  in  September  sing : 

"Quit  we  now  our  northern  caves  ; 
All  the  gnats  are  perishing  ; 

Sere  and  sapless  look  the  leaves. 
Where  are  flown  the  summer  flies  ? 

Like  men's  riches  they  have  wings. 
^'anity  of  vanities  ! 

Fleeting  are  all  feathered  things  ! 
We  have  read  our  horoscope, 

But  in  sunnner  we  forget  ; 


a- 


I'UKM^  OF  NATUItE. 


433 


r^ 


^^ 


Kveiy  s|)i'iiig  awakes  new  hoiw, 

Kvery  imtuMMi  new  rcfjiet. 
'T is  the  trutli  (lint  tintli  is  stnmgo) 
Naiiglit's  innnnUblc  Imt  cliangc." 

.Snow-l)untinf;,  in  winter  cry  ; 

"  Misery,  anil  cold,  anil  dearth  ! 
Darkness  in  the  shroiideil  sky! 

Hilenco  o'er  the  snowy  earth  ! 
Every  tree  looks  white  ajiil  wan, 

IJurbed  with  icicles,  nnelad, 
Like  some  f'eatherless  old  man, 

Withered,  toothless,  ])oor,  and  sad. 
Yet  be  trustful,  Man  ami  Bird  ; 

Winter  shall  not  kill  the  soul. 
Life  on  earth  is  hope  delcMied, 

Since  heyond  it  lies  the  I'ole. 
Death,  whose  hounds  are  snow  and  ice, 
Is  the  door  of  Paradise." 

William  Jomn  CuukTnopi; 


A  BIRD'S  NEST. 

lir  r  most  of  all  it  wins  my  admiration 

To  view  the  stnicture  of  this  little  work,  — 

A  hird's  nest,  mark  it  well  within,  without : 

No  tool  had  he  that  wrought,  no  knife  to  cut. 

No  nail  to  fix,  no  bodkin  to  in.scrt. 

No  glue  to  join  :  his  little  beak  wa.s  all  ; 

And  yet  how  neatly  (inished  !    What  nice  hand. 

With  every  imfilenicnt  and  means  of  art. 

And  twenty  years'  a]i]irentieeshiii  to  boot, 

<  'ould  make  me  sucli  another  ?     Fondly  then 

We  boast  of  excellence,  where  noblest  skill 

Instinctive  genius  foils. 


—  I'.liiDH,  the  free  tenants  of  hind,  air,  and  ocean, 
Their  forms  all  .syniuietT-j%  their  motions  grace  ; 
In  |ilumage,  delicate  and  beautiful, 

Thick  without  burden,  close  as  fi.slies'  scales. 
Or  loose  as  full-blown  jioppies  to  the  breeze  ; 
With  wings  that  might  have  had  a  soul  within 

thcni, 
They  bore  theirowners  by  Kiii-h  sweet  i-nch:intiiieiit, 

—  P.irds,  small  and  great,  of  endless  sb.ipes  and 

lohirs, 
Hire  (lew  and  perched,  there  swam  and  dived  at 

jih-asure  ; 
W.iti'hful  and  agile,  uttering  voices  wild 
And  harsh,  yet  in  accordance  with  the  waves 
Upon  the  beach,  the  winds  in  caverns  moaning. 
Or  winds  and  waves  abroad  ujion  the  water. 


Some  sought  their  food  among  the  tinny  shoals. 
Swift  darting  from  the  clouds,  emerging  soon 
With  slender  caiitives  glitteiing  in  their  beaks  ; 
These  in  rcces.ses  of  steep  crags  constructed 
Their  eyries  inaccessible,  and  trained 
Their  hardy  brood.s  to  forage  in  all  weathers  : 
Others,  more  gorgeously  appareled,  dwelt 
Among  the  wood.s,  on  nature's  dainties  fix'ding, 
Horlis,  seeds,  and  roots  ;  oi-,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Pursuing  insects  through  the  boundless  air  : 
In  hollow  trees  or  thickets  these  concealed 
Their  exquisitely  woven  nests  ;  where  lay 
Their  callow  olfspring,  ijuiet  as  the  down 
On  their  own  breasts,  till  from  her  search  the  dam 
With  laden  bill  returned,  and  shared  the  meal 
Among  her  clamorous  sup|iliant.s,  all  agape  ; 
Then,  cowering  o'er  them  with  expanded  "  ings, 
She  felt  how  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  mother. 
Of  these,  a  few,  with  melody  untaught, 
Turned  all  the  air  to  music  within  hearing, 
Themselves  unseen  ;  while  bolder  i|uiristers 
On  loftiest  branches  strained  their  clarionpipes, 
And  made  the  foiest  echo  to  their  screams 
Discordant,  —  yet  there  wils  no  discord  there, 
Pjut  tempered  harmony  ;  all  tones  combining, 
In  the  rich  conlluence  of  ten  thousand  tongms. 
To  tell  of  joy  and  to  inspire  it.     Who 
Could  hear  such  concert,  and  not  join  in  chorus! 

JAMIIS  MfiNTCOMI'.KV. 


PLEA  FOR  THE  BIRDS. 

PROM  •'THE  BIKDS  OP  KILLISOWOkTH." 

Pi.A'io,  anticipating  tlie  reviewers, 

?'rom  his  rejmblic  banished  without  pity 

The  poets  :  in  this  little  town  of  yours. 

You  i«it  to  death,  by  means  of  a  eomniittce, 

The  balL'id-singers  ami  the  troubadouis, 
The  street-mu.sicians  of  the  heavenly  city. 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  foi'  us  all 

III  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

The  thnish,  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  gieen  steeples  of  the  piny  wood  ; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm  ;  the  noisy  jay, 
.largoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food  ; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  to]imost  sjiray. 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood  ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of  .song,  - 

You  slay  them  all !  and  wherefore '    For  the  gal 
Of  a  scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat. 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain. 

Scratched  up  at  random  by  industi-ious  feet 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ; 
Or  a  few  chcn-ies,  that  are  not  so  sweet 


-^ 


^- 


434 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-^ 


As  are  the  songs  these  imiuvitwl  guests 
Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

Do  you  ne'er  tliiuk  what  wonilniiis  Ijeings  these  ? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  wlio  nuule  tlieni,  and  wlio 
tauglit 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alun.'  are  the  iiilerpreters  of  thought  ! 
Whnsr  iioHsrluild  words  are  songs  in  many  keys, 

Swi'i'ter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught  ! 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  lialf-way  liouses  ou  the  road  to  heaven  ! 

Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leafdattieed  windows  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old  melodious  madrigals  of  love  ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 
'T  is  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 

The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore. 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

Think  of  your  woods  and  orchai'ds  without  birds ! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams. 
As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams  ! 
Will  bleat  of  Hocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 

Make  up  for  tlie  lost  music,  when  your  teams 
Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 
The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door  ' 

What !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 
Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay. 

And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  wliirr 
or  meadow-lark,  and  its  sweet  roundelay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  fieldfares,  as  you  take 

Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and  brake  ? 

You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers  ;  but  know 
They  are  the  wingkl  wardens  of  your  farms. 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe. 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms  ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  thorn  all,  the  crow, 
liendcrs  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail. 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness. 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess. 
Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence. 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 
The  selfsame  light,  although  averted  hence, 

Whenbyyourlaws,  youractions,  and  yourspeech. 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach  1 

H.   W.   LO.MjFELLOW. 


BIRDS  BY   MV   WINDOW. 

A  JUNE  SONG. 

SwKKT  birds  that  by  my  window  sing. 
Or  sail  around  on  careless  wing, 
Ueseech  ye,  lend  your  caroling, 

W'hile  I  salute  my  darling. 

She  's  far  from  me,  away,  away. 
Across  the  hills,  beyond  the  bay. 
But  still  my  heart  goes  night  and  day 
To  meet  and  greet  my  darling. 

Brown  wren,  from  out  whose  swelling  throat 
Unstinted  joys  of  music  tloat. 
Come  lend  to  me  thine  own  June  note, 
To  warble  to  my  darling. 

Sweet  dove,  thy  tender,  lovelorn  coo 
Melts  pensively  the  orchard  through  : 
Grant  me  thy  gentle  voice  to  woo. 
And  1  shall  win  my  darling. 

Lark,  ever  leal  to  dawn  of  day. 
Pause  ere  thou  wingst  thy  skyward  way,  — 
Pause,  and  bestow  one  ipiivering  lay. 
One  anthem  for  my  darling. 

Ah,  mocker!  rich  as  leafy  June, 
Thou  'It  grant,  1  know,  one  little  boon. 
One  st\'ain  of  thy  most  matchless  tune. 
To  solace  my  own  darling. 

Hright  choir,  your  peerless  song  shall  stir 
The  rapturous  chords  of  love  in  her  ; 
But  who  shall  be  our  messenger, 

When  we  salute  my  darling  ? 

0  voiceless  swallow,  crown  of  spring. 
Lend  us  nwhile  thy  swift  curved  wing  : 
Straight  as  an  arrow  thou  shalt  bring 
This  gi'eeting  to  my  dai-ling  ! 

1[>U  ARD  SPENCER. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 


Fifth- 


t.- 


Once,  Paumanok, 
When   the  snows   had  melted,   and   tin 

month  grass  was  growing. 
Up  this  sea-shore,  in  some  briers. 
Two  guests  from  Alabama,  —  two  together. 
And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs,  spotted 

with  brown. 
And  every  day  the  he-bird,  to  and  fro,  near  at  hand. 
And  every  day  the   she-binl,  crouched   on   her 
1  nest,  silent,  with  bright  eye.s. 

And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close, 
I  never  disturbing  them, 

I  Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 


--& 


[& 


I'OKMS   OF  NATURE. 


435 


-a 


f&-- 


"Sliiiic  !  shine  !  sliiiie  ! 
Pour  down  your  wai'iuth,  great  Sun  ! 
While  we  hask  —  wo  two  together. 

"Two  together! 
Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 
Day  uonie  white,  or  night  eome  hlaek. 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
ir  we  two  but  keep  together." 

Till,  of  a  sudden. 
Maybe  killed,  unknown  to  her  mate, 
Onefoienoon  the  she-bird  irouched  not  on  the  nest, 
Nor  returneil  that  alternoon,  nor  the  next, 
Nor  ever  appeared  again. 

And  thi-nri'forward,  all  sumnn'r,  in  the  sound 

of  the  sea, 
Aiid  at  night,   under  the   full  of  the  moon,   in 

calmer  weather, 
Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 
Or  Hitting  from  brier  to  brier  l)y  day, 
I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals,  the  remaining  one, 

the  he-bird. 
The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

"  Blow  !  blow  !  blow  ! 
Blow  up,  sea-winds,  along  I'aumanok's  shore  ! 
I  wait  and  I  wait,  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me." 

Yes,  wdicn  the  stars  glisten(!d, 
All  night  long,  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-sealloped 

stake, 
Down,  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 
Sat  the  lone  singer,  wonderful,  i-ausing  tears. 

He  called  on  his  mate  ; 
He  poured  forth  the  meanings  whirli  I,  of  all 
men,  know. 

"Soothe  !  soothe  !  .soothe  ! 
Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind. 
And  again  another  behind,  emijraeing  and  la])- 

ping,  every  one  close. 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

' '  Low  hangs  the  moon  —  it  rose  late. 
0,   it  is  lagging — 0,  I  think  it  is  heavy  with 
love,  with  love. 

"0,  madly  the  sea  pushes,  pushesupon  the  land. 
With  love  — ^with  love. 

"  0  night  !  do  I  not  see  my  love  tluttering  out 
there  among  the  breakers  ? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the 
wldte  ? 


"  Loud  !  loud  !  loud  ! 
Loud  1  call  to  you,  my  love  .' 
High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves  ; 
Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here  ; 
You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love  ! 

"  Low-hanging  moon  ! 
What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ? 
O,  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 
U  moon,  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

"  Land  !  land  !  O  land  ! 
Whichever  way  I  turn,  O,  I  think  you  covdil  give 
me  my  mate  back  again,  if  you  oidy  would  ; 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  hev  dimly  whichever 
way  I  look. 

"0  rising  stars  ! 
Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will 
rise  with  some  of  you. 

"  0  throat !  0  trembling  throat ! 
Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere  ! 
Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth  ; 
Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you,  must  he  the 
one  I  want. 

' '  Shake  out,  carols  ! 
Solitary  here  —  the  night's  carols  ! 
Carols  of  lonesome  love  !  Death's  carols  ! 
Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon  ' 
0,  under  that  moon,  where  she  droops  almost 

down  into  the  sea  ! 
0  reckless,  despairing  carols  ! 

"  But  soft !  sink  low  ; 
Soft !  let  me  just  nmrmur  ; 
-Ami  doyouwaitamoment,youhusky-noised.sca  ; 
Por  somewhere  I  believe  I  lieard  my  mate  re- 
sponding to  me. 
So  faint  —  I  must  be  still,  he  .still  to  li.slen  ; 
'  But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not 
come  immediately  to  me. 

"  Hither,  my  love  ! 
Here  I  am  !  Here  ! 
!  With  this  just-sustained  note  I  announce  myself 

to  you  ; 
This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

"Do  not  be  decoyed  elsewhere  ! 
That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind  —  it  is  not  my 

voice  ; 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray  ; 
Those  are  the  shailows  of  leaves. 


"O  darkness  ;  0  in  vain 
0,  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful.' 


Wam  Whitman         I 

ff 


[fh" 


4:i('. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


^■^ 


h 


TO  TIIK  CUCKOO. 

IIaii.,  IhmuiU'ous  8tiiiiij;oi'  o(  llio  f;i\)vii  ! 

'riion  iiuissoiigoi'  of  spiinj; ! 
Now  lliMivi'ii  ri'iiiiirs  thy  ninil  ai-ul, 

Ami  womls  lliy  woU'oino  sing. 

Soon  ns  llui  tlaisy  ilooks  tlio  gnvn, 

Thy  omtnin  voico  »<•  ln-.n. 
Must  tliou  a  star  to  guiiK'  lliy  pntli, 

Or  umrk  111.'  roUiiij,'  ynn-  / 

lVli.L;l.lliil  viMliiiit  !   Willi  iIk'O 

I  iiiiil  111.-  liiiu-  ..r  llow.TS, 
;\llll  lu'ill-  111.'  siillll.l  .it'  lliusio  SWOOt 

Kroiii  liiuls  aiiioiii;  lli.'  Uowoi'S. 

Til.'  s,li,.,.l.l.,.y.  WMii.l.'iiiij,'  llin.iijjli  Iho 

To  (Hill  111.'  iiriiiir.)«'  guy, 
Slai'ts,  lliy  most  I'uvious  voioo  to  licar, 

.•\ml  iinitrttos  thy  lay. 

Wliat  timo  llu'  p.-ii  piils  on  lli.'  Lloom, 

Tlion  lliosl  tliv  v.i.iil  vmIi', 
An  auninil  giicsl  in  otluT  lainls, 

AnotluM'  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  liinl  !  tliy  liower  is  ever  gre.'ii, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear  ; 
Tlion  liasi  no  sorrow  in  thy  song. 

No  Willi. T  ill  lliy  y.'ar  ! 

O,  e.nil.l  1  lly,  I  M  lly  willi  tliee  ! 

We  '.1  mak.',  with  joyful  wing, 
Onr  annniil  visit  o'er  the  glolie, 

Allen, lanis  on  111.'  s|.riiig. 


■rilK.    liKl,l''KY    nOKON, 

(1n  the  eiiiss-heani  iiiuler  the  Ol.l  Sontli  hell 
The  nest  of  a  i>igeon  is  Imil.le.l  well. 
Ill  snmmer  ami  winter  that  Innl  is  tliere, 
IHit  ami  in  with  the  morning  air  ; 
1  love  to  see  him  traek  the  street. 
With  his  wary  eye  ami  aetive  feet  ; 
Ami  1  often  wateh  him  as  he  sjirings, 
Ciivling  tlie  steejile  with  easy  wings, 
Till  aeross  the  ilial  his  shade  has  passe.l. 
Ami  the  hell'ry  .'ilge  is  gained  at  last ; 
"r  is  11  hii',1  1  love,  witli  its  hiiio.ling  note. 
Ami  the  tremhling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat  ; 
Tliero  's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
Ami  the  gentle  enrve  of  its  lowly  emsl  ; 
And  I  often  slo).  with  the  fear  l"  feel,    - 
He  runs  so  el.ise  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell,  — 
t'liini,'  of  llie  hour,  or  fniieral  knell. 
The  dovo  in  tlio  Ix'llVy  must  hoar  it  well. 


When  the  tongue  swingsout  to  the  midniglit  moon, 

Wlu'ii  the  se.xlon  eheerly  rings  for  noon, 

Will 11  tlie  eloek  strikes  elear  at  morning  light, 

Whi'ii  tlie  ehild  is  waked  with  "nine  at  night," 

Wlieii  the  eliimes  pliiy  soft  in  the  Sablwth  air. 

Killing  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer, 

Whutever  Inle  in  the  bell  is  heaiil, 

lie  hioo.isoii  his  tol,l,'.l  l,'.'t  unstirred, 

Dr,  rising  half  in  his  i.iniul.'d  nest, 

lie  takes  the  time  lo  sin.iolh  his  Imiast, 

Then  .Irops  again,  with  filmed  .'y.'s. 

Ami  sleeps  as  the  last  vibnition  dies. 

Sweet  bird  I  I  woul.l  that  I  eonl.l  he 
.\  liermit  in  the  er.>wd  like  thee  ! 
With  wings  to  lly  lo  wood  and  gl.'ii. 
Thy  1.4,  like  mine,  is  east  with  men  ; 
.\n.l  .laily,  with  unwilling  iVel, 
I  Ir.'a.l,  lik.'  thee,  the  erow.le.l  street, 
liiil,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Th.iii  .anst  dismi.ss  the  worl.l,  and  soar  ; 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
t'aiist  sni.i.ilh  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
Ami  .hop,  forgellnl,  to  thy  nest, 

1  w.ail.l  that  in  sn.'h  wings  of  gold 
I  .'.ail.l  my  weary  h.'arl  iipl'.il.l  ; 
I  woul.l  I'e.inl.l  l.iok  .Uuvii  unmove.l 
(.I'nl.iving  as  I  am  unloved^ 
.\n.l  while  the  w.a'ld  throngs  on  lu'iieiilh. 
Smooth  .lown  my  .ares  and  calmly  breathe  ; 
Ami  n.'ver  sad  with  others'  sadness, 
.■\ii.l  never  gla.l  with  otlu'i'-s'  gladness. 
Listen,  unstirred,  lo  knell  or  ehime, 
Ami,  lapped  in  .[uiet,  bide  my  lime. 

NAlllANiai.  I'ARKUK  WILLIS. 


THE  SKYLARK. 

I!ii;ii  of  the  wihlerne.ss, 

r>lilhesome  ami  eumberloss, 
Swe.'t  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorlan.l  and  l.'ii ! 

Kmblein  ..f  happiness, 

West  is  thy  .Iw.'llingplae.', 
0,  to  al.i.le  in  ill.'  .lesert  with  thee  ! 

Wil.l  is  thy  lay  ami  loud 

Kur  in  the  downy  eloii.l. 
Love  giv.'s  it  I'liergy,  love  gave  it  birlh. 

Where,  on  thy  .lewy  wing. 

Where  art  thou  journeying  / 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  owth. 

D'ei'  fell  and  fountain  sheen. 

O'er  moor  ami  mountain  gi'een. 
O'er  the  ivd  slivamer  that  heralds  the  day. 

Over  the  elon.llet  dim. 

Ovi'r  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Jlnsi.'al  I'herub,  soar,  singing,  away  I 

'I'lieii,  wh.'ii  the  gloaming  (wmoa, 

Low  ill  the  heather  blooms 


-4 


I'OKMH   Oh'  NATUUK. 


-^ 


437 


SwiMd  will  Uiy  w.-li'.,ii],-  and  I,,m1  ijflovi;  111' 
Kinl.li'Mi  <,llni|.|.in.-,^ 
I!|i-H(,  \*  Uiy  ilwilliri--|,hi,.', 

(),    to  ill.i.lr   JJI    til.-  ili'SIM-l    Willi    llir;c  ! 


TO   THK   KKYI,ARK, 

IIah.  I.I  II ,  liliUii;  »pii-ill 

r.ii.l  II ii.-vcr  wcit, 

Tlml  Iroiii  lii!uvitn,  <ir  iiciir  it, 
rouniHl  tliy  I'liII  licarl, 
111  [ii-iifuHC  Hlraiiis  III'  iui|ii(:iiR'clitaliji|  all. 


Iiiki^  a  lii'jii-biini  muidoii 

III  a  palacii  luwur, 
Sootliiii^  her  lovc-liidoii 
Smil  in  Hcoix't  hour 
With  iiiusic  Bwcut  u»  love,  which  ovorllnWH  her 
bower  ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  (golden, 

In  a  dell  ol' dew, 
.Scattering  iinbeholden 
ItH  aerial  liue 
Among  the  llowi;rK  and  gm«i)  «  hieh  wreen  it  from 
the  view  ; 


lli-her  still  Mil.!  higher 

l''ioni  ll ;irlli  thou  sjiringost, 

l,ikea.loll.|  oriile; 

The  l/liie  (lii|i  I  hull  wiiigit!)t, 
And   ninging   utill    doMt   nuar,    and   Hoariiig  ever 
singeHt. 

In  the  golden  liglitx-.ning 

Oj  the  netting  Nun, 
D'er  which  cIouiIh  are  hrightoiiing, 
Tlioii  doNt  lloat  and  run  ; 
Like  an  cuiiliodied  joy  whose  race  is  juHt  begun. 

'I'l'"    1-1 "I'l-^   '•veil 

.Melts  aioiuid  thy  Might  ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 
III  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  \  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Klin  as  are  the  arrows 
or  that  silver  siihere, 
Who'.e  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  liarilly  .see,  we  Ted  lluit  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
A.S,  when  night  is  bare, 
I'Voni  Olio  lonely  cloud 
Tlie  niiiiin  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is 
overllowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not  ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ( 
I'' ruin  rainbow  clouds  there  (low  not 

I»ro]is  so  bright  to  see, 
Ah  rriim  thy  presciici,'  showers  a  rain  of  ineloily. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not ; 

.g 


Like  a  loso  embowered 

111  its  own  green  leaves, 
liy  wanii  winds  di^llowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with   too  nundi   sweet  these  heavy- 
winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaki^ncd  llowera, 

All  that  ever  was 
.loyoiisaiiil  fresh  and  clear  thy  music  doth  siiipiiss. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  ; 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  Hood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

I 'bonis  hymeneal. 

Or  triumphant  chant, 
Matiheil  with  thine,  would  be  all 
liut  an  empty  vaunt,  — 
A  thingwherein  wefeel  there  is  sonic  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  lia|ipy  strain  f 
What  liclds,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ! 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  jilaiii  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  'I     What  ignorance 
of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  eonie  near  thee  ; 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

W.-iking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  How  in  such  a  crystal 
stream  < 


^ 


PUJiMS  OF  NArUKJU. 


--a 


Wo  look  before  nmi  iil'tei', 

And  piuo  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  siiu'i'rest  liuijihtor 

With  soiuf  piiiu  is  fnuiglit ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
1  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  soorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teaeh  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  nuist  know. 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  How, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  1  am  listeninj; 
now. 

I'KKCV  BYSSH1-.  SllULLEY. 


HAEK,  HARK  I  THE  LARK- 

Hauk,  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. 

And  Phtebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  ehaliced  llowei-s  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise  ! 

SHAKESPEARE. 


& 


TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

KillEliEAi.  minstrel  !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost  thou  des|nse  the  earth  where  eares  abound  ? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 

Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ' 
Thy  nest,  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will. 
Those  quiveringwings  composed,  that  music  still  I 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Jlount,  daring  warViler  !  —  that  love-prompted 
strain, 

'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond. 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  ; 

Yet  mightst  thou  seem,  i)roud  privileg« !  to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 


Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood  ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 
Whence  thou  dost  ixiur  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine  ; 
Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam,  — 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home  ! 
William  wokosworth. 


THE  THRUSH. 

Sweet  biixl  !  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 
Of  winters  past  or  coming,  void  of  care  ; 
Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are. 
Fair    seasons,   biulding   sprays,   sweet-smelling 

flowers,  — 
To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 
Aiwl  what  clear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare, 
A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  tliat  lowers. 
What  soul  can  be  so  sick  which  by  thy  songs 
(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 
Quite  to  fbrgt>t  earth's  turmoils,  spites,  andwrongs. 
And  lift  a  reverent  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ! 
Sweet,  artless  songster !  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 
To  airs  of  spheres,  —  yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

WILLIAM   DKUMMOND. 


THE  ENGUSH  ROBIN. 

See  yon  robin  on  the  spray  ; 

Look  ye  how  his  tiny  form 
Swells,  as  when  his  merry  lay 

C!  ushes  forth  amid  the  storm. 

Though  the  snow  is  falling  fast, 

SjK'cking  o'er  his  coat  with  white,  — 

Though  Unul  roars  the  chilly  blast. 
And  tlie  evening's  lost  in  nij;ht,  — 

Yet  from  out  the  darkness  dreiuy 
t  'onu'th  still  that  cheerful  note  ; 

Traiseful  aye,  and  never  weary. 
Is  that  little  warbling  throat. 

Thank  him  for  his  lesson's  sake, 
T'hank  God's  gentle  minstrel  there. 

Who,  when  storms  make  others  quake. 
Sings  of  days  that  brighter  were. 

Harrison  wbir 


THE  ROBIN. 

My  old  Welsh  neighlwr  over  the  way 
t'rept  .slowly  out  in  the  sun  of  spring. 

Pushed  from  her  ears  the  locks  of  gray. 
And  listened  to  hear  the  robin  sing. 


-^ 


[& 


I'dkmh  of  nature. 


439       I 


fa- 


Her  griuiilson,  playing  at  niai'))les,  stopped, 
And  Liucl  in  8])oit,  as  boys  will  be, 

TosHod  a  stone  at  llio  bird,  who  hojipiid 
Kroni  liou{;li  to  bou^di  in  the  ai)pk'-tive. 

"  Nay  !  "  saiil  tlie  giandniother;   "  liave  you  not 
heard, 

My  jjoor  bad  lioy  !  of  the  liery  pit, 
And  how,  dro|i  by  ilrop,  this  nieicil'iil  bird 

<  'arries  thi:  water  that  ipienehes  it  ? 

"  lie  l)rings  eool  dew  in  his  little  bill, 
And  lets  it  fall  on  the  souls  of  sin  ; 

You  e'au  see  the  mark  on  his  red  breast  stil! 
(triires  that  seoreh  as  he  drops  it  in. 

"My  poor  Bron  rhuddyn  !  my  bi'east- burned  bird. 
Singing  so  sweetly  from  limb  to  limb, 

Veiy  dear  to  the  heart  of  our  Lord 
Is  he  who  pities  the  lost,  like  him  !" 

"Amen  !"   I  said  to  the  beautiful  myth  ; 

"Sing,  bird  of  (!od,  in  my  heart  as  well; 
Kaih  g(jod  thought  is  a  droji  wherewith 

'I'd  eool  and  lessen  the  lires  of  liell. 

"  I'rayers  of  love  like  rain-drops  fall, 

Tears  of  pity  are  eooling  dew. 
And  dear  to  the  heart  ol'  our  Lord  are  all 

Who  suffer  like  him  in  the  good  they  do!" 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

Uniioi.iNK  !  that  in  the  meadow, 
Or  beneath  the  orehard's  shadow, 
Kce[icst  up  a  constant  rattle 
Joyous  as  my  ehildren's  prattle, 
Welenme  to  the  north  again  ! 
Welr'ome  to  mine  ear  thy  strain, 
Wehomo  to  mine  eye  the  sight 
Of  thy  buir,  thy  lilack  and  white  ! 
Hrighter  plumes  nniy  greet  the  sun 
V>y  the  banks  of  Amazon  ; 
Sweeter  tones  may  weave  the  spell 
Of  eru-hanting  Philomel ; 
liut,  (he  Iropi.'  bird  would  fail. 
And  the  Euf^lisli  nightingale. 
If  W(!  sliould  ronipare  their  worth 
With  tliini' cMidless,  gu.shing  tnirth. 

When  the  ides  of  May  are  past, 
June  and  summer  nearing  fast. 
While  from  depths  of  blue  above 
Comes  the  mighty  breath  of  love, 
Calling  o\it  each  bud  and  flower 
With  resistless,  seei'et  power,  — 
Waking  liope  and  fond  desire, 
Kindling  the  erotic  fire,  — 


Filling  youths'  ami  maidcn.s'  dre:ims 
With  mysterious,  pleasing  themes  ; 
Then,  amid  the  sunliglit  clear 
Floating  in  the  fragrant  air, 
Thou  dost  fill  each  heart  with  pleasure 
By  thy  glad  ecstatic  measure. 

A  single  note,  so  sweet  ami  low, 
Like  a  full  heart's  oveiflow, 
Koiins  the  [irelude  ;  but  the  strain 
(Jives  us  no  such  tone  again  ; 
For  the  wild  and  .saucy  song 
Leaj)s  and  skips  the  notes  among. 
With  such  (piick  and  sjiortive  play, 
Ne'er  was  niaddei',  nienier  lay. 

Gayest  songster  of  the  spring  ! 
Thy  melodies  before  me  bring 
Visions  of  .some  dream-built  land. 
Where,  by  constant  z<'phyrs  fanned, 
1  nnght  walk  the  livelong  ilay, 
Endjosomed  in  perpetual  May. 
Nor  care  nor  fear  thy  bosom  knows  ; 
For  thee  a  tempest  never  lilows  ; 
lint  when  our  northern  summer's  o'er, 
liy  Delaware's  or  Schuylkill's  .shore 
The  wikl  rice  lifts  its  airy  head. 
And  royal  feasts  for  thee  are  s])read. 
And  when  the  winter  threatens  there, 
Thy  tireless  wings  yet  own  no  fear, 
l!ut  bear  thee  to  more  southern  coasts. 
Far  beyon<l  the  reach  of  frosts. 

Bobolink  !  still  may  thy  gladness 
Take  frcjm  me  all  taints  of  .sadness  ; 
Fill  my  soul  with  trust  unshaken 
In  that  Being  who  has  taken 
Care  for  every  living  thing. 
In  summer,  winter,  fall,  and  spring. 


THE  O'LINCOLN  FAMILY. 

A  FLOCK  of  njerry  singing-birds  were  sporting  in 
the  grove  : 

Some  were  warbling  cheerily,  and  some  were  mak- 
ing love  : 

There  were  Hobolincon,  Wadolineon,  Wiuterseo- 
ble,  ('oiniuedle,  — 

A  liveli('r  set  was  never  led  bv  tabor,  pipe,  or 
fiddle,  — 

Crying,  "Phew,  shew,  Wadolineon,  see,  see, 
liobolineon, 

Down  among  the  tiekleto|is,  hiding  in  the  but- 

teivups! 

I  know  the  saucy  chap,  1  see  his  shining  cap 
Bobbing  in  the  clover  ther(-,  —  see,  see,  sec  ! " 


-S 


[& 


440 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


•-Qi 


t 


Up  llifs  Uobolincou,  pcnhiug  on  iin  iipple-tioo, 
StiiitU'd  by  bis  rivnl's  song,  quickoiied  by  liis 

i-iuU«iy, 
Soon  he  spies  tlie  rogue  ulloiit,  oniveting  in  the 

air. 
And  uieriily  he  turns  about,  luul  warns  liini  to 

"  'T  is  you  that  would  a-wooiug  go,  down  among 

the  rushes  0  ! 
But  wait  a  week,  till  tlowei's  ai-o  cheery,  —  wait 

a  week,  and,  civ  you  marry. 
Be  sure  of  a  house  wheivin  to  tarry  ! 
Wadolink,  Wliiskodink,  Tom  Uouuy,  wait,  wait, 


Every  one 's  a  funny  fellow  ;  every  one  's  a  little 

mellow ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  o'er  the  hill  and 

in  the  hollow  ! 
Jlerrily,  n\errily,  there  they  hie  ;  now  they  rise 

and  now  they  tly ; 
They  cross  and  tiun,  and  in  and  out,  and  down 

in  the  middle,  and  wheel  about,  — 
With  a  "Phew,  shew,  Wadolincon  !  listen  to 

me,  Liobolineou  !  — 
Happy  's  the  wooing  that  "s  speedily  doing,  that 's 

speedily  doing. 
That 's  uierry  and  over  with  the  bloom  of  the 

clover  ! 

Bobolineon,   Wadolincon,   Wintei'seeble,  follow, 

follow  mo ! 

Wilson  Flacg. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

Onue,  on  a  golden  afternoon, 

With  radiant  faces  and  hearts  in  tunc. 

Two  fond  lovci-s  in  dreaming  mood 

Threaded  a  rural  solitude. 
Wholly  happy,  they  only  knew 
That  the  earth  wa.s  bright  and  the  sky  was  blue. 

That  light  and  beauty  and  joy  and  song 

Chiu-mod  the  way  as  they  passed  along  ; 
The  air  was  fragrant  with  woodland  scents  ; 
The  squirrel  frisked  on  the  roadside  fence ; 

And    hovering    near  them,    "Chee,   chee, 
chink  ! " 

Queried  the  curious  bobolink. 
Pausing  and  peering  with  sidelong  head. 
As  saucily  questioning  all  thoy  said  ; 

While   the  ox-eye  danced  on   its   slender 
stem. 

And  all  glad  nature  rejoiced  with  them. 
Over  the  odorous  fields  were  strown 
Wilting  windrows  of  grass  new-mowni, 

And  rosy  bUlows  of  clover  bloom 

Surged  in  tl>e  sunshine  and  l>reathed  per- 
fume. 


Swinging  low  on  a  slender  limb. 

The  sparrow  warbled  his  wedding  hynni, 
Ami,  Imhuu  ing  on  a  blackberry-brier. 
The  bolwlink  sung  with  his  heart  on  lire,  — 

"Chink  ?     If  you  wish  to  kiss  her,  do  ! 

Do  it,  do  it !     You  cowiml,  you  I 

Kiss  her  !     Kiss,  kiss  her  !     W'lio  will  sec  ' 
Only  we  three  !  we  three  !  we  tlnve  1 " 

Under  gjirlands  of  drooping  vines. 
Through  din\  vistas  of  swcct-brcathcd  pines, 
Past  wiilc  Mu^ulow-liclds,  lately  mowed, 
M'andeivd  the  indolent  country  road. 
The  lovers  followed  it,  listening  still, 
And,  loitering  slowly,  as  lovers  will,  • 

Entered  a  low-roofed  bridge  that  lay, 
Dusky  and  cool,  in  their  pleasant  way. 
Under  its  areh  a  smooth,  brown  stream 
Silently  glided,  with  glint  and  gleam. 
Shaded  by  graceful  elms  that  spread 
Their  veixlurous  canopy  overhead,  — 
The  sti'eam  so  narrow,  the  boughs  so  wide, 
They  met  and  mingled  across  the  tide. 
Aldei's  loved  it,  and  seemed  to  keep 
Patient  watch  as  it  lay  asleep. 
Mirroring  clearly  the  trees  and  sky 
.'\nd  the  flitting  form  of  the  dragon-lly, 

Save  where  the  swift-wingod  swallow  played 
In  and  out  in  the  sun  and  shade. 
And  darting  and  circling  in  nrerry  chase. 
Dipped,  and  dimpled  its  clear  dark  face. 

Fluttering  lightly  from  brink  to  brink 

Followed  the  garrulous  bobolink. 

Rallying  loudly,  with  mirthful  din, 
The  pair  who  lingered  vmseen  within. 

And  when  from  the  friendly  bridge  at  last 

Into  the  road  beyond  they  passed, 

Again  beside  them  the  tempter  went, 
Keeping  the  thread  of  his  argument  — 

"Kiss  her!  kiss  her  !  chink-a-chee-chee  ! 

I  '11  not  mention  it !     Don't  mind  mo  ! 
1  '11  be  sentinel  —  I  can  seo 
.\11  around  from  this  tnll  biivh-tree  ! " 

But  ah  1  they  noted  — nor  deemed  it  strange  — 

In  his  rollicking  chorus  a  trilling  change  : 
'•  Ho  it  !  do  it  I "  with  might  and  main 
Warbled  the  telltale —  "  Do  it  diniinl" 

Elizabbth  .Akbrs  .\i.lkn. 


ROBERT  OF  UNCOI.>f. 

Mf.kkily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 

Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame. 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Kobert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  unme  : 
Bobo'-link,  lK)b-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spiuk  ; 


f 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


441 


-a 


&-- 


Smig  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  (lowers. 

Cliee,  c)ice,  cheo. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed, 

Wearing  a  bright  Vilack  wedding  coat ; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note  ; 
lioh-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
>S|iink,  sjiank,  spink  ; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine. 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife. 

Pretty  and  ijuiet,  with  plain  brown  wings. 
Passing  at  home  a  jiatient  life, 

Rroods  in  the  grass  while  lier  husband  sings 
liob-o'-link,  txjb-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Brood,  kind  creature  ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she, 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note, 
Braggart  and  jn-ince  of  braggarts  is  lie. 
Pouring  boasts  from  liis  little  throat : 
liob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man  ; 
Catcli  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  cheo. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  beil  of  hay. 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  witli  all  his  might : 
P,ob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out. 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 

Cliee,  cliee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seed  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  sjiink  ; 
Tills  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  lengtli  is  made 
Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care  ; 

Off  is  his  lioliday  garment  laid. 
Half  forgotten  that  nieiTy  air, 


I5ob-o'-]ink,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Wliere  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee'. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  giown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows  ; 
liobert  of  Lincoln  's  a  humdrum  crone  ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  lie  goes  : 
I'ob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


THE  HEATH-COCK. 

Good  morrow  to  thy  sable  beak 
And  glossy  plumage  dark  and  sleek, 
Thy  ciirnson  moon  and  azure  eye, 
<  'ock  of  the  heath,  so  wildly  shy  : 
1  see  thee  slyly  cowering  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silvery  dew. 
That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air, 
Like  casements  of  my  lady  fair. 

A  maid  there  is  in  yonder  tower, 
Who,  peeping  from  her  early  bower. 
Half  shows,  like  thee,  her  .simple  wile, 
Her  braided  hair  and  nioniing  smile. 
The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will, 
I'eiieath  the  covert  hide  them  still  ; 
The  rarest  things  to  break  of  day 
Look  shortly  forth,  and  shrink  away. 

A  fleeting  moment  of  delight 
I  sunned  me  in  her  cheering  sight ; 
As  short,  I  ween,  the  time  will  be 
Tliat  1  shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 
Through  Snowdon's  mist  red  beams  I  he  day, 
The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay. 
The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring,  — 
Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

JOA.NNA  BAILLIE. 


PEKSEVERANCE. 

A  SWALLOW  in  the  spring 
Came  to  our  granary,  and  'neath  the  eaves 
Essayed  to  make  a  nest,  and  there  did  bring 

Wet  earth  and  straw  and  leaves. 

Day  after  day  she  toiled 
With  patient  art,  but  ere  her  work  was  crowned. 
Some  sad  mishap  the  tiny  fabric  spoiled. 

And  dashed  it  to  the  ground. 


-S 


©- 


U'2 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-a 


She  foviud  the  ruin  wroii^lit. 
But,  uot  cast  down,  forth  from  tlie  pUoe  she  flew, 
Ami  with  her  mate  fivsli  esutli  aiuignisses  bi-ought 

And  built  hor  nest  anew. 

But  soiirceJy  had  she  plaoeil 
The  last  soft  feather  on  its  ample  floor, 
ANTien  wioked  hand,  or  ohanee,  agsiiu  laid  waste 

And  wrought  the  ruin  o'er. 

But  still  her  heart  slie  kept. 
And  toiled  again,  —  and  last  night,  hearing  calls, 
1  looked,  — and  lo  !  thive  little  swjUlows  slept 

Within  the  earth-niude  \ralls. 

What  truth  is  here,  0  msm  ! 
Hath  hope  Ixvn  smitten  in  its  early  dawn  ? 
Have  clouds  o'ercast  thy  purpose,  trust,  or  plan  t 

Have  faith,  and  struggle  on  1 

R.  S.  S-  ANDKOS. 


[:u- 


THE  ■WDfGED  'WORSHIPERS. 

Cluuncy  Place 

Gay,  guiltless  pair. 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer ; 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  foi-giveu. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
WTiere  mortals  to  their  JIaker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pui-e  spii-its  fear 
The  Ood  ye  never  could  oftend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  waudcivi-s  of  the  lyyvr  deep. 

To  you  't  is  given 
To  wake  sweet  Natui'e's  untaught  laj-s; 

Beneath  the  aivh  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing 
Far,  far  atxn-e,  o'er  lakes  and  lands. 

And  join  the  choii-s  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay. 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour. 

Teach  me  the  aii-y  way. 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd 
On  upwai\l  wings  could  I  but  fly. 


I  'd  liathe  in  yon  bright  cloud. 
And  seek  tlie  stare  that  gem  the  sky. 

'T  were  heaven  indeeii 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed. 
And  Nature's  own  great  l<od  adore. 

(.KARLKS  SPRAGUE. 


THE  SWALLOW. 

Thk  gorse  is  yellow  on  the  heath. 

The  Ixuiks  with  speedwell  ttowei-s  are  gsiy, 
The  oixks  are  budding ;  and  Wneath, 
The  hawthorn  soon  will  iK-ar  the  wi-eath. 
The  silver  wreath  of  May. 

The  welcome  guest  of  settled  spring, 
The  swallow  too  is  come  at  last ; 

Just  at  sunset,  when  thrushes  sing, 

1  saw  her  dash  with  rapid  wing. 
And  haileil  her  as  she  pixssed. 

Come,  summer  visifjuit,  attach 

To  my  reed-roof  thy  nest  of  clay. 
And  let  my  ear  thy  music  catch, 
Low  twittering  underneath  the  thatch, 
.\t  the  gray  dawn  of  day. 

As  fables  tell,  an  Indian  sage. 

The  Hindustani  wooils  among. 
Could  in  his  desert  hermitage. 
As  if  't  were  marked  in  written  page. 
Translate  the  wild  biixl's  song. 

I  wish  1  did  his  jwwer  possess. 

That  1  might  learn,  fleet  bii\l,  from  thee, 
What  our  vain  sj-stems  only  guess, 
And  know  from  what  wild  wilderness 

Thou  earnest  o'er  the  sea. 

CHARLOTTE    SMITH. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

.\Nn  i.s  the  swallow  gone  ? 
Who  lieheld  it  f 
Which  way  s;iiled  it  I 

Farewell  Iwde  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  sjuv  it  go  ;  — 

But  who  doth  hear 

Its  summer  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 

So  the  freed  spirit  flies  ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  tl>o  swallow  from  the  skies. 


■4 


a- 


J'OEMS  OF  NATURE. 


44:i 


l] 


W)iiUi(;r  ?  wlicioforr;  doll)  it  go  ? 

"f  in  all  iinkiiowii  ; 

We  fcel  .-.loi.e 
Tliiit  a  vojil  is  Icl't  below. 

WlI.LTAM    IlO' 


THE  NIOHTINOALE. 

Till',  rose  looks  out  in  I.Ik^  v/illcy, 

Ami  tliitlicr  will  1  go  ! 
To  ihe  I'osy  vale,  where  the  iiiglitiiigalo 

Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  virgin  in  on  the  river-Hiilc, 

Culling  the  lemons  jiale  ; 
Thither,  — yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 

To  the  rosy  vule,  where  the  niglitingale 
.Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  hiin-st  Iniit  hr^r  liiin<l  hath  culh-il, 

'T  is  for  III!]'  lover  all  ; 
Thither,  ^  yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  wlierc  the  liightingalc 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

In  her  hat  of  straw,  for  her  g<!ntle  swain, 

•She  has  placed  the  lemons  j.ale  ; 
Thither,  —  yes  !  thither  will  1  go. 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

From  the  I'ortUKUCSC  of  GlL  VlCKNTE. 
by  John  Huwrinc. 


THE  NIOHTINOALE. 

Pui/.K.  tlioii  the  nightingale. 
Who  soothes  thee  with  his  talc, 
Anil  wakes  the  woods  around  ; 
A  (ringing  feather  he,  —  a  winged  and  wandering 
sound  ; 

Whose  tender  earoling 
Sets  all  ears  listening 
Unto  that  living  lyre, 
'.  'Iieiic-e  flow  the  n'uy  notes  his  eesta.sie3  inspire  ; 

Who.se  shrill,  onjirieious  song 
I'reathes  like  a  (lute  along. 
With  many  a  careless  tone,  — 
Miisie  of  thousand  tongues,  formed  by  one  tongue 

O  eharniing  ereature  rare  ! 
Can  aught  with  thc^e  eompare  ? 
Thou  art  all  song,  —  thy  breast 
Thrills  for  one  month  o'  the  year,  —  is  tranquil 


nil  the  rest. 


i'hee  wondrous  we  may  call,  — 
.Most  wondrous  this  of  all. 
That  such  a  tiny  throat 
Should  wake  so  loud  a  sound,  and  pour  go  loud 
a  note. 

I-rom  llic  Uuttfi  of  MARIA  TliSSULSCUArMi  VISSCHIIK. 
by  JOHN   liOWKI.SC. 


THK  NIOHTINOALE  BEREAVED. 


Oi'T  when,  returning  with  her  loaded  bill, 
Tir  astonished  mother  finds  a  vacant  nest, 
By  the  hard  hand  of  unrelenting  clown 
liobbed,  to  the  ground  the  vain  provision  falls  , 
Her  pinions  niflle,  and  low-drooping  scarce 
(Jan  bear  the  mourner  to  the  jioplar  sliade  ; 
Where,  all  alraiidoned  to  despair,  she  sings 
Hersorrows through  the  night  ;  and  on  the  hongh 
Sole-sitting,  still  at  every  'lying  fall 
Takes  up  again  her  lamentable  strain 
Of  winding  woe,  till,  wide  around,  the  W'ooils 
Sigh  to  her  .song,  and  with  her  wail  resound. 


4^.- 


PHILOMELA. 

Haiik  I  ah,  the  nightingale  I 
The  tawny-throated  I 

Hark  !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ' 
What  triumph  !  hark,  —  what  pain  ! 
0  wanderer  fiom  a  Grecian  shore, 
.Still,  —  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands,  — 
.Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 
That  wild,  umiuenched,  deep-sunken,  Old-World 
pain,  — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn. 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night. 
And  the  sweet,  tnimpiil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm  ! 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold. 
Here,   thioiigli   the    moonlight  on    this   Knglish 

grass, 
The  unfriendly  p.alare  in  the  Tlira<ian  wild  i 

Dost  thou  again  peruse. 
With  hot  cheeks  and  seared  eyes, 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame  ? 

Dost  thou  once  more  essay 
Thy  flight ;  and  feel  come  over  thee. 
Poor  fugitive  !  the  feathery  change 
Once  more  ;  and  once  more  make  resound, 
Willi  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
I, (me  Daulis,  and    the  high  Ccphisian  val 


J^ 


f 


-144 


PUEMS  OF  NATURE. 


-^ 


Listen,  Eugenia,  — 

How   thick   tlie  bursts  come  crowding  through 

the  leaves  ! 
Again  —  thou  hearest ! 
Eternal  jjassion  ! 
Eternal  pain  ! 


t^- 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day. 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

.Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 

Wliich  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing. 

Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spruig  ; 

Everything  did  banish  moan. 

Save  the  nightingale  alone. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn. 

Leaned  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn  ; 

And  there  sung  the  doleful'st  ditty 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie  !  now  would  she  cry  ; 

Teru,  teni,  by  and  by  ; 

That,  to  hear  her  so  complain. 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 

For  her  griefs,  so  lively  shown. 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah  !  (thought  I)  thou  mouvn'st  in  vain  ; 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  ; 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 

Ruthless  bears,  they  will  not  cheer  thee  ; 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead  ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead  : 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing. 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  ! 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smiled. 

Thou  and  I  were  both  beguiled. 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 

Is  no  friend  in  miseiy. 

Words  are  ea.sy,  like  the  wind  ; 

Faithful  friends  are  hanl  to  find. 

Richard  Barnfield. 


THE  MOTHER  NIGHTINGALE. 

I  HAVE  seen  a  nightingale 
On  a  sprig  of  thyme  bewail. 
Seeing  the  dear  nest,  which  was 
Hers  alone,  borne  off,  alas  ! 
By  a  laborer  :  I  heard. 
For  this  outrage,  the  poor  bird 
Say  a  thousand  mournful  things 
To  the  wind,  which,  on  its  wings, 
To  the  Guardian  of  the  sky 
Bore  her  melancholy  cry, 


Bore  her  tender  tears.     She  spake 
As  if  her  fond  heart  would  break  : 
One  while  in  a  sad,  sweet  note. 
Gurgled  from  her  straining  throat. 
She  enforced  her  piteous  tale. 
Mournful  prayer  and  plaintive  wail  ; 
One  while,  with  the  shrill  dispute 
Quite  outwearied,  she  was  mute  ; 
Then  afresh,  for  her  dear  brood, 
Her  harmonious  shrieks  renewed. 
Now  she  winged  it  round  and  round  ; 
Now  she  skimmed  along  the  ground  ; 
Now  from  bough  to  bough,  in  haste. 
The  delighted  robber  chased. 
And,  alighting  in  his  path. 
Seemed  to  say,  'twixt  grief  and  wrath, 
"Give  me  back,  fierce  rustic  rude. 
Give  me  back  my  pretty  brood," 
.\nd  1  heard  the  rastic  still 
Answer,  "  That  I  never  will." 

From  the  Spanish  of  ESTEVAN  MAMT.L  DR  VII.LHGAS, 
by  Thomas  Ko.scoe. 


THE  PELICAN. 

FROM   "THE  PELICAN  ISLAND." 

At  early  dawn  I  marked  them  in  the  sky, 
Catching  the  morning  colors  on  their  plumes  ; 
Not  in  voluptuous  pastime  reveling  there, 
Among  the  rosy  clouds,  while  orient  heaven 
Flamed  like  the  opening  gates  of  Paradise, 
Whence  issued  forth  the  angel  of  the  sun. 
And  gladdened  nature  with  returning  day  : 
—  Eager  for  food,  their  searching  eyes  they  fixed 
On  ocean's  unrolled  volume,  from  a  height 
That  brought  immensity  within  their  scope  ; 
Yet  with  such  power  of  Wsion  looked  they  down. 
As  thougli  they  watched  the  shcU-fish  slowly 

gliding 
O'er  sunken  rocks,  or  climbing  trees  of  coral. 
On  indefatigable  wing  upheld, 
Breath,   pulse,    existence,  seemed  suspended  in 

them  : 
They  were  as  pictures  painted  on  the  sky  ; 
Till  suddenly,  aslant,  away  they  shot, 
Like  meteors  changed  from  stars  to  gleams  of 

liglitning, 
And  struck  upon  the  deep,  where,  in  wild  play, 

!  Their  quaiTy  floundered,  unsuspecting  harm  ; 
With  terrible  voracity,  they  plunged 
Their  heads  among  the  affrighted  shoals,  and  beat 
.\  tempest  on  the  surges  with  their  wings. 
Till  flashing  clouds  of  foam  and  spi-ay  concealed 

■  them. 

Nimbly  they  seized  and  secreted  their  prey. 
Alive  and  wriggling  in  the  elastic  net. 
Which  N.aturc  liung  beneath  their  graspingbeaks, 

,  Till,  swollen  with  captures,  the  unwieldy  bunleii 


i 


e- 


PDEMS   OF  NATURE. 


445 


-a 


(■log;;i'd  their  slow  flight,  as  lieavily  to  laiiil 
'J'hi.-se  iniglity  hunters  of  the  deep  returned. 
There  on  tile  eragged  cliffs  they  perehed  at  ease, 
(nirging  their  hapless  victims  one  by  one  ; 
Then,  lull  and  weary,  side  by  side  they  slept, 
Till  evening  roused  them  to  the  chase  again. 

Love  found  that  lonely  couple  on  their  isle, 
And  soon  surrounded  them  with  blithe  compan- 
ions. 
Th(!  noble  birds,  with  skill  spontaneous,  framed 
A  nest  of  reeds  among  the  giant-grass, 
That  waved  in  lights  and  shadows  o'er  the  soil. 
Tliere,  in  sweet  thraldom,  yet  unweening  why, 
'I'lie  jiatient  dam,  who  ne'er  till  now  had  known 
I'arental  instinct,  brooded  o'er  her  eggs. 
Long  ere  she  found  the  curious  secret  out, 
Tliat  life  was  hatching  in  their  brittle  shells. 
Then,  from  a  wild  rapacious  bird  of  prey, 
'I'amed  by  the  kindly  process,  she  became 
That  gentlest  of  all  living  things,  — a  mother  ; 
(ientlcst  wliile  yearning  o'er  her  naked  young. 
Fiercest  when  stirred  by  anger  to  defend  them. 
Her  mate  himself  tlie  softening  power  confessed, 
Korgot  his  sloth,  restrained  his  appetite. 
And  ranged  the  sky  and  fisheil  the  stream  for  her. 
Or,  when  o'erwearied  Nature  forced  her  olT 
To  sliake  her  torpid  feathers  in  the  breeze, 
And  bathe  her  bosom  in  the  cooling  flood. 
He  took  her  place,  and  felt  through  every  nerve, 
While  the  plump  nestlings  throbbed  against  his 

heart, 
The  tenderness  that  makes  the  vulture  mild  ; 
Yea,  half  unwillingly  his  post  resigned, 
AVhen,  homesick  with  the  absence  of  an  hour, 
.'^ln■  hun-ied  back,  and  drove  him  from  her  seat 
With  pecking  bill  and  cry  of  fond  distress, 
.Answered  by  him  with  murmurs  of  delight, 
W'liose  gutturals  harsh  to  her  were  love's  own 

music. 
Then,  settling  down,  like  foam  upon  the  wave, 
W'liitc,  flickering,  eff'ervescent,  soon  subsiding, 
Ilrr  nifTlnl  pinions  smoothly  she  composed  ; 
.\nd,  wliili'  biiieatli  the  comfort  of  her  wings, 
Il(i  I  rnwilid  progeny  rpiite  filled  the  nest. 
Tile  halcyon  sleeps  not  sounder,  when  the  wind 
Is  lireathles.s,  and  the  sea  without  a  curl, 
—  Nor  dreams  the  halcyon  of  serener  days, 
I  ir  nights  more  beautiful  with  silent  stars, 
Tlian  in  that  hour,  the  mother  pelican, 
W'licn  the  waiTn  tumults  of  aft'ection  sunk 
'  nto  calm  sleep,  and  dreams  of  what  they  were,  — 
1  'reams  more  delicious  than  reality, 
lb-  sentinel  beside  her  stood,  and  watched 
\Vith  jealous  eye  the  raven  in  the  clouds, 
-Alii  the  rank  sea-mews  wheeling  round  the  cliffs. 
Woe  to  the  reptile  then  that  ventured  nigh  ! 
The  snap  of  his  tremendous  bill  was  like 


Death's.scythe,  down-cuttingevery  thingit  struck. 
The  heedless  lizard,  in  his  gambols,  peeped 
Upon  the  guarded  nest,  from  out  the  flowers, 
But  Jiaid  the  instant  forfeit  of  his  life  ; 
Nor  could  tlie  seii)ent's  subtlety  elude 
Capture,  when  gliding  by,  nor  in  defense 
Miglit  his  malignant  fangs  and  venom  save  him. 

Ere  long  the  thriving  brood  outgrew  theircradle, 
Han  through  the gras.s,  and  dabbled  in  the  pools: 
No  sooner  ilenizens  of  earth  than  made 
Free  both  of  air  and  water  ;  day  by  day, 
New  lessons,  exercises,  and  amusements 
Employed  the  old  to  teach,  the  young  to  learn. 
Now  floating  on  the  blue  lagoon  behold  them  ; 
Tile  sire  and  dam  in  swan-like  beauty  steering. 
Their  cygnets  following  through  the  foamy  wake. 
Picking  the  leaves  of  plants,  pursuing  insects, 
Or  catching  at  the  bubbles  as  they  broke  : 
Till  on  some  minor  fry,  in  reedy  shallows. 
With  flapping  pinions  and  un.sjiaring  beaks, 
Tlie  well-taught  scholars  plied  their  double  art. 
To  fish  in  troubled  waters,  and  secure 
The  petty  captives  in  their  maiden  pouches  ; 
Then  hurried  with  their  bampiet  to  the  shore. 
With  feet,  wings,  breast,    half  swimming   and 

half  flying. 
But  when  their  pens grewstrong  to  fight  the  storm, 
And  buflet  with  the  breakers  on  the  reef, 
The  parents  put  them  to  severer  proof : 
On  beetling  rocks  the  little  ones  were  marshaled  ; 
There,  by  endeannents,  stripes,  examphi,  urged 
To  try  the  void  convexity  of  heaven, 
And  plow  the  ocean's  horizontal  field. 
Timorous  at  first  they  fluttered  round  the  vcige. 
Balanced  and  furled  their  hesitating  wings. 
Then  put  them  forth  again  with  steadier  aim  ; 
Now,  gaining  courage  as  they  felt  the  wind 
Dilate  tliiir  feathers,  fill  tlR-ir  airy  frames 
Witli  buoyancy  that  bore  them  from  their  feet. 
They  yielded  all  their  burden  to  the  breeze. 
And  sailed  and  soared where'ertheirgnardiaiis  led; 
Ascending,  hovering,  wheeling,  or  alighting. 
They  searched  the  deep  in  quest  of  nobler  game 
Than  yet  their  inexperience  had  encountered  ; 
With  these  they  battled  in  that  element. 
Where  wings  or  fins  were  ecjually  at  home. 
Till,  conipierors  in  many  a  desperate  strife. 
They  dragged  their  spoils  to  land,  and  gorged  at 
leisure. 

JAMIIS  MoNTtOMERV. 


ty-.^ 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew. 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  jinrsin* 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 


-i 


B^- 


Vainly  th«  ibwliT's  oyc 
Might  niiu'k  tliy  distmit  tliglit  to  do  thco  wrong, 
As,  iliu'kly  painted  on  tliu  iiinison  sky. 

Thy  tiguro  lloats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plasliy  brink 
Of  woedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide. 
Or  where  the  rooking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  caro 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illiniituble  air,  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  heiglit,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land. 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest. 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  tbrm ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone. 
Guides  through   the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 

flight. 
In  the  long  way  that  1  must  tread  alone, 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William  cullen  Bryant. 


TO  A  BIKD 


0  MEi..\Ncnoi,Y  bird,  a  winter's  day 

Thou  standest  by  the  margin  of  the  pool. 
And,   taught  by  God,  dost   thy  whole    being 
school 

To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay. 

God  has  appointed  thee  the  tish  thy  prey. 
And  given  thyself  a  lesson  to  the  fool 
Untliril'ty,  to  submit  to  moral  rule, 

And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to  weigh. 
There  need  not  schools  northe  professor's  chair, 

Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  impart : 
Ho  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to  sjiare. 

Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart. 
And  teacli  Ids  soul  by  brooks  and  rivers  fair,  — 

Nature  is  always  wise  in  every  part. 

Edward  HoviiL  (I.okd  Thurlow). 


THE  SANDPIPER. 

Across  the  narrow  beach  wo  flit. 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I ; 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit. 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  liamls  for  it. 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit,  — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  1. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Send  black  and  swift  across  the  sky  : 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  Hy, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach,  — 

One  little  samlpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  liim  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  niouiiiful  cry; 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitl'id  .'."iig. 

Or  Hash  of  fluttering  drapery  ; 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong. 

Ho  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye. 
Stani'li  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong. 

The  little  sandpiiier  anil  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously? 
My  drift  wood -tiro  will  burn  .so  bright  ! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly '! 
1  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rvishcs  through  the  sky  ; 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both. 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  1  ? 

CELIA  THA.XTEa. 


THE   LITTLE   HE.^CH   BIRD, 

Tiinr  little  bird,  thou  dweller  tiy  the  sea. 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  ? 
Why  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ! 
0,  rather,  bird,  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea  ; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared. 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us.     Thy  wail  — 
What  does  it  bring  to  mo  ? 

Thoucall'stalongthesand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Eestless  and  sad  ;  as  if,  in  strange  ; 


—4 


fl- 


I'OEMH  OF  NATITRE. 


447 


-a 


With  motion,  and  with  roar 
(If  waves  tliat  drive  to  shore 
( )m:  sijirit  did  ye  urge  — 
Thi'  Mystery  —  the  Word. 

Of  tlioiisands  thou  both  sejjulcher  and  pall, 
Old  ocean,  art  !     A  renuiem  o'er  the  dead. 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells, 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells,  — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  full. 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  tliee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  nevermore. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
Kor  gladness  and  the  light, 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 

Richard  h.  Dana. 


THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

A  THOUSAND  miles  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  stonny  sea,  - 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast. 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stonny  blast. 

The  sails  are  .scattered  abroad  like  weeds; 

The  strong  ma-sts  shake  like  (juivering  reeds ; 

The  miglity  cables  and  iron  chains. 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains,  — 

They  strain  and  they  crack ;  and  hearts  like  stone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Tp  .and  down  !  —  up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown, 

And  amidst  the  Hashing  and  feathery  foam 

The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  liome,  — 

A  home,  if  such  a  i)lace  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  .sea, 

I  In  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  to  .spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stonny  wing ! 

O'er  the  deep  !  —  o'er  the  deeji ! 
Where  the  whale  and  the  shark  and  the  sword- 
fish  sleep,  — 
Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
Tlie  petrel  telleth  her  tale  —  in  vain  ; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  waniing  bird 
Which  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storm  unheard ! 
Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still ; 
Yet  he  ne'er  falters,  —  so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing ! 

BRVAN  W.  PROCTER  (BARRY  CORNWALL). 


LINES   TO  THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

The  lark  sings  for  joy  in  her  own  loved  land. 
In  the  furrowed  field,  by  the  breezes  fanned; 

And  so  revel  we 

In  the  fuiTowed  sea, 
An  joyous  and  glad  as  the  lark  can  be. 

( In  the  placid  V)reast  of  the  inland  lake. 
The  wild  duck  delights  her  ]iastime  to  take  ; 

But  the  petrel  braves 

Tlie  wild  ocean  waves. 
His  wing  in  the  foaming  billow  he  laves. 

The  halcyon  loves  in  the  noontide  beam 
To  follow  his  sport  on  the  trani|uil  stream  : 

He  fishes  at  ease 

In  the  summer  breeze. 
But  we  go  angling  in  stormiest  seas. 

No  song-note  have  we  but  a  Jiiping  cry. 

That  blendswith  the  storm  when  the  wind  is  high. 

When  the  land-ljirds  wail 

W(^  sport  in  the  gale. 
And  merrily  over  the  ocean  we  sail. 

Anonymous, 


THE  EAGLE. 

Hk  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands. 
Kinged  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 

ALFRED  Tennyson. 


THE  OWL. 

In  the  lioUow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower. 

The  spectral  owl  doth  dwell  ; 
Dull,  hated,  despised,  in  the  sunshine  hour. 

But  at  <lusk  he  's  abroad  and  well  ! 
Not  a  bird  of  the  forest  e'er  mates  with  him  ; 

All  mock  him  outiighl  by  day ; 
But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and  dim. 
The  boldest  will  shrink  away  ! 

0,  when  the  night,  falls,  and  roosts  the.  find. 
Then,  thai,  is  the  reign  of  the  Iwrnid  ovi  1 

And  tliC  owl  hath  a  bride,  who  is  fond  and  bold, 
And  loveth  the  wood's  deep  gloom  ; 

And,  with  eyes  like  the  shine  of  the  moonstone  cold. 
She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom  ; 

Not  a  feather  she  moves,  not  a  carol  she  sings. 
As  she  waits  in  her  tn-e  so  still  ; 


-^ 


But  when  Iier  heart  heareth  his  flapping  wings, 
She  hoots  out  lier  welcome  shrill  ! 

O,  ivlien  the  moon  shines,  and  dogs  do  howl, 
Then,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  homid  owl  / 

Mourn  not  for  the  owl,  nor  his  gloomy  plight ! 

The  owl  hath  his  share  of  good  : 
If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood ! 
Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate, 

Tliey  are  each  unto  each  a  pride  ; 
Thrice  fonder,  perhaps,  since  a  strange,  dark  fate 
Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside ! 
So,  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  howl. 
Sing,  ho  I  for  the  reign  of  the  homid  owl  I 
We  know  not  alway 
Who  are  kings  by  day, 
But  the  king  ofthcnight  is  the  hold  hrown  owl! 
Bryan  w.  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall), 


TO  THE  BUMBLEBEE. 

Burly,  dozing  humblebee  ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me  ; 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-oH'  heats  tlu'ough  eeas  to  seek, 
1  will  follow  thee  alone. 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone  I 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer. 
Let  nie  chase  thy  waving  lines  ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere  ; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air. 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
F.picurcan  of  .hine  ! 
W^iit,  I  ]iritlii'e,  till  I  come 
Witliiii  c^irslmt  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  witlioiit  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south-wind,  in  May  days. 
With  a  net  of  sliining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall  ; 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
Witli  the  color  of  romance ; 
And  infusing  subtle  heats 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets,  — 
Tliou  in  sunny  solitudes. 
Rover  of  the  underwoods. 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 


Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours. 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound. 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leism'e. 
Firmest  cheer,  and  birdlike  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen ; 
But  violets,  and  bilben'y  bells, 
Maple  sap,  and  datt'odels, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high. 
Succory  to  match  the  sky. 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  eatchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste. 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 
Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeclied  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  wliat  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet. 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care. 

Leave  the  elms'  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast,  — 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Wjint  and  woe,  which  torture  us. 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


A  SOLILOQirsr; 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  CHIRPING  OF  A  GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect !  ever  blest 
With  a  more  than  mortal  rest. 
Rosy  dews  the  leaves  among. 
Humble  joys,  and  gentle  song  ! 
Wretched  poet !  ever  curst 
With  a  life  of  lives  tlie  worst. 
Sad  despondence,  restless  fears, 
Endless  jealousies  and  tears. 

In  the  burning  summer  thou 
Warblcst  on  the  verdant  bough, 
Meditating  cheerful  play. 
Mindless  of  the  piercing  ray ; 
Scorched  in  Cupid's  fervors,  I 
Ever  weep  and  ever  die. 

Proud  to  gratify  thy  will. 
Ready  Nature  waits  thee  still ; 
Balmy  wines  to  thee  she  pours. 
Weeping  through  the  dewy  flowera, 
Rich  as  those  by  Hebe  given 
To  the  thirsty  sons  of  heaven. 

Yet,  alas,  we  both  agree. 
Miserable  tliou  like  me  ! 


ff 


0-- 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


449 


-n 


u 


Each,  alike,  in  youth  rehearses 
Gentle  strains  and  tender  verses  ; 
Ever  wandering  far  from  home, 
Mindless  of  the  days  to  t-ome 
(Such  as  ageJ  Winter  brings 
Trembling  on  his  icy  wings), 
Both  alike  at  lust  we  die  ; 
Thou  art  starved,  and  so  am  I  ! 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect  !  what  can  be 

In  Iiappiness  corapareil  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine. 

The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine  ! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  dois  fill  ; 

'T  is  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature's  self's  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink  and  dance  and  sing. 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king  ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see. 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee  ; 

All  the  summer  hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  lor  thee  does  sow  and  plow, 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 

Tliou  dost  innocently  joy. 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  liinds  with  gladness  hear. 

Prophet  of  the  ripened  year  ! 

Tliee  Phrebus  loves,  and  does  inspire  ; 

Phcebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth. 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect  !  happy  thou 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know  ; 

But  when  thou  'st  drunk  and  daneed  and  sunc 

Tliy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal. 

Epicurean  animal  !) 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Tliou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 

From  the  Greek  of  ANACREON. 
byAliRAHAM  COW  LKY 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

TnK  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  ; 

AVhen  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead. 

That  is  the  grasshopper's,  —  he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights  ;  for,  when  tired  out  with  fun. 


He  rests  at  case  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  jjoetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never. 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems,  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 

The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

JOHN  KF.AT& 

THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass. 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  .luue, — 
Sole  voice  that 's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass  ; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon. 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass  ! 

0  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth. 

Both  have  your  sunshine  ;  both,  though  small, 

are  .strong 
At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  seem  given   to 

earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song,  — 
In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 
Leigh  hunt. 


THE  CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth. 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Whereso'er  be  thine  abode 
Always  harbinger  of  good. 
Pay  me  for  thy  wami  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet ; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  I  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expre.-ised. 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout. 
Ami  the  mouse  with  curious  snout. 
With  wliat  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  liest ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  lire, 
Tliou  hast  all  thy  heart's  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpa.ssest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are ; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song,  — 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long. 
Unimpaired  and  shrill  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 


-^ 


cfi^: 


450 


I'OKMS  OF  NATUBJU. 


-^ 


N»iUit>r  aiglit  iu>r  tliiwii  ol'Uay 

l\its  A  in>rioil  to  tli.v  i>la.v  ; 

Siiij;  tlica  —  iiiul  oxtoiul  tJiy  sjxiu 

Fiir  boy»i»l  Uio  iliUo  of  nmu. 

Wivlclu'd  nmu,  whiiso  ymu's  aiv  siH'Ut 

111  ivi>iiiiiij;  ilisi'oiiti'iit, 

I. IMS  not,  ii,i;<'il  tliouj;l>  lu>  Iks 

Uiill'ii  .-.I'lin,  oMiiiwivil  with  tluH\ 

WlLHAM  COWPBR, 


I  i.ii\B  to  hoar  tliiuo  oaruffst  voioc, 

Whoitvin-  tliou  ai't  liitl, 
Tliou  tostv  little  ilojimatist, 

'I'luni  jiix'tt)'  Uat,viliil  ! 
Tliou  uiiudost  uui  orgwllofolks,  — 

OM  jsi'ullofoll  s  aiv  tlu>.v,  — 
Thou  say  i-t  au  undisiiutod  thiuj; 

1»  such  11  soU'UUi  way. 

Tliou  ait  a  touialo,  Katviiid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  nuivoi^  ilu\iuj;li  thy  pioiviug  notos, 

So  )>t<tulai)t  auil  Nhi'ill. 
1  thiuk  thoi'o  is  a  knot  of  you 

Honeath  tlm  hollow  titm,  - 
A  knot  of  si>insti'r  Katyiliils,  -  - 

Oo  Katyditls  iliiuk  twi  I 

0.  tt'll  nio  whoiv  <li(l  Kafy  livo. 

Anil  what  ilid  Katy  ilo  ' 
Anil  was  sht>  voiy  fair  anil  young. 

And  yot  so  wii-koil  too  ? 
Oil!  Katy  lovo  a  naujjhty  man, 

(^r  kiss  uioiv  oluH'ks  than  ono  > 
1  wan-a\it  Katy  iliil  no  inoiv 

Thau  many  a  Katp  has  ilono, 

OLIVliK  W'KNlim.L  HOLMBS. 


t& 


TO  A  LOUSK. 

C"»N  SKKtNG  OSK  ON  A  l.AOVS  BaNNRT  AT  CHURCH. 

}Ia  !  whaiv  yo  gnun,  yo  orawliu"  forlio  > 
Yo\ir  inipuiloncp  protoi-ts  yon  saiily  ; 
I  canna  say  but  yo  stiuut  i-jiivly 

Owiv  gauiio  an'  law  ; 
Though,  faith  !  1  foar  yi>  ilino  but  si«it<ly 

On  sic  a  placo. 

Yo  ugly,  oiwiiin",  Wastit  wouuor, 
IXitostwI,  shunno>l  by  sjiunt  au'  sinner, 
Vlow  (laiv  yon  set  your  lit  ui>on  her, 

Sao  tino  a  lady  f 
Oao  sourowhoiw  olso,  luul  soak  your  liiuuor 

On  soiuo  jioor  body. 


Swith,  in  sonu>  boggsir's  hatlVa  siiuattle  ; 
Thoiv  yo  nuiy  oivop  and  spniwl  and  spnittle 
Wi'  ithor  kindiwl,  junipiug  cattU-, 

In  sluNils  and  nations  ; 
Whaiv  horn  nor  Ixuio  uo'or  daur  nusotllo 

Your  thick  iilnntalious. 

Now  hand  you  thoix',  yo  'iv  o\it  o'  sight, 
Bohvw  tho  I'rttl'ivls,  snug  an'  tight  ; 
Ka,  laitli  yo  yot  !  yo'll  no  Iw  right 

Till  yo  'vo  got  on  it, 
Tho  vory  tapuiost  tow'ring  height 

0'  iVliss's  bounot. 

My  sooth  !  right  Imuld  yo  sol  your  uoso  out. 
As  i>luni[i  imd  gi-ay  as  ouy  gu«ot  ; 

0  for  souio  rsink,  nioivuvial  ix«ot, 

t.>r  loll,  ivd  suuhUUuu  ! 

1  'd  gio  you  sic  a  hoarty  doso  o't. 

Wad  divss  your  dixHldum  ! 

1  wad  na  lKH>n  sHrpristnl  to  spy 
Y'on  on  an  auld  wife's  llauneu  toy ; 
Or  aiblius  souui  bit  duddie  lH>y, 

tin  's  wyliecoid  ; 
B\it  Miss's  lino  l.unaitti,  lio  ! 

How  daur  yo  do  't  ? 

0  ,louny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  Your  beauties  a'  abwad  ! 
Yo  little  ken  what  cui-seil  speed 

The  blastie  's  niakin'  1 
Thae  winks  and  tingx'rends,  1  ilivad, 

Ai-e  notice  takiu'  I 

0  wad  some  jK>wer  the  gillie  gio  ns 

To  see  oui'sel's  as  othei'S  see  ns  ! 

It  wad  fme  niouio  a  blunder  five  na. 

And  foolish  notion  ■. 

AVhat  airs  in  divss  an"  gait  wad  lea'e  us. 

And  ev'n  doYotion  ! 

RomiKi  r.i'KNS 


KF.MONSl'UANOb:   WITH  TllK.   SNAILS 

Yk  little  snails. 
With  slippery  tails. 
Who  noiselessly  traYol 
Along  this  giiuel, 
Uy  a  silvery  jwth  of  slime  unsightly, 
1  learn  that  you  visit  my  poa-ivws  nightly. 
KelonioHs  your  visit,  1  guess  ! 
And  1  give  you  this  warning. 
That,  every  morning, 

I  '11  strictly  examine  the  pods ; 
And  if  one  1  hit  on. 
With  slaver  or  spit  on. 
Your  next  meal  will  be  with  the  gods. 


-^ 


a- 


POEM  a  OF  NATURE. 


451 


■a 


I  own  yoii  're  a  very  aiicii;iit  race, 

And  Greece  and  15abyloii  were  amid  ; 
You  liave  tenanted  many  a  royal  dome, 

And  dwelt  in  the  oldest  pyramid  ; 
The  souree  of  the  N  ile !  —  0,  you  have  been  there ! 

In  the  ark  was  your  lloodless  bed; 
On  the  moonless  night  of  Marathon 

You  crawled  o'er  the;  mighty  dead  ; 

liut  still,  though  1  reverence  your  ancestries, 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  nilible  my  jieas. 

The  meadowsare  yours,  —  the  hedgerowand  brook, 

You  may  bathe  in  their  dews  at  morn  ; 
By  the  aged  sea  you  may  sound  your  i/tclls, 

On  the  mountains  erect  youi'  hum  ; 
Tile  fruits  and  the  (lowers  are  youi'  rightful  dowers. 

Then  why  —  in  tlie  name  of  wonrler  — 
Should  my  six  pea-rows  be  tlie  only  cause 

To  excite  your  midnight  plunder  '! 

I  have  never  disturbed  your  slender  shells  ; 

You  have  hung  round  my  aged  walk  ; 
And  each  might  have  sat,  till  he  died  in  his  fat, 

Beneath  his  own  cabbage-stalk  : 
But  now  you  must  lly  from  the  soil  of  your  sires; 

Then  put  on  your  livrdiest  crawl. 
And  think  of  your  poor  little  snails  at  home, 

Now  orphans  or  emigrants  all. 

Utensils  domestic  and  civil  and  social 
I  give  you  an  evening  to  pack  up  ; 
But  if  the  moon  of  this  night  does  not  rise  on 
your  llight. 
To-morrow  I  '11  hang  eai'h  mati  Jack  u]i. 
You  '11    think   of  my    ])eas   and   your   thievish 

tricks, 
With  tears  of  slime,  when  crossing  the  S/yj: 


THE  HOUSKKEEPER. 

The  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose, 
(aiTies  his  house  with  him  wheie'er  he  goes; 
Peeps  out,  — and  if  there  comes  a  shower  of  rain, 
Retreats  to  his  small  domicile  again. 
Touch  but  a  tip  of  him,  a  horn,  —  't  is  well,  — 
He  curls  up  in  his  sanctuary  shell. 
He  's  his  own  landlord,  his  own  tenant ;  stay 
Long  as  he  will,  he  dreads  no  Quarter  Day. 
Himself  he  boards  and  lodges  ;  both  invites 
And  feasts  himself ;  sleeps  with  himself  o'  nights. 
He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to  jirocure 
Chattels  ;  himself  is  his  own  furniture. 
And  his  sole  riches.     Wheresoe'er  he  roam,  — 
Knock    when   you   will,  —  he's   sure   to   be   at 
home. 

CHARLES  LaMI:. 


TO   A  MOSQUITO. 

V\ui  insect,  that,  with  thread-like  legs  spiv:id  out, 
And  blood-extracting  bill,  and  lilniy  wing. 

Dost  muniEUr,  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 
In  [litiless  ears,  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 

And  tell'st  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bhed, 

Would  we  but  yield  them  freely  in  thy  need  ; 

1  call  thee  stranger,  foi-  tin-  town,  I  ween. 
Has  not  the  honor  of  so  jiroud  a  birth  ; 

Thou  com'st  from   Jersey  meadows,   broad   and 
green, 
Theoifspringof  thegods,  though  born  on  earth. 

At  length  thy  pinions  Muttered  in  Broadway,  — 
Ah,   there  were  fairy  gt<;ps,  and  white  necks 
kissed 
By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 
Shone  through  the  snowy  veilslike  stars  through 
mist ! 
And,  fresh  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin. 
Bloomed  the  bright  blood  through  the  transpar- 
ent skin. 

0,  these  were  sights  to  touch  an  anchoiite  I  — 
What,  do  1  hear  thy  slender  voice  conijilain  ? 

Thou  wailest,  when  1  talk  of  beauty's  light, 
As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain  : 

Thou  art  a  wayward  teing,  — well,  come  near, 

And  pour  thy  tale  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 

What  say'st  thou,   slanderer?     "  lioiige    makes 
thee  sick. 

And  Chinti  bloom  at  Wst  is  sorry  food  ; 
And  Uowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 

I'oisons  the  thirsty  wretch  that  bores  foi-  blood"  ? 
Go,  't  was  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime,  — 
But  .shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

That  Ijloom  was  made  to  look  at,  not  to  touch, 
To  worship,  not  approach,  tliat  radiant  white ; 

And  well  might  sudden  vengeance  light  on  such 
As  dared,  like  thee,  most  imjuously  to  bite. 

Thou  should'.st  have  gazed  at  distance,  and  ad- 
mired. 

Murmured  thy  adoration,  and  retired. 

Thou  'I't  welcome  to  the  town  ;  but  why  come  here 
To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt  like  thee? 

Alas  !  the  little  blood  1  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banijuet  drawn  from  me. 

Book  round,  —  the  pale-eyed  .sisters,  in  my  cell. 

Thy  old  aci|Uaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 

Try  some  plump  alderman  ;  and  suck  the  Mooil 
Enriched  with  generous  wine,  and  costly  meat ; 

In  well-lilled  skin.s,  .soft  as  thy  native  mud. 
Fix  thy  light  pump,  and  raise  thy  freckled  feet. 


^ 


p 


452 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


-a 


Go  to  the  men  for  whom,  in  ocean's  halls, 

The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle  sprawls. 

There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage  flows, 
To  fill  the  swelling  veins  for  thee  ;  and  now 

The  ruddy  cheek,  and  now  the  ruddier  nose. 
Shall  tempt  thee  as  thou  flittest  round  the  brow ; 

And  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings. 

No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy  wings. 


GOD  EVERYWHERE  IN  NATITRE. 

How  desolate  were  nature,  and  how  void 
Of  every  charm,  how  like  a  naked  waste 
Of  .\frica,  were  not  a  present  God 
Beheld  employing,  in  its  various  scenes. 
His  active  might  to  animate  and  adorn  ! 
What  life  and  beauty,  when,  in  all  that  breathes. 
Or  moves,  or  grows,  his  hand  is  viewed  at  work  ! 
When  it  is  viewed  unfolding  every  bud, 


Each  blossom  tingeing,  shaping  every  leaf, 

Wafting  each  cloud  that  passes  o'er  the  sky. 

Rolling  each  billow,  moving  every  wing 

That  fans  the  air,  and  every  warbling  throat 

Heard  in  the  tuneful  woodlands  !     In  the  least 

As  well  as  in  the  greatest  of  his  works 

Is  ever  manifest  his  presence  kind  ; 

As  well  in  swarais  of  glittering  insects,  seen 

Quick  to  and  fro  within  a  foot  of  air. 

Dancing  a  meiTy  hour,  then  seen  no  more, 

As  in  the  systems  of  resplendent  worlds. 

Through  time  revolving  in  unbounded  space. 

His  eye,  while  comprehending  in  one  view 

The  whole  creation,  fixes  full  on  me  ; 

As  on  me  shines  the  sun  with  his  full  blaze. 

While  o'er  the  hemis))here  he  spreads  the  saim'. 

His  hand,  while  holding  oceans  in  its  palm. 

And  compassing  the  skies,  surrounds  my  life, 

Guards  the   poor  rushlight   from  the   blast  of 

death. 

CABI.OS  Wilcox. 


t& 


& 


rt-f- 
J 


POEMS    OF    PEACE    AND    WAR. 


■Cj>^  =^    or- 


^^- 


►-S 


e^- 


--n 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND  WAR. 


WAR. 


y^- 


WAR  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  PEACE. 

0  FIRST  of  human  blessing.s,  and  supreme  ! 
Fair  Peace  !  how  loyely,  how  delightful  thou  ! 
By  whose  wide  tie  the  kindred  sons  of  men 
Like  brothers  live,  in  amity  combined 
And  unsuspicious  faith  ;  while  honest  toil 
Gives  every  joy,  and  to  those  joys  a  right 
Which  idle,  barbarous  rapine  but  usurps. 
Pure  is  thy  reign  ;  when,  unaceursed  by  blood. 
Naught,  save  the  sweetness  of  indulgent  showers, 
Trickling,  distills  into  the  vernant  glebe  ; 
Instead  of  mangled  carcasses,  sad  seen. 
When  the  blithe  sheaves  lie  scattered  o'er  the 

field  ; 
When  only  shining  shares,  the  crooked  knife, 
And  hooks  imprint  the  vegetable  wound  ; 
When  the  land  blushes  with  the  rose  alone. 
The  falling  fruitage,  and  the  bleeding  vine. 
0  Peace  !  thou  source  and  soul  of  social  life  ; 
Beneath  whose  calm  inspiring  influence 
Science  his  views  enlarges.  Art  refines, 
And  swelling  commerce  opens  all  her  ports  ; 
Blessed  be  the  man  divine  who  gives  us  thee  ! 
Who  bids  the  trumpet  hush  his  horrid  clang. 
Nor  blow  the  giddy  nations  into  rage  ; 
Who  sheathes  the  mui'derous  blade  ;  the  deadly 

gun 
Into  the  well-piled  armory  returns  ; 
And,  every  vigor  from  the  work  of  death 
To  grateful  industry  converting,  makes 
The  country  flourish  and  the  city  smile. 
I'uviolated,  him  the  virgin  sings. 
And  him  the  smiling  mother  to  her  train. 
()(■  him  the  shepherd  in  the  peaceful  dale 
L'hants  ;  and,  the  treasures  of  his  labor  sure, 
The  husbandman  of  him,  as  at  the  plow 
Or  team  he  toils.     With  him  the  sailor  soothes, 
Beneath  the  trembling  moon,  the  midniglit  wave  ; 
xVnd  the  full  city,  warm,  from  street  to  street 
And  shop  to  shop  responsive,  rings  of  him. 

Nor  joys  one  land  alone  ;  his  praise  extends 
Far  as  the  sun  rolls  the  diffusive  day ; 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear  the  gifts  of  peace, 
Till  all  the  happy  nations  catch  the  song. 


Wliat  would  not.  Peace  !  the  patriot  bear  for 
thee  ? 
What  painful  patience  ?     What  incessant  care  ■' 
What  mixed  anxiety  ?     What  sleepless  toil  ? 
E'en  from  the  rash  protected,  what  reproach  ? 
For  he  thy  value  knows  ;  thy  friendship  he 
To  human  nature  :  but  the  better  thou. 
The  richer  of  delight,  sometimes  the  more 
Inevitable  vv'Aii,  —  when  ruffian  force 
Awakes  the  fury  of  an  injured  state. 
K'en  the  good  patient  man  whom  reason  rules. 
Roused  by  bold  insult  and  injurious  rage. 
With  sharp  and  sudden  cheek  the  astonished  sons 
Of  violence  confounds  ;  firm  as  his  cause 
His  bolder  heart ;  in  awful  justice  clad  : 
His  eyes  effulging  a  peculiar  fire  : 
And,  as  he  charges  through  the  prostrate  war. 
His  keen  arm  teaches  faithless  men  no  more 
To  dare  the  sacred  vengeance  of  the  just. 

Then  ardent  rise  !     0,  great  in  vengeance  rise  ! 
O'erturn  the  proud,  teach  rapine  to  restore  ; 
And,  as  you  ride  sublimely  round  the  world. 
Make  every  vessel  stoop,  make  every  statt! 
At  once  their  welfare  and  their  duty  know. 

lAMhs  Thomson 


PEACE,  NO  PEACE. 

FRO.M    ''KING   JiJH.N.- 

King  Philip.    By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have 

no  cause 
To  curse  the  fail'  proceedings  of  this  day. 
Have  I  not  pawned  to  you  my  majesty  ? 

CoN.ST.\NCE.    You  have  beguiled   me   with    a 

counterfeit, 
Kesembliug  majesty ;  which,  being  touched  and 

ti'ied. 
Proves  valueless  :  you  are  forsworn,  forsworn  ; 
You  came  in  arms  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood, 
But  now  in  arms  you  strengthen  it  with  yours  ; 
The  grappling  vigor  and  rough  frown  of  war 
Is  cold,  in  amity  and  painted  peace, 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league : 


-3 


[& 


454 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND    IJ'AR. 


--EJ 


Ai-ni,  arm,  you  lieavens,  against  tliesi'  puijiiri'il 

kings  ! 
A  widow  cries  ;  be  liusband  to  me,  heavens  ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
AVcar  out  the  day  in  peace  ;  but,  ere  sunset, 
Set  armed  discord  'twixt  these  perjured  kings  1 
Hear  me,  0,  hear  me  ! 

AusTiUA.  Lady  Constance,  peace. 

Constance.   War !  war !  no  peace !  peace  is  to 
me  a  war. 

SHAl 


MABTIAL  ELEGY. 

How  glorious  full  the  valiant,  sword  in  hand, 
In  front  of  battle  for  their  native  land  ! 
But  0,  what  ills  await  the  wretch  that  yields, 
A  recreant  outcast  from  his  country's  fields  ! 
The  monarch  whom  he  loves  shall  quit  her  home, 
An  aged  father  at  his  side  sh.ill  roam  ; 
His  little  ones  .shall  weeping  with  him  go. 
And  a  young  wife  participate  his  woe  ; 
While,  scorned  and  scowled  upon  by  every  face. 
They  pine  for  food,  and  beg  from  place  to  place. 

Stain   of  his  breed !   dishonoring  manhood's 
foim, 
All  ills  shall  cleave  to  him  :  —  Affliction's  storm 
Shall  blind  him,  wandering  in  the  vale  of  years, 
Till,  lost  to  all  but  ignominious  fears, 
He  shall  not  blush  to  leave  a  recreant's  name. 
And  children,  like  himself,  inured  to  shame. 

But  we  will  combat  for  our  fathers'  land. 
And  we  will  drain  the  life-blood  where  we  stand 
To  save  our  children  :  —  fight  ye  side  by  side, 
And  serried  close,  ye  men  of  youthful  pride, 
Disdaining  fear,  and  deeming  light  the  cost 
Of  life  itself  in  glorious  battle  lost. 

Leave  not  our  sires  to  stem  the  uneiiual  fight, 
AVhose  limbs  are  nerved  no  more  with  buoyant 

might ; 
Nor,  lagging  backward,  let  the  younger  breast 
Permit  the  man  of  age  (a  sight  unblessed) 
To  welter  in  the  combat's  foremost  thrust, 
His  hoary  head  disheveled  in  the  dust, 
And  venerable  bosom  bleeding  bare. 

But  youth's  fair  form,  though  fall'n,  is  ever 
fair, 
And  beautiful  in  death  the  boy  appears. 
The  hero  boy,  that  dies  in  blooming  years  : 
In  man's  regret  he  lives,  and  woman's  tears  ; 
More  saered  than  in  life,  and  lovelier  far 
For  having  perished  in  the  front  of  war. 

From  the  Greek  of  TVRT.4^US. 

by  THOMAS  CAMFBIILL. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


Now  went  forth  the  morn. 
Such  as  in  highest  heaven,  arrayed  in  gold 
Empyreal  ;  from  before  her  vanished  night. 
Shot  through  with  orient  beams  ;  when  all  the 

plain 
Covered  with  thick  embattled  squadrons  bright. 
Chariots,  and  Haming  arms,  and  fiery  steeds, 
Reflecting  blaze  on  blaze,  first  met  his  view. 

Clouds  began 
To  darken  all  the  hill,  and  smoke  to  roll 
In  dusky  wreaths,  reluctant  flames,  the  sign 
Of  wrath  awaked  ;  nor  with  less  dread  the  loud 
Ethereal  trumpet  from  on  high  'gan  blow  ; 
At  which  command  the  jiowers  militant 
That  stood  for  heaven,  in  mighty  quadrate  joined 
Of  union  irresistible,  moved  on 
In  silence  their  bright  legions,  to  the  sound 
Of  instrumental  harmony,  that  breathed 
Heroic  ardor  to  adventurous  deeds 
Lender  their  godlike  leaders,  in  the  cause 
Of  God  and  his  Messiah.     On  they  move 
Indissolubly  firm  ;  nor  obvious  hill. 
Nor  straitening  vale,  norwood,  nor  stream,  divides 
Their  perfect  ranks  ;  for  high  above  the  ground 
Their  march  was,  and  the  passive  air  upbore 
Their  nimble  tread.     As  when  the  total  kind 
Of  birds,  in  orderly  array  on  wing. 
Came  summoned  over  Eden  to  receive 
Their  names  of  thee  ;  so  over  many  a  tract 
Of  heaven  they  marched,  and  many  a  province 

wide. 
Tenfold  the  length  of  this  terrene  ;  at  last, 
Far  in  the  horizon  to  the  north  appeared 
From  skirt  to  skirt  a  fiery  region,  stretched 
In  battailous  aspect,  and  nearer  view 
Bristled  with  upright  beams  innumerable 
Of  rigid  spears,  and  helmets  thronged,  and  shields 
Various,  with  boastful  argument  portrayed. 
The  banded  power's  of  Satan  hasting  on 
With  furious  expedition  ;  for  they  weened 
That  selfsame  day,  by  fight,  or  by  surprise. 
To  win  the  mount  of  God,  and  on  his  throne 
To  set  the  envier  of  his  state,  the  proud 
Aspirer ;  but  their  thoughts  proved  fond  and  vain 
In  the  midway  :  though  strange  to  us  it  seemed 
At  first,  that  angel  should  with  angel  war. 
And  in  fierce  hosting  meet,  who  wont  to  meet 
So  oft  in  festivals  of  joy  and  love 
Unanimous,  as  sons  of  one  great  Sire, 
Hymning  the  Eternal  Father.     But  the  shout 
Of  battle  now  began,  and  rushing  sound 
Of  onset  ended  soon  each  milder  thouglit. 
High  in  the  midst,  exalted  as  a  god, 


-4? 


[fi- 


4.5J 


-a 


The  apostate  in  his  sun-bright  chariot  sat, 

Idol  of  majesty  divine,  inclosed 

With  flaming  cherubim,  and  golden  shields ; 

Then  lighted  from  his  gorgeous  throne,  for  now 

'Twixt  host  and  host  but  narrow  space  was  left, 

A  dreadful  interval,  and  front  to  front 

Presented  stood  in  terrible  array 

Of  hideous  length  :  before  the  cloudy  van. 

On  the  rough  edge  of  battle  ere  it  joined, 

Satan,  with  vast  and  haughty  strides  advanced, 

Came  towering,  anued  in  adamant  and  gold. 

THE   CONFLICT. 

Michael  bid  sound 
The  archangel   trumj)i't  ;    through  the  vast  of 

heaven 
It  sounded,  and  the  faithful  armies  rung 
Hosanna  to  the  Highest  :  nor  stood  at  gaze 
The  adverse  legions,  nor  less  hideous  joined 
The  horrid  shock.     Now  storming  fury  rose. 
And  clamor,  such  as  heard  in  heaven  till  now 
Was  never  ;  arms  on  armor  clashing  brayed 
Horrible  discord,  and  the  madding  wheels 
Of  brazen  chariots  raged  ;  dii-e  was  the  noise 
Of  conflict  ;  overhead  the  dismal  hiss 
Of  fiery  darts  in  flaming  volleys  flew. 
And  flying  vaulted  either  host  with  fire. 
So  under  fiery  cope  together  rushed 
Both  battles  main,  with  ruinous  assault 
And  inextinguishable  rage.     All  heaven 
Resounded  ;  and  had  earth  been  then,  all  earth 

Had  to  her  center  shook 

....  Deeds  of  eternal  fame 
Were  done,  but  infinite  :  for  wide  was  spread 
That  war,  and  various  :  sometimes  on  firm  ground 
A  standing  fight,  then,  soaring  on  main  wing. 
Tormented  all  the  air  ;  all  air  seemed  then 
Conflicting  fire 

Forthwith  (behold  the  excellence,  the  power 

Which  God  hath  in  his  mighty  angels  placed  !) 

Their  arms  away  they  thi'ew,  and  to  the  hills 

(For  earth  hath  this  variety  from  heaven, 

Of  pleasure  situate  in  hill  and  dale). 

Light  as  the  lightning  glimpse  they  ran,   they 

flew. 
From  their  foundations  loosening  to  and  fro. 
They  plucked  the  seated  hills,  with  all  their  load. 
Rocks,  waters,  woods,  and  by  the  shaggy  tops 
Uplifting  bore  them  in  their  hands  ;  auiaze. 
Be  sure,  and  terror,  seized  the  rebel  host, 
When  coming  towards  them  so  dread  they  saw 
The  bottom  of  the  mountains  upward  turned, 
....  and  on  their  heads 
Main  promontories  flung,  which  in  the  air 
Came  shadowing,  and   oppressed  whole  legions 

amied  ; 


Their  armor  lieliicd  their  harm,  crushed  in  and 

bruised 
Into  their  substance  pent,  which  wrought  them 

pain 
Implacable,  and  many  a  dolorous  groan  ; 
Long  struggling  underneath,  ere  they  could  wind 
Out  of  such  prison,  tliough  spirits  of  purest  light. 
Purest  at  fli'st,  now  gross  by  sinning  grown. 
The  rest,  in  imitation,  to  like  arms 
Betook  them,  and  the  neighboring  hills  uptore  : 
So  hills  amid  the  air  encountered  hills. 
Hurled  to  and  fro  with  jaculation  dire, 
That  underground  they  fought  in  dismal  shadS  ; 
Infernal  noise  !  war  seemed  a  civil  game 
To  this  uproar  ;  honid  confusion  heaped 
Upon  confusion  rose. 

THE  VICTOR 

So  sp.ake  the  Son,  and  into  terror  changed 
His  countenance  too  severe  to  be  beheld. 
And  full  of  wrath  bent  on  his  enemies. 
At  once  the  four  spread  out  their  starry  wings 
With  dreadful  shade  contiguous,  and  the  orlis 
Of  his  fierce  chariot  rolled,  as  with  the  sound 
Of  torrent  floods,  or  of  a  numerous  host. 
He  on  his  impious  foes  right  onward  drove, 
Oloomy  as  night  :  under  his  burning  wheels 
The  steadfast  empyrean  shook  throughout. 
All  but  the  throne  itself  of  God.     Full  soon 
Among  them  he  arrived  ;  in  his  right  hand 
Grasping  ten  thousand  thunders,  which  he  sent 
Before  him,  such  as  in  their  souls  infixed 
Plagues  :  they,  astonished,  all  resistance  lost. 
All  courage  ;  down  their  idol  weapons  dropt ; 
O'er  shields,  and  helms,  and  helmed  heads  he 

rode 
Of  thrones  and  mighty  seraphim  prostrate. 
That  wished  the  mountains  now  might  be  again 
Thrown  on  them,  as  a  shelter  from  his  ire. 
Nor  less  on  either  side  tempestuous  fell 
His  arrows,  from  the  fourfold-visaged  four 
Distinct  with  eyes,  and  fi'om  the  living  wheels 
Distinct  alike  with  multitude  of  eyes  ; 
One  spirit  in  them  ruled  ;  and  every  eye 
Glared  lightning,  and  shot  forth  pernicious  fire 
Among  the   accursed,    that   withered   all   their 

strength. 
And  of  their  wonted  vigor  left  them  drained. 
Exhausted,  spiritless,  afflicted,  fallen. 
Yet   half  his   strength   he   put  not  forth,   but 

checked 
His  thunder  in  mid  volley  ;  for  he  meant 
Not  to  destroy,  but  root  them  out  of  he.xven  : 
The  overthrown  he  raised,  and  as  a  herd 
Of  goats  or  timorous  flock  together  thronged, 
Drove  them  before  him  thunderstrack,  pursued 
With  teiTors  and  with  furies,  to  the  bounds 


f&-^- 


-^ 


e-- 


456 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND   WAR. 


-a 


L 


And  ci-ystnl  wall  of  heaven ;  which,  opening  wide, 
Rolled  inward,  and  a  spacious  gap  discloso<.i 
Into  the  wasteful  deep  :  the  monstrous  sight 
Struck  them  with  horror  backward,  but  far  worse 
Urged  them  behind  :  headlong  themselves  they 

threw 
Down  IVom  the  verge  of  heaven  ;  eternal  wratli 
Burnt  after  them  to  the  bottomless  pit. 

Milton. 


THE  BAXLAD  OF  AGINCOURT. 

Fair  stood  the  wind  lor  Franco, 
When  we  our  sails  ailvance. 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry  ; 
But  putting  to  the  main. 
At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Lauded  King  Harry, 

And  tjikiiig  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  towards  Agiucourt 

In  happy  hour,  — 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
Witli  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  geneial  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride. 
King  Henry  to  deride. 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending  ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  whUe, 
As  from  a  nation  vile. 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile. 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then  ; 
Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amnztd  ; 
Yet  have  we  well  begun, 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 
I'y  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he, 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be  ; 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  mo, 

Nor  more  esteem  mo, 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain  ; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 


Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell. 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell ; 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat. 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led  ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped. 

Amongst  his  henchmen, 
Excester  had  the  rear,  — 
A  braver  man  not  there  ; 
0  Liu'd  !  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen  ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gono  ; 

Armor  on  armor  shone  ; 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan,  — 

To  hear  was  wonder  ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shako  ; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake. 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham  ! 
AVliich  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
like  a  storm,  suddenly. 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong. 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long. 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather  ; 
Noiu'  from  his  fellow  starts. 
But  playing  manly  parts. 
And,  like  true  Engli.sh  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw. 
Anil  forth  their  bilboes  drew. 
And  on  the  French  they  flow. 

Not  one  was  tardy  ; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent ; 
Scalps  to  tho  teeth  were  rent ; 
Down  the  French  peasants  went ; 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king. 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding. 
As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 


i 


[fi- 


l^rAli. 


457 


■a 


And  mmiy  a  deep  wound  lent, 
II  in  aniiN  witli  blood  besiirent, 
Aiid  iiiiiiiy  a.  cruel  dent 
IJruised  lii«  helmet. 

Olo'stcr,  that  duke  ho  good, 
Next  of  the  royul  blood, 
l''ui-  famous  liiiglaiid  »tood 

With  bin  bmve  Ill-other, 
Clarence,  in  stcd  so  bright. 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  light 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade  ; 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  r.vu(:\  slaughtci'  made. 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Sulfolk  his  a.\e  did  ply  ; 
lieaumont  and  VVillongliby 
I5are  tliem  riglit  douglitily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanliope. 

U|ion  St.  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  di<l  not  delay 

To  Kngland  to  carry  ; 
O,  when  shall  Knglishnieu 
With  such  acts  liU  a  pen, 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry  ? 


y- 


THE   IIKART  OF  THK  BRUCE. 

Il'  was  U]iiin  all  A|iril  iiKini, 
While  yi't  the  frost  lay  hoar. 

We  heard  Lord  .laines's  bugle-liorn 
Sound  by  the  rocky  shore. 

'J'liin  (Idvvii  we  went,  a  hundn-d  knights, 

Ail  in  our  dark  array, 
Ami  Hung  our  armor  in  the  ships 

That  rode  within  the  bay. 

We  spoke  not  as  the  shore  gi'ow  less. 

Hut  gazed  in  silence  back, 
Wlicrc  the  long  billows  swept  .aw.iy 

The  foam  behind  our  li-iek. 

And  aye  the  purpli!  hues  decayed 

Upon  the  fading  hill. 
And  but  one  heart  in  all  that  ship 

Was  tranipiil,  cold,  and  still. 

Tli<^  good  Lord  Douglas  jiaced  the  deck. 

And  0,  his  face  was  wan  ! 
Unlike  the  (lush  it  used  to  wear 

When  in  the  battle-van.  — 


"Come  hither,  como  hither,  my  trusty  knight, 

Sir  Simon  of  the  Lee  ; 
There  is  a  freit  lies  near  my  soul 

1  fain  would  tell  to  thee. 

"Thou  know'st  the  words  King  Uobert  spoke 

Upon  his  dying  day  : 
Mow  he  bade  take  his  noldc  heart 

And  carry  it  far  away  ; 

"Anil  lay  it  in  the  holy  soil 

Where  once  the  Saviour  trod, 
.Since  he  might  not  bear  the  blesstd  Cross, 

,\ur  striki;  one  blow  for  Ood. 

"  L:inI  iii;^lil  as  in  my  bed  I  lay, 

I  diiiimcd  a  dreary  dn-am  :  — 
Metliought  I  saw  a  rilgrim  stand 

In  the  moonlight's  ipiivering  beam. 

"  His  robe  was  of  the  azure  dye. 

Snow-white  his  scattered  hairs, 
And  even  such  a  cross  ho  Ijore 

As  good  St.  Andrew  bears. 

"  '  Why  go  yi!  forth.  Lord  .lames,'  he  said, 

'  With  .sjiear  and  belted  brand  '( 
Why  do  you  take  its  dearest  pledge 

From  this  our  Scottish  land  ? 

"'The  sultry  breeze  of  (lalilee 
Creeps  through  its  gi'oves  of  palm. 

The  olives  on  the  Holy  Mount 
Stanil  glittering  in  the  calm. 

"  'Hut 'tis  not  there  that  Scotland's  heart 

Shall  rest  by  God's  decree. 
Till  the  great  angel  calls  the  dead 

To  rise  from  earth  and  sea  ! 

"  '  Lord  .lames  of  Dougla.s,  mark  my  rede  I 

That  heart  shall  pass  once  more 
In  fiery  fight  against  the  foe. 

As  it  was  wont  of  yore. 

"  'And  it  sh.all  pass  beneath  the  Cross, 

And  save  King  Kobeit's  vow  ; 
Hut  other  hands  shall  bear  it  back. 

Not,  .lames  of  Douglas,  thou  ! ' 

"Now,  by  thy  knightly  faitli,  I  pray, 

Sir'.Simon  of  the  Lee,  — 
For  truer  friend  had  never  man 

Than  thou  hast  been  to  me,  — 

"  If  ne'er  upon  the  Holy  Land 

'Tis  mine  in  life  to  tread, 
Hear  thou  to  Scotland's  kindly  earth 

The  relics  of  her  dead." 


-^ 


POKAia  OK  rJiACJi  AND  WAR. 


-^ 


TU*  tvHU'  \v«s  tit  Sir  Sinum's  <>)•« 
As  l\o  wi'vui);  On'  Wiinioi's  hai\>l,    - 

"  l«>li>ll>  HIO   \\<>H1,    iH'lilU'  \>U'  WlK', 

I  'II  lioUl  l>,v  tltv  ot>iiii\ii\ii>l. 

"Mm  if  ill  WtW-flviil,  l.iml  .liumxs, 

"r  is  oui~s  xiii'o  luoiv  l»  I'iilo, 
Nov  l'»i\o  i>r  mini,  mil"  oitirt  of  llviivl, 

Shiill  ol«ivo  ii\o  ft\>iii  lli,v  sido  I " 

Aiul  «_>■<'  wo  siiilwl  tiiul  iiv<>  wo  siiiloii 

Aoi\ws  tlvo  \M>ai\v  swv. 
I' mil  Olio  iiu>ni  tlio  oiwst  »l'8|v»iii 

lia-io  jsiiiiilx'  oil  »ui-  loo, 

Aiivl  US  wo  ivxiiuIihI  Io  tlio  |h>i't, 

lloiioatli  ttio  wiili'h-towoi's  w«ll, 
Wo  liiii^l  (l\o  oliisli  ol'  Iho  Htwlmls, 

And  llio  lnim|vt's  wwvoviiijt  Ottll, 

•■  Wliy  sovmils  \\>ii  Kusloiii  iiuisio  lioiv 

So  Wiiutoiilv  imd  l»uj<, 
Aiivl  wliivso  llio  oiMWii  i>t  MiimVl  iium 

'IMiul  i\>uini  yon  stiiiuimil  Umuij;  1 " 

"Tlio  Moot's  liiix-o  vHiiiio  IWiii  AlVloft 

To  siH>il  iiiid  w«sh>  »i»l  sIhj", 
Ami  Kiivit  Aloii«»  of  I'nstilo 

Mvist  lijilil  with  thorn  tx>-d«y." 

••  Nv>w  slinmo  il  woix\"  oiiml  ji^hhI  I.oi\1  .liimos, 

■"Sliiill  uovov  Ixi  stiivl  of  mo 
Tliut  I  .in.i  mino  Imvo  tliniod  iisido 

V'i\««  tlio  (.'i\v>s  ill  jooiviixlio  ! 

••  lluvo  >lowii,  liiiw  down,  my  nioriy  mon  idl,  - 

ll:ivv  down  unio  tlio  uliiili  ; 
Wo 'II  lot  tho  Sooltisli  li,>n  looso 

Williiii  tlio  liolds  of  Siviin  !" 

"  Now  wtdiHinio  to  mo.  noMo  loi\i. 

Thou  mid  thy  sttilwiirt  \H>wof  ; 
IVsir  is  tho  sishi  of  ti  fhristimi  knij^ht. 

Who  ivmos  ill  siioh  iin  hour  ! 

"  Is  it  for  Iwnd  or  fstitli  y»«  ^miio, 

tir  y\>t  for  jjvddon  fo«>  ? 
Or  hriiv)?  yo  Kmiioo's  liliw  lioiv, 

tir  tho  llowvr  of  Uui^uiidiv  t " 

""l«id  givot  thoo  woll,  thon  vnliiint  kiiijt, 

TluH>  mid  thy  Ivltovl  (loors. 
Sir  .Imiios  of  Uoujtiiis  mii  1  oallod. 

And  llu'sp  mv  Sonttish  siwirs, 

"  Wo  do  not  lisht  for  Inind  or  |>li^ht. 

Nor  yot  for  jjxdden  fi>o  ; 
Uiit  for  tho  swko  of  our  liUvsstVi  Lord, 

Who  di«l  uiHin  tho  tix'o. 


■•  Wo  liriiijj  our  jjriiftt  Ktiiji  UoUortV  hoiirl 

Aoiwss  tho  woltorinjt  w«\-o, 
To  liiy  il  ill  tlio  holy  soil 

llm\l  hy  tho  Siivioiir's  jjiiiw. 

"Triio  iiiljjriiiis  wv,  by  Uiiid  or  «>«, 

Whoiv  vlmij^'r  luiw  tho  w«y  ; 
And  thoix'foixi  mv  wo  hoiv,  lioiil  Kiiijj, 

To  rido  with  thoo  this  divy  ! " 

Tho  Kiii^  hiis  tviit  his  stiiloly  head, 
■Xiid  tho  toll's  wviv  ill  his  oyiio,    — 

"tJod's  hlossinjj  on  tliw,  nohlo  knight. 
Kor  this  htiivo  tlioii};ht  of  lliiiio  ! 

"  I  know  thy  iiniiio  l\ill  woll,  l.oixl  .Imiios  ; 

.\iid  liouoiwl  miiy  1  Ih>, 
That  thiKso  who  foiij<lil  Uisido  tho  Itriioo 

Should  li^hl  this  day  for  mo  I 

"Tako  thou  llio  loading  of  tho  van, 

.\lid  oliai'jio  tho  Moors  amain  ; 
Thoii-  is  not  siioli  a  laiu-o  as  thino 

In  all  tho  host  of  S|wiiii  '  " 

Tlio  Houjslas  turnod  towai\U  us  thon, 

O,  liiit  his  )jlaniH>  was  liijjli  I  — 
"Thoiv  is  not  one  of  all  my  men 

Hut  is  as  IhiM  as  1. 

"Thoiv  is  not  one  of  all  my  kiiij;hls 

Unt  Iwn-s  as  tiiio  a  siK>ai, 
Then  onwai\l,  Soottisli  gontlomon. 

And  think  Kiuj;  Koln-rt  's  lioiv  ! " 

The  trunnH'ts  Wow,  tlvo  oi\>ss-Ih>1(s  llow. 

The  ari><ws  Hashed  like  llamo. 
As  simr  in  side,  and  siniir  in  rxvst, 

,\jpiiiist  the  foe  wo  oaino. 

And  many  a  lwu\led  Sjiraoou 

Wont  down.  Kith  lioi-so  and  man ; 

Kor  tliiMii^ish  their  ranks  wo  iMde  like  ooni. 
So  l\iriously  we  ran  ! 

Itnt  ill  Miind  our  (vitli  they  oloseil, 

Tli>ni,i?li  fain  to  lot  us  tliiviij;h. 
For  tlioy  w\>ix<  forty  thousand  men. 

And  wx>  weiv  w\«idi\>ns  few, 

AVo  might  not  sve  a  lanoo's  longlli. 

So  dense  was  their  aniiy. 
lint  the  loiij;  tell  swi-oji  of  the  Soottish  lilaiio 

Still  held  them  hai\l  at  hiy 

"  Make  in  !  make  in  !"  l.oril  Ponglas  oried.  — 

•"  Make  in,  my  hivthrvn  dwir  ! 
Sir  William  of  St.  t'lair  is  down  ; 

Wo  may  not  li>«\ii  liim  hero  I " 


-^ 


a^- 


WAR. 


4rj() 


.-a 


^- 


Hill  tliioki.T,  t)iii,'k<;i'  gifw  tlie  swunii, 

Ami  hliai-jier  »liol  Ukj  lain, 
Ami  l)ii;  liorsi^D  riinrnd  aiiilil  tli<!  preiis, 

liiit  tlii.'y  would  not  dimgi!  aguiii. 

"  Now  Ji'Hii  lit'lj)  tliBi;,"  Willi  Lord  Junies, 
"Thou  kind  and  liiii;  Kt.  Clair! 

All'  il'  1  may  not  Ijiiii^  t)i«:  off, 
I  'II  di<!  beside  tln'O  there  !  " 

'I'hi^n  in  hiii  stirriipH  ii|i  Ik'  ntood. 

Ho  lion-like  and  liold, 
Ami  liidd  the  piei'ioiin  heart  aloft 

All  ill  itH  cane  of  gold. 

He  llnnf{  it  from  him,  far  ahead, 

And  never  ii|;ake  he  more, 
lint-   "I'aBu  Ihoii  liint,  tlioii  dauntleBH  heart. 

Ah  thou  wert  wont  of  yore  I  " 

The  roar  of  light  ro»e  liereer  yet, 

And  heavier  Htill  the  Htoiir, 
Till  the  Bpeais  of  .Spain  eame  shivering  in, 

And  swejjt  away  the  Moor. 

"  Now  praised  be  Ood,  the  ilay  w  won  ! 

They  lly  o'er  flood  and  fell,  — 
Wiiy  dost  tliou  draw  the  rein  so  hard, 

(Jood  knight,  that  fought  so  well '(" 

"  O,  ride  ye  on,  Lord  King  !"  he  said, 

"And  |r;ave  the  deaii  to  me, 
l''or  I  mii^  keeji  the  diearie.tl  wateli 

That  ever  I  shall  diee  ! 

"Then-  lies,  above  hi,')  master's  heart, 

The  iJoiiglas,  stalk  and  grim  ; 
And  woe  is  me  I  should  be  here, 

Not  siile  by  side  with  him  I 

"The  world  grows  cold,  my  ann  is  old, 

Ale  I  thin  my  lyart  hair, 
And  all  that  1  loved  best  on  earth 

Is  »tretelii:d  before  me  there. 

"O  Dothwell  Ijaiiks,  that  bloom  so  bright 

IJeneath  the  sun  of  May  I 
Tin;  heaviest  eloml  lliat  ever  blew 

Is  bound  for  you  this  ilay, 

"And  Scotland  !  thou  inayst  veil  thy  head 

In  sorrow  and  in  pain  : 
The  sorest  stroke  upon  thy  lirow 

Hath  fallen  this  day  in  Kpain  ! 

"  We  'II  bear  them  Irdek  iint/i  our  shiji, 

We  'II  bear  them  o'er  the  sea, 
And  lay  them  in  the  hallowed  earth 

Within  our  own  eountrie. 


"  And  be  thou  strong  of  heart,  bird  King, 

Kor  this  I  tell  thee  sure. 
The  sod  that  drank  the  Uouglas'  blood 

Khali  never  l».-ar  the  Moor  !  " 

The  King  he  lighted  fioin  his  horw, 

lie  Hung  bis  brand  away. 
And  took  the  Douglas  by  the  liand, 

Ko  stately  as  he  lay. 

"  (iod  give  thee  rest,  thou  valiant  sfiul  I 

That  fought  so  well  for  Kpain  ; 
1  M  latliiu-  half  my  land  were  gone, 

Ko  thou  wert  heie  again  I" 

We  bore  the  good  Lord  .lames  away, 
And  the  priceless  heart  wi;  bore. 

And  hiavily  we  st<;eieil  our  ship 
Towardw  the  Hcotliidi  shore. 

No  welitome  greeted  our  return, 

Nor  elang  of  martial  tieiul, 
ISut  all  were  dumb  and  hushed  an  diath 

IJidore  tlie  mighty  dead. 

We  laid  our  chief  in  Douglas  Kirk, 

The  heart  in  fair  Melrose  ; 
And  woful  men  were  We  that  day,  — 

Ood  grant  their  souls  repose  ! 

WILLIAM  hhU'jUltatUUHIi  AVTOUH. 


liKAI,'  AN   DrJUINE. 


Tiii'.KK  i»  no  breeze  iij)on  the  Tern, 

No  ripple  on  the  lake, 
(J[>on  her  eyrie  nods  the  erne. 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake  ; 
The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud, 

The  springing  trout  lies  slill, 
.So  darkly  glooms  yon  thundereloud, 
'I'hat  swathes,  as  with  a  (lurple  shroud, 

lienledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 

That  mutters  deep  and  drea/l. 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  nieasuriMl  tre.id  » 
Is  it  the  lightning's  (|uiveriiig  glance 

That  on  the  tliieket  streams, 
Or  do  they  flash  on  B|iear  and  laiicc 

The  sun's  retiring  beams  ? 
I  s<;c  the  ihigger  ircst  of  .Mar, 

1  see  the  Moray's  silver  star 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  .Saxon  war. 

That  up  tlu!  lake  comes  winding  far  I 
To  hero  bonne  for  battle  strife. 

Or  bird  uf  murtiMl  lay, 


^ 


a-: 


460 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AM)    JI'Alt. 


--a 


'T  were  worth  ten  years  of  pi'iieelnl  life, 
One  glance  at  theii'  array  ! 

Their  light-amied  archers  far  and  near 

Surveyed  the  tangled  ground. 
Their  center  ranks,  witli  pike  and  spear, 

A  twilight  forest  frowned. 
Their  barbed  horsemen,  in  the  roar. 

The  stern  battalia  crowned. 
No  cymbal  clashed,  no  clarion  rang, 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum  ; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armor's  clung. 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to  shake. 

Or  wave  their  flags  abroad  ; 
Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seemed  to  quake. 

That  shadowed  o'er  their  road. 
Their  vawrd  scouts  no  tidings  bring, 

('an  rouse  no  lurking  foe, 
Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing, 

Save  when  they  stirred  the  roe  ; 
The  host  moves  like  a  deep  sea  wave, 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  jiride  to  brave, 

Higli  swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 
The  lake  is  passed,  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain, 
liel'oro  tlie  TrosacOi's  rugged  jaws  ; 
And  here  the  horse  and  speannen  pause, 
While,  to  e.xplore  the  dangerous  glen, 
Dive  through  the  pass,  the  archer  men. 

.\t  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 
.\s  all  the  fiends,  from  heaven  that  fell. 
Had  pealed  the  banner  cry  of  hell  ! 
Forth  from  the  pa.ss  in  tumult  dri^■cn, 
Like  chair  before  the  w^ind  of  heaven, 

The  archery  ajipear : 
For  life  !  for  life  !  their  flight  they  ply  — 
And  shriek,  and  shout,  and  battle-cry, 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high, 
And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky. 

Are  maddening  in  tlie  rear. 
Cuward  they  drive,  in  dreadful  race, 

I'ursuers  and  pursued  ; 
Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase. 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place. 

The  spearmen's  twilight  wood  ' 

—  "Down,  down, "cried  Mar,  "yourlancesdown  ! 
Bear  back  both  friend  and  foe!" 

Like  reeds  before  the  tempest's  frown. 
That  serried  grove  of  lances  brown 

At  once  lay  leveled  low ; 
And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side. 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide.  — 

—  "  We  '11  quell  the  savage  mountaineer, 
As  their  Tinchel  *  cows  the  game  ; 


tl- 


They  eonic  as  fleet  as  forest  deer. 
We  "11  drive  them  back  as  tame." 

Bearing  before  them,  in  their  course, 
Tlie  relics  of  the  archer  force. 
Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam, 
Right  onward  did  Clan-Alpine  come. 
Above  the  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light, 

F.ach  targe  was  dark  below  ; 
And  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing. 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest's  wing, 

They  hui'led  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash. 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  tlie  ash  ; 
1  hearil  the  broadsword's  deadly  clang, 
As  if  a  hundred  anvils  rang  ! 
But  Moray  wheeled  his  rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan-Aljiine's  Hank  — 

"My  iMunerman,  advance  ! 
I  .see,"  he  cried,  "their  columns  shake. 
Now,  gallants !  for  your  ladies'  sake, 

Upon  them  with  the  lance  !  " 
The  horsemen  dashed  among  the  rout. 

As  deer  break  through  the  broom ; 
Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are  out. 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 
Clan-Alpine's  best  are  backward  borne  — 

Where,  where  was  Roderick  then  ? 
One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men  ! 
And  refluent  through  the  j)ass  of  fear 

The  battle's  tide  was  jioured  ; 
Vanished  the  Saxon's  struggling  spear. 

Vanished  the  mountain  sword. 
As  Bracklinn's  chasm,  so  black  and  steep. 

Receives  her  roaring  linn, 
As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 

Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in, 
So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
Devour  the  battle's  mingled  mass ; 
None  linger  now  upon  the  plain. 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 

Sir  wai.if.r  Scott. 


WATERLOO. 

FROM   ■•ClIILDE  UAKOLU  •" 

TnEliF.  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night. 
And  Belgium's  cajiital  had  gatlu'icd  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell  ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  li- 
siug  knell  1 


^^ 


a- 


rVAR. 


4G1 


r^ 


u 


Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No  ;  't  was  but  tlie  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
Ou  witli  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconlincd  ! 
No  sleep  till  morn  when  Youth  and  Pleasure 

meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet,  — 
But,  hark  !  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once 

more. 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat  ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  o]iening 

roar ! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  lirst  amidst  the  festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  hia  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could 

quell  : 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting, 

fell. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress. 
And  cheeks  all  pale  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  thi-re  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  pn-ss 
Thelife  from  out  younghearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Whichne'ermightbe repeated  :  whowouldguess 
If  evermore  sliould  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 
rise  ! 

And  there  wasmounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  scjuadron,  and  the  clattering  car. 
Went  pouring  fbrward  with  impetuous  sjieed,    ', 
And  swiftly  foi-ming  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  i.l  the  iifnniing  drum 
Housed  up  tlie  soM  ill  111'  llir  iimnung  star  ; 
While  thronged  tin-  riti/ms  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering  with  white  lips,  —  "The  foe  !  they 
come  !  they  come  ! " 

And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron's  gathering"  j 

rose. 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  —  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon 

foes: 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
Savage  and  shrill  !    But  with  the  breath  which 

fills 
Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instills 


The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years. 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  elans- 
man's  ears ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them   her  green 

leaves. 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturniug  brave,  — alas  I 
Ere  evening  to  be  tiodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  thcni,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  lieiy  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moliler  cold 
and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
Themidnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshaling  in  arms,  —  the  ilay 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  I 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when 

rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  day. 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and 

pent. 
Rider   and    horse,  —  friend,    foe,       in    one   red 

burial  blent  ! 

Their  praise  is  hymned  by  loftier  har])s  than 

mine  ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng. 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line. 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong. 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ! 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  showered 
The   death-bolts   deadliest   the  thinned   tiles 

along. 
Even    where   the  thickest   of   war's   tempest 

lowered, 
They  reached  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young, 

gallant  Howard  ! 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  liearts  for 

thee. 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree. 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  ceiuse  to 

live, 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive. 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
1  turned  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  coidd 

not  bring. 


I  turned  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 


-.-ff 


[fi- 


46l> 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND    WAR. 


-a 


In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  tlieir  sake  ; 
Tlie  Aroliangel's  trump,  notglory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for  ;  though  the  sound 

of  Fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honored  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length ;  and,  smil- 
ing, mourn : 

The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 

The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  he  torn  ; 

The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  molders  on  the  hall 

In  massy  hoariness;  the  ruined  wall 

Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are 
gone; 

The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  inthrall ; 

The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep 
out  the  sun ; 
And  thus  theheart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on  ; 

Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies,  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was 
Thesame,  and  still  the  more,  theraore  it  breaks ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shattered  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches. 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. 


THE  CHARGE  AT  WATERLOO. 

On  came  the  whiidwind,  —  like  the  last 
But  fiercest  sweep  of  tempest-blast ; 
On  came  the  whirlwind,  —  steel-gleams  broke 
Like  lightning  through  the  rolling  smoke  ; 

The  war  was  waked  anew. 
Three  hundred  cannon-mouths  roared  loud. 
And  from  their  throats,  with  flash  and  cloud, 

Their  showers  of  iron  threw. 
Beneath  their  fire,  in  full  career, 
Unshed  on  the  ponderous  cuirassier. 
The  lancer  couched  his  ruthless  spear. 
And,  hurrying  as  to  havoc  near. 

The  cohorts'  eagles  flew. 
In  one  dark  torrent,  broad  and  strong. 
The  advancing  onset  rolled  along. 
Forth  harhingeved  by  fierce  acclaim. 
That,  from  the  shroud  of  smoke  and  flame. 
Pealed  wildly  the  imperial  name. 
But  on  the  British  heart  were  lost 
The  terrors  of  the  charging  host ; 
For  not  an  eye  the  storm  that  viewed 
Changed  its  proud  glance  of  fortitude. 


Nor  was  one  forward  footstep  stayed, 

As  dropped  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Fast  as  their  ranks  the  thunders  tear, 

Fast  they  renewed  each  serried  square  ; 

And  on  the  wounded  and  the  slain 

Closed  their  diminished  files  again, 

Till  from  their  lines  scarce  speare'  lengths  three. 

Emerging  from  the  smoke  they  see 

Helmet  and  plume  and  panoply. 

Then  waked  their  fire  at  once  ! 
Each  musketeer's  revolving  knell 
As  fast,  as  regularly  fell. 
As  when  they  practice  to  display 
Their  discipline  on  festal  day. 

Then  down  went  helm  and  lance, 
Down  were  the  eagle-banners  sent, 
Down  reeling  steeds  and  riders  went. 
Corselets  were  pierced  and  pennons  rent ; 

And,  to  augment  the  fray. 
Wheeled  full  against  their  staggering  flanks, 
The  English  horsemen's  foaming  ranks 

Forced  their  resistless  way. 
Then  to  the  musket-knell  succeeds 
The  clash  of  swords,  the  neigh  of  steeds ; 
As  plies  tlic  smith  his  clanging  trade. 
Against  the  cuirass  rang  the  blade ; 
And  while  amid  their  close  array 
The  well-served  cannon  rent  their  way, 
And  while  anud  their  scattered  band 
Raged  the  fierce  rider's  bloody  brand, 
Kecoiled  in  common  rout  and  fear 
Lancer  and  guard  and  cuirassier. 
Horsemen  and  foot,  —  a  mingled  host,  — 
Their  leaders  fallen,  their  standards  lost. 

SIR  Walter  Scott. 


MONTEREY. 

We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day  ; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 

Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on,  still  on  our  column  kept, 

Tlirough  walls  of  flame,  its  withering  way ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept. 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 

The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay. 


-^ 


f 


WAR. 


-^ 


We  swooped  liis  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  fnll  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play  ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave, 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many,  —  we  who  pressed 
Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He  'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey  ? 

Charles  fenno  Hoffman. 


u 


BALAKLAVA. 

0  THE  charge  at  Balaklava  ! 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge  ! 

Never  was  a  fiercer,  braver. 

Than  tliat  charge  at  Balaklava, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

All  the  day  the  Russian  columns. 

Fortress  huge,  and  blazing  hanks. 

Poured  their  dread  destructive  volumes 
On  the  French  and  English  ranks,  — 
On  the  gallant  allied  ranks  ! 

Earth  and  sky  seemed  rent  asunder 

By  the  loud  incessant  thunder  ! 

When  a  strange  but  stern  command  — 

Keedless,  heedless,  rash  command  — 

Came  to  Lucan's  little  band,  — 

Scarce  six  hundred  men  and  horses 

Of  those  vast  contending  forces  :  — 

"  England 's  lost  unless  you  save  her  ! 

Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava  !  " 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge. 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Far  away  the  Russian  Eagles 

Soar  o'er  smoking  hill  and  dell, 

And  their  hordes,  like  howling  beagles, 

Dense  and  countless,  round  them  yell ! 

Thundering  cannon,  deadly  mortar. 

Sweep  the  field  in  every  quarter  ! 

Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 

Trembled  so  the  Chersonesus  ! 

Here  behold  the  Gallic  Lilies  — 
Stout  St.  Louis'  golden  Lilies  — 
Float  as  erst  at  old  Ramillies  ! 
And  beside  them,  lo  !  the  Lion  ! 
With  her  trophied  Cross,  is  flying  ! 

Glorious  standards  !  —  shall  they  waver 

On  the  field  of  Balakl.iva  ? 


No,  by  Heavens !  at  that  command  — 
Sudden,  rash,  but  stem  command  — 
Charges  Lucan's  little  band  ! 

Brave  Six  Hundred  !  lo  !  they  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Down  you  deep  and  skirted  valley, 

Where  the  crowded  cannon  play,  — 
Where  the  Czar's  fierce  cohorts  rally, 
Cossack,  Calmuck,  sav.age  Kalli,  — 

Down  that  gorge  they  swept  away  ! 
Down  th.at  new  Thermopyhe, 
Flashing  swords  and  helmets  see  ! 
Underneath  the  iron  shower, 

To  the  brazen  cannon's  jaws. 
Heedless  of  their  deadly  power, 

Press  they  without  fear  or  pause,  — 

To  the  very  cahnon's  jaws  ! 
Gallant  Nolan,  brave  as  Roland 

At  the  field  of  Roncesvalles, 

Dashes  down  the  fatal  valley. 
Dashes  on  the  bolt  of  death, 
Shouting  with  his  latest  breath, 
"Charge,  then,  gallants  !  do  not  w-aver. 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava  !  " 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge. 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Now  the  bolts  of  volleyed  thunder 
Rend  that  little  band  asunder. 
Steed  and  rider  wildly  screaming. 

Screaming  wildly,  sink  away  ; 
Late  so  proudly,  proudly  gleaming, 

Now  but  lifeless  clods  of  clay,  — 

Now  but  bleeding  clods  of  clay  ! 
Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Saw  such  sight  the  Chersonesus  ! 
Yet  your  remnant,  brave  .Si.x  Hundred, 
Presses  onward,  onward,  onward, 

Till  they  storm  the  bloody  pass,  — 

Till,  like  brave  Leonidas, 

They  storm  the  deadly  pass, 
Sabering  Coss.ack,  Calmuck,  Kalli, 
In  that  wild  shot-rended  valley,  — 
Drenched  with  fire  and  blood,  like  lava. 
Awful  pass  at  Balaklava  ! 

0  that  I'ash  and  fatal  charge, 
Ou  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

For  now  Russia's  rallied  forces, 
Swarming  hordes  of  Cossack  horses. 
Trampling  o'er  the  reeking  corses. 

Drive  the  thinned  assailants  back. 

Drive  the  feeble  remnant  back. 

O'er  their  late  heroic  track  ! 
Vain,  alas  !  now  rent  and  sundered. 
Vain  your  struggles,  brave  Two  Hundred  ! 


^ 


& 


464 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND   WAR. 


-a 


Thrice  your  number  lie  asleep, 
In  that  valley  dark  and  deep. 
Weak  and  wounded  you  retire 
From  that  hurricane  of  fire,  — 
That  tempestuous  storm  of  fire,  — 
But  no  soldiers,  firmer,  braver, 

Ever  trod  the  field  of  fame, 
Than  the  Knights  of  Balaklava,  ^ 

Honor  to  each  hero's  name  ! 
Yet  their  country  long  shall  moum 
For  her  rank  so  rashly  shorn,  — 
So  gallantly,  but  madly  shorn 

In  that  fierce  and  fatal  cliarge. 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge. 

.  B.  MEEK. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  .sLx  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  ! "  he  said  ; 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  si.v  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! " 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered  ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well ; 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Rode  the  si.^  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabers  bare. 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air. 
Sabering  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke  : 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  saber-stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 


fr- 


Then  they  rode  back,  but  not  — 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Caimon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered  ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell,  — 
All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hunilred  ! 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT. 

[May  27.  1863) 

Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even. 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven. 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dead  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land,  — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Ann  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event. 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine ; 
And  the  bright  bayonet. 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand. 
Long  ere  the  sharp  conmiand 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 

"  Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land  ;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound,  - 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  cold  chains  again  !  " 
0,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment ! 


--& 


p 


WAN. 


40.: 


-a 


"  Cluirge  !  "  Tiuiup  aiul  Jiuiii  awoke  ; 
OuwarJ  the  bondnieu  broke  ; 
Bayonet  aud  saber-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 
With  but  one  tliought  atlusli, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chatf, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh  ; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course  ; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel,  — 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent. 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

"  Freedom  !  "  their  battle-cry,  — 
"  Freedom  !  or  leave  to  die  !  " 
Ah  !  and  they  meant  the  word. 
Not  as  with  us  't  is  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout ; 
They  gave  their  spirits  out. 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 
Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow. 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe  ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, ' 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death  ; 
Praying,  —  alas  !  in  vain  !  — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty  ! 
This  was  what  "freedom"  lent 
To  the  black  regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell ; 
But  they  are  resting  well  ; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
0,  to  the  living  few, 
.Soldiers,  be  just  and  true  ! 
Hail  them  as  conn'ades  tried  ; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side  ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment  ! 

George  Henrv  Boker. 


OF  THE  WARRES  IN  IRELAND. 


f& 


I  PRAISED  the  speech,  but  cannot  now  abide  it, 
That  warre  is  sweet  to  those  that  have  not  try'd  it ; 
For  I  have  proved  it  now  and  plainly  see 't. 
It  is  so  sweet,  it  maketh  all  things  sweet. 
At  home  Canaric  wines  and  Greek  grow  lothsome ; 
Here  milk  is  Nectar,  water  tasteth  toothsome. 


I  There  without  baked,  rost,  boyl'd,  it  is  no  cheere, 
Bisket  we  like,  aud  Bonny  Clabo  here. 
There  we  complaine  of  one  wan  rosted  chick  ; 
Here  meat  worse  cookt  ne're  makes  us  sick. 
At  home  in  silken  span'ers,  beds  of  Down, 
We  scant  can  rest,  but  still  tosse  up  and  down  ; 
Here  we  can  sleep,  a  saddle  to  our  pillow, 
A  hedge  the  Curiaine,  Canopy  a  Willow. 
There  if  a  child  but  cry,  0  wliat  a  spite  ! 
Here  we  can  brook  three  larums  in  one  night. 
There  homely  rooms  must  be  perfumed  with  Koses : 
Here  match  and  powder  nere  ollend  our  noses. 
There  from  a  storm  of  rain  we  run  like  I'uUets  ; 
Here  we  stand  fast  against  a  showre  of  bullets. 
Lo,  then  how  greatly  their  opinions  erre, 
That  think  there  is  no  gi'eat  delight  in  warre  ; 
But  yet  for  this,  sweet  warre.  He  be  thy  debtor, 
1  shall  forever  love  my  home  the  better. 

SlK  jon.N  hakki.mgto.v. 


O,  THE  SIGHT  ENTRANCING! 

0,  THE  sight  entrancing, 

When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  tiles  arrayeil 

With  helm  and  blade, 
And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing, 
Wlien  hearts  are  all  high  lieating, 
And  the  trumpet's  voire  repeating 

That  song  whose  breath 

May  lead  to  death. 
But  never  to  retreating. 
Then,  if  a  cloud  comes  over 
The  brow  of  sire  or  lover. 

Think  'tis  the  .shade 

By  vict'ry  made, 
WTiose  wings  right  o'er  us  hover. 
0,  the  sight  entrancing, 
When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files  arrayed 

With  helm  and  blade. 
And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing. 

Yet  't  is  not  helm  or  feather,  — 

For  ask  yon  despot  whether 
His  plumed  bands 
Could  bring  such  hands 

And  hearts  as  ours  together. 

Leave  pomps  to  those  who  need  'em,  — 

Adorn  but  man  with  freedom. 
And  proud  he  braves 
The  gaudiest  slaves 

That  crawl  where  monarchs  lead  'em. 

The  sword  may  pierce  the  beaver. 

Stone  walls  in  time  may  sever, 
'T  is  mind  alone, 
Worth  steel  and  stone, 


-3 


a--: 


466 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND   WAR. 


-a 


t 


That  keeps  men  free  forever  ! 

0,  the  sight  entrancing, 

When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  tiles  arrayed 

With  helm  and  blade, 
And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing. 

THOMAS  Moore. 


WAR'S  LOUD  ALARMS. 

Wak's  loud  alarms 

Call  me  to  arms  ; 

Honor  bids  me  quit  thy  charms  ; 

To  battle  I  must  go. 
Entreat  me  then  no  more  to  stay, 
No  longer  can  1  brook  delay, 
My  soul  is  eager  for  the  fray, 

And  burns  to  meet  the  foe. 
Ne'er  shall  it  be  said 
A  Briton  bold  from  danger  fled. 
Or  sought  to  hide  his  craven  head 

Within  a  lady's  bower  ! 
The  power  of  Cupid  I  defy, 
When  Cambria's  banner  waves  on  high. 
When  hurtles  through  the  darkened  sky 

The  arrow's  deadly  shower. 

Far  o'er  the  plain, 
Loudly  again, 
Sounds  the  trumpet's  .\'arlike  strain, 

A  signal  to  depart. 
Yet,  dearest,  when  I  'm  far  from  thee. 
In  death,  defeat,  or  victory. 
Thy  form  alone  shall  ever  be 

Still  nearest  to  my  heart ! 
In  the  battle-field. 
With  spear  to  spear,  and  shield  to  shield. 
When  we  have  made  the  Saxon  yield, 

And  bend  his  haughty  knee. 
Then  will  my  true  and  faitliful  heart 
At  glory's  call  now  doomed  to  part. 
Forsaking  spear  and  shield  and  dart. 

Come  fondly  hack  to  thee  ! 

From  the  Welsh  of  TALHAIARN, 

by  THOMAS  OLIPHANT. 


CAVALRY  SONG. 

Oi'R  bugles  sound  gayly.  To  horse  and  away ! 
And  over  the  mountains  breaks  the  day : 
Then  ho  !  brothers,  ho !  for  the  ride  or  the  fight. 
There  are  deeds  to  be  done  ere  we  slumber  to- 
night ! 

And  whether  we  fight  or  whether  we  fall 

By  saber-stroke  or  rifle-ball, 

The  hearts  of  the  free  will  remember  us  yet. 

And  our  country,   our  country  will  never 
forget ! 


Then  mount  and  away  !  let  the  coward  delight 

To  be  lazy  all  day  and  safe  all  night  ; 
Our  joy  is  a  charger,  flecked  with  foam, 
And  the  earth  is  our  bed  and  the  saddle  our  home : 
And  whether  we  fight,  etc. 

See  yonder  the  ranks  of  the  traitorous  foe, 
And  bright  in  the  sunshine  bayonets  glow ! 
Breathe  a  prayer,  but  no  sigh  ;  think  for  what 

you  would  fight ; 
Then  charge  !  with  a  will,  boys,  and  God  for  the 

right ! 
And  whether  we  fight,  etc. 

We  have  gathered  again  the  red  laurels  of  war  ; 
We  have  followed  the  traitors  fast  and  far  ; 
But  some  who  rose  gayly  this  morn  with  the  sun 
Lie  bleeding  and  pale  on  the  field  they  have  won  ! 
But  whether  we  fight,  etc. 

RossiTER  w.  Raymond. 


SONG  OF  THE  CAVALRY. 

FROM   "ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH." 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle  ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabers  jingle  ! 

Halt  ! 
Each  carbine  send  its  whizzing  ball  : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all. 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome  ; 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  Heaven  !     No  thoughts  of  home : 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

Charge ! 
Cling  !  clang  !  forward  all  I 
Heaven  helji  those  whose  herses  fall : 
Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall  !  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back. 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

Wheel! 
The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 
Home,  and  good  night ! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


GATHERING  SONG  OF  DONALD  THE  BLACK 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 
Summon  Clan  Conuil. 


4 


Come  away,  come  away, 
Hark  to  the  summons  ! 

Come  ill  your  war  anay, 
Geutles  and  coiunions. 

Come  from  deep  gleii,  and 

From  mountains  so  rocky ; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlocliy. 
Come  every  hill-phiid,  and 

Tine  )ieart  that  wears  one. 
Come  every  steel  bhide,  and 

Strong  hand  tliat  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  (lock  witliout  shelter  ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred. 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Bioadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  tlie  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended  ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  straiuled  ; 
Faster  come,  fjister  come. 

Faster  and  faster. 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom. 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhn, 

Knell  for  the  onset  !  ' 

Sm  Walter  Scott. 

THE  TROOPER'S  DEATH. 

The  weary  night  is  o'er  at  last ! 
We  ride  so  still,  we  ride  so  fast  ! 
We  ride  where  Death  is  lyin'^. 
The  morning  wind  doth  coldly  pass 
Landlord  !  we  '11  take  another  glass. 
Ere  dying. 

Thou,  springing  grass,  that  art  so  green 
■Shalt  soon  be  rosy  red,  I  ween. 
My  blood  the  hue  supplying  !  ' 
I  drink  the  first  glass,  sword  in  hand 
To  him  who  for  the  Fatherland 
Lies  dying  ! 


Chai-c 


Now  ipiickly  comes  the  .second  dranc'ht 
Ami  that  shall  be  to  freedom  quaffed 
While  freedom's  foes  are  flyino- 1 
The  lest,  0  land  !  our  hope  and  faitli  ' 
n  e  d  drink  to  thee  with  latest  breath, 
Though  dying  ! 

My  darling  !  _  ah,  the  glass  is  out ! 
Tlie  bullets  ring,  the  riders  shout  — 
No  time  for  wine  or  sighin^  ! 
There  !  bring  my  love 'the  "battered  gl.ass- 
e  !  on  the  foe  !  no  joys  surpass 
Such  dying  ! 

rroin  11,0  (;(rnii.in 

l>y  K.  IV.  Ravmo.v'i 


SONG  OF  CLAN-ALPINE. 

Hail  to  the  cliief  who  in  triumph  advances  ' 

Honored  and  blessed  be  the  evergreen  I'ine  ■ 

Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that  -dances 

Flourish,  tlie  shelter  and  grace  of  ou?  line  '. ' 

Heaven  send  it  hajipy  dew, 

Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 

While  every  highland  glen 

Sends  our  shout  back  again 
"Koderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ioroe  !" 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade  ■ 
When  the  whirlwind  hius  stripj.ed  every  leaf  on 
the  mountain. 
The  more  .shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  hershade 
,  .Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 

I  Proof  to  the  teni])est's  shock. 

Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow  • 
Menteith  and  lireadalbane,  then,  ' 
I  r.cho  his  jiraise  again, 

I       "  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 

j  Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen  Frnin 
[      And  Bannachar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replicl'- 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  sn«jking  in' 
'  ruin. 

And  the  best  of  Locli-Lomond  lie  dead  on  her 
side. 
Widow  and  Sa.xon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  ol  Clan-Alpine  with  fear  and  with  woe  • 
Lenno.'c  and  Leven-glen  ' 

■Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
"Koderigh  Vicli  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 

I  Row,  vas^sals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highlands ! 

Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  evergreen  Pine  ' 
U  that  the  rosebud  that  graces  yon  islands 
Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him  to 
twine ! 


^ 


l^. 


4GS 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND    n'AR. 


■a 


( >  tliiit  somo  sewIUng  j;toin, 

\Voi'tliy  suuli  uoblo  sti'iii, 
Hiinorwl  iiiul  blossixl  in  tlu'ii'  sluuUnv  might 
grow  ! 

l,oiut  shoulil  Clmi-Aliiini'  tlifu 

Hiiig  fniiii  lior  ilccpmost  gk'ii, 
"  Iv'oiUiigli  Vii'li  Alpino  illiu,  lio  !  ioiw!" 


I'UK  BATTLE-SONG  OF  OltSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS. 

KiAU  not,  (>  littl.'  tliH'k  !  tlio  I'o.' 
W'lm  iii;uUy  so^'Us  yoni'  ovovtlirow, 

I>H':h1  not  his  viigi.'  ami  powoi' ; 
AVlint  tliongh  Ymir  fourago  sonictiniea  taints  ? 
11  is  seoniing  triumph  o'or  God's  saints 

Lusts  but  n  littlo  hour. 

Ho  of  gooil  ohoor  :  your  causo  boKuigs 
To  him  wlio  can  avongo  your  wrongs, 

I.cavo  it  to  him,  our  Lord. 
Though  hidden  now  I'rom  all  our  eyes, 
llo  sees  the  Gideon  who  shall  vise 

To  save  us,  and  his  word. 

As  true  as  God's  own  word  is  true. 
Not  earth  or  hell  with  all  their  crew 

Agsiinst  >is  shall  prevail. 
A  .jest  and  by-woi\l  are  thoy  grown  ; 
God  is  with  us,  we  are  his  own. 
Our  victory  eaiiuot  fail. 

Auu'u,  Lord  Josus  ;  grant  oiu'  |irayer  ! 
Great  Captain,  now  thiiu'  arm  make  hare  ; 

Fight  for  us  oneo  again  ! 
So  shall  the  saints  and  nuirtyrs  raiso 
A  mighty  chorus  to  thy  praise. 

World  without  eiul  !     Anu'n. 

I-r»iii  Ihc  Gcniuu  of  MICIIAHI.  M.TrNlH'RO, 


KORNKR'S  SWORD  SONO. 

[Ch.\rlcs  Tlio.ulor,-  K^UUcr  ^v;»s  a  yniinR  CcniKm  M>Klicr.  scholar. 
I'lt.-t.  n\u\  i'.ilri.it  lie  WHS  Unix  at  ilresdcn  in  the  nuluiim  of  1791, 
.in.lfVll  ill  ImoKI'.t  his.oiintiy.it  the  cariy  aire  of  twenty-two.  The 
■•  Sw.ii.l  S.'ni;."  M«  i.rtlleil.  w.is  written  in  his  pocket-book  only  two 
liotirs  before  he  fell,  dininv:  a  halt  in  n  wootl  previons  to  the  cntptj^re- 
mcnt.  nud  w-as  re.id  by  him  to  a  comrade  jnst  as  the  sitinsi  was 
Ijivcn  for  Iwttlc-  This  bold  sonn  represents  the  soldier  chidtni;  his 
sword,  which,  nildcr  the  IniaRC  of  his  iron  bride,  is  impatient  to 
come  forth  from  her  chamber,  the  scabbard,  and  be  wedded  to  him 
on  the  field  of  bjdtte.  where  each  soldier  shall  press  the  bhadc  to  his 
lips. 

Kt^rncr  fell  In  an  cniraijement  with  superior  numbers  near  a  thicket 
In  the  nelRhborhoo<l  of  Kosenbnrv-  lie  had  advaltccd  in  pursuit 
of  the  (lyins  foe  too  far  beyond  his  comrades.  They  buried  him 
under  an  old  onk  on  the  site  of  the  battle,  nnil  carved  his  name  on 
Ihe  trunk.) 


.Swouii,  01 
What  uiea 


u 


ly  left  side  gleaming, 
thy  bright  eye's  hoiviniiig  I 


It  makes  my  spirit  ilanoe 
To  see  thv  t'riemllv  glnuco. 
Hurrah!' 

"  .-V  valiant  rider  liears  me  ; 
A  rrce-liorn  (ienuau  wears  mo  : 
That  makes  my  eye  so  bright ; 
That  is  the  sword's  delight." 
Hurrah  ! 

Yes,  good  .swortl,  1  (i»i  fret), 
Ami  love  thee  heartily, 
And  clasp  thee  to  my  side, 
K'en  as  a  pliglilcd  briile. 
llurrali  ! 

"And  1  to  thee,  by  lleavou, 
Jlv  light  steel  life  have  given  ; 
When  shall  llic  knot  be'tietl  ( 
Wliiii  will  lluni  take  iliy  bride  J" 
lluirah: 


lUg 


The  tnimpot's  soleimi  w 
Shall  hail  tho  bridal  imuiiiiig. 
When  eanuon-thuiulers  wake 
Then  my  true-love  1  take. 
Hurrah ! 

"0  blessM,  blessed  meeting! 
My  heart  is  wildly  beating  : 
Come,  britlegrooni,  tonic  lor  me  ; 
lly  garland  waiteth  llico." 
lluira!i! 

Why  in  tlio  siahbiinl  itittle, 
So  Willi,  so  liercc  for  battle? 
What  means  this  restless  glow? 
Mv  sword,  whv  clatter  so  ! 
lluirah! 

••  W.'ll  may  thy  prisoner  rattU  ; 
My  spirit  yearns  for  battle. 
Hitler,  't  is  war's  wild  glow 
That  makes  me  tremble  so." 
Hurrah! 

Stay  in  thy  clianiber  near. 
My  love  ;  what  wilt  tlutii  here! 
Still  ill  thy  eliamber  bitle  : 
Soon,  soon  1  lake  my  bride. 
Hnrialil 

"  Let  me  not  longer  wait  : 
Love's  garden  blooms  in  stats. 
With  rosi's  bl,>o,lv-red. 
And  maiiv  it  briglu  tlcath-bed." 
Hurrah! 

Now,  then,  come  forth,  my  britlo! 
t'oine  forth,  thou  riiler's  pride! 


i 


[fi- 


PVAR. 


4f39 


■a 


f.'orni:  out,  my  gooil  sword,  comol 
Forth  to  tliy  fiitlicr'«  home ! 
Iliirnih! 

"O,  ill  till!  lii'M  to  praiMT: 
'J'lic  j^lorious  wwUliiig  iliiiico! 
Ildw,  in  tho  hud'h  hriglit  heiiinfl, 
l!ri.|<'-liki:  tlin  i-loar  stool  gleums!" 
Iliirnih! 

'i'lioii  I'orwaril,  valiant  fighters  I 
Ami  I'orwaril,  Oornian  riilors! 
And  whim  tho  lioart  grows  cold, 
I>ot  oaoh  his  lovo  inloM. 
llunuh! 

Onoc  on  the  left  it  hung, 
And  stolen  glanees  (lung; 
Now  clearly  on  your  right 
Doth  God  each  fond  bride  [ilight. 
Hurrah! 

Tlii-n  lol.  your  hot  lips  feel 
'J'hal  viigin  oheok  of  steel ; 
One  kiss,  —  and  woe  betide 
Him  who  forsakes  tlio  bride. 
Hurrah  ! 

Now  lot  llie  lovoil  one  sing  ; 
Now  let  the  clear  blade  ring, 
Till  the  bright  sparks  shall  lly. 
Heralds  of  victory  ! 
Hurrah! 

For,  hark  !  tho  trumpet's  warning 
Proclaims  the  marriage  morning; 
It  dawns  in  festal  jirido  ; 
1 1  on  ah,  thi.u  Iron  lirido  ! 
Hurrah! 

r^rom  the  Ocr 
l)y  ClIARLRS  T,   I 


y- 


HOHKNLINDEN. 

On  Ijinilcn,  when  tlie  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Isor,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  tho  drum  boat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Comrnanding  liros  of  death  to  light 
The  darkn(^ss  of  her  scenery. 

Hy  torch  and  trunipct  fast  arrayed, 
Kach  hor.senian  drew  his  battle-blade. 
And  furious  every  oliargcr  neighed. 
To  join  tho  dreadlul  revelry. 


Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
'i'hen  iTislied  the  steeds  to  Ixittle  driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolt«  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  tho  red  artillery. 

i'lit  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
(Jn  Linden's  hills  of  stainiid  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Isor,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  mom,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Whore  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  c.inopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave. 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave. 
And  charge  with  all  thy  eliivalry ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  inoi-t ! 
The  snow  shall  bo  their  winding-sheet. 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchci-. 

THOMAS  CAWI'DfiLI 


THE  MARKET   WIFE'.S  SONG. 

TiiK  butter  an'  the  cheese  wccl  stowit  they  lie, 
I  sit  on  tho  hen-coop,  the  eggs  on  my  knee. 
The  lang  kail  jigs  as  we  jog  owre  the  rigs. 
The  gray  mare's  tail  it  wags  wi'  the  kail. 
The  warm  simmer  sky  is  blue  alxion  a'. 
An'  whiddio,  whuddie,  wli.iddio,  gang  the  anld 
wheels  twa. 

I  sit  on  the  coop,  I  look  straight  before, 
But  my  lu^art  it  is  awa'  tlie  braid  ocean  owre, 
I  see  the  bluidy  fiel'  whore  my  ain  bonny  chiel, 
My  weo  bairn  o'  a',  gacd  to  fight  or  to  fa', 
An'  whiddio,  whuddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  auld 
wheels  twa. 

I  .see  the  gran'  toun  o'  the  big  fon-in'  loun, 
I  hear  the  cannon  soun',  I  see  the  reek  aboon  ; 
It  may  be  lang  .John  lottin'  a(f  his  gun. 
It  may  be  tho  mist  —  your  mither  di.sna  wist  — 
It  may  be  tho  kirk,  it  may  be  the  ha'. 
An'  whiddie,  whuddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  auld 
wbools  twa. 

An'  I  ken  the  lilack  Sea,  ayont  tho  rock  o'  dool. 
Like  a  muckle  blot  o'  ink  in  a  bulk  fra'  tho  schulc, 
An' .lock  !  itg.arsmemin'o'yourbuikicslangsync. 
An'  mindin'  o'  it  a'  tho  tears  begin  to  fa', 
An'  wliiildio,  whuddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  auld 
wheels  twa. 


-ff 


f 


470 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND    jrAli. 


■-Qi 


Then  a  bull  roars  fra'  the  sonur,  ilka  rock'  s  a 

bull  agon, 
An'  I  hear  tlio  trump  o'  war,  an'  the  oai-se  is  fu' 

o'  men. 
Up  an'  iloun  the  morn  1  ken  tlie  bugle-horn, 
llku  birdie  sma'  is  a  lleein'  cannon  ba', 
An'  whidilie,  wliuddio,  whaddie,  gang  tlie  aulil 

wlieels  twa. 

Guid  Heavens!  tbo   Unssian  host!     Wo  maun 

o'en  gie  up  for  lost ! 
Gin  ye  gain  the  battle  hae  ye  oountit  a'  the  cost? 
Ye  may  win  a  gran'  name,  but  wad  woe  Jack 

come  hamo  > 
Dinna  tVcht,  diuna  fecht !  there  's  room  lor  us  a'  ! 
An'  whiddie,  wluiddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  auld 

wheels  twa. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain  !    They  are  marching 

near  and  far ! 
Wi'  swordsan'  wi'  slingsan'  wi'  instrumentso'  war ! 
0,  day  sae  dark  an'  sair !  ilka  man  seven  foet  an' 

mair ! 
I  bow  my  head  an'  say,  "Gin  the  Lord  wad  smite 

them  a'  ! " 
An'  whiddio,  whuddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  aulil 

wheels  twa. 

Then  forth  fra'  theirban'  theresteps  an  armed  man. 
His  tairgo  at  hisbreastan'  hisclaymore  in  his  han', 
His  gowd  pow  glitters  Rne  an'  his  shadow  fa's 

behin', 
1  think  o'  great  Goliath  as  he  stan's  before  them  a'. 
An'  whiddie,  whuddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  auld 

wheels  twa. 

To  meet  the  Philistine  leaps  a  laddie  fra'  our  line, 
0,  my  heart !  O,  my  heart  !  't  is  that  wee  lad  o' 

mine  I 
I  start  to  my  legs  —  an'  donn  fa'  the  eggs  — 
The  cocks  an'  hens  a'  they  cackle  an'  they  ea', 
An'  whiddie,  whuddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  auld 

wheels  twa. 

0  Jock,  my  Hielan'  lad  —  0  Jock,  my  Hielan'  lad, 
Never  till  I  saw  thee  that  moment  was  1  glad  ! 
Aye  sooner  sud  thou  deo  before  thy  mother's  eo' 
Tium  a  man  o'  the  clan  sud  hae  stept  out  but  thee ! 
An'  sae  1  cry  to  God  —  while  the  hens  cackle  a'. 
An'  whiddio,  whuddie,  whaddie,  gang  the  auld 
wheels  twa. 

SlDNliV  DOBBLU 


INCIDENT  OF  THE   FRENCH  CAMP. 

Yiiu  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 


L 


With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow. 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yoniler  wall, "  — 
Out  'twi.xt  the  battery-smokes  there  Hew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  iilV  there  lluug  in  .smiling  joy. 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  nnme,  a  boy : 

Yon  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through). 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal 's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you  'U  be  there  anon 
To  si'c  your  llag-ljird  flap  his  vans 

Where  1,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  liim ! "   Tlie  chiefs  eye  flashed  ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chiefs  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 
Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 

A  film  the  motlier-eagle's  eye 

Wlien  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes: 

You're  wounded!"    "Nay,"his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  saiil : 

I  'm  killed,  sire  !  "     And,  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


HOW  T}IEY  BROUOHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM 
GHENT  TO  AIX. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirmp,  and  Joris  and  he  ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three  ; 
"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch  as  the  gate- 
bolts  undrew, 
"  Speed  ! "  echoed  the  wall  to  usgalloping  through. 
Behind  shut  the  po.stern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest. 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  wo  kept  the  great  pace,  — 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing 

our  place  ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the 


s  gn-ths  tight,        1 
hepiquerigl.t,        I 


fl- 


IV A  R. 


i^r5i 


Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  tin;  bit. 
Nor  galloi)e<l  less  steadily  Itoland  a  wliit. 

'T  was  a  inoonset  at  starting  ;  but  while  wc  drew 

iiojir 
liOkcren,  thecockscrewandtwilightdawneii clear ; 
At  Hooin  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 
At  Dlid'eld  't  was  morning  as  jilain  as  could  be  ; 
And  IVom  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the 

half-chime,  — 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "  Yet  there  is  time  !  " 

At  Aorschot  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  lilack  every  one. 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past ; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  l{oland  at  last. 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  blulf  river  headland  its  spray  ; 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear 

bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his 

track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black   intelligence,  —  ever  that 

glance 
O'critswhite  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ; 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes,  which  aye 

and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried  Joris, 
"Stay  spur ! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her ; 

We'll  remember  at  Aix,"  —  for  one  heard  the 
quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  anil  stag- 
gering knees. 

And  sunk  tail,  and  honible  heave  of  the  flank, 

Asdown  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  IjOoz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 
The  liroad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh  ; 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stubble 

like  chaff ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joils,    "for  Aix  is   in 

sight ! " 

"  H(W  they'll  greet  us!"  —  and   all  in  a  njo- 

ment  his  roan 
Kolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And   there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole 

weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from 

her  fate. 
With  hisnostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim. 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall. 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
.Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  my  horse  with- 
out peer,  — 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sung,  any'  noise, 

bad  or  good. 
Til!  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round. 
As  1  sate  with  his  head  'tNvixt  my  knees  on  tho 

ground  ; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine. 
As  I  jioured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of 

wine. 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good 

news  from  Ghent. 

ROBERT  BROW.NING, 


THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCKNOW. 

0,  THAT  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort  I 

We  knew  that  it  was  the  last ; 
That  the  enemy's  lines  crept  surely  on, 

And  the  end  was  coming  fast. 

To  yield  to  that  foe  meant  worse  than  death  ; 

And  the  men  and  we  all  worked  on  ; 
It  was  one  day  more  of  smoke  and  roar. 

And  then  it  would  all  be  done. 

There  was  one  of  us,  a  corporal's  wife, 

A  fair,  young,  gentle  thing. 
Wasted  with  fever  in  the  siege, 

And  her  mind  was  wandering. 

She  lay  on  the  ground,  in  her  Scottish  plaid. 
And  1  took  her  head  on  my  knee  ; 

"When  my  father  comes  liame  frac  the  pleugh, 
she  said, 
"Oh  !  then  please  wauken  me." 

She  slept  like  a  child  on  her  father's  floor. 
In  the  flecking  of  woodbine-shade. 

When  the  house-dog  sprawls  by  the  open  door, 
An<l  the  mother's  wheel  is  stayed. 

It  was  smoke  and  roar  and  ]»owder-st<?nch, 

And  hopeless  waiting  for  death  ; 
And  the  soldier's  wife,  like  a  full-tired  child, 

Seemed  scarce  to  draw  her  breath. 

I  sank  to  sleep  ;  and  I  had  my  dream 

Of  an  English  village-lane, 
And  wall  and  garden  ;  —  but  one  wild  scream 

IJrought  me  back  to  the  roar  again. 


U-^ 


--& 


[& 


472 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND   JFAR. 


-a 


Tliere  Jessie  Brown  stood  listening 

Till  a  sudden  gliidness  broke 
All  over  her  face  ;  and  she  caught  my  hand 

And  drew  ine  near  as  she  sjwke  :  — 

"The  Hielandere  !  0,  dinna  ye  hear 

The  slogan  far  awa  ? 
The  McGregor's,  —  0,  I  ken  it  weil  ; 

It 's  the  gi'andest  o'  them  a'  ! 

"God  Mess  the  bonny  Hielanders  ! 

We  'i-e  saved  !  we  're  saved  '. "  she  cried  ; 
And  fell  on  her  knees  ;  and  thanks  to  God 

Flowed  forth  like  a  full  tlood-tide. 

Along  the  battery -line  her  cry 

Had  fallen  among  the  men, 
And  they  started  back  ;  —  they  were  there  to  die 

But  was  life  so  near  them,  then  ! 

They  listened  for  life  ;  the  rattling  fire 

Far  off,  and  the  far-olf  roar. 
Were  all  ;  and  the  colonel  shook  his  head. 

And  they  turned  to  their  guns  ouco  more. 

But  Jessie  said,  ' '  The  slogan 's  done  ; 

But  winna  ye  liear  it  noo. 
The  Campbells  arc  comin'  ?    It 's  no  a  dream  ; 

Our  succoi-s  hae  broken  through  ! " 

Wo  heard  the  roar  and  the  rattle  afar. 

But  the  pipes  we  could  not  hear  ; 
So  the  men  plied  their  w  ork  of  hopeless  war. 

And  knew  that  the  end  was  near. 

It  was  not  long  ere  it  made  its  way,  — 

A  thrilling,  ceaseless  sound  : 
It  was  no  noise  from  the  strife  afar. 

Or  the  sappers  under  ground. 

It  was  the  pipes  of  the  Highlandei-s  ! 

And  now  they  played  Auld  Lang  Simet 
It  came  to  our  men  like  the  voice  of  God, 

And  they  shouted  along  the  line 

And  they  wept,  and  shook  one  another's  hands. 
And  the  women  sobbed  in  a  crowd  ; 

And  every  one  knelt  down  where  he  stood, 
And  we  all  thanked  God  aloud. 

Tliat  happy  time,  when  we  welcomed  them, 

Our  men  jiut  Jessie  first  ; 
And  the  general  gave  her  his  hand,  and  cheere 

Like  a  storm  from  the  soldiers  burst. 

And  the  pipers'  ribbons  and  tartan  streamed. 
Marching  round  and  round  our  line  ; 

And  our  joyful  cheers  were  broken  with  tears, 
As  the  pipes  played  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

KOBEKT  LOWELL. 


HUDIBRAS'  SWORD  AND   DAGGER. 

His  puissant  swonl  unto  his  side 
Neai'  liis  undaunted  heart  was  tied. 
With  luskct  hilt  that  would  hold  broth. 
And  serve  for  fight  and  dinner  both. 
In  it  lie  melted  lead  for  bullets 
To  shoot  at  foes,  and  souietiiiies  pullets. 
To  whom  he  bore  so  fell  a  grutch 
He  ne'er  gave  ipiarter  to  any  sucli. 
The  ti-eiichaiit  blade,  Toledo  trusty. 
For  want  of  fighting  was  grown  rusty, 
And  ate  into  itself,  for  lack 
Of  somebody  to  hew  and  hack. 
The  peaceful  scabbaixi,  where  it  ilwelt. 
The  iiincor  of  its  edge  had  felt ; 
For  of  the  lower  end  two  handful 
It  had  devoured,  it  was  so  manful  ; 
And  so  inucli  scorned  to  lurk  in  case. 
As  if  it  durst  not  show  its  face. 

This  swoixl  a  dagger  had,  his  page, 

That  was  but  little  for  his  age. 

And  therefore  waited  on  him  so 

As  dwarfs  unto  kiiight-emmts  do. 

It  was  a  serviceable  dudgeon. 

Either  for  fighting  or  for  drndging. 

When  it  had  stabbed  or  broke  a  head. 

It  would  scrape  treiuhers  or  chip  bread, 

Toast  cheese  or  liacon,  though  it  were 

To  bait  a  mouse-trap  't  would  not  care  ; 

'T  would  make  clean  shoes,  and  in  the  earth 

Set  leeks  and  onions,  and  so  foilh  : 

It  had  been  'prentice  to  a  brewer, 

Where  this  and  more  it  did  endure  ; 

But  left  the  trade,  iis  many  more 

Have  lately  done  on  the  same  score. 

SAMUtL  DUTLER. 


y-- 


HOTSPUR'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  A  FOP. 

FROM  "KING  HENRV  IV.."  I'AKT  I, 

WvT  1  ii'inember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
Wlii'ii  1  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil. 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  ii]Hin  my  sword. 
Came  there  a  cert^iin  lord,  neat,  trimly  dressed, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom  ;  and  his  chin,  new  reaped. 
Showed  like  a  stnbble-land  at  harvest-home  ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner  ; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  liis  nose,  and  took  't  away  again  :  — 
Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there, 
Tookit  insnuff  t^and  still  he  smiled  and  talked  ; 
And  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by. 
He  called  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly. 
To  bring  a  .slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwi.xt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 


4 


e- 


fVAB. 


473 


With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 

He  questioned  me  ;  among  the  rest,  demanded 

My  j>ri.soners  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 

I  then,  all  smajting,  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 

To  lie  so  [jcstered  with  a  popinjay. 

Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatienee. 

Answered  negleetingly,  1  know  not  what,  — 

He  should,  or  heshould  not ;  for  he  madenie  mad 

To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 

Aiul  talk  so  like  a  waiting  gentlewoman. 

Of  guns,  and   drums,  and  wounds,  ^ God  save 

the  mark  !  — 
And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 
Was  paiinaeeti  for  an  inward  hruLse; 
Ami  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was. 
That  villanous  saltpeter  should  be  digged 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 
Whieli  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroyed 
So  cowardly,  and,  but  for  these  vile  guns, 
Ho  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 

SlIAKBSf'EARE. 


"Castile's  proud  dames  shall  never  point   tho 

finger  of  disdain, 
And  say  there's  one  that  ran  away  when  our 

good  lordii  were  slain  ! 
I   leave   Diego  in  your  care,  —  you'll   fill   Ids 

father's  place  ; 
Strike,  strike  the  spur,  and  never  spare,  —  God's 

blessing  on  your  Grace  !  " 

So  spake  the  brave  Montanez,  Butrago's  lord  was 

he; 
And  turned  him  to  the  coming  host  in  steailfast- 

ness  and  glee  ; 
He    flung  himself  among  them,  as  they  came 

down  the  hill,  — 
He  died,  God  wot !  but  not  before  his  sword  liad 

drunk  its  fill. 

JOHN  GlttsON  LOCKHART. 


y-- 


THE   LORD   OF  BUTRAOO. 

"  YofK  horse  is  faint,  my  King,  my  lord  !  your 

gallant  horse  is  sick,  — 
His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on  his 

eye  the  film  is  thick  ; 
Miiunt,  mount  on  mine,  0,  mount  apace,  I  pray 

thee,  mount  and  fly  ! 
Or   in   my   arms    I'll   lift   your   Grace, — their 

tramiiling  hoofs  are  nigh  ! 

"My  King,  my  king  !  you 're  wounded  sore, — 

the  blood  runs  from  your  feet ; 
I'ut  only  lay  a  hand  before,  and  I  '11  lift  you  to 

your  seat ; 
Mount,  .Juan,   for  they  gather  fast !  —  I   hear 

their  coming  cry,  — 
Mount,    mount,   and  ride   for  jeopardy,  —  I  '11 

save  you  though  I  die  ! 

"Stand,  noble  steed!   this  hour  of  need,  —  be 

gentle  as  a  lamb  ; 
I  '11   kiss  the  foam   from  off  thy  mouth,  —  thy 

master  deal  I  am,  — 
Mount,  Juan,  mount ;  whate'er  betide,  away  the 

bridle  fling, 
And  plunge  the  rowels  in  his  side.  —  My  horse 

shall  save  my  King  ! 

"Nay,  never  speak  ;  my  sires.  Lord  King,  re- 
ceived their  land  from  yours, 

And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so  be  it 
thine  secures ; 

If  I  should  fly,  aiul  thou,  my  King,  be  found 
among  the  dead. 

How  could  I  stand  'mong  gentlemen,  such  scorn 
on  my  gray  head  ? 


THE    PRIVATE    OF    THE    BUFFS  ;  •    OR,   THE 
BRITISH  SOLDIER  IN  CHINA. 

I  1"  Some  Seiks,  and  a  private  of  the  Buffs,  having  rcmflincd  betiind 
'  with  llie  iiTO^-ans.  fell  into  tile  lianrls  of  the  Cliinc&e.  On  tlie 
(lay  they  were  broujjlit  before  the  autiiorities  anri  ordered  to 
form  Xotou.  The  Seilts  obeyed,  but  Moysc,  the  EnKlii^li  sol 
declared  he  would  not  prostrate  hitnself  before  any  Chinaman  a 
and  was  immediately  knocked  upon  the  head,  and  his  ljo<iy  thrown 
upon  a  dunghill."  —C/tnia  Correipondetll  of  tht  "  London   Timti 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  ijuaffed,  and  swore  ; 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  looked  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown. 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place. 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  tyjie  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-bom,  untaught. 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb. 

Bring  cord  or  ax  or  flame. 
He  finly  knows  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seemed. 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go ; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleamed. 

One  sheet  of  living  snow  ; 
The  smoke  above  hi.s  father's  door 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung  ; 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more. 

Doomed  by  himself  so  young  ? 

Yes,  honor  calls  !  —  with  .strength  like  steel 
He  ]iut  the  vision  by; 

•  ■■  The  Buffs"  are  the  Eait  Kent  retfimcnt. 


-3 


p 


474 


POEMS   OF  PEACE  AND    WAR. 


-a 


Let  dusky  Indians  whine  anil  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  wont. 

Vain  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed. 

Vain  those  all-shattering  guns, 
Unless  proud  England  keep  untamed 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons  ; 
So  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring,  — 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king. 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 

SIR  Francis  Hastings  Doyle. 


t 


THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro. 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing  :  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then. 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost,  —  only  one  of  the  men. 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming  ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  he  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack  ;  his  face,  dark  and  grim. 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  muttei-s  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep. 

For  their  mother,  —  may  Heaven  defend  her  ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then. 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  —  when  low,  murmured 
vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken  ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling. 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 


He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree,  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary  ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of 
light. 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  I  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the 
leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  woudrously  Hashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  :  "Ha  !  Mary,  good  by  !  " 

And  the  lil'e-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night,  — 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While    soft  falls  the  dew  on  the   face  of    the 
dead, — 
The  picket 's  olf  duty  forever. 

Ethel  Lvn.n  beers. 


CIVIL  WAR. 

"Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  viilette  ; 
Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet !  " 

"Ah,  captain  !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead, 
Thei'e  's  music  around  when  my  barrel 's  in 
tune  ! " 

Crack  !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped. 
And  dead  fromhis  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and 
snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first 
blood  ; 
A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud  !" 

"O  captain  !  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my  track. 
When  1  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vidette. 

For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  nie 
yet. 

"But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket, — this  lo.k.t 
of  gold  ; 

An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way. 
Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 

Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"Ha  I  riHeman,  fling  me  the  locket !  —  'tis  .she. 
My   brother's    young    bride,    and   the   fallen 
dragoon 
Was  her  husband —  Hush!  soldier, 't  was  Heav- 
en's decree. 
We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon  ! 


^ 


&-- 


zrQi 


475 


"  But,  haik  !  the  far  buglss  their  warnings  unite; 

War  is  a  virtue,  —  weakness  a  sin  ; 
There  's  a  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night ; 

Load  again,  ritlemau,  keep  your  hand  in  !  " 
CHARLES  Dawson  Shanly. 


THE  BRIER-WOOD  PIPE. 

Ha  !  bully   for   me   again,    when   my  turn   for 

picket  is  over. 
And  now  for  a  smoke  as  I  lie,  with  the  moonlight, 

out  in  the  clover. 

Jly  pipe,  it 's  only  a  knot  from  the  root  of  a  brier- 
wood  tree. 

But  it  turns  my  heart  to  the  Northward  —  Harry 
gave  it  to  me. 

And  I  'ni  but  a  rough  at  best,   bred  up  to  the 

row  and  the  riot ; 
But  a  softness  comes  over  my  heart,  when  all  are 

asleep  and  quiet. 

For,  many  a  time,  in  the  night,  strange  things 

appear  to  my  eye. 
As  the  breath  from  my  brier-wood  pipe  curls  up 

between  me  and  the  sky. 

Last  night  a  beautiful  spirit  arose  with  the  wisp- 

ing  smoke  ; 
O,  I  shook,  but  my  heart  felt  good,  as  it  spread 

out  its  hands  and  spoke  ; 

.Saying,  "  I  am  the  soul  of  the  brier ;  we  grew 

at  the  root  of  a  tree 
Where  lovers  would  come  in  the  twilight,  two 

ever,  for  company. 

"Where  lovers  would  come  in  the  morning  — 

ever  but  two,  togetlier  ; 
When  the  flowers  were  full  in  >their  blow ;  the 

birds,  in  their  song  and  feather. 

"Where  lovers  would   come  in  the  noon-tide, 

loitering  —  never  but  two. 
Looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  like  pigeons  that 

kiss  and  coo. 

"And  0,  the  honeyed  words  that  came  when 

the  lips  were  parted, 
And  the  passion  that  glowed  in  the  eyes,  and  the 

lightning  looks  that  darted  ! 

' '  Enough  :   Love  dwells  in  the  pipe  —  so  ever  it 

glows  with  fire  ! 
1  am  the  soul  of  the  bush,  and  the  spirits  call 

me  Sweet  Brier." 


[&-- 


That 's  what  the  brier-wood  said,  as  nigh  as  my 

tongue  can  tell. 
And  the  words  went  straight  to  my  lie.irt,  like 

the  stroke  of  the  tire-bell. 

To-night  1  lie  in  the  clover,  watching  the  blos- 

somy  smoke ; 
1  'm  glad  the  boys  are  asleep,  for  I  ain't  in  the 

humor  to  joke. 

I   lie  in  the  hefty  clover  :  up  between  me  and 

the  moon 
The  smoke  from  my  pipe  arises  :  my  heart  will 
be  quiet,  soon. 

My  thoughts  are  back  in  the  city,  I  'm  every- 
thing 1 've  been  ; 

1  hear  the  bell  from  the  tower,  1  run  with  the 
swift  machine, 

I  see  the  red  shirts  crowding  around  the  engine- 
house  door. 

The  foreman's  hail  through  the  trumpet  comes 
with  a  hollow  roar. 

The  reel  in  the  Bowery  dance-house,  the  row  in 
the  beer-saloon, 

Where  I  put  in  my  licks  at  Big  Paul,  come  be- 
tween me  and  the  moon. 

I  hear  the  drum  and  the  bugle,  the  tramp  of  the 

cow-skin  boots, 
We  are  marching  on  our  muscle,  the  Fire-Zouave 

recruits  ! 

White  handkerchiefs  wave  before  me  —  0,   but 

the  sight  is  pretty 
On  the  wliite  marble  stejis,  as  we  march  through 

the  heart  of  the  city. 

Bright   eyes  and  clasping  arms,   ami  lips  that 

bade  us  good  hap  ; 
And  the  splendid  lady  who  gave  nic  the  havclock 

for  my  cap. 

0,  up  from  my  pipe-cloud  rises,  there  between 

me  and  the  moon, 
A  beautiful  white-robed  lady  ;  my  heart  will  be 

quiet,  soon. 

Tile  lovely  golden-haired  lady  ever  in  drearns  I 

see. 
Who  gave  me  the  snow-white  havelock  —  but 

what  does  she  care  for  me  1 

Look  at  my  grimy  features  ;  mountains  between 

us  stand  : 
I  with  my  sledge-hammer  knuckles,  she  with  her 

jeweled  hand  ! 


3 


[0- 


476 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND   JFAK. 


■a 


43-- 


Wliiit  ciuv  1  '-'  tlui  day  tlmt's  iliiwniiig  may  soo 

UK',  wlit'ii  all  is  ovei', 
Willi  the  red  stmiui  of  my  lilV-MiHul  staining  tlm 

111,'  lul'ly  ckiviT. 

llarU  !  tlio  rri'ii/!,-  somuliri!;  out  on  tlio  niornini; 
air  ; 

I'l'vils  are  wc  lor  the  battle—  Will  there  be  an- 
gels thoro  ? 

Kiss  me  agivin,  Sweet   Hrier,  the  toueh  of  your 

lip  to  mine 
Brings  back  the  white-robeii  lady  with  hair  like 

the  goldou  wine  ! 

CHAKLBS  Dawson  shanly. 


THE  NOBLEMAN  AND  THE  PENSIONER. 

"  Oi.u  man,  God  bless  you  !  does  your  pipe  taste 
sweetly '! 

A  beauty,  by  my  soul  ! 
A  red  clay  tlower-pot,  rimmed  Nvith  goU  so  neatly  ! 

What  ask  you  for  the  bowl  ? " 

"0  sir,  that  bowl  torworlds  1  would  not  part  with  ; 

A  bravo  man  gave  it  me. 
Who  won  it — now  what  think  you  ! — of  a  bashaw 

At  Belgrade's  victory. 

"There,   sir,   ah!   there  was   booty  worth   the 
showing,  — 

Long  life  to  Priuee  Eugene  ! 
Like  after-grass  you  might  have  seen  us  mowing 

The  Turkish  ranks  down  clean." 

"  .\nother  time  1  '11  hear  your  story  ;  — 

(,'omc,  olil  man,  be  no  fool ; 
Take  these  two  ducats,  — gold  for  glory,  — 

And  let  me  have  the  bowl  ! " 

"  1  'm  a  poor  churl,  as  you  may  »ay,  sir  ; 

M  y  pension  's  all  1  'm  worth : 
Yet  I  'd  not  give  that  bowl  away,  sir, 

Kor  iUl  the  gold  on  earth. 

"  Just  hear  now  I    (_>nce,  as  wc  hus-sai-s,  all  merry. 

Hard  on  the  foe's  rear  pressed, 
A  blundering  rascal  of  a  janiziu'y 

Shot  through  our  captain's  breast. 

"At  once  across  my  horse  1  hove  him,  — 
The  same  would  he  have  done,  — 

And  fixmi  the  smoke  and  tunuilt  drove  him 
Safe  to  a  nobleman. 


"  I  nureed  him,  and,  before  his  end,  beciucathing 

His  money  anil  this  bow  1 
To   me,    he   pressed  my   luuid,  just   ceased   his 
breathing. 

And  so  he  died,  brave  soul  ! 

"The  money  thou   must   give  nunc  host, — so 
thought  1,  — 

Three  plunderings  snlfcred  he  : 
And,  in  remembrance  of  my  old  friend,  brought  1 

The  pipe  away  with  me. 

"  Henceforth  in  all  campaigns  with  nie  1  bore  it, 

In  (light  or  in  pursuit ; 
It  was  a  holy  thing,  sir,  and  I  wore  it 

Safe-sheltered  in  my  boot. 

"This  very  limb,  1  lost  it  by  a  shot,  sir. 

Under  the  walls  of  rrague  : 
First  at  my  precious  pipe,  be  sure,  1  caught,  sir, 

Ami  then  picked  up  my  leg." 

"  You  move  me  even  to  tears,  old  sire  . 

What  was  the  bnive  man's  name  ? 
Tell  me,  that  I,  too,  may  admire, 

And  venerate  his  fame." 

"They  called  him  only  the  brave  Walter  ; 

His  farm  lay  near  the  Klune."  — 
"  God  bless  your  old  eyes  !  't  was  my  fatlier, 

.\nd  that  same  farm  is  mine. 

"(\mie,  friend,  you've  scon  some  stormy  weather. 

With  me  is  now  your  bed  ; 
We  '11  drink  of  Walter's  grapes  together, 

And  eat  of  Walter's  bread." 

"  Now,  — done  !  I  march  in,  then,  to-morrow  ; 

Yon  'i-e  his  true  heir,  I  see  ; 
And  when  1  die,  yonr  thanks,  kind  master, 

The  Turkish  pipe  shall  be. " 

rrom  till-  Llcnnaii  of  PFUl-FEL. 

by  CHARLES  T.  UROOKS, 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiera, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was 
dearth  of  wonnxn's  teai-s  ; 

But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his  life- 
blood  ebbed  away. 

And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he 
might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took  that  com- 
rade's hand. 

And  he  said,  "1  nevermore  shall  see  my  own. 
my  native  land  ; 

^ ff 


a-- 


WAR. 


477 


n 


B-^- 


Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant 

friends  of  mine, 
For  I  was  bom  at  Bingen,  —  at  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they 

meet  and  crowd  around, 
To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  ideasant  vine- 
yard ground. 
That  we  fought  the  battle  liravely,  and  when  the 

day  was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  fiale  beneath  the 

setting  sun  ; 
And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  gi'own 

old  in  wars,  — 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant   breasts,   the 

last  of  many  scars  ; 
And  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  lil'e's 

morn  decline,  — 
And  one  had  come  fiom  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  com- 
fort her  old  age  ; 

For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  tliat  thought  his 
home  a  cage. 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 

My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  hira  tell  of  strug- 
gles fierce  and  wild ; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his 
scanty  hoard, 

I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  —  but  kept 
my  father's  sword  ; 

And  with  boyish  love  1  hung  it  where  the  bright 
light  used  to  shine, 

On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  —  calm  Bingen 
on  the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with 

drooping  head. 
When  the  ti'oops  come  marching  home  again  with 

glad  and  gallant  tread. 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and 

steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not  afrai<l 

to  die  ; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my 

name 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame. 
And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  fa- 
ther's sword  and  mine) 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen,  —  dear  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 

"  There  's  another,  —  not  a  sister  ;  in  the  happy 

days  gone  by 
You  'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that 

sparkled  in  her  eye  ; 


Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  —  too  fond  for  idle 
scorning,  — 

0  friend  !  1  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  .some- 

times heaviest  mourning  ! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for,  ere  the 

moon  be  risen. 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of 

prison),  — 

1  dreamed   1  stood  with  licr,  and  saw  the  yellow 

sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen 
on  the  Rhine. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along,  —  1  heard, 
or  seemed  to  hear, 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus 
sweet  and  clear; 

.•\nd  down  the  plea.sant  river,  and  up  the  slant- 
ing hill. 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening 
calm  and  still  ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  nie,  as  we  pa.s.sed, 
with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well- 
remembered  walk ! 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in 
mine,  — 

But  we  '11  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,  —  loved 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine." 

His  trembling  voii.-e  grew  faint  and  hoai'se,  —  his 

gra.sp  was  childish  weak,  — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look ,  —  he  sighed  and 

ceased  to  speak ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of 

life  had  fled,  — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  de.nd  ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly 

she  looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody 

corses  strewn ; 
Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  .scene  her  pale  light 

seemed  to  shine. 
As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 

Caroline  E.  .Norton. 


WOUNDED  TO  DEATH. 

Steady,  boys,  steady! 

Keep  your  arms  ready, 
God  only  knows  whom  we  may  meet  here. 

Don't  let  me  be  taken  ; 

I  'd  rather  awaken. 
To-morrow,  in  —  no  matter  where. 
Than  lie  in  that  foul  prison-hole  —  over  there. 


-S 


a-- 


478 


POKMH  ()*"  PKAGS  AND  U'AIi, 


-a 


Sli'|i  slowl.v  ! 

Spoiik  lowly  I 

Tluvie  iMi'ks  lurt.v  liiivo  lil'o, 

l,ny  iin'  down  in  this  luiUow  : 
\Vo  «iv  out  of  tho  sti'il'o, 
\\y  lustvpiis  I  I  ho  I'lH'iwi'ii  m«v  U-.iok  mo  in  WoikI, 
I'or  Ihia  liolo  ii«  my  lifuusl  is  ovilliouritij;  tt  tlooii. 
No  :  mi  sm'm'ou  lov  mo  ;  ho  onu  jjivo  mo  no  iiiil ; 
Tlio  smgv'ou  1  wiml  is  piokax  luui  siwilo. 
W'liuU  Moi'iii".  a  toav  »    W'lvy.  shamo  on  yo,  mini  ! 
1  thought  you  a  l\oixi ;  l>ut  siui'o  you  liogiiu 
W'  whimpor  ami  oiy  liko  a  jji'l  iu  hoc  twiis, 
Hytiooi'j^x"  I  I  don't  know  what  tho  ilovil  il  nu-ans! 

WoU  !  woU  !  l.imivujjh;  't isavoiyiwijfhsohool, 
'I'his  lil'o  of  a  tivopor,  -  hul  jvt  1  "m  no  fool  ! 
1  know  a  hnivo  man.  and  a  hiond  fi'oni  a  loo  : 
And,  IwYs,  thai  you  low  n\o  I  ooitainly  know  ; 

liut  was  n't  it  jfi'and 
Whon  thoy  oamo  down  tho  hill  ovor  sloiijihing 

and  sand  ! 
Ihil   wo  stood       did  wo  not!-  liUo  iinniovahlo 

IVl'k, 

I'nhoodiujj  Ihoii-  Kills  and  ivjudlinj;  Ihoii'  shook. 
Old  yon  mind  tho  lond  oiy 
Whon.  as  tuininj;  to  lly, 

tMu  inon  spiui\j{  upon  thom,  dotonuinod  to  dio  ? 
0,  was  n't  it  grand  I 

l!od  holp  tho  i>oor  wii'tohos  that  foil  in  that  tight ; 
No  tinio  was  llion'  givou  for  pmyov  or  for  lli^«lit  ; 
Thoy  loll  hy  tho  sooiv.  in  tho  oi-ash.  liami  tohaiul. 
.Villi  Ihov  minglod  thoir  blood  with  tho  sloughing 
'  ami  sand. 

lln.-?a  ! 
Civat    Uoavons !  tliis  Imllot-holo  giijH-s  liko  a 

giv'^i! ; 
.\  ourso  on  tlu<  aim  of  tho  traitoivus  knavo  ! 
Is  tlioiv  novor  a  ono  of  yo  knows  how  to  pray, 
Or  siH'ak  for  a  man  as  his  lifo  ohlis  away  • 
I'rav  ! 

Pray  '. 

1  'ill    Kathov !   our  Kathor !  .  .  .   why  don't  yo 

pnioood  ? 
Can'l  yon  .«v  1  am   dying  >  t>ivat  t5od.  how  1 

hlortl  I 
Khliing  away  ! 

Kldiing  «»^ly  1 

Tlio  light  of  tho  day 
Is  turning  to  sniv. 

Ti-av! 

Tray  1 
l>iir  Kalhor  in  lloavoii.  Kns.  toll  mo  tho  ivst, 
Whilo  1  staiioh  tho  hot  Mood  fliun  this  holo  in 

my  hix'ast, 
Thoiv  's  somolhiug  about  tho  foiyiwiuiss  of  sin 


Tut  that  iu  !  pul  lluil  in  !      mid  lliou 
I  '11  follow  your  words  aiul  say  iiii  anion, 

lloiv,  Morri.s,  old  follow,  gi'l  lioKI  ol  my  hand  ; 
And,  Wilson,  my  oomrado       O.  hmmi  l  il  grand 
Whon  thoy  oaino  down  tho  hill  liko  a  llinndoi-- 

ohargod  oloiul  I 
WhoRi's   Wihson.   my  oomrado  (  — Hon',  stoop 

down  your  lioad  ; 
Oiui't  !A'"  sjiv  a  short  pravor  for  tho  dying  and 

doad  ' 

•■(.'hrisl  liod.  who  diod  for  .simiors  all. 

llwir  thou  tJiis  suppliant  wandoivr'u  cry  : 
Lot  not  o'ou  this  poor  sikiiimw  fall 

I'nhoodod  hy  thy  graoions  oyn. 

■'Thivw  wido  thy  giitiw  to  lot  liiui  in, 
And  tako  him.  ploadiiig,  tothiimanns; 

Forgivo,  t>  1,01x1  I  his  lifodong  sin, 
.■\iid  ipiiol  all  his  lioivo  alarms." 

tJod    I'loss    you,    my    ooinrailo,    t'or  saying   that, 

hyiiiii ; 
It  is  light  to  my  path  whon  my  oyo  has  gMWu 

dim. 
1  am  dying     bond  down  till  1  louoli  y.ni  ouoo 

moix-  - 
Ooii't  foi>5<>t  mo,  old  follow.       (iod  pi-ospor  lliis 

war ! 
Oonfusion  to  traitors'      Uoop  hold  of  my  hand   - 
.\nd  Ibwt  tho  oi.o  i.|,.V(i  o'ov  a  prospoiviis  land  ! 


l.KKr  ON   TtlK  tlA'lTl.K-FlKl.U. 

Wn.\'r,  WIS  it  a  diisvin  f  am  1  all  aloiio 
In  tho  dixivry  night  »nd  tho  dricfling  rain  t 

Mist  !  — ah,  it  was  only  tho  livor's  imwn  ; 
Thov  havo  loft  mo  Indiind  with  tho  manglod 
'slain. 

Yos,  now  1  ix'momlH'r  it  all  tvio  woU  ! 

Wo  mot,  fivm  tho  Kittling  ranks  ajvirt  ; 
Togx'tlior  onr  woapous  lla-shod  and  foil, 

.\nd  niino  was  slioathod  in  his  nuiwring  hoart- 

lu  tho  oypivsg  gloom,  whoiv  tho  doi>d  was  douo. 

It  wa.s  all  too  dark  to  .soo  his  faoo  ; 
Uut  1  hoai\l  his  doalh-gixMins,  ono  by  ono, 
j      And  ho  holds  mo  sliU  iu  a  oold  oinbraoo. 

llo  spoko  but  ouoo.  and  I  could  not  hoar 
Tho  woixls  ho  saiil,  iVn-  tho  oannon's  iwir  ; 

Uut  iny  lu\ivt  givw  oold  with  a  dwidly  foar,  — 
(.1  tJod  !  1  had  li«ii\i  that  voico  bufoiv  I 


-^ 


47!> 


•rti 


Ilfwl  licnril  it  l«;f'oi(!  lit  our  iiiotlicr'x  kii'!», 

Wli/;ii  w<!li»|)';<l  ttuswordMof  om«virfili);<|iray<!r  I 

My  )iriitli>'i'  I  w'liiM  I  )in/l  liuul  lor  tli<»>, 

'I'IiIh  tiiinlcii  is  i/ioiu  lliuii  my  wiiil  imu  in-nr  '■ 

I  |iri:iin<:'l  my  II|>h  t"  fiin  il»(ttli-'»j|i|  i:Ui:i;\i, 
Ami  \«:ity,i-A  liim  to  nlrow  m«,  liy  wonl  or  «i((f(, 

Tliiil  III!  I<iii-,wiiiiil  I'Drifnvit  me  ;  licmiilil  iiol  ii|ntii)<, 
i'lll  liv  iii:litli:(l  liift  (Kior  '»>|i|  {iu:i:  to  miiH;. 

'I'lii!  Iiloiiil  llowwl  fimt  from  my  woiinilwl  ni'lu, 
Ami  tlii:ii  for  It  whiln  I  for({ot  my  (miii, 

Am)  ovi^r  tin;  Idltclut  wij  u-.i'wA  to  ;<li<|.: 
Id  our  littlo  Idjat,  two  Ijoyn  iifpiiii. 

Aii'l  tlii^n,  in  my  ilrimm,  wi:  utoml  alom: 
Oil  II  foriial  (lalli  wIictb  tin:  iiliii/low»  l<:ll  ; 

Ami  I  li'runl  ii){uiii  tin;  trcmiiloiiii  t/mi;, 
AimI  tin;  t<;ii<lur  wonU  of  liix  liutt  fiir»w<;II. 

lint  Hint  [Kirtiii^  wim  ywirn,  lori({  yiwrn  ii«o, 
Hi:  w«mli!ii!'l  iiwiiy  to  ii  fori;i(i;ii  liiml  ; 

Ami  our  ilimr  olil  motlii;r  will  iii;vi;r  know 
'I'liiit  111;  rliwl  t^i-nixlit  liy  liix  l.roUnrr'it  Imml. 

'J'Ik;  Koliliurn  wlio  liiiriwi  tin;  ilifwl  iiwiiy 

|Ji«tlirlK«l  not  till;  i;iiuiji  of  tliiit  limt  i!mlir!u;«, 

Jiill  laiil  llii;m  to  nlw;li  till  thii ,iiiil«riii;nt-il(iy, 
HtBrt  fo|i|i«l  to  licitrl,  nnil  )«/;'!  ty>  liiij;. 

BAKAii  I    lyii.iim. 


e^ 


■11(1-;  ijhi;mmki!^I!OV'h  hijimai,, 

Al,i,  ilay  loii«  tin;  Htomi  of  Ixitlle  UinmnU  tin; 

Ktiirtlwl   vnlli'y  Kwnpt ; 
All  nijj;lit  lon((  tin;  xtiirii  in  lii:!ivi;n  o'er  tin:  uliiin 

wi/l  vij;ilii  kept. 

<),  tin-  «lifi«tly  iiiitiiini:(l  faeen  glefiminjj  wliil.<:ly 

tlii'oiij^li  tin:  ni;{lit  1 
0,  till:  lii;ii(«  of  maii^^lwl  ':</rw;n  in  tliat  ilim  Ki-piil- 

eliriil  li«lil  I 

One  liy  one  tlie  jmle  ntura  finled,  ami  at  leiigtii 

tin;  morning  droke  ; 
IJiit  not  one  of  all  tlie  H\iii;\f:n  on  that  (ieM  of 

licutli  awoki;. 

Hlowly   )iaf<i»;<l    tlie   iijMiji   tioiir«  of   tlial   lon« 

l;rij{lit  summer  <lay, 
Anil   iijion  lliat  Held   of  cania((i;  Btill    tin;  dea/l 

unljiiriwl   lay, 

Iviy  there  utark  and  W;ld,  hut  plea/linj/  v/ith  a 

iliiinli,   iine«iiiin(^  [/rayer, 
For  a  little  diiKt  to  hide  them  from  the  KlAriri« 

nun  and  air. 


Hill  thn  foCTiian  held  (cidW-iMiioii  of  thai,  Inud  won 

hattle  |ilaiii, 
ill  unholy  wrath  denying  i;ven  hiirini  l/>  our  olain. 

Ome  ai/aiii  the  ni«lit  dropiKyl    roiiml    them, 

ni|j;ht  no  holy  ami  iu<  >alm 
That  tin:  moonlKiuiw  hueliwl   the  niiiril.,  like  the 

aoiind  of  prayer  »r  (midrn. 

On  a  eotieh  of  trampled  ^rraisw:!!,  Just  a|>arl.  from 
I  all  the  rent, 

l,ay  a  fiiir  yoiiiij/  Imy,  with  aniall  hamlc.  meekly 
folil<»l  on  hia  hruut. 

((eatli   ha/I  l-oin:h</l   him  very  (/ently,  and  he  lay 

m  if  In  xleep  ; 
Kveii  Ilia  mother  R/iar'-e  had  nhiiddend   at  that 

«lumU;r  imUii  and  d<;';p. 

Kor  a  umile  of  wondroiia  »ww,-l,neii«  lent  a  riulian'M 

\A,  the  UuM, 
And    the  hand  of  cunning  wiulpU/r  eoiild   have 

lulded  naught  of  grin:') 

To  the  marhle  limlm  lei  [lerleet  in   their  lUWRioii- 

leiw  rejifiw:, 
lt</hl«,d    of  all   Bave  mat/ihleKD  purity   liy  hard, 

unpilying  foes. 

And  the  hroken  drum  l.<;Kide  him  all  hid  life'n 

iihort  atory  told  : 
Mow  he  did  lii«  duty  hr.ively  till  the  deathtirle 

o'er  him  rolle/l. 

Midnight  eame  wil.h  elion  garmentfi  and  a  diadem 

of  aUra, 
While  right  upward  in  the  zenith  hung  the  fiery 

planid  Mara, 

Mark  !  a  wiund  of  at^adtliy  UxA'iU^\n  and  of  voiwn 

whi»ix;ring  low, 
Wan  it  nothing   hut   the   young  haven,  or  the 

l/riKiklet'it  murmuring  (low) 

'.'llnging  eloi«:ly  U)  ea/;h  other,  atriving  never  \/i 

liKik  round 
A«   they   jiaaw:'!    with  nilent   ahiidder   the   )«le 

corw^  on  the  ground, 

','ame  two  little  maidi^na,  ~»\f.\A:n,      with  a  light 

and  hiwly  trijail, 
And  a  look  u(K/n  their  ('/«««,  half  of  Mirr'iW,  half 

of  drea/l. 

And  they  did  not.   fMiw.  nor  f/ilter  till,    with 

throhhing  Ji««»rt»,  they  «t/>od 
Where  the  driiinmCT-fioy  waa  lying  In  thai   imr- 

tial  ifilitiide. 


A 


a-* 


480 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND  WAR. 


-^ 


Tlu'V  luul  brought  some  siniplo  giiniu'nts  from 

llicii-  Hurilrolw's  scanty  storo, 
And    two  luMivy   iron   shovola  in   tlit'ir   slcmloi- 

tiamls  tliey   I'Oi'o. 

Tlion  tlii'.y  (Hiickly  knelt  besido  him,  oiiisliin^ 

back  tho  jiitying  tciu's, 
Kor  lUcy  liail  no  tinn'  I'oi-  Wfcjiing,  nor  I'oi-  any 

girlish  fi'ais. 

Ami  they  I'obwl  tho  icy  body,  wliili'  no  glow  ot 

middi'ii  shnmo 
Changml  tlif  pallor  ot'  thoir  foivhoads  to  a  llnsh 

oIlaniK'ul  llanio. 

For  thoir  saintly  hearts  yearned  o'er  it  in  that 

hour  of  sorest  need. 
Anil  lliey  felt   that   Death  was  holy,  and  it  saiie- 

tiliod  the  deed. 

But  they  smiled  and  kissed  eiieh  other  when 
their  new  slningo  task  was  o'er. 

And  the  form  that  lay  before  them  its  unwonjod 
garments  woiv. 

Then  with  slow  and  weary  labor  ii  small  grave 

they  hollowed  out. 
And  they  lined  it  with  the  withered  gmss  and 

loaves  that  lay  about. 

But  tho  day  was  slowly  breaking  ert>  their  holy 

work  was  done. 
And  in   orimsou   poni|i   the   morning   heralded 

again  the  sun. 

Gently  then  those  little  mai.iens  —  they  were 
ehildivn  of  our  foes- 

l.aid  the  body  of  our  drnnuner-boy  to  undis- 
turbed repose. 


BEFORE  SEDAN. 

"  The  ilc«tt  hftiiil  claspeil  a  \cuer"  —  S/m\ti  Currrs/i'ngffHiTi 

Hkkk  in  this  leafy  place, 

Quiet  he  lies, 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  faee 

Turned  to  the  skies  ; 
"Tis  but  another  dead;  — 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 


Carry  his  body  henee,  — 
Kings  must  have  .slaves  ; 

Kings  oliinb  to  oniiuenco 
Over  men's  gnivos. 

So  this  man's  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Throw  the  eaitli  over  him. 


^ 


What  was  the  white  yon  touched. 

There  at  his  side  I 
Taper  his  hand  had  clutched 

Tight  ere  he  died  ; 
Message  or  w  isli,  nniy  bo  :  — 
Smoutlien  it  out  luui  see. 

Ilanlly  the  worst  of  us 

Here  could  have  smiled  !  — 
Only  the  tremulous 

Words  of  a  child  :  — 
Prattle,  that  had  for  stops 
Just  a  few  ruddy  dixips. 

Look  ;  she  "  is  sad  to  miss, 

Morning  aiul  night, 
His "  —  her  dead  father's  —  "  kiss,  — 

Tries  to  bo  bright, 
Oooil  to  mamma,  mid  sweot,"  — 
That  is  all.     "  Marguerile." 

All,  if  beside  tho  dead 

.SUimbered  the  pain  ! 
Ah,  if  the  hearts  that  bled 

Slept  with  the  slain  ! 
1  f  t  he  grief  died  !  —  but  no  ;  — 
Death  will  not  have  it  so. 

ANONYMOUS 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Oni  bugles  sang  truee,  — for  the  night-cloud  had 

lowered, 

Ami thesentinel  starssel  theirwntch  in  thesky  ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  omm- 

powered. 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  ilie. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-searing  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain  ; 

.•\t  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  1  saw. 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  1  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  tho  battle-licld'sdi-oadful  array, 
Kar,  fai'  1  luid  roamed  on  a  desolate  track : 

'T  was  autnnrn,  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  lionie  of  my  fathei-s,  that  welcomed  me 
back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 
In  life's  morning  march,  wln»n  my  bosom  was 
young  ; 
I  hoard  my  own  mountiiin-goats  bleating  aloft. 
And  knew  the   sweet  strain    that   the   coru- 
reapei's  sung. 

Then  pledged  we   the    wine-cnp,    and    fondly  I 


From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never 
to  part  ; 


^ 


[fi- 


WAR. 


481 


■a 


U 


My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fullness  of 
heart. 

"Stay,  stay  with  us,  —rest,  thou  art  weary  and 
worn  "  ; 
And   fain    was    theii'   war-broken    soldier   to 
stay  ;— 
Hut  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  mom, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 
THOMAS  Campbell. 


WHERE  ARE  THE  MEN? 

WuEKK  are  the  men   who  went  forth   in   the 
morning, 

Hope  brightly  beaming  in  every  face  ? 
Fearing  no  danger,  —  the  Saxon  foe  scorning,  — 

Little  thought  they  of  defeat  or  disgrace  I 
Fallen  is  their  chieftain  —  his  glory  departed  — 

Fallen  are  the  heroes  who  fought  by  his  side  ! 
Fatherless  children  now  weep,  broken-hearted. 

Mournfully  wand'ring  by  Khuddlan's  dark  tide ! 

Siriiill  was  the  baud  that  escaped  from  the  slaugh- 
ter. 

Flying  for  life  as  the  tide  'gan  to  flow  ; 
Hast  thou  no  pity,  thou  dark  rolling  water? 

More  cruel  still  than  the  mercile.ss  foe  ! 
Death  is  beliind  them,  and  death  is  before  them ; 

Faster  and  faster  rolls,  on  the  dark  wave ; 
One  wailing  cry  —  and  the  sea  closes  o'er  them ; 

Silent  and  deep  is  their  watery  grave. 

From  the  Welsh  of  TALHAIAKN. 

by  THOMAS  OLIPHANT. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 

How  sweet  it  wa.s  to  breathe  that  cooler  air, 
And  take  jjossession  of  my  father's  chair  ! 
Keneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 
Ap|)eared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 
<  'ut  forty  years  before  !     The  same  old  clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a  shock 
1  never  can  forget.     A  short  breeze  spnmg. 
And  while  a  sigh  wa.s  trembling  on  my  tongue, 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  Ijehind, 
And  up  they  flew  like  banners  in  the  wind  ; 
Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down   they 

went. 
And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I  had  sjient 
Far  from  my  native  land.     That  instant  came 
A  robin  on  the  threshold  ;  though  so  tame, 
At  first  he  looked  distni-stful,  almost  shy. 
And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye. 
And  seemed  to  say,  — past  friendship  to  renew,  — 
'  Ah  ha !  old  woni-out  soldier,  is  it  you  ?  " 


While  thus  I  mused,  still  gazing,  gazing  still, 
On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window-sill, 
I  deemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  t«en  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and  green, 
And  guessed   some   infant   hand   had  placed  it 

there. 
And  prizeiJ  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 
Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling  rose; 
My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  rci>ose ; 
I  could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor  years. 
But  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears  : 
Then,  like  a  fool,  confuseil,  sat  down  agtiin, 
And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and  pain ; 
I  raved  at  war  and  all  its  horiid  cost. 
And  glory's  quagmire,  where  the  brave  are  lost. 
On  carnage,  fire,  and  plunder  long  I  mused. 
And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I  had  u.sed. 

Two  shadows  then  1  saw,  two  voices  heard. 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  ap|»eared. 
In  stcpi)ed  my  father  with  convulsive  start, 
And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  heart. 
Close  by  him  stood  a  little  blue-eyed  maid  ; 
And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said, 
"  Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again  ; 
This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home  from 

Spain." 
The  child  approached,  and  with  her  fingera  light 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of  sight. 
But  why  thus  spin  my  tale,  —  thus  tedious  Imj? 
Happy  old  soldier  !  what 's  the  world  to  me  I 

ROBHRT  IlLOOMFIELD. 


SOLDIER,    RE.ST !    THY  WARFARE  O'ER. 

FROM  "  THE  LADY  OF  THF  LAKE." 

Soldi  KR,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er. 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  Lsle's  enchanted  hall. 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing. 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall. 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er. 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Mom  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear. 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  sf^uadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow. 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum. 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  sh.all  none  be  neai-, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here  ; 


-^ 


f 


482 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND    WAR. 


■a 


U-- 


Here 's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  elans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumberous  spells  assail  ye. 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun. 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveUle. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  deir ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying  ; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done ; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For,  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT- 

THE  KNIGHT'S  TOMB. 

Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn? 
Where  may  the  grave  of  that  good  man  be  ? — 
Bythe  sideof  a  spring,  onthebreastof  Helvellyn, 
Under  the  twigs  of  a  young  birch-tree  ! 
The  oak  that  in  summer  was  sweet  to  hear. 
And  rustled  its  leaves  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 
And  whistled  and  roared  in  the  winter  alone. 
Is  gone,  — and  the  birch  in  its  stead  is  gi-own.  — 
The  knight's  bones  are  dust. 
And  his  good  sword  rust; — 
His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust. 

Sa-muel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill. 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still. 
And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go ; 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  wereloud  in  the  meadow-swamp. 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 
And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp. 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim. 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  Hitting  startled  him. 


Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white. 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night. 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late. 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done  ; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate. 

He  saw  them  coining  one  by  one,  — ■ 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind  : 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass,  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue  ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn. 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again  ; 

And  tlie  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes  ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb  ; 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 

Clo.se  his  eyes ;  his  work  is  done  ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man  or  kiss  of  woman? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars  ? — 
What  but  death-bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye ; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by  ; 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 


^ 


rt-f- 


WAR. 


483 


ra 


& 


Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know ; 
Lr"'  him  low! 

George  henry  boker. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 


By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled. 
Where  the  blades  of  the  giuve-grass  quiver. 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead  ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ;  — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory. 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  tlie  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ;  — 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ;  — 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  lilies,  tlie  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall. 
With  a  touch,  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all  ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ;  — 

'Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue  ; 

Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain  ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ;  — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue  ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done ; 


In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  tlic  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment-day ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever. 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  tlie  graves  of  our  dead  ! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  tlie  judgment-day  ;  — 
Love  and  tears  for  tlie  Blue, 
Teal's  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

F.  M.  FINCH. 


0  Land,  of  every  land  the  best,  — 
0  Land,  whose  glory  shall  increase  ; 

Now  in  your  wliitest  raiment  drest 
For  the  great  festival  of  peace  ; 

Take  from  your  flag  its  fold  of  gloom, 

And  let  it  float  undimmed  aliove, 
Till  over  all  our  vales~slrall  bloom 

The  sacred  colors  that  we  love. 

On  njountain  high,  in  valley  low. 
Set  Freedom's  living  fires  to  bum  ; 

Until  the  midnight  sky  shall  show 
A  redder  glory  than  th(^  morn. 

Welcome,  with  shouts  of  joy  and  pride, 
Your  veterans  from  the  war-path's  track  ; 

You  gave  your  boys,  untrained,  untried  ; 
You  bring  them  men  and  heroes  back  ! 

And  shed  no  tear,  though  think  you  must 
With  sorrow  of  the  martyred  band  ; 

Not  even  for  him  whose  hallowed  dust 
Has  made  our  prairies  holy  land. 

Though  by  the  places  where  they  fell. 
The  places  that  are  sacred  ground. 

Death,  like  a  sullen  sentinel, 
Paces  his  everlasting  round. 

Yet  when  they  set  their  country  free. 
And  gave  her  traitors  titling  doom. 

They  left  their  last  great  enemy. 
Baffled,  beside  an  empty  tomb. 

Not  there,  but  risen,  redeemed,  they  go 

Where  all  the  paths  are  sweet  with  flowers  ;  .^ 

They  fought  to  give  us  peace,  and  lo  ! 
They  gained  a  better  peace  than  on 

PHCK 


-^ 


'P- 


484 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AXD    WAR. 


-a 


PEACE. 


^- 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 

DAt'OliTEK  of  God  !  that  sit'st  on  liigh 
Ainiil  the  dances  of  the  sky. 
And  guidest  with  thy  gentle  sway 
The  planets  on  their  tuneful  way ; 

Sweet  Peace  !  shall  ne'er  again 
The  smile  of  thy  most  holy  face, 
From  thine  ethereal  dwelling-place, 
Kejoice  the  wretched,  weary  race 

Of  discord-breathing  men  ? 
Too  long,  0  gladness-giving  Queen  ! 
Thy  tarrying  in  heaven  has  been  ; 
Too  long  o'er  this  fair  blooming  world 
The  tlag  of  blood  hius  been  unfurled. 

Polluting  God's  pure  day  ; 
Whilst,  as  each  maddening  people  reels. 
War  onwanl  drives  his  scythed  wheels. 
And  at  his  horses'  bloody  heels 

Shriek  Munier  and  Dismay. 

Oft  have  1  wept  to  hear  the  cry 

Of  widow  wailing  bitterly  ; 

To  see  the  parent's  silent  tear 

For  children  fallen  beneath  the  spear  ; 

And  1  have  felt  so  sore 
The  sense  of  human  guilt  and  woe, 
That  1,  in  Virtue's  passioned  glow. 
Have  cui-sed  (my  soul  was  wounded  so) 

The  shape  of  man  I  bore  ! 
Then  conie  from  thy  serene  abode, 
Thou  gladness-giving  child  of  God  ! 
And  cease  the  world's  ensanguined  strife. 
And  reconcile  my  soul  to  life  ; 

For  much  I  long  to  see, 
Ere  I  shall  to  the  grave  descend. 
Thy  hand  its  blesskl  branch  extend, 
And  to  the  world's  remotest  end 

Wave  Lovo  and  Harmony  ! 

WILLIAM  TENNENT. 


Ah  !  whence  yon  glare. 
That  lircs  the  arch  of  heaven  ?— that  dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon?  The  stars  are  iiuenched 
In  darkness,  and  pure  and  spangling  snow 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  that  gathers 

round  ! 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deafening  peals 
In  countless  echoes  throngh  the  mountains  ring, 
Stai'tliug  pale  midnight  on  her  starry  throne  ! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din  ;  the  jar 
Frequent  and  frightful  of  the  bursting  bomb  ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout. 
The  ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of  men 


Inehriato  with  rage  ; —  loud,  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows ;  till  pale  death  shuts  the  scene. 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered  draws 
His  cold  and  bToody  shroud.  —  Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there, 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health  ;  of  all  the  hearts 
That  beat  with  an.xious  life  at  sunset  there, 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now  ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  poi  teutons  pause  ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widowed  lovo 
Conies  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powei-s. 

The  gray  mom 
Dawns  on  the  mouruful  scene  ;  the  sulphurous 

smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away, 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.    There  tracks  of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  .scattered  arms. 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dread- 
ful path 
Of  the  outsallying  victors  ;  (nv  behind. 
Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city  stood. 
Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen,  — 
Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's  delight. 
The  lawyer's  jest,  the  hired  assassin's  trade. 
And  to  those  royal  murderei's  whose  mean  thrones 
Are  bought  by  crimes  of  treachery  and  gore. 
The  bread  they  eat,  the  statf  on  whicli  tlicy  lean. 
Guanls,  garbed  in  blood-red  livery,  surround 
Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 
That  force  defends,  and  from  a  nation's  rage 
Secure  the  crown,  which  all  the  curses  reach 
That  famine,  frenzy,  woe,  and  penury  breathe. 
These  are  the  hired  bravos  who  defend 
The  tvrant's  throne. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY. 


HEROISM. 

There  was  a  time  when  ^Etna's  silent  fire 
Slept  unperccived,  the  mountain  yet  entire  ; 
When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 
She  towered  a  cloud-cajit  pyramid  of  snow. 
No  thundei's  shook  with  deep  intestine  sound 
The  blooming  gi-oves,  that  giixlled  her  around. 
Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines 
(Uufelt  the  fury  of  those  bureting  mines). 


-^ 


tfi- 


PEACE. 


485 


-a 


The  peasant's  hopes,  and  not  in  vain,  assured, 

In  pL-ace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matured. 

When  on  a  day,  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 

A  conflagi'atiou  lab'ring  in  her  womb, 

Slie  teemed  and  lieaved  with  an  infernal  birtli. 

That  shook  the  eircliug  seas  and  solid  earth. 

I  lark  and  voluminous  the  vapors  rise, 

And  liang  their  horrors  in  the  neighboring  skies, 

While  through  the  Stygian  veil,  that  blots  the 

day, 
111  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 
Ijiit  0,  what  muse,  and  in  what  powers  of  song. 
Can  trace  the  toiTeiit  as  it  bums  along? 
Havoc  and  devastation  in  the  van. 
It  marches  o'er  the  prostrate  works  of  man. 
Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests,  disappear, 
-And  all  the  chai-ms  of  a  Sicilian  year. 

Revolving  seasons,  fruitless  as  they  pass. 
See  it  an  uninfonncd  and  idle  mass  ; 
Witliout  a  soil  to  invite  the  tiller's  care, 
Or  blade,  that  might  I'edeem  it  from  despair. 
Yet  time  at  length  (what  will  not  time  achieve?) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade. 
And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 
0  bliss  precarious,  and  unsafe  retreats ! 
0  charming  Paradise  of  short-lived  sweets  ! 
The  selfsame  gale,  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round, 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a  sullen  sound  : 
Again  the  mountain  feels  the  imprisoned  foe. 
Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below. 
Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
Tliat  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  moiiarchs,  wliom  the  lure  of  honor  draws. 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause. 
Who  strike  the   blow,    then   plead   your  own 

defense, 
Glory  your  aim,  but  justice  your  pretense  ; 
Behold  in  Etna's  emblematic  fires 
The  mischiefs  your  ambitious  pride  inspires  ! 

Fast  by  the  stream  that  bounds  your  just  do- 
main. 
And  tells  you  where  ye  have  a  right  to  reign, 
A  nation  dwells,  not  envious  of  your  throne, 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbors',  and  their  own, 
Ill-fated  race !  how  deeply  must  they  rue 
Their  only  crime,  vicinity  to  you  ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad, 
Tlirough  tlie  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destined  road  ; 
At  every  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a  nation's  bread  I 
Earth  seems  a  garden  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a  wilderness. 
Famine,  and  Pestilence,  her  first-born  son, 
Attend  to  finish  what  the  sword  begun  ; 
And  echoing  praises,  such  as  fiends  might  earn. 
And  Folly  pays,  resound  at  your  return. 
A  calm  succeeds,  —  but  Plenty,  with  her  train 


Of  heartfelt  joys,  succeeds  not  soon  again, 
And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  show 
What  scourges  are  the  gods  that  mle  below. 

Yet  man,  laborious  man,  by  slow  degrees 
(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease), 
Plies  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil, 
Gleans  u])  the  refuse  of  the  general  spoil, 
liebuilds  the  towers  tliat  smoked  upon  the  plain, 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shining  spires  again. 

Increasing  commerce  and  reviving  art 
Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqueror's  part ; 
And  the  sad  lesson  must  be  leanied  once  more, 
That  wealth  within  is  ruin  at  the  door. 
What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laureled  heroes,  say, 
But  Etna.s  of  the  suffering  world  ye  sway  '! 
Sweet  Nature,  shipped  of  her  embroidered  robe. 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  globe  ; 
And  stands  a  witness  at  Truth's  awful  bar, 
To  prove  you  there  destroyed  as  ye  are. 

0,  place  me  in  some  Heaven-protected  isle, 
Where  Peace,  and  Equity,  and  Freedom  smile  ; 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  fiery  flood. 
No  crested  wanior  dips  his  plume  in  blood  ; 
Where  Power  secures  what  Industry  has  won  ; 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone  ; 
A  land,  that  distant  tyrants  hate  in  vain, 
In  Britidn's  isle,  beneath  a  George's  reign  ! 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd. 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hamls 
Encountered  iu  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave,  — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

"Cpon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still  ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  t.'dk  of  children  on  the  hill. 

And  bell  of  wandering  kiiie,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain  ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry,  — 

0,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fouglit ;  but  tliou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  trutlis  which  men  receive  not  now. 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  Ufe. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year  ; 


•-i^- 


-^ 


e- 


486 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND    WAR. 


-^3i 


A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  tlie  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  cliosen  lot  ; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown,  —  yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast. 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn  ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  bom. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again,  — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  among  Ms  worshipers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust. 
When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear. 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust. 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here  ! 

'Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
^  Another  hand  the  standard  wave. 
Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


NOT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

"To  fall  on  the  battle-field  fightincj  for  my  dear  country.  —  that 
would  not  be  hard."  —  T/u  Neiglibors. 

0  NO,  no,  —  lot  me  lie 

Not  on  a  field  of  battle  when  I  die  ! 

Let  not  the  iron_tread 
Of  the  mad  war-horse  crush  my  helmfed  head  ; 

Nor  let  the  reeking  knife, 
That  I  have  drawn  against  a  brother's  life. 

Be  in  my  hand  when  Death 
Thunders  along,  and  tramples  me  beneath 

His  heavy  squadron's  heels. 
Or  gory  felloes  of  his  cannon's  wheels. 

From  such  a  dying  bed. 
Though  o'er  it  float  the  stripes  of  white  and  red. 

And  the  bald  eagle  brings 
The  clustered  stars  upon  his  wide-spread  wings 

To  sparkle  in  my  sight, 
0,  never  let  my  spirit  take  her  flight ! 

1  know  that  beauty's  eye 

Is  all  the  brighter  where  gay  pennants  fly, 

And  brazen  helmets  dance, 
And  sunshine  flashes  on  the  lifted  lance  ; 

I  know  that  bards  have  sung. 
And  people  shouted  till  the  welkin  rung. 


In  honor  of  the  brave 
Who  on  the  battle-field  have  found  a  grave  ; 

I  know  that  o'er  their  bones 
Have  grateful  hands  piled  monumental  stones. 

Some  of  those  piles  1  've  seen  : 
The  one  at  Lexington  upon  the  green 

AVTiere  the  first  blood  was  shed, 
And  to  my  country's  independence  led  ; 

And  others,  on  our  shore. 
The  "  Battle  Monument"  at  Baltimore, 

And  that  on  Bunker's  Hill. 
Ay,  and  abroad,  a  few  more  famous  still : 

Thy  "tomb,"  Themistocles, 
That  looks  out  yet  upon  the  Grecian  seas. 

And  which  the  waters  kiss 
That  issue  from  the  gulf  of  Salamis. 

And  thine,  too,  have  I  seen. 
Thy  mound  of  earth,  Patroclus,  robed  in  green. 

That,  like  a  natural  knoll. 
Sheep  climb  and  nibble  over  as  they  stroll. 

Watched  by  some  turbaued  boy. 
Upon  the  margin  of  the  plain  of  Troy. 

Such  honors  gi'ace  the  bed, 
I  know,  whereon  the  warrior  lays  his  head. 

And  hears,  as  life  ebbs  out. 
The  conf[uered  flying,  and  the  conqueror's  shout ; 

But  as  his  eye  grows  dim, 
^\^lat  is  a  column  or  a  mound  to  him  ? 

What,  to  the  parting  soul, 
The  mellow  note  of  bugles  ?     What  the  roll 

Of  drums  ?     No,  let  me  die 
WTiere  the  blue  heaven  bends  o'er  me  lovingly. 

And  the  soft  summer  air. 
As  it  goes  by  me,  stirs  my  thin  white  hair. 

And  from  my  forehead  dries 
The  death-damp  as  it  gathers,  and  the  skies 

Seem  waiting  to  receive 
My  soul  to  their  clear  depths  !     Or  let  me  leave 

The  world  when  round  my  bed 
Wife,  children,  weeping  friends  are  gatliered. 

And  the  calm  voice  of  prayer 
And  holy  hymning  .shall  my  soul  prepare 

To  go  and  be  at  rest 
With  kindred  spirits,  —  spirits  who  have  blessed 

The  human  brotherhood 
By  labors,  cares,  and  counsels  for  their  good. 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 


MY  AUTUMN  WALK. 

On  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn 

The  amber  sunshine  lies  ; 
I  look  on  the  beauty  round  me, 

And  tears  come  into  my  eyes. 

For  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  meadows 
Blows  out  of  the  far  Southwest, 


►-CP 


e-^ 


PEACE. 


487 


'ra 


Where  our  gallant  men  are  fighting, 
And  the  gallant  dead  are  at  rest. 

Tlie  goklcn-rod  is  leaning, 
And  the  purple  aster  wares 

In  a  breeze  from  the  land  of  battles, 
A  breath  from  the  land  of  graves. 

Full  fast  the  leaves  are  dropping 
Before  that  wandering  breath  ; 

As  fast,  on  the  field  of  battle. 
Our  brethren  fall  in  death. 

Beautiful  over  my  pathway 
The  forest  spoils  are  shed  ; 

They  are  spotting  the  grassy  hillocks 
With  purple  and  gold  and  red. 

Beautiful  is  the  death-sleep 
Of  those  who  bravely  fight 

In  their  country's  holy  quarrel. 
And  perish  for  the  Right. 

But  who  shall  comfort  the  living. 
The  light  of  whose  homes  is  gone  : 

The  bride  that,  early  widowed, 
Lives  broken-hearted  on  ; 

The  matron  whose  sons  are  lying 
In  graves  on  a  distant  shore  ; 

The  maiden,  whose  promised  husband 
Comes  back  from  the  war  no  more  ? 

I  look  on  the  peaceful  dwellings 
Whose  windows  glimmer  in  sight. 

With  croft  and  garden  and  orchard 
That  bask  in  the  mellow  light ; 

Anil  I  know  that,  when  our  couriers 
With  news  of  victory  come. 

They  will  bring  a  bitter  message 
Of  hopeless  gi'ief  to  some. 

Again  I  turn  to  the  woodlands, 

And  I  shudder  as  I  see 
The  mock -grape's  *  blood-red  banner 

Hung  out  on  the  cedar-tree  ; 

And  I  think  of  days  of  slaughter, 
And  the  night-sky  red  with  flames. 

On  the  Chattahoochee's  meadows. 
And  the  wasted  banks  of  the  James. 

0  for  the  fresh  spring-season, 

When  the  groves  are  in  their  prime, 

And  far  away  in  the  future 
Is  the  frosty  autumn-time  ! 


B^- 


O  for  that  better  season. 

When  the  pride  of  the  foe  shall  yield. 
And  the  hosts  of  God  and  Freedom 

March  back  from  the  well-won  field  ; 

And  the  matron  shall  clasp  her  first-bom 

With  tears  of  joy  and  pride  ; 
And  the  scaned  and  war-worn  lover 

Shall  claim  his  promised  bride  ! 

The  leaves  are  swept  from  the  branches  ; 

But  the  living  buds  are  there, 
With  folded  flower  and  foli.ige, 

To  sprout  in  a  kinder  air. 

William  Cullen  Brya.v" 


BARCLAY  OF  URT. 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  coOege  green, 

Rode  the  laird  of  Ury  ; 
Close  behind  him,  clo.se  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed. 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl. 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl. 

Prompt  to  please  her  master  ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate. 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet  with  calm  and  stately  mien 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding  ; 
And  to  all  he  saw  and  heard 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswonla  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 
Loose  and  free  and  froward  : 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him  !  prick  him  !     Through  the  town 
Drive  the  Quaker  coward  ! " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  ci'owd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"  Barclay  !     Ho  !  a  Barclay  !  " 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle-tried. 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly  ; 

Who,  with  ready  weapon  bare, 

Fronting  to  the  troopers  there. 

Cried  aloud  :  "  God  save  us  ! 


^^ 


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POKMS  OF  PKAOE  AND   WAR. 


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& 


CftU  ye  eowniil  liim  wlio  stood 

Aiiklo-doeii  ill  Lutzcii's  lilooil, 

With  tlif  I'l-avn  tUistuviis  T' 

"  Nay,  1  do  not  need  thy  swoixl, 
Comrade  niiue,"  said  Ury's  loni  ; 

' '  I'ut  it  up,  I  pray  tliee. 
Pnssive  to  liis  lioly  will, 
Trust  I  iu  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  tiold  of  deatli. 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marveled  much  that  henehmau  bold, 
That  his  laijxl,  so  stout  of  old. 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"Woe's  the  day,"  he  sadly  said. 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head. 

And  a  look  of  pity  ; 
"  Ury's  honest  loixi  reviled. 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city  ! 

"Speak  tlie  woitl,  anil,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancei's. 
Smiting  through  their  midst,  we 'U  teai 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  bopsli  prancere  !  " 

' '  Mavvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend,  — 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  !  " 

Quoth  the  laiiil  of  Ury  : 
"  Is  the  sinful  .servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  .lewry  ? 

"  Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
1  can  bear,  with  patient  frame. 

All  these  vain  ones  otl'er  ; 
While  for  them  he  sutVerod  long. 
Shall  I  answev  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scotling  with  the  scoffer  ? 

"Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all,  — 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  mo,  — 
Than  when  reeve  and  si)uire  were  seen 
Kiding  out  from  Abenleeu 

Witli  bai-etl  heads  to  meet  me  ; 

"When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  pa.ssed  her  door  ; 

And  the  snooded  daugliter. 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down. 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

from  rod  fields  of  slaughter. 


"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scolf. 
Hard  the  old  friends'  falling  oil". 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving  ; 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewanls, 
iVnd  his  love  with  theirs  accords 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking  ; 
Knowing  l!od's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking  ! " 

So  the  laird  of  Ury  said. 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towanls  the  Tolbooth  prison. 
Where,  through  iron  gates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial  I 
Every  age  on  him  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  lieatcn  ways 

Pours  its  seveii-Uilil  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  euu  hear. 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter  ; 
And,  while  hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  —  that  nevei-  yet 
Share  of  truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  .shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  fre>m  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Tlins,  with  somewhat  of  the  seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioiuier 

From  the  future  borrow,  — 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
.\nd.  on  miilnight's  sky  of  rain. 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 

John  grbbnleaf  Whittier. 


TUBAL  CAIN. 

OLr>  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might, 
In  the  days  when  earth  was  young ; 

By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright, 
The  strokes  of  his  hammer  rung  : 


4 


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PEACE. 


489 


-£] 


y--. 


And  he  lil'teil  high  hw  brawny  liaiid 

On  the  iron  glowing  clear, 
Till  tluj  sparks  mslied  out  in  scarlet  showers, 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  the  spear. 
Aii'd  he  sang  :  "  Hurrah  for  my  handiwork  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  spear  and  the  sword  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  hand  tliat  shall  wield  them  well, 

For  he  sliall  lie  king  and  lord." 

To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one, 

As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  lire, 
And  each  one  prayed  for  a  strong  steel  blade 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire  : 
And  he  rna<Ie  them  wea[)ons  sharp  and  strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  for  glee. 
And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearl  and  gold, 

And  spoils  of  the  forest  free. 
And  they  sang :   "  Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  lialh  given  us  strength  anew! 
Hurrah  for  the  smith,  hurrah  for  the  fire. 

And  hurrah  for  the  metal  true  !  " 

Hut  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  his  heart, 

Kre  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
And  Tnl>al  Cain  was  filled  with  pain 

For  the  evil  he  ha<J  done  ; 
He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate. 

Made  war  ujion  their  kind. 
That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood  they  shed, 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  bliml. 
And  he  said  :  "Alas  !  that  ever  I  made. 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan. 
The  spear  and  the  sword  for  men  whose  joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man  !  " 

And  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain 

Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe  ; 
And  his  hand  forelwre  to  smite  the  ore. 

And  his  funiace  smoldered  low. 
but  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright  courageous  eye, 
And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  flames  mounted  high. 
And  he  sang  :  "  Hurrah  for  my  handiwork  !  " 

An<l  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air  ; 
"  Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright  steel 
maile,"  — 

And  he  fashioned  the  first  plowshare. 

And  men,  taught  wisdom  from  the  past, 

In  friendship  joineii  their  hands, 
Huiig  the  sword  in  the  hall,  the  sjKar  on  the  wall, 

And  plowed  the  willing  lands  ; 
And  .sang  :  "Hurrah  for  TuVjal  Cain  ! 

Our  stanch  gooil  friend  is  he ; 
And  for  the  plowshare  and  the  plow 

To  him  our  praise  shall  be. 


But  while  oppression  lifts  its  head. 

Or  a  tyrant  would  t»c  lord. 
Though  we  may  thank  him  for  the  plow, 

We  'II  not  forget  the  sword  !  " 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 

(The  battle  of  Blenheim  in  Bavaria  wat  fou^fht  Au^uM  i^  i;o(. 
between  the  Ir*X4»  of  the  En/libh  and  AuMrianson  one  side,  under 
the  Uuke  of  .Marll>orou^h  and  I'rince  Euifene,  and  the  Frcncli  ^iid 
Bavarians  on  tfic  other  %idc,  led  by  Marshal  Tallart  and  tlic  blc- 
tor  of  Bavaria.  The  latter  |>arty  waft  defeated,  and  the  Kliernes 
of  ljoa\^  XIV.  of  France  were  materially  checked  thereby  J 

It  was  a  summer  evening,  — 

Old  Kasjiar's  work  was  done. 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
And  by  him  sitorted  oti  the  grw.n 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round. 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet. 
In  playing  there,  had  found ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 

That  wa.s  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stool]  exf)er;tant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  bead, 

And,  with  a  natural  sigh,  — 
"  'T  is  some  poor  fellow's  skull, "  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  gar<len. 

For  there  's  many  hereabout  ; 
And  often,  when  I  go  to  plow, 

The  plowshare  tunis  them  out ; 
For  many  thou.sand  men,"  said  he, 
"Were  slain  in  the  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  't  wiis  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  be  cries  ; 
An<l  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes,  — 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

"Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 

I  could  not  well  make  out ; 
But  everj'lxKly  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  Tliat  't  was  a  famous  victory. 


"My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then. 
Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 


-^ 


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490 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND   WAR. 


-^ 


T)iey  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  gi-ouud, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide  ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  there, 

And  new-born  baby  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won,  — 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 


But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  won. 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"  Why,  't  was  a  very  wicked  thing  !  " 

Said  little  Wilhelmiue. 
"Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl  !  "  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"And  everybody  praised  the  duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ? " 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he  ; 
" But 't  was  a  famous  victory." 

Robert  Southev. 


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POEMS    OF    TEMPERAXXE   AND    LABOR. 


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POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


TEMPERANCE. 


B^- 


MORAL  COSMETICS. 

Ye  who  would  have  your  features  florid, 
Lithe  limbs,  bright  eyes,  un\mnkled  forehead. 
From  age's  devastation  horrid. 

Adopt  this  jilan,  — 
'T  will  make,  in  climate  cold  or  tonid, 

A  hale  old  man. 

Avoid  in  youth  luxurious  diet. 
Restrain  the  passions'  lawless  riot ; 
Devoted  to  domestic  ijuiet. 

Be  vrisely  gay ; 
So  shall  ye,  spite  of  age's  fiat. 

Resist  decay. 

Seek  not  in  Mammon's  worship  pleasure. 
But  find  your  richest,  dearest  treasure 
In  God,  his  word,  his  work,  not  leisure  : 

The  mind,  not  sense, 
Is  the  sole  scale  by  which  to  measure 

Your  opulence. 

This  is  the  solace,  this  the  science. 
Life's  purest,  sweetest,  best  appliance. 
That  disappoints  not  man's  reliance, 

"VVliate'er  his  state  ; 
But  challenges,  witli  calm  defiance. 

Time,  fortune,  fate. 

Horace  Smith. 


A  FABEWELL   TO  TOBACCO. 

M-W  the  Babylonish  curse 
Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse. 
If  I  can  a  passage  see 
In  this  word-perplexity. 
Or  a  fit  expression  find. 
Or  a  language  to  my  mind 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant). 
To  take  leave  of  thee,  great  plant  ! 
Or  in  .any  terms  relate 
Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate  ; 
For  I  hate,  yet  love,  thee  so. 
That,  whichever  thing  I  show, 


The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A  constrained  hyperbole. 
And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  from  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine  ! 
Bacchus'  black  servant,  negro  fine  ! 
Sorcerer  !  that  mak'st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion. 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimW  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women  !     Thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much,  too,  in  the  female  way. 
While  thou  suck'st  the  laboring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses,  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us. 
And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us  ; 
While  each  man,  through  thy  heightening  stean;. 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem  ; 
And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  chimeras. 
Monsters,  —  that  who  see  us,  fear  us  ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geiyon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou. 
That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  his  deity  can  do,  — 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 
Some  few  vapors  thou  mayst  raise 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze  ; 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  lieart 
Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 


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p 


492 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


n 


Brother  of  Bacchus,  Inter  born  ! 
The  old  world  was  sui-e  forlorn, 
■\Viinting  thee,  that  aidest  uioro 
The  ^od's  victories  tlian,  Iwfoi-e, 
All  his  pantliers,  mid  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  wo  disidlow, 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant  :  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart. 
The  refornikl  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  tliyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Cheniic  art  did  ne'er  presume, 
Through  her  ipiaint  alembic  strain. 
None  so  sovereign  to  the  brain. 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Koses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent, 

Stinkingest  of  the  stinking  kind  ! 
Filth  of  tlie  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind  I 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foisoii, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison  ! 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together. 
Hemlock,  aconite  — 

Nay,  i-ather, 
Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue  ; 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you  ! 
'T  was  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee  ; 
None  o'er  prospei'ed  who  defamed  thee  ; 
Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse, 
Such  as  perplexed  lovere  use 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair. 
Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 
They  borrow  language  of  dislike  ; 
And,  instead  of  dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  honey,  sweetheart,  bliss. 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring. 
Call  her  cockatrice  and  siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that 's  evil. 
Witch,  liyeua,  mermaid,  devil, 
Ethiop,  wench,  and  blackamoor. 
Monkey,  ape,  imd  twenty  more  ; 
Friendly  trait'ress,  loving  foe,  — 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so. 
But  no  other  way  they  know, 
A  contentment  to  express 
Bordem  so  upon  exct<8s 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  from  pain  or  not. 


Or,  as  men,  constrained  to  i>art 
With  what 's  nearest  to  their  heart. 
While  their  sorrow  's  at  the  height 
Lose  discrimination  ciuite. 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall. 
On  tlie  darling  thing,  whatever. 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever. 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce. 
Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee. 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  thee. 
For  thy  sake,  Tolwceo,  1 
Would  do  anything  but  die. 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 
But,  as  she  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort  is  a  iiueeu 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state 
Though  a  widow,  or  divorced. 
So  I,  from  thy  converee  forced. 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Katherine  of  Spain ; 
And  a  scat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys; 
Where,  though  1,  by  sour  physician, 
Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favoi-s,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odoi's,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbor's  wife ; 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  giiices  ; 
And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 
An  uncomiuered  Canaanite. 

CHARLES  L.AMB. 


THE  VAGABONDS. 

We  are  two  travelei-s,  Koger  and  I. 

Roger  's  my  dog  :  —  come  here,  yon  scamp 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen,  —  mind  your  eye  ! 

Over  the  table,  — look  out  for  the  lamp  !  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind  t 
weather, 
And  slept  ont-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  ate  and  drank — and  starved  together. 

We've  leai'ned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you  ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgnt  for  my  fiddle 

(This  ont-door  business  is  bad  for 


the  strings),         T 
ff 


f 


TEMPERANCE. 


493 


-a 


& 


Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 
And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 

No,  thank  ye,  sir,  — I  never  drink ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral,  — 
Are  n't  we,  Roger? — see  him  wink !  — 

Well,  something  hot,  tlien,  — wewon't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty  too,  — see  him  nod  his  head? 

Wliat  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk  ! 
He  understands  every  word  that 's  said,  — 

And  he  knowsgood  milk  from  water-aud-chalk. 

The  ti'uth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I  've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
1  wonder  I  've  not  lost  the  respect 

(HiTe  's  to  you,  sir  !)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by  through  thick  and  thin  ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets. 
And  rags  tliat  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin. 

He  '11  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  is  n't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disastii-, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master  ! 
No,  sir  !  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

By  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water  !  — 
That  is,  there 's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter  ! 

We'll  have  some  music,  if  you're  willing. 
And  Roger  (hem  !  what  a  plague  a  cough  is, 
sir !) 
Shall  march  a  little.     Start,  you  villain  ! 

Stand  straight !    'Bout  face  !    Salute  your  offi- 
cer ! 
Put  up  that  paw  !     Dress  !    Take  your  rifle  ! 
(Some  dogs  have  amis,  you  see  !)     Now  hold 
your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle. 
To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier  !  i 

March  !     Halt !     Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  Iiow  many  drams  it  takes 

To  lionor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that 's  five  ;  he 's  mighty  knowing  ! 

The  niglit  's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  sir  .'     I  'm  ill,  — my  brain  is  going  ! 

Some   brandy,  —  thank    you,  —  there  !  —  it 
passes ! 

Why  not  reform  ?    That 's  easily  said. 

But  I  've  gone  through  such  wretched  treat- 
ment. 

Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread. 
And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant. 

That  my  poor  stomach  's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 


I  'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 
To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  — but  1  took  to  drink,  — 

Tlie  same  old  story  ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  cla.ssic  featm'es,  — 

You  need  n't  laugh,  sir ;  tliey  were  not  then 
Such  a  bunung  libel  on  God's  creatures  ; 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

1  f  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young. 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  tliis  breast  ! 
i  f  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  1  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,   you  would  n't 
have  guessed 
That  ever  1,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  do" 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog  ! 

She 's  married  since,  —  a  parson's  wife  ; 

'T  was  better  for  her  tliat  we  should  part.  — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?    Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road,  a  carriage  stopped  ; 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went. 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  lingers  dropped ! 

You've  set  me  talking,  sir  ;  I  'm  sorry  ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  Iwggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?  you  find  it  strange  ? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'T  was  well  she  died  before —     Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below? 

Another  glas.s,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

Tliis  pain  ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  iie  such  a  Uimpisli,  leiiden. 

Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  lieart  ? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could. 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were,  — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I  'm  better  now  ;  that  glass  was  warming. 

You  i-ascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free. 
And    the    sleepers  need    neither    victuals   nor 
drink  ;  — 

The  sooner  the  better  for  Roger  and  me  ! 

J.  T.  TROWB 


■^ 


iS-. 


-R- 


494 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


GO,   FEEL  WHAT  I  HAVE  FELT. 


Go,  IcpI  what  1  have  folt, 

(!o,  boar  what  I  have  borne  ; 
Sink  'iu>;ith  a  bUiw  a  father  dealt, 
And  the  coKl,  provid  worUi's  scorn  : 
Thus  strni^j;h»  on  from  year  to  year, 
Thy  soU>  relief  the  sealding  tear. 

Go,  weep  as  1  have  wept 

O'er  a  loved  father's  fall  ; 
See  every  cherished  promise  swept, 

Youth's  SWrrlllrss  turned  to  'fi\\\  ; 

Hope's  faded  How.is  siiv>v,a  all  the  way 
That  led  uie  up  to  woman's  day. 

Go,  luieel  as  1  liave  knelt  ; 

Ini|ilore,  beseech,  and  pray. 
Strive  the  besotted  heart  to  molt, 
The  downward  course  to  stay  ; 
15e  east  with  bitter  curse  aside,  — 
Thy  prayers  burlesijued,  thy  tears  delied. 

Go,  stand  where  1  have  stood. 

And  see  the  strong  num  bow  ; 
With  gnashing  teeth,  lips  bathed  in  blood, 
And  cold  and  livid  brow  ; 
Go,  catch  his  wandering  glance,  and  see 
There  niiirored  his  soul's  misery. 

tu).  lu>ar  what  I  have  heai-d,  — 

Tlie  soils  of  sad  despair. 
As  memory's  feeling-fount  liath  stirred, 
And  its  revealings  there 
Have  told  him  what  he  might  have  been. 
Had  he  the  drunkanl's  fate  foreseen. 

Go  to  a  mother's  side. 

And  her  crushed  spirit  cheer  ; 

Thine  own  deep  anguisli  hide. 
Wipe  from  her  clieek  the  tear  ; 
Mark  her  dimmed  eye,  her  furrowed  brow. 
The  gray  that  streaks  her  dark  hair  luiw, 
The  toil-worn  frame,  the  trembling  limb, 
And  trace  the  ruin  back  to  him 
Whose  plighted  faith,  in  early  youth, 
Promised  eternal  love  and  truth. 
Rut  who,  forsworn,  hath  yielded  uji 
This  promise  to  the  deadly  cup. 
Ami  led  her  down  from  love  and  light. 
From  all  that  made  her  jiathway  bright. 
And  chained  her  there  mid  want  and  strife, 
Tluit  lowly  thing,     -  a  drunkard's  wife  ! 
And  stamped  on  childhood's  brow,  so  mild, 
That  withering  blight,  — a  drunkard's  child  ! 


&■*- 


Go,  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  know 
All  that  my  soul  hatlv  felt  nnd  known, 


Then  look  within  the  wine-enp's  glow  ; 
See  if  its  lirightness  can  atone  ; 
Think  if  its  flavor  you  would  try, 
If  all  proclaimed,  — '  T  ix  drink  and  die. 

Tell  me  I  hate  the  howl,  — 

Mate  is  a  feeble  word  ; 
1  loathe,  abhor,  —  my  very  soul 
liy  strong  disgust  is  stirred 
Wheuc'ci'  I  sec.  or  hear,  or  tell 
Of  the  n.uiK  lu: vi'i!.\()K  of  iiki.i,  ! 

ANON^'MOUS. 


OLD   AGE  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


Adam.     Let  me  be  your  .servant  ; 
Though  1  look  old,  yet  am  1  strong  and  lusty  : 
For  in  uiy  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  licpiors  in  my  blood  ; 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  aud  debility. 
Tlierefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter. 
Frosty,  but  kiiuily  ;  let  me  go  with  you ; 
1  'II  do  the  service  of  a  yo\iuger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

SUAKi;srEAKE. 


THE  WATER-DKINKER. 

O,  WATKR  for  me  !     Hright  wati'r  for  me  ! 

Give  wine  to  the  trenuilous  debavuhee  ! 

It  cooleth  the  brow,  it  cooleth  the  brain, 

It  makcth  the  faint  one  strong  again  ; 

It  comes  o'er  the  sense  like  a  breeze  from  the  seix, 

All  freshness,  like  infant  purity. 

0,  water,  bright  water,  for  me,  for  me  ! 

Give  wine,  give  wine  to  the  debauchee ! 

Fill  to  the  brim  !     Fill,  fill  to  the  brim  ! 
Let  the  llowing  crystal  kiss  the  rim  ! 
My  hand  is  steady,  my  eye  is  true, 
For  1,  like  the  flowers,  drink  naught  but  dew. 
0,  water,  bright  water  's  a  mine  of  wealth. 
Anil  the  ores  it  yieldcth  are  vigor  and  health. 
So  water,  pure  w'ater,  for  me,  for  me  ! 
And  wine  for  the  trenuilous  debauchee  ! 

Fill  again  to  the  brim  !  again  to  the  brim  ! 
For  water  strengtheneth  life  and  limb. 
To  the  days  of  the  aged  it  added  length ; 
To  the  might  of  the  strong  it  addeth  strcngth  ; 
It  freshens  the  heart,  it  brightens  the  sight ; 
'T  is  like  quafling  a  goblet  of  morning  light. 
So,  water,  1  will  drink  naught  but  thee, 
Thon  parent  of  liealth  and  energy  ! 


-^ 


IIOMK     Al'     CAMBKlUCt 


"Sowi-ti*.!/  All*  /ri><«  M/  fiZtgr  strrtl 


■/•«,•  F,tH '"  /as   O'NKt'y,  ,ri 


a- 


LA  noii. 


LABOR. 


495    ^ 


L^- 


TilE  UAl'I'V  UEAKI. 

Akt  thou  jioor,  yet  hast  thou  gohlcri  oluintjcrH  ? 

0  Hwcet  content ! 
Art  tJiou  rich,  ytt  i»  thy  mind  pcriilcxed  ? 

0  iiuniohrniint ! 
DoHt  thou  laugli  t')  Wf<;  how  foolo  are  vexed 
'I'o  add  to  goMen  niiniberB,  golden  nurnberH? 
0  HWW^t  content !  0  Hweet,  0  Hwcet  content  I 
Work  A\iSJM,  tiyai:':,  ii[nu:<i,  apace  ; 
HoncHt  labor  hears  a  lovely  lace ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny ! 
Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crixpfcd  spring  ? 

0  sweet  content ! 
Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine 
own  tears  ? 
0  punishment ! 
Then  he  that  [mtiently  want's  Imrdcn  hears 
No  burden  b<,-ars,  but  in  a  king,  a  king ! 
0  sweet  cont<!nt !  0  sweet,  0  sweet  content ! 
Work  ajKice,  apace,  apa'je,  apace  ; 
Honest  lalxjr  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny  ! 

Thomas  De'-Kkk. 


THE   VILLAGE  BLACK8MITH. 

Unkkk  a  sprca<]ing  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands; 
TJio  smith,  a  mighty  man  ix  he. 

With  large  and  sinewy  liands  ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  Iwnds, 

His  hair  is  crisp  and  black  and  long  ; 

Hix  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
Hi»  brow  in  wet  with  honest  sweat,  — 

He  earns  what<;'er  he  can, 
And  Iwjks  the  whole  world  in  the  face. 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  mom  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  hunvy  slclge. 
With  measured  Vxat  and  slow. 

Like  a  ncxUm  ringing  the  village  Ijell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children,  warning  home  from  school, 

Ixjok  in  at  the  o|i<;n  door  ; 
They  love  t'j  S'lc  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  th*  bellows  roar, 


And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  (ly 
Like  diair  from  a  threshing-door. 

Me  g'K;8  on  Sunday  to  the  church. 

And  sits  among  his  Iwys  ; 
He  hears  the  [wrson  firay  and  preach  ; 

ile  hears  his  daught'^r's  voice. 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  bis  he.irt  rejoice. 

It  soumiii  U>  him  like  lier  itiollier's  voice. 

Singing  in  I*ara/li»<- ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more. 

How  ill  the  grave  she  liirs  ; 
And  with  bis  hard,  rough  hand  he  wii<es 

A  t«ar  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  lifi:  he  goes  ; 
Eaidi  moniing  sec-s  s^ime  tiuik  togin, 

Ea<,h  evening  w;es  it  clos(j ; 
Something  ;itt';nipt«l,  wjinething  done. 

Has  «inii;<l  a  night's  ruixiiv;. 

Thanks,  tlianks  to  the<;,  my  worthy  frien'l, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught '. 

Thus  at  the  (laming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  1«;  wrought : 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shafxd 
Ea^ih  burning  deed  and  thought  I 

HeNKV  WAIrtWOKTII  l^,Nf;PEl.tOW, 


TO  THE  HARVEHT  MOOK. 

Plf.akiso  't  is,  0  modest  }iUx>n  ! 
Xow  the  night  in  at  her  nw^n, 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie. 
While  around  the  /.ephyrs  sigh. 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tannwl  wheat, 
Iiilieiied  by  the  summer's  lif^t ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy    . 
When  txjundless  plenty  greets  his  eye. 

And  thinking  soon, 

0  modest  Moon  1 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road. 

To  see  the  load. 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest  home. 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies. 
The  hustiandiiian,  with  sleep-sealed  eyc-s  ; 
He  dreams  of  CTOwded  liams,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  (lail  resound  ; 


^Pi;;^ 


POEMS  OF  TKMPKRANOK  AND  LAWR. 


-a 


U,  mny  iio  lmnioi\no  iloslroy 

His  visioiini'v  viows  of  joy  ! 
l^oil  of  till-  wiiuls  I  I),  lu'!ii'  liis  humblo  jimyor, 
Ami  wliili'  tlio  Moon  of  ll.vivosl  sliincs,  thy  blus- 
toi'iivg  whiilwiml  si>iiiv  ! 

lUtNKY  KlKKU  WlllTK. 


THR  XTSKFUL  n.OW. 

A  1  iil'Nl'HY  lifo  is  swi'ol  ! 
1m  minlorato  ooM  niui  heat, 

To  walk  in  llio  air  how  iiU'as:>iit  ami  fair  ! 
Ill  ovovy  lioUi  of  wheat, 

'rhi>  liiiivst  of  rtowoi's  aUoiiiiii};  tho  howoi's, 
Ami  ovoi'y  mcailow's  hivw  : 

So  thai  I  say,  no  oovirtioi'  may 

I'oiiipaiv  with  thorn  who  i-lotJio  in  gray. 
And  follow  tlu>  nsoful  plow. 

Tln\Y  viso  with  tho  movninj;  Inrk, 
Ami  lalHirtill  almost  davk, 

Thon,  folillna:  thoii-  sh»H>p,  thoy  haston  to  sloop 
Whilo  ovory  ploiisant  park 

Noxt  inorninj;  is  rinuini;  with  l>ii\ls  that  aiv 
sinsiiii!^ 
On  oaoli  jrtvon,  tomU>r  honjrh. 

With  what  eontont  ami  niorriniont 

Thoir  (lays  aiv  spout,  whoso  niimls  an>  bont 
To  follow  tho  nsoful  plow  ! 


THE  PLOWMAN. 

Ci.KAR  the  Imnvn  path  to  moot   his  oonltor's 

!;loam ! 
I,o!  i>i\  lio  comos,  hohiml  his  smoklii£c  toam, 
\V  it  li  toil's  hriirht  ilow-ilivi**  i>»  l>is  snnlmrnt  brow 
Tlio  loixl  of  oarth,  tho  lioro  of  tho  plow  I 

First  in  tho  tiohl  liofoiv  tho  rtsidoning  sun, 
Uist  in  tho  shadows  whon  the  day  is  done,  1 

l.iiio  aflor  lino,  along  tho  bni-st\n,il  sixl, 
Marks  tho  bivad  aoivs  whoiv  his  foot  liavo  trod. 
Still  whoiv  ho  tn\ids  tho  stublxnn  olods  divide, 
'riio  simxith.  fivsli  furrow  o^hmis  d<vp  and  wide  ; 
Matted  and  douse  tho  taiigltHl  turf  iiphoavivi, 
Mollow  and  dark  the  ridgy  oorntiold  oloaves  ; 
I'p  the  stoop  hillside,  whoiv  tho  lalwring  train 
Slants  tho  long  tniok  that  sooivs  the  level  plain. 
Through  tl\e  moist  valley,  ologg<>d  witJi  ooiing 

olay. 
The  (wtiont  ooiivoy  bri<aks  its  destined  way ; 
At  every  turn  tlio  loosening  oliains  ivsouud. 
The  swinging  plowshaiv  oiivles  glistening  round. 
Till  the  wide  Hold  one  t>illowy  waste  apivai-s. 
And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steel's. 

These  are  tho  hands  whi»se  stunly  lalwr  brings 
The  iK-as!«it's  fotnl,  tho  s^^ldoii  pomp  of  kings ; 


This  is  the  i>age  whoso  lottei's  shall  bo  soon, 
Cliang<>d  by  the  sun  to  wonls  of  living  given  ; 
This  is  the  sohohir  whose  immortal  piii 
Spoils  tho  lii'st  lesson  hunjjor  taught  to  moii  •, 
Those  aiv  tho  lines  that  heavon-oonimamlod  Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed.  —  tJie  oharter  of  the  soil  1 

O  ijmoious  Mother,  whoso  bonigiinnt  bivnst 
Wakes  na  to  life,  ami  lulls  us  nil  to  i\'st. 
How  thy  sweet  fwttuivs,  kind  to  ovory  climo, 
Mook  with  thoir  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  Time  ! 
Wo  stain   tliv  newel's,  —  tJiov  blossom  o'oi'  the 

dead  : 
We  ivnd  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  broad  ; 
Oor  tho  ivd  liold  that  trampling  strife  has  torn, 
Waves  the  given  pluinagx'  of  thy  tassolod  ooni  ; 
l^ur  maddening  eoiilliots  soar  thy  taiivsl  plain. 
Still  thy  sol^  answer  is  the  growing  gniin. 
Yet,  11  our  Mother,  while  nnoouiitod  oharnis 
Steal  iMiind  onr  hearts  in  thine  onibitieing  arms, 
l.ot  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  dooay, 
.■\iid  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  stiviigth  nwny. 

No,  by  those  hills  whose  lv>nnei's  now  displayed 
In  blazing  ooliorts  Antnmn  lias  nrniyod  ; 
liy  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  oivsts 
Tlie  tossing  homlooks  hold  the  eagles"  nests  ; 
l>y  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  oiii'le  soivoiis, 
.•\nd  foodswith  stiviinilots  from  its  dark  nivines,  — 
Trne  to  thoir  home,  those  faithful  arms  shall  toil 
To  crown  with  peaoo  thoir  own  untainted  soil; 
.\nd,  true  to  God,  to  fivodom,  to  mankind. 
It  hor  ohainod  ban-di>:;is  Kaotion  shall  unbind, 
Tho.so  stately  forms,  that,  bending:  even  now. 
Bowed  their  stivng  manhood  to  tho  humble  plow, 
Shall  rise  erect,  tho  guardians  of  tho  land, 
Tho  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand. 
Till  o'er  their  liills  the  .shouts  of  triumph  run ! 
Tho  swoiM  has  ivscued  what  the  plowsliaro  won  1 

OUVKK  WkSPKUL  UOLMKlik 


THE  MOWEK& 

TiiK  sunburnt  mowoi-s  aiv  in  tho  swath — 
Swing',  swing,  swing  !~ 
The  towering  lilies  loth 
Tivinblo,  and  totter,  and  fall; 
The  moadow-rue 
Dashes  its  ta.ssels  of  gvldon  dew ; 

And  tho  ko«ni  blade  swo<'ps  o'er  ivll — 
Swiii^,  swing,  swing! 

riio  llowei-s,  the  Iwrrio-s  the  plunu^'d  gnuss. 
Fall  ill  a  .smotlioivd  mass  ; 

Hastens  awjiy  the  butterlly  : 

With  half  their  bnixlon  the  biwwn  Ives  hie  : 
.Viid  the  lueailow-lark  shrieks  distivst 

.\nd  leaves  the  poor  younglings  all  in  tli< 


=4 


rt-f— ■ 


LABOR. 


— a 

197 


Totti^rfl  tlift  Jafiol/B-la/l'lCT  tall, 

Ami  Bailly  nod 
The  royal  crowriH  of  the  gol<l(;ii-ro<l  :  — 

Tho  keen  Made  mowetli  all  ! 

Anon,  the  chiming  whetHtonen  ring  — 

Tiny-a-Ung,  li/iuj-a-Uwj I 

And  the  mower  now 
PaiisftH  and  wijies  IiIh  l«aded  brow. 
A  moment  he  «can«  the  fleeklesH  sky, 
A  moment,  the  fiHh-hawk  Hoaring  high, 
And  watchcH  the  Hwallown  dip  and  dive 

Ancar  an<l  far ; 
They  whiok  and  glimmer,  and  ehatter  and  »trive  ; 
What  do  they  go»»ip  together  ? 

Cunning  fellown  they  are,  — 

Wi«e  jirophetB  to  hive  ; 
"  Higher  or  lower  they  eirele  and  Hkirn, 
Fair  or  foul  to-morrow  'b  Iiay-weather  !  " 
TallcBt  primroBeB  or  lofticBt  dai«ieB 

Not  a  Bteel-tdufi  feather 

Of  Blim  wing  grazeH  ! 
"  Fear  not !  fear  not ! "  ery  the  BwallowB. 
Kaeh  inower  tighteuH  his  Biiath-ring'H  wedge. 

And  hiH  finger  daintily  followB 

The  long  bliwle'B  tiekle-edge  ; 
Softly  the  whetBtone'B  lawt  toucheB  ring,  — 

Tiim-a-iing,  liwj-a-l.inij  I 

"  Perchance  the  BwallowB,  that  flit  in  their  glc;, 
Of  to-rnorrow'B  weather  know  little  im  we," 
SavB  Farmer  Kujtset ;  "  't  i«  hidden  in  Bhower 
Or  BUDHhine  ;  to-morrow  we  do  not  own  ; 

To-day  i»  ours  alone. 
Not  a  twinkle  we  '11  want';  of  the  golden  hour. 
Ora«p  tightly  the  nib»,  —  give  heel  and  give  toe, 
Lay  a  goodly  Bwath  Hhaveil  Hrnuoth  and  low  I 

Prime  i»  the  day,  — 

Swing,  Bwing,  swing  !  " 
(Fanner  IJusset  in  a^jed  and  giay,  — 
Gray  as  the  frost,  hut  fresh  as  the  spring  ; 

Straight  is  he 

A»  a  halHam-trec, 
And  with  heart  most  blithe  and  sinews  lithe. 
He  leails  the  row  with  his  nieny  scythe.) 
"  Corne,  boys  !  strike  up  the  old  song 

While  we  circle  around,  — 
Tlie  »ong  we  always  in  haytime  sing  ; 

And  let  the  wooihi  ring. 

And  the  Cf;boes  prolong 

The  merry  sound  ! " 


June  in  too  early  for  richest  hay 

(Fair  weather,  fair  weather)  ; 
The  com  stretches  taller  the  livelong  day, 


fJut  graofl  is  ever  too  sappy  tci  lay 

(Clijiall  t/;gcther); 
.June  is  tf<o  early  for  ricliest  hay. 

(Ch//rus. ) 
O,  we  will  make  haynow  while  the  sun  shines  — 

We'll  v/uxUt  not  a  golden  minuti;! 
The  blue  arch  to-d;iy  no  storm-shadow  lines  — 

We  '11  wast<!  not  a  minute;. 

For  the  west-wind  is  fair  ; 

0,  the  hay-ilay  in  ran  '. 
The.  sky  is  without  a  brown  cloud  in  it  1 

Aiigust  's  a  month  that  too  far  gfjes  by 
(\jiiU:  weather,  lafj  weather  ;) 

Grasshopfsjrs  are  chi(/fK:r  and  kick  too  high, 

And  grass,  that 's  standing,  is  fodder  B<;or';hed  dry 
(Pull  all  together); 

August 's  a  month  that  too  far  goes  by. 

(C'A//r««.) 

July  if)  just  in  the  nick  of  time  ! 

(Best  weather,  }x:ni  weather  ;) 
The  mi'hiummer  month  is  the  golden  prime 
For  haycocks  smelling  of  clover  and  thyme 

(Strike  all  t<;gether) ; 
July  is  just  in  the  nick  of  time  ! 

(C/uirut.) 

Still  hiss  the  scythes  ! 
Shudder  the  grassfis"  defensidess  bla/les,  — 

The  lily-throng  writhes  : 
And,  as  a  phalanx  of  wilrl-geese  streams 
Where  the  shore  of  April's  cloud-hind  gleams 
On  their  dizzy  way  in  semed  grades,  — 
Wing  on  wing,  wing  on  wing,  — 
The  mowers,  each  a  st'tii  in  Julvance 
Of  his  fellow,  time  their  stroke  with  a  glance 

Of  swerveless  force  ; 
And  far  through  tlie  rncailow  lea<l»  their  course,  — 

Swing,  swing,  swing ! 

MVVOH  IJ.  IJHKTO.'i. 


THE  FAEMER'8  BOY. 

WiiKiiK  noble  Oraft/>n  sprcruls  his  rich  domains, 
Itound  Eiiston's  vratciiA  vain  and  sloj/ing  plains, 
Wliere  woods  and  groves  in  wdernn  grandeur  rist;, 
Whcrr-  the  kite  brooding  unmolested  (lies. 
The  woodcock  and  the  painted  pheiisaiit  ra<:e. 
And  skulking  foxes,  destined  lor  the  eliawi  ; 
There  GilcB,  untaught  and  unrepining,  strayed 
Through  every  copse  and  grove  and   winding 

glade ; 
There  his  first  thoughts  to  Nature's  charms  in- 
clined, 
Th.at  stamps  devotion  on  the  inquiring  mind. 


u- 


-4: 


li 


a-^- 


498 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


■^ 


e 


A  little  fium  his  generous  mnstor  tilleil, 
Who  with  peculiar  gmoo  his  station  lillod  ; 
By  ilt'oils  of  hosiiitality  untU'iueil, 
Servi'd  from  ullV'ctioii,  tor  liis  worth  i-evered, 
A  happy  oll'spriiig  Mi'st  liis  plenteous  bomxl. 
His  fields  were  fruitful,  aiul  his  barns  well  stored, 
And  foui'scoro  ewes  he  fed,  a  stuixly  team. 
And  lowing  kine  that  graced  beside  the  stream  ; 
UiK'easing  industry  he  kept  in  view, 
And  never  laokeil  a  job  for  Giles  to  do. 

Fled  now  the  sullen  murmui's  of  the  north. 
The  splendid  iiiiment  of  the  Spring  peeps  forth  ; 
Her  univereal  groen  and  the  clear  sky 
Delight  still  more  and  more  the  gjiziug  eye. 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  in  rising  moisture  strong, 
Shoots  up  the  simple  (lower,  or  creeps  along 
The  mellowed  soil,  imbibing  fairer  hues 
Or  sweets  from  freiiuent  showers  and  evening  dews 
That  summon  from  their  sheds  the  slumbering 

plows. 
While  health  impregnates  every  breeze  that  blows. 
No  wheels  support  the  diving,  pointed  share  ; 
No  groaning  ox  is  doomed  to  labor  there  ; 
No  helpmates  teach  the  docile  steed  his  road 
(Alike  unknown  the  plowboy  and  the  goad): 
15ut  unassisted,  through  each  toilsome  day. 
With  smiling  brow  the  plowman  cleaves  his  way. 
Draws  his  fresh  parallels,  and,  widening  still. 
Treads  slow  the  heavy  dale,  or  climbs  the  hill. 
Strong  on  the  wing  his  busy  foUowei-s  play, 
Where  writhing  earth-worms  meet  the  unwelcome 

day. 
Till  all  is  changed,  and  hill  and  level  down 
Assume  a  livery  of  sober  brown  : 
Again  disturbed,  when  G  iles  with  wearying  strides 
From  ridge  to  ridge  the  ponderous  harrow  guides, 
His  heels  deep  sinking,  every  step  he  goes. 
Till  dirt  adhesive  loads  his  clouted  shoes. 
Welcome,  green  headland  I  firm  beneath  his  feet : 
Welcome,  the  friendly  bank's  refreshing  seat  : 
There,  warm  with  toil,  his  panting  horses  browse 
Their  sheltering  canopy  of  pendent  boughs  ; 
Till  rest  delicious  chase  each  transient  pain. 
And  new-born  vigor  swell  in  every  vein. 
Hour  after  hour  and  day  to  day  succeeds. 
Till  every  clod  and  deep-drawn  furrow  spreads 
To  crumbling  mold,  —  a  level  surface  clear, 
And  strewed  with  corn  to  crown  the  rising  year  ; 
And  o'er  the  whole  Giles,  once  transvei'se  again, 
In  earth's  moist  bosom  buries  up  the  grain. 
The  work  is  done  ;  no  more  to  man  is  given  ; 
The  grateful  farmer  trusts  the  rest  to  Heaven. 

His  simple  errand  done,  he  homeward  hies  ; 
Another  instantly  its  place  supplies. 
The  clattering  dairv-nuiid,  immei-sed  in  steam. 
Singing  and  scrubbing  midst  her  milk  and  cream, 


Bawls 


'Go  fetch  the 


"  —  he  heara  no 


For  pigs  .uid  ducks  and  turkeys  throng  the  door, 
And  sitting  hens  for  constant  war  prepared,  — 
A  concert  str.mge  to  that  which  late  he  heard. 
Straight  to  the  meadow  then  he  whistling  goes  ; 
With  well-known  halloo  calls  his  lazy  cows  ; 
Down  the  rich  pasture  heedlessly  they  graze. 
Or  hear  the  summons  with  an  idle  gaze. 
For  well  they  know  the  cow-yard  yields  no  more 
Its  tempting  fragrance,  nor  its  wintry  stoiv. 
Keluetaiicc  marks  their  steps,  sedate  and  slow. 
The  right  of  comiuest  all  the  law  they  know  ; 
The  strong  press  on,  the  weak  by  turns  succeed, 
And  one  superior  always  takes  the  lead, 
Is  ever  foremost  wliere'soe'er  they  stitiy. 
Allowed  precedence,  undisputed  sway  : 
With  jealous  pride  her  station  is  maintained, 
For  many  a  broil  that  post  of  honor  gained. 
At  home,  the  yanl  alVoiils  a  grateful  scene, 
For  spring  makes  e'en  a  miry  cow-yard  clean. 
Thence  from  its  chalky  lied  behold  conveyed 
The  rich  manure  that  drenching  winter  made. 
Which,  piled  near  home,  grows  green  with  many 

a  weed, 
A  luoiuised  nutriment  for  autumn's  seed. 
Forth  comes  the  maid,   and  like  the  morning 

smiles  ; 
The  mistress  too,  and  followed  close  by  Giles. 
A  friendly  tripod  forms  their  humble  seat. 
With  pails  bright  scoured  and  delicately  sweet. 
Where  shadowing  elms  obstruct  the  morning  ray 
Begins  the  work,  begins  the  simple  lay  ; 
The  full-charged  udder  yields  its  willing  stream 
While  Mary  sings  some  lover's  amorous  divam  ; 
And  crouching  Giles,  beneath  a  neighlioring  tree, 
Tugs  o'er  his  pail,  and  chants  with  eiiual  glee  ; 
Whose  hat  with  battered  brim,  of  nap  so  bare. 
From  the  cow's  side  purloins  a  coat  of  luur,  — 
A  mottled  ensign  of  his  harmless  trade, 
An  unambitious,  peaceable  cockade. 
As  unambitious,  too,  that  cheerful  aid 
The  mistress  yields  beside  her  rosy  maid  ; 
With  joy  she  views  her  plenteous  reeking  store, 
And  beai-s  a  brinuuer  to  the  dairy  door  ; 
Her  cows  dismissed,  the  luscious  mead  to  roam, 
Till  eve  again  recall  them  loaded  home. 

ROBFRT  IU.(iOMFIEH>. 


THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

.V  «HHK  pine  tloor  and  a  low-ceiled  room, 
A  wheel  and  a  reiel  and  a  great  brown  loom, 
The  windows  out  and  the  world  in  bloom — 

A  pair  of  "swifts"  in  the  comer,  where 

The  grandmother  sat  in  her  rush-wrought  chair. 

And  pulled  at  the  distaff's  tangled  hair  ; 


—ff 


e- 


LABOR. 


4'J'J 


■a 


u 


And  sang  to  herself  as  she  spun  the  tow, 
W'liile  "tile  little  wheel"  ran  as  soft  and  low 
As  niullled  Ijrooks  where  the  grasses  gi-ow 
And  lie  one  way  with  the  water's  How. 

As  the  Christ's  lield-lilies  free  from  sin, 

So  she  grew  like  them  when  she  ceased  to  spin, 

Counted  her  "knots,"  and  handed  them  in  ! 

Tlic  "great  wheel "  rigged  in  its  liarness  stands,  — 
A  tliree-legged  thing  with  its  spindle  and  bands, — 
And  the  slender  spokes,  like  the  willow  wands 
That  spring  so  thick  in. the  low,  wet  lands, 
Turn  dense  at  the  touch  ot  a  woman's  hands. 

As  the  wheel  whirls  swift,  how  rank  they  gi'ow ! 
liut  how  sparse  ami  thin  when  the  wheel  runs  slow 
Forward  and  backward,  and  to  and  fro  ! 

There's  a  heap  of  rolls  like  clouds  in  cuil, 
Ami  a  bright-faced,  springy,  barefoot  girl  : 
She  gives  a  touch  and  a  careless  whirl. 

She  holds  a  roll  in  her  shapely  hand 

That  the  sun  has  kissed  ami  the  wind  has  fanned, 

.\nd  its  mate  obeys  the  wheel's  command. 

'J'liero  must  be  wings  on  her  rosy  he<d  ! 

And  there  must  be  bees  in  the  spindled  steel ! 

A  thousand  spokes  in  the  dizzy  wheel ! 

Have  you  forgotten  the  left-breast  knock 
Wlii-'U  you  bagged  the  bee  in  the  hollyhock. 
And  the  angry  burr  of  an  ancient  clock  — 

All  ready  to  strike  —  came  out  of  the  mill. 
Where  covered  with  meal  the  rogue  was  still. 
Till  it  made  your  thumb  an<l  finger  thrill  ? 

It  is  one,  two,  three  —  the  roll  is  caught ; 
'T  is  a  backward  step  and  the  thread  is  taut, 
A  hurry  of  wheel  and  the  roll  is  wrought ! 

'T  is  one,  two,  three,  and  the  yam  runs  on, 
And  the  spindle  shapes  like  a  white-pine  cone. 
As  even  and  still  as  something  grown. 

The  barefoot  maiden  follows  the  tliread 
Like  somebody  caught  and  tethered  and  led 
Up  to  the  buzz  of  the  busy  head. 

With  backward  sweep  and  willowy  liend 
Monarch  would  borrow  if  maiden  couhl  lend, 
She  draws  out  the  thread  to  the  white  wool's  end, 

From  English  sheep  of  the  old-time  farm, 
With  their  legs  as  fair  as  a  woman's  ann, 
And  faces  white  as  a  girl's  alann. 


She  breaks  her  thread  with  an  angry  twang. 
Just  as  if  at  her  touch  a  harp-string  rang 
And  keyed  to  the  ijuaint  old  song  she  sang. 

That  came  to  a  halt  on  her  cheery  lip 

While  she  tied  one  knot  that  never  could  slip. 

And  thought  of  anolhcr,  when  her  ship  — 

All  laden  with  dreams  in  splendid  guLse  — 
Should  sail  right  out  of  the  azure  skies 
And  a  lover  bring  with  great  brown  eyes  ! 

All,  broad  the  day,  but  her  work  was  done  — 
Two  "  runs  "  by  reel !     She  had  twisted  and  spun 
Her  two  score  "  knots  "  by  set  of  sun, 

With  her  one,  two,  three,  the  wheel  beside. 
And  the  three,  two,  one,  of  her  backward  glide. 
So  to  and  fro,  in  calico  pride, 
Till  the  bees  went  home  and  daytime  died  I 

In  apron  white  as  the  white  sea-foam, 

She  gathered  the  weidth  of  her  velvet  gloom. 

And  railed  it  in  with  a  tall  back-comb. 

She  crushed  the  dews  with  her  naked  feet, 
The  track  of  the  sun  was  a  golden  street. 
The  grass  was  cool  and  the  air  was  sweet. 

The  girl  gazcl  up  at  the  mackerel  sky. 
And  it  looked  like  a  pattern  lifted  high ; 
But  she  never  dreamed  of  angels  nigh. 

And  she  spoke  right  out :  "Do  just  see  there  ! 
What  a  blue  and  white  for  the  clouded  pair 
I  'm  going  to  knit  for  my  Sunday  wear  !  " 

The  wheel  is  dead  and  the  bees  are  gone, 
And  the  girl  Is  dressed  in  a  silver  lawn, 
And  her  feet  are  shod  with  golden  dawn. 

From  a  wind-s\viing  tree  that  waves  before, 
A  shadow  is  dodging  in  at  the  door,  — 
Flickering  ghost  on  the  white  pine  floor,  — 

And  the  cat,  unlearned  in  the  .shadow's  law. 
Just  touched  its  edge  with  a  velvet  paw 
To  hold  it  still  with  an  ivory  claw  ! 

But  its  spectral  cloak  is  blown  about, 
And  a  moment  more  and  the  ghost  is  out. 
And  leaves  us  all  in  shadowy  doubt 

If  ever  it  fell  on  floor  at  all, 
Or  if  ever  it  swung  along  the  wall, 
I  Or  whether  a  shroud  or  a  phantom  shawl ! 


^ 


MHt 


/'('/'.'.UN   ('A'   ri':MI'KIL\.\UK   .I.V/i    I.AIUH,'. 


O  l>i\iw  (lull  till'  olil  limi'  iiiiMiiiii}{  kissml  I 
(Joiia  uIkIiI,  ii\,v  k>'1  "I'  ""•  il">'l'l<'  »"|l  Iwixl'i 
(>  Imivl'iuil  visiuu  1   Vllni^^llill),•  luisl  ! 


(UNO   1>U'  'I'llKl   ANIMUIK, 

'I  is  lit  II 


'riio  liiw  ii'i'l'  r.mriiij;  on  Iiit  In',  tliii  lull  nl' ih'ohii 

piiiiii'il 
Kniiii  jiloiii  lo  uli'iii,  »m  iil'lin'  »m  \  llui  inainiiuml 

Uy  111,,  lumrd  ; 
Tl\o  luilwiiiiM  a.nvii,  llio  ni.l.li.r  k"Ii<',  llio  lumls 

nUWO    III     lllO    I'lllUIIS, 
Itlll   01I||I1IJ{1'  still,    luilVl-  llUuilH'lS,    till'  lulWl'l'  still 

t'uMK,  Mw  111!'  I'lvlpliiii'M  iiiu'liov  I'oif^i-d  ;  '1  ill  lit  II  I  ivmiiiiiM, 

wliilo  li.-iil  now  ;  Aii.l  not  iiii  iiirli  to  lliiu'h  ho  M^m  suvo  wlion 

'I'liK  liiUowsonisoil,  tlio  llnwios  ilivii'nsinl ;  tliouj;li  y,,  iiiU'li  .sUy-1ui;1i, 

on  tlio  lorKo'.s  Imi.w  'pl,,,,;  i,,,,,.,.^  Ium'Ik.m.I.  'iim  llioimli  ho  miiil,  "  I'Viu- 

Tlio  litllo  tliinioM  still  litt'ullv  pliiY  lliiwi>;li  Hio  iiolliiii"        lioro  imi  1  I" 

siil.lo  inoiiiiil  ;  '         " 

Anil  tltlull.v  ,voii  slill  niiiy  soo  ll.o  ^vim  sn.itlis .  ^^.j,,^,  ;„  yomslrokos  in  onlo,',  lot  fool  „iul  lu.n.l 

rmikinj;  voiiml,  kooi.'timo; 

Alloliiilinloiillioin  piiiioplv,  llioi.'  l.ivml  liii.ids    y^„„.  ,,,,,^^,^  ,,,,,,^„   „,j,^i^,  ^„.,,,,|,,,,  ,.,,,  „,,,„   j,„^. 


only  Uii' 


sloojito's  rliimo. 


Somo  ivsl   iipoii  thoir  «loa«..s  l.ovo,  sonu.  woik     ,,,„  ,,,,;,„  ^.„  ^,,j„j,  y,„„,  ,,,„,j^^,,_  ^j,,^  .  .,„,,  ,,,, 
tliowimlliisstlioi',..  tlio  l.imlon  1.0,   ' 

riio  Anolior  is  lUo  Anvil  Kin;',  uu.l  loyul  .■nil'ts- 


'rill'  wiinlliiss  stiiiiiis  till'  liioklo-i'liiiins,  ll\o  Miiok 

nionnil  lioiiyos  liolow, 
Ainl  >\nl  mill  iloop  ii  luiinlivil  yoins  Imist  out  at 

ovoiy  111  1110  i 
It  vistw,  nmis,  ii'inls  nil  ouliif!;ht,      O  \'iilomi, 

wliiit  II  (^low ! 
'Tis  lilindinj;  wliito,   'tis  lilrtatiiij;  lirij»lit,  tlio 

\\\)i\i  sun  sliinps  not  so  I 
Tlio  liijtli  siin  soos  not,  on  tliooaitli,  suoU  a  lioiy, 

l'wilt\ll  sllONV,  - 

'I'lio  ivol'-i'iKs   swni'tli,    tlio  oamloiil   lioartli.   tlio 

vuilily,  luiiil  i\)\v 
Ol'suiitlis  that  stuiul,  an  awloiit  Iwuil,  liko  uioii 

liolow  tlio  I'oo, 
As,  n(iivoi'iii){  tlii\iU);U  liis  lloooo  of  lliimo,  tlio 

siiiliiis  moiistoi'  slow 
Sinks  oil  tlio  anvil,  -all  aliout   tlio  t'aoos  liiM-y 

KIMW. 

"  Uiiniili  I"  tlioy  shout,  "  loaji  out,  loiip  out"  ; 

Uuij;,  hui);,  llio  sloilj^'s  j^i ; 
tliiiTali  !  tho  jottoil  lij;litiiiiij{M  aiv  liissiiij;  liijjli 

aiul  low  ; 
A  hailiiij;  toniit  ot' tiiii  is  stniok  at  ovory  siiuaali- 

iiij;  Mow  ; 
■riioloatlioiii  mail  ivliouinls  tlio  li.iil  ;  tlio  lattliujj 

oiiulovs  stivw 
Tho  }{iMUiiil  aiMund  ;  at  ovory  liouiul  tlio  swoltor- 

iiij;  louutaius  tlow  ; 
And  lliiok  and  loud  tlioswinkiuj^oiMwd,  at  ovovy 

stioko.  iKint  "llo!" 

l.i\Hi  out,  1011)1  out,  my  niastoi's  ;  loaji  out  and 

lay  oil  load  I 
l,ot's  r»i'}^i  a  gvHidly  iiiiolioi',  a  Ivwoi-,  tlliok  lUld 

Inwid  ; 


moil  wo  1 
Sti'iko  in,  stliko   in,   tho  spiiiks   lii'}{iu   to  dull 

llioir  i'uslliiij<  ii'd  I 
(hir  liiuniuoi-s  ling  with  sliiiqiov  din,  niii'  work 

will  soon  ho  spoil ; 
thir  aiiolitii'  soon  must  olianj;o  his  hod  ol'  liory 

lioli  ai'i'iiy 
Kor  a  hammook  at  tlio  iMai'ini»  hows,  or  an  oo/y 

loiioli  of  oliiy  i 
Our  anolior  soon  must  oliau};i'  tlio  lay  of  iiiorry 

oialtsmon  hoiv. 
For  tlio  Yoo-hoavo-o,  and  tho  Uoavo-iiwiiy,  mid 

tlio  sinliiiiK  soaiiiairs  olioor  ; 
Wlioii,  woi;;liini;  slow,  at   ovo  tlioy  j^i      Inr,  tar 

I'iMin  lovo  and  homo, 
And  aohhiii};  NWt'otlioiirts,  in  a  vow,  w.iil  o'or  llio 

oooiui  foam. 

Ill  livid  aiiil  ohdunito  gloom,  ho  diirkms  down 

at  last  ; 
A  shain'ly  oiio  lio  is,  aiul  -stroiij;  as  i''or  tVoiii  oal 

wii.s  oast, 
0  trnstodaud  trustwovlliy  puai-d,  it'  thou  lunlsl 

lil'o  liko  mo, 
What   [iloasiii-cs  would  thy  toils  loward  hoiioatli 

tlio  doop  j{iwn  .soa  I 
0  doop-soa  divor,  who  mi>;lit  thou  holiold  snoh 

si,t;ht.s  as  lliou  f 
Tho  lu«iiy  moustoV!!'  palaoos  !  motliinks  what  joy 

't  worii  now 
To  go  plumii  plunging;  down  ninid  tho  assomhly 

ol' t  ho  whaUvs, 
■\nd  fool  tho  oliurnod  soa  iMiiiid  mo  hoil  lionoath 

tlioir  sooursiiiR  tails 


fe- 


Kor  a  lu'art  of  oak  is  haiijjiiij;  on  ovory  Mow,  I    Tlion  doop  iii  tan>;lo-woods  t'l  tight  tho  tioioo  sou 

Imdo,  I  uiiioorii. 

And  I  soo  tlio  good  ship  liding,  all  in  a  poriloiis    .\iid  sond  him  foilod  and  lH'llowiiij»  Imok.  for  all 

iMad,  -  I  his  ivory  lio,"'u ; 


"ri'^ 


fjiii 


'I'll  l«ttv«  till)  hhWIo  Bwofilfcr-lidli  (it  \Hiiiy  \ilruU< 

forlorn  ; 
Anil  for  Ui'!  p{liiwtly-({rlnnir)«  nlmrk,  1/i  lttii«li  Ills 

jawit  In  «i:orn  ; 
To  l««Ji  ilowii  o/i  till)  kr»ki;li'H  Ixuk,  wIuti;  nilil 

Norwi:/<i(iii  ixli.-u 
III)  lU'M,  :i  liil)lx;r  HMchorajp;  for  iiii'l'l<:n  nlutllov/iil 

mill:)), 
'rill  Hiiorthif^,  lik«  an  undor-wiii  volcuno,  oil'  Im 

MoHiiwIilli;  to  Hwiiig,  ii-l/uHijtin/^  till)  iiir-Hiiton- 

i<!li<!i|  nitoiilx 
Of  lii«  l)(i(:klirow(iin«  or;<j(ifi  calviiB  ;  or,  linjily  In 

n  i;ovi!, 
Hlii.-ll-otrirwn,  anil  conwMitt'-  of  oM  U,  mmxi  l/n- 

ilinir'n  lovif, 
To  flfi'l   till!  lon«-liair<ril  nii!nnJiliIi;ii«  ;  or,   Imril 

hy  |(;y  lunilii, 
To   wri:i-.t|i;  will)  llii)  iC!a-((i!riK;iil  ii|)on  ceruluun 

Mllllllit. 


TIIK  KONtJ  OIC  K'lKAM. 

llAiiMlotM  nil;  ilov/ii  v/ltli  your  Iron  Imiiiln, 

lii!  diinr  of  your  Mirh  iiinl  n^ln, 
Kor  I  («:((rn  tliu  dtrunKtli  of  yoiir  jmny  ImmlM 

A«  (I  l/!iii|iir«t  iMOrnn  a  i:lmin. 
Mow  I  l(iiiglii-il  lut  I  lay  rjiwnuUtd  fioni  «i;/,lit 

Kor  tiiitny  ii  ixjiintli^wi  lioiir, 
At  Ihi!  uliililluli  l«)(M!t»  of  liiiniun  nil({lit, 

Ami  till'  priili'  of  liiiiiiiin  |K)Wi:r  I 

VVliifM  I  Miw  itn  iirmy  iijiiin  tlin  lanil, 

A  niivy  II  (ion  lln'  iumb, 
C.'rir<!|ijn({  itlon^,  n  .iniillliko  liinil, 

Or  wiMui/,  till!  wjiywfiril  \irmy,i:; 
Wlum  I  niiiiki!<l  tlii5  (ii'dwint  faintly  r'<el 

Willi  tin:  toil  llittl  III!  ilnlly  \x,tit, 
An  111!  fi!i:l/ly  tiirni!il  tin;  tjirily  wli<!/:l, 

Or  iiifi^n'A  at  thi)  wnary  oar  ; 


Winn  I  nii!ai-,iiri'l  tin!  )Kintln«  i!oiirit<:r'ii  n]if^:<t, 

Tin-  llinlit  of  till!  i!arri.!i  ilovo, 
Alt  llnty  l/ori!  till:  law  a  kin«  i1i;'.tm:'1, 

Or  tin-  lini:(i  «f  ini|iatii;nt  lovi', 
I  ':onl<l  liiit  think  liow  tlii:  world  woiil'l  I'mI, 

A«  tlliiiV:  wi:|i:  oi(li',tri|»|ii:'l  "far, 
WIk'Ii  I  nlioulil  I/.:  l/oiiml  Ui  tin:  iiuJiin^  ki!i:l, 

Or  i:liaini:il  to  tlji;  (ly)n;(  ';ar. 


O  l/roail-anni!(l  fintiiir  of  tlio  ili'Cp,  wliow!  ii\KirU 

can  i'i|iial  tliini:  ? 
Till!  l>ol|)l)in  wcif^liB  a  tlioiiwanil  toni!  tliat  tn/^n 

thy  i:al>li:  llni:  J 
Anil  hinht  tiy  night 'tl«  thy  r|i]ip;ht,  thy  </loiy  I 

ilay  l,y  ilay,  I 

ThroU({li  »!il)li:  l«;a  aii'l   hri'akcr  whili-,  tin:  j/ianl 

(^atni'  to  |)Iay  ;  | 

I'.ut,   Hliaini:r   of  our  lltlli:  B|)ortD !   for;{ivi)  tin- 

name  I  <(avi:,  -  -  '  a     i  ■        i     ■  ,  .  i       i       .      ■  i 

A  fkhiir'i.  joy  k  to  <li-«troy,  thine  oltlci:  i«  U,  mv..  I  ^"l'  '  7"''";''  '"  '">'  "','"""  ''•'"'  "  '•'"""I'-''  ''''^"' 
0  loilrrin  tin- i.i:a-kinx'«hall«,i;-,n|ih,t  thou  hut    ,   ^'"'  '""«'""'  '"  '">',"""  ^'""P^"'' 

<),  thi:n  yi:  ii;iw  a  won'iroiin  'Inin^^i: 

On  till;  larth  ami  occnn  wl'li:. 


(la  !  ha  !  ha!  Ihoy  fouml  nn:  at  l;«t, 
Thi:y  invit^:il  nn;  loith  at  hnjjth, 


uniliirntatnl 
Whom:  Ix:  tin:  whiti-  honn'i  hy  thy  h'uU:,  or  who 

that  ilri|i|iiiij{  Ixtinl, 
Hlow  HWiiy'inif  in  tin;  imiviun  wavi!»  th.it  rounil 

ahoilt  thi:i:  Iwnil, 
Willi  Koufnln  llki)  l/ri;aki;r»!  in  a  ilii;;tiri,  l)Ii:!N)iif( 

tln;ir  ani;i<;iit  frii:)nl  ; 
O,  wulilot  thou   know  what  hcrofto  ({Ihli:  with]'''''""    "l""™- 'wv"  .Vi'l'''''  t" 

largw  HU;\m  roiiml  thi«,  '•'''"  ^orlil,  tin;  woiLI  U  iniin:  • 

Thlin;  iron  oi-li;  woiil-l  hw.W  with  piiih:  ;  thou  '-l«t. ' ''"'"'  ''''"'''' ''"'  "»»  ''"'''  '""'"'"•t  ''I'"'-. 

li;a|i  within  thi;  («;a  !  I      "''  'h'/w;  wln;ri:  hU  liftannt  iii:i:\Uii; 

j  'Hn;  «i-inl  Btri-ania  of  tin;  i|Ui:i;nly  Wi.fit, 

01v<:  honor  U,  tlit-lr  rrn;niorii;«  who  left  tho  jJi-sb-        '"  "'"  '"'"'"'■  """'''  '''"'""• 

ant  ntranil 
To  ahwl  thi;ir  hlwi'l   m>  freely  for  the  love  of   ''''"'  '"■'■""  I"''"'"  wherever  I  ;.Wi:e|) 

fathrjrlaml.  -  i     '''"  '"='"'  '"^  »1>'""!{I''  royii''^^ 

Who  left  their  ehanee  of  ijiiiet  ufio.  ami  ^KoiKy    ^•"'  "i""«t':'«  "ft'"'  '"'"y  '''«!' 

ehurehyanl  «rav«  '  I      ''"^-r  treinhllri({  at  niy  voiee. 

Hi,  fr<!i;ly  for  a  rft«tlm   he-l   ami/l   the  uxisinff    ' ''""y ''"•  ■"'•"'"'"'""=''"'' "''""'^''' 

The  thoujir,ht»  "f  hia  gixlliki;  niiinl ; 


Where  now  niy  liery  aiiniei  riinjre, 
Nor  wait  for  wiml  or  liile  1 

Hiirrah  !  hurrah  '.  the  v/ati-ra  o'er, 
The  nioiintain'it  nU-i:\i  ileeline  ; 

my  [Kiy/nr; 


ry-.- 


wave  ; 
O,   tlioiif(h  our  anchor  may  not   he  all    I    have 

fomlly  «un({, 
Honor  him   for  their  memory  whow)  Ix/neii  he 

liniM  ainonpr  I 

hahuki,  MnuiUw/x, 


The  win'l  l-'iKi  aft«r  my  j^oin^  forth, 
The  li«hlnin«  U  left  hehiinl. 

In  the  ihirkwjine  il'-|/th))  of  the  fathoinleiw  mine 
My  tirelenD  arm  iloth  jil.iy. 


^ 


©- 


502 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LAHuR. 


-n 


AVhei-o  the  rooks  ne"or  saw  the  sun's  dctfliuo  I  Ho  tlie  true  niler  luiJ  oouquoroi-,  ho  tlio  tiuo 


Or  the  dawn  of  the  gh^rious  day  ; 
1  bring  earth's  glittonng  jewels  ui) 

Fivm  the  hidden  oaves  below. 
And  1  make  the  l'o\intaiu's  gi-anite  oup 

With  a  orystal  gush  o'erflow. 

1  blow  the  bellows,  1  forge  the  steel, 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade  ; 
1  hammer  the  on>  and  turn  the  wheel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made  ; 
I  manage  the  fiunaoe,  the  mill,  the  mint, 

1  oarry,  1  spin,  1  weave. 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print 

On  every  &\tui\lay  eve. 

1  've  no  muscles  to  weary,  no  brains  to  decay, 

If  0  bones  to  be  laid  on  the  shelf. 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  go  and  play, 

AVliilo  I  manage  the  world  myself. 
But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands. 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein, 
For  1  soorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands 

As  the  tempest  soorns  the  chain. 

OEOKGE  W.  CUTVEl 


LABOR  SONG. 


FROM  "THE  EELL-FOVNDEK." 


fe- 


Ah  !  little  they  know  of  true  happiness,  they 

wlunn  satiety  tills, 
Who,  Hung  on  the  rich  breast  of  lu.xury,  eat  of 

the  raukness  that  kills. 
All !  little  they  know  of  the  blessedness  toil- 

purehased  slumlier  enjoys 
Who,  stivtohcil  on  the  hare!  rack  of  indolence, 

taste  of  the  sleep  that  destreys  ; 
Nothing  to  hoiie  for,  or  labor  for ;  nothing  to 

sigh  for,  or  gain  ; 
Nothing  to  light  in  its  vividness,  lightning-like, 

bosom  and  brain  ; 
Nothing  to  break  life's  monotony,  rippling  it  o'er 

with  its  breath : 
Nothing  but  duUne.-is  and  lethai-gi,-,  we.ii-iuess, 

sorrow,  and  death  ! 

But  blesskl  that  child  of  humanity,  happiest  man 
among  men. 

Who,  with  hammer  or  chisel  or  pencil,  with  rud- 
der or  plowshare  or  ]wn, 

Uiboreth  ever  and  ever  with  ho|H;  through  the 
morning  of  life. 

Winning  houio  and  its  darling  di%-inities, — love- 
woi^ijied  children  and  wife. 

Bound  swings  the  hammer  of  industry,  quickly 
the  sharp  chisel  rings. 

And  the  heart  of  the  toiler  has  throblnngs  that 
stir  not  the  bosom  of  kings,  — 


king  of  his  race 
Who  nerveth  his  arm  for  life's  comliat,  and  looks 
the  strong  world  in  the  faoe. 

DE.N»^s  Florence  MaoCarthv. 


A  LANCASHIRE  DOXOLOGY. 

t"  Some  coUi'H  lus  Ulcly  been  iiupo[t<»l  into  F-ArringvioH.  where 
the  milU  have  been  closet!  for  .•»  cousl(ler.-\blc  lime  The  people, 
who  were  previously  in  the  deet>cit  distress,  wem  i»ut  to  meet  the 
cotton  ;  the  women  wept  over  the  Utles  fln\l  kissetl  then),  antt 
tinally  sans  the  tXixologj"  o\T;r  them."— ^frvAtlt'r  of  May  14.  >805.I 

"  Pkaise  GckI  from  whom  all  blessings  How," 
Praise  him  who  sendeth  joy  and  woe. 
The  Lore!  who  takes,  the  Loi\l  who  gives, 
0  praise  him,  all  that  dies,  and  lives. 

He  opens  and  he  shuts  his  hand, 
But  why  we  cannot  undei'stand  : 
Poui-s  and  dries  up  his  mereies'  flood, 
And  yet  is  still  All-ix'rfect  Oooti. 

We  fathom  not  the  mighty  plan. 
The  mystery  of  God  and  man  ; 
We  women,  when  alHictions  come. 
We  only  sufl'er  and  are  dumb. 

And  when,  the  tempest  passing  by, 
He  gleams  out,  sunlikc,  through  our  sky, 
We  look  up,  and  through  black  clouds  riven 
We  recognize  the  smile  of  Heaven. 

Oni-s  is  no  wisilom  of  the  wise. 
We  have  no  deep  philosophies  ; 
Childlike  we  take  botli  kiss  and  rod, 
For  he  who  loveth  kiioweth  Ood. 

Dl.VAlt  MlLOCK  CRAIK. 


TO  LABOR  IS  TO  FRAY. 

Pavsk  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  ; 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  carets  that  comeo'cr  us ; 
Hark  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 

rnintennitting,  goes  up  into  heaven ! 
Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flowing  ; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  ivse  heart  keeixs  glow- 
ing. 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"  Labor  is  worship  !  "  the  i-obin  is  singing; 
"  Labor  is  worehip  !  "  the  wiM  Ix-e  is  ringing  ; 
Listen  !  that  eloipieut  whisjier,  nj>springing. 
Speaks  to   thy  soul  from   out   nature's  i.Ti"t 
heart 


-ff 


f 


LABOR. 


-,()'. 


ra 


y- 


From  the  dark  doiul  flown  the  life-giving  shower; 
From  the  rough  ttod  blows  tlie  soft-ljre.-ithing 

flower ; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  hower  ; 
Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  hi«  part. 

I,;ihor  is  life!  't  ix  the  still  wat';r  faileth  ; 
I'ljenirss  ever  dcspaircth,  bcwaileth  ; 
Keep  the  watch  wound,  or  the  dark  rust  assail- 
eth  ; 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
I.abor  is  glory !  — the  flying  cloud  lightens  ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  bright<;n«  ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens ; 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouUlst  thou  keep  them 
in  tune  ! 

Labor  is  rest  —  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  ns  ; 

Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us ; 

Kest  from  sin-prom[itings  that  ever  entreat  us  ; 
K/;st  from  wojld-sirens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 

Work,  —  and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy 
pillow  ; 

Work,  — thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  bil- 
low ; 

I.ie  not  down  wearied  'neatli  Woe's  weeping  wil- 
low. 
Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will  ! 

Liiljor  is  health  I     Lo,  the  husbandman  reaping. 

How  through   his   vi-in»  goes  the   life-current 
leaping  ! 

How  his  strong  arm  in  itsstahvorth  pride  sweep- 
ing. 
True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides. 

Labor  Is  wealth,  — in  the  sea  the  pearl  groweth  ; 

Rich  the  r(ueen'8  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon  ftow- 
eth; 

From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  bloweth  ; 
Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block  hides. 

l)roop  not,  —  though  shame,  sin,  and   anguish 

are  round  thee  ! 
liravely  fling  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound 

thee  f 
I>ook  to  the  pure  heaven  smiling  beyond  thee ! 
Kest  not  content  in  thy  darkness,  —  a  clod  ! 
Work  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly  ! 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly  ! 
Labor  !  —  all  labor  is  noble  and  holy  ; 
Let  thy  great  deed  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God. 
Frances  s.  Osgood. 


THE  LABORER. 

Toiling  in  the  naked  fields. 
Where  no  bush  a  shelter  yields. 
Needy  Labor  dithering  stands. 
Beats  and  blows  his  numbing  hands, 


And  upon  the  crumping  snows 
.Stamps  in  vain  to  wann  his  toes. 

Though  all 's  in  vain  to  keep  him  warm. 
Poverty  must  brave  tlie  st'jrm. 
Friendship  none  its  aid  to  lend. 
Constant  health  his  only  friend, 
Crantii/g  leave  to  live  in  {Kiin, 
Giving  strength  to  t'lil  in  vain. 

JOH.V  CURB. 


DUTY. 


I  SLEPT  and  dreamed  that  life  was  Beauty  : 
I  woke  and  found  that  life  was  Duty  : 
Was  then  thy  dream  a  shailowy  lie  ? 
Toil  on,  sad  heart,  courageously, 
And  thou  shalt  find  thy  dream  t<'>  be 
A  noonday  light  and  tnith  to  thee. 


TRUE  REST. 

Sweet  is  the  pleasure 
Itself  cannot  spoil ! 

Is  not  true  leisure 
One  with  true  toil  ? 

Thou  that  wouldst  taste  it, 

Still  do  thy  best ; 
Use  it,  not  waste  it,  — 

Else 't  is  no  rest. 

WouMst  behold  beauty 
Near  thee  ?  all  round  ! 

Only  hath  duty 
.Such  a  sight  found. 

Pest  is  not  quitting 

The  busy  career ; 
Rest  is  the  fitting 

Of  self  to  its  sphere. 

'T  is  the  brook's  motion, 
Clear  without  strife. 

Fleeing  to  ocean 
After  its  life. 

Deeper  devotion 

Nowhere  hath  knelt ; 
Fuller  emotion 

Heart  never  felt. 

'T  is  loving  and  serving 
The  highest  and  l)est ; 

'T  is  onwards  I  unswerving,  ■ 
And  tliat  is  true  rest. 


:i 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  uiglit, 
To  each  weary,  toil-worn  wight ! 
Now  the  day  so  sweetly  closes, 
Every  aching  brow  reposes 
Peacefully  till  morning  light. 
Good  night ! 

Home  to  rest ! 
Close  the  eye  and  calm  the  breast ; 
Stillness  through  the  streets  is  stealing 
And  the  watchman's  horn  is  pealing. 
And  the  night  calls  softly,  "  Haste  ! 
Home  to  rest !" 


Sweetly  sleep  ! 

Eden's  breezes  round  ye  sweep 

O'er  the  peace-forsaken  lover 

Let  the  darling  image  hover, 

As  he  lies  in  transport  deep. 

Sweetly  sleep  ! 

So,  good  night ! 

Shuulicr  on  till  morning  light ; 

Sluniljer  till  another  morrow 

Brings  its  stoi-es  of  joy  and  sorrow  ; 

Fearless,  in  the  Father's  sight, 

Slumber  on.     Good  night ! 


t&-- 


-^ 


[&^ 


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^y    ^r—     -4?/       ^  /^i^^ 


///CiTT^    ^-^-^^^t^^U^^^  ^^^'^^^^'^^ 


-a 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


BREATHES  THERE  THE  MAN  — 

Breathes  there  the  man  viith  soul  so  dead 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell  ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  liis  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim. 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concenteied  all  in  self. 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  Wle  dust  from  whence  he  spning, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MY  COUNTRY. 

There  is  a  land,  of  everj'  land  the  pride. 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside. 
Where  brighter  suns  ilispense  .serener  light, 
And  milder  moons  imparadise  the  night ; 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth. 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth  ; 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores. 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair. 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air. 
In  every  clime,  the  magnet  of  his  soul. 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole  ; 
For  in  this  land  of  Heaven's  peculiar  race. 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  grace. 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supjremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  .spot  than  all  the  rest. 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  scepter,  pageantry  and  pride. 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend. 
Here  woman  reigns  ;  the  mother,  daughter,  wife. 
Strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life  : 


In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 
An  angel-guard  of  love  an<l  graces  lie  ; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet. 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 
"Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  lie 

found  ? " 
Art  thou  a  man  ? —  a  patriot  ?  —  look  around  ; 
0,  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  loam. 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home  ! 

Man,  through  all  ages  of  revolving  time. 
Unchanging  man,  in  every  varying  clime, 
Deems  his  own  land  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  bpsi<le  ; 
His  home  the  .spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 

JAIIF.S  MONTGOMERY. 

HOW  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE  — 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed  ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  lingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mold, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  tro<l. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rang  ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray,    . 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 

William  Collins. 


THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME. 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 

With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles. 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  .stan-y  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles. 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear. 

And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story. 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glorv  ! 


C- 


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r    506 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AXD  FREEDOM. 


--a 


The  wife  who  girds  lier  husband's  sword, 

Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word. 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder. 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle. 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle  ! 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief. 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
AVith  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Slieds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor  ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


THE  DEATH  OF  LEONIDAS. 

It  was  the  wild  midnight,  — 
A  storm  was  on  the  sky  ; 
The  lightning  gave  its  light, 
And  the  thunder  echoed  by. 

The  torrent  swept  the  glen. 
The  ocean  lashed  the  shore  ; 
Then  rose  the  Spartan  men, 
To  make  their  bed  in  gore ! 

Swift  from  the  deluged  ground 
Tliree  himdred  took  the  shield  ; 
Then,  silent,  gathered  round 
The  leader  of  the  field  ! 

He  spake  no  warrior  word, 
He  bade  no  trumpet  blow, 
But  the  signal  thunder  roared, 
And  they  rushed  upon  the  foe. 

All  up  the  mountain's  side, 
All  down  the  woody  vale. 
All  by  the  rolling  tide 
Waved  the  Persian  banners  pale. 

And  foremost  from  the  pass. 
Among  the  slumbering  band. 
Sprang  King  Leonidas, 
Like  the  lightning's  living  brand. 

Then  double  darkness  fell, 
And  the  forest  ceased  its  moan  ; 
But  there  came  a  clash  of  steel, 
And  a  distant  dying  groan. 

Anon,  a  trumpet  blew. 
And  a  fiery  sheet  burst  high. 


That  o'er  the  midnight  threw 
A  blood-red  canojiy. 

A  host  glared  on  the  hill ; 

A  host  glared  by  the  bay  ; 

But  the  Greeks  rushed  onward  still. 

Like  leopards  in  theii-  play. 

The  air  was  all  a  yell. 
And  the  earth  was  all  a  flame, 
Where  the  Siiartan's  bloody  steel 
On  the  silken  turbans  came  ; 

And  stQl  the  Greek  rushed  on 
Where  the  fiery  torrent  rolled. 
Till  like  a  rising  sun 
Shone  Xerxes'  tent  of  gold. 

They  found  a  royal  feast, 
His  midnight  bauipiet,  there  ; 
And  the  treasures  of  the  East 
Lay  beneath  the  Doric  spear. 

Then  sat  to  the  repast 
The  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 
That  feast  must  be  their  last. 
That  spot  mast  be  their  grave. 

Up  rose  the  glorious  rank. 
To  Greece  one  cup  poured  high, 
Then  hand  in  hand  they  drank, 
"To  immortality  ! " 

Fear  on  King  Xer.ves  fell. 
When,  like  spirits  from  the  tomb, 
With  shout  and  trampet  knell, 
He  saw  the  warriors  come. 

But  dovra  swept  all  his  power. 
With  chariot  and  with  charge  ; 
Down  poured  the  arrows'  shower. 
Till  sank  the  Spartan  targe. 

Thus  fought  the  Greek  of  old  ! 
Thus  wiU  he  fight  again  ! 
Shall  not  the  selfsame  mold 
Bring  forth  the  selfsame  men  ? 

GEORGE  crolv. 


PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA. 

Tn  ts  was  the  ruler  of  the  land 

"When  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame  ; 

This  was  the  light  that  led  the  band 
When  each  was  like  a  living  flame  ; 

The  center  of  earth's  noblest  ring,  — 

Of  more  than  men,  the  more  tlian  king 


4 


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FUEMU   OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


507    4^ 


B- 


Yet  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  sjiear, 
His  sovereignt}'  was  held  or  won  : 

Feared —  but  alone  as  freemen  fear, 
Loved —  but  as  freemen  love  alone, 

He  waved  the  scepter  o'er  his  kind 

By  Nature's  fli'st  great  title  —  miml  ! 

Resistless  words  were  on  his  tongue,  — 
Then  eloquence  first  flashed  below  ; 

Full  armed  to  life  the  portent  sprung,  — 
Minerva  from  the  thunderer's  brow  ! 

And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand 

That  shook  her  iegis  o'er  the  laud. 

And,  throned  immortal  by  his  side, 
A  woman  sits  with  eye  sublime,  — 

Aspasia,  all  his  spirit's  bride  ; 

But,  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 

Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage,  — 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darkened  age. 

He  perished,  but  his  wreath  was  won,  — 
He  perished  in  his  height  of  fame  ; 

Then  sunk  the  cloud  on  Athens'  sun. 
Yet  still  she  conquered  in  his  name. 

Filled  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die  ; 

Her  couquest  was  posterity  ! 

George  crolv. 


HORATIUS  AT  THE  BRIDGE. 

Laks  Poksena  of  Clusium, 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it. 

And  named  a  trysting-day. 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth. 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north. 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  towm  and  eottnc;e 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

"Who  lingers  in  his  home, 
AVhen  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome  ! 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets. 

The  wisest  of  the  land. 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand. 
Evening  and  mom  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er. 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore  ; 


And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given  ; 
' '  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena,  — 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven  ! 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome. 
And  hang  round  Nurseia's  altai-s 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome  ! " 

And  now  hath  every  citj'' 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men  ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array  ; 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Poi-sena 

Upon  the  trysting-day. 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpcian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day. 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat. 

When  that  ill  new's  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

ITp  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  thcii-  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council,  standing 

Before  the  River-gate  ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly  : 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  : 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying. 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear  : 
"To  arms  !  to  arms  !  Sir  Consul,  — 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye. 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fa.st  along  the  sky. 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad. 
And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 

And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall. 
And  darkly  at  the  fiie  : 


-^ 


&:■ 


Fh 


OS 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FBEEDiLM. 


' '  Their  van  will  bo  upon  us 

Before  tlie  bridge  goes  clown  ; 
Anil  if  tliey  once  may  win  tlio  bridge, 

Wliat  hope  to  save  the  town  .'" 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  gate  : 
"To  every  man  upon  tiiis  earth 

1  )eath  cometli  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  iishes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods, 

"And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wil'e  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast. 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame,  — 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

"Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me. 

Will  liold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  you  strait  patli  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  thi-ee  : 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius,  — 

A  Ivumuiiui  proud  was  he  : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  witli  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Hermiuius,  — 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
"  1  will  abide  on  thy  left  side. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

The  three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose  ; 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

IJetbre  that  deep  array  ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew. 
And  lifted  liigh  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

Annus,  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the'  Hill  of  Vines  ; 
And  .Seius,  wliose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines  ; 
And  Pieus,  long  to  Clusium 


fr*- 


Vassal  m  peace  and  wai', 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  ci-ag  wliere,  girt  with  towers. 
The  fortress  of  Neqiunum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath  ; 
Hermiuius  struck  at  Seius, 

Aud  clove  him  to  the  teeth  ; 
At  I'icus  brave  Honitius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust, 
Aud  the  proud  UmbriiUi's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  three  ; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea  ; 
And  Aruus  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar,  — 
The  great  wild  lioar  tliat  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosii's  fen, 
Aud  wasted  fiehls,  and  slaughtered  men, 

Along  .iVlbinia's  shore. 

Hermiuius  smote  down  Aruns  ; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  ; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow  : 
"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mai'k 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark  ; 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  aud  caverns,  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accui-sM  sail  I  " 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes  ; 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Si.'c  spears'  length  from  the  entrance. 

Halted  that  mighty  mass, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  pass. 

But,  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur : 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide  ; 
And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  hold  Romans, 
A  smile  serene  and  high  ; 


-^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


509   H^ 


f&-- 


He  eyed  tlie  ttinclung  Tubcaus, 

And  scoru  was  in  liis  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she-woll's  litter 

.Stand  savagely  at  bay  ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?" 

Then,  whuling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  aud  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  tuiiied  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh  ; 
It  missed  his  hehn,  but  gashed  his  thigli. 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  How. 

He  reeled,  and  on  Heriuiuius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space. 
Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth  and  skull  aud  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped. 
The  good  sword  stood  a  handbreadth  out 

Belrind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke. 
As  falls  on  Mount  Averuus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 
Far  o'er  the  ci'ashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread  ; 
Ainl  the  pale  augui-s,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  bla.sted  head. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel. 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
"And  see,"  he  cried,  "the  welcome. 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  ne.\t 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ? " 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran. 
Mingled  with  wi-ath  and  shame  and  dread. 

Along  that  glittering  van. 
There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Xor  men  of  lordly  race, 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  tlie  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earih  the  bloody  corpses. 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  three  ; 


And  from  the  ghastly  entrance. 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
jUl  shrank,  —  like  boys  who,  unaware. 
Ranging  a  wood  to  stait  a  hare. 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 
Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack  ; 
But  those  behind  cried  "Forward  !  " 

And  those  before  cried  "  Back  !  " 
And  backward  now  aud  forward 

AVavers  the  deep  antiy  ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel, 
Aud  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Sti'ode  out  before  the  crowd  ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  three. 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud  : 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Se.xtus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  liome  I 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome. " 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city  ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead  ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

Aud  thrice  turned  back  in  dread  ; 
And,  white  with  fear  aud  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  |)0ol  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  ax  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied  ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !  " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all,  — 
"Back,  Lartius  I  back,  Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  !  " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius,  — 

Herminius  darted  back  ; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces. 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone. 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more  ; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam. 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  ; 


^ 


f 


510 


roHMS  OK  I'A'ni20Tl&M  AyV  FUJiEliOM. 


-n 


t 


And  a  laHjj  shout  rf  tiiuiuph 
luvse  ftvm  tlif  walls  of  Hoiur, 

Ai  to  the  hijchost  tuvivt-tojvs 
Was  sjJashtnl  th<>  jvHow  loam. 

And  Uko  a  hoi-so  uuluv>ko«, 

Whou  fii-st  h<»  tWJs  tlio  iviu, 
Thf  fuviovis  rivor  st^'t»J^l<^l  hai\l. 

Ami  tvwstHl  his  tawny  uiani\ 
Ainl  bui-st  the  ourK  a>ul  Knmdwl, 

Kojoiv'ui^  to  l«  f»?«< ; 
Ami  \v)>i>luvjj  do\v«,  iu  lio>\ti  oartHxr, 
liattlomout  and  {Jaiik  aiul  jvver, 

Kudirtl  headlong  to  the  st<tk. 

Alouo  stotnl  brave  Horatius, 

l>«t  wiistaiit  still  in  wind,  — 
Thviw  thiviy  thonsixiul  Ivh's  K-fore, 

And  the  UwMid  llovxl  Ivhiud, 
"  Down  with  him  ! "  mievl  fsUso  Sextus, 

With  a  snule  on  his  (vJe  liu-<> ; 
"  Sow  yield  thet\"  evi<\l  Uu-s  Foiiseua, 

"  Nvw  yield  thee  to  o>«-  gi'aw  ! " 

Kov\ud  turneil  he,  as  not  deiguiug 

Those  OKivea  jtu>ks  to  si<<> ; 
Nansht  s{\>ko  he  to  l^vs  l\>rsena. 

To  Sextus  naught  sjv>ke  he  ; 
15\»t  he  saw  oj»  iSUatinvis 

The  white  poi-eh  of  his  home  ; 
And  he  sjwke  to  the  noWe  river 

That  >\xlls  by  the  towetis  of  Kome  : 

"  0  Til«er !  Father  'Hlw ! 

To  whou\  the  Komans  i>i-ay, 
A  Koi\>au's  life,  a  Koinim's  arms. 

Take  thou  in  ohai-g<<  this  day  ! " 
So  he  si>ako,  and,  sjH\>fciug,  sheathtxl 

The  g\xxl  swonl  by  his  side. 
And,  with  his  harness  lUi  his  l>ack, 

riimg«Hl  he!>dlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heai\l  fivni  either  Ivxuk, 
But  tViends  and  fo^^s  in  dumb  suri>ri»e. 
With  jwrtevl  lijvs  and  sti-ainiug  ey<>s, 

Stoinl  g^siug  wheiv  he  sjuik  ; 
Aud  when  above  the  sw'ges 

They  si»w  his  cr«st  aj<pear. 
All  Kvnxte  sent  forth  a  j'apturous  ery, 
Aud  even  the  ranks  of  l\iseauy 

Could  sosuve  forl>ear  to  cheer. 

Bxit  fiercely  ran  the  ouiivut. 
Swollen  high  by  months  of  Kiiu ; 

And  fast  his  Wood  was  flowing, 
And  he  was  sotv  in  twin. 


Aud  he!>vy  with  his  armor, 

Aud  si*ut  with  ehiuigiug  blows  ; 

Aud  oft  they  thought  him  sinking. 
But  still  ag!iiu  he  l\vse. 

Never,  1  wwu,  did  swi\nmer. 

In  sueh  an  evil  case. 
Struggle  thivugh  suoh  a  mgiug  lloo»l 

Safe  to  the  lanvliug-idaiv  ; 
But  his  limKs  weiv  Unue  uji  Imwely 

By  the  U«ve  hwut  within, 
.\ud  our  gi>od  Father  'lllvr 

Baiv  teively  u\>  his  ohiu. 

"  Cui'st)  on  him  ! "  ^uoth  false  Sextus,  — 

•'  Will  not  the  villain  d>\n\u  ; 
But  foi-  this  stiiy,  ejv  ehwe  of  >liiy 

Wo  sliould  have  saekc^l  the  towu  ! " 
"  Hiv»vei\  helj>  him  !  "  quoth  Uire  Poreena, 

"And  la'iug  hiu»  siU'e  to  slioiv  ; 
For  sueh  a  gitllaut  feat  of  arms 

AVas  never  seou  K-foiv." 

And  now  he  I'wls  the  lHittv>m  ; 

Kow  on  dry  wuth  he  stands  ; 
Now  ivuud  him  thwvng  the  Fathei-s 

To  jvre«s  his  gory  hands  ; 
And  now,  with  slumts  and  elaj^juug, 

Aud  luuso  of  w«>)«ug  loud. 
He  entei-s  thivugh  the  Kiw»--gate, 

Bonie  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gsivc  hint  of  tl\e  corn-land. 

That  was  of  jiuUie  right. 
As  much  as  two  stivug  oxen 

Could  \Jow  I'lvm  utorn  till  uisjht : 
Aud  they  made  a  molten  image. 

And  !iet  it  up  on  high.  — 
And  ther«i  it  stands  unto  tliis  day 

To  witue.^s  if  1  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitixuu, 

riain  for  all  folk  to  see,  — 
Horatius  in  his  harness. 

Halting  Uix<n  oiu'  kiuv  ; 
And  underneath  is  written, 

lu  lettci-sallofgold. 
How  valiantly  ho  kept  the  luiilgo 

In  the  l«t»ve  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Vnto  the  men  of  Uoiue, 
As  the  trnmiH>t-blivst  that  cries  to  them 

To  chai-gt*  the  Volsciau  home  ; 
And  wives  -still  iflt>y  to  Jxino 

Fw  Wys  with  hearts  as  Kild 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge*  s>»  we"l 

lu  the  bravt<  davs  of  old. 


-S 


I'OEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


:^ 


511 


Aiid  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

W)ien  the  cold  north-winds  l>low, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow  ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottago 

lioars  loud  the  tenij^est's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

lioar  louder  yet  within  ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened. 

And  the  largest  lainji  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

iVnd  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And.  the  lads  are  shajiing  bows  ; 

When  the  goodiuan  mends  hLs  annor. 

And  trims  his  lielmct's  jdume  ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  menily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom  ; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  tlie  story  told, 
ilow  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Thomas  Bajjincto.v  Macaulav. 


SEMPROMUS'S  SPEECH  FOR  WAR. 

My  voice  is  still  for  war. 
Gods !  can  a  Roman  senate  long  clebate 
Which  of  the  two  to  choose,  slavery  or  death  ? 
Xo ;  let  us  lise  at  once,  gird  on  our  swords. 
And  at  the  liead  of  our  remaining  troops 
Attack  the  foe,  break  through  the  thick  array 
Of  his  thronged  legions,  and  cliargc  home  upon 

him. 
Perhaps  some  arm,  more  lucky  than  the  rest, 
May  reach  his  heart,  and  free  the  world   from 

bondage. 
Rise  !  Fathers,  ri.se  !  't  is  Rome  demands  your 

help  : 
Rise,  and  revenge  her  slaughtered  citizens. 
Or  share  their  fate  !     The  cor]ise  of  half  her 

.senate 
Manures  the  fields  of  Tliessaly,  while  we 
Sit  here  deliberating,  in  cold  debate. 
If  we  should  sacrifice  our  lives  to  honor, 
Or  wear  them  out  in  servitude  and  chains. 
Rouse  up,  for  shame  !  our  tjrothers  of  Pharsalia 
I'oint  at  their  wounds,  and  cry  aloud,  —  "To 

battle  !  " 
Great  Pompey's  shade  complains  tliat  we  are  slow, 
i\ai  Scipio's  ghost  walks  unrevenged  amongst  us. 


43-.- 


WuEN  the  British  warrior  queen. 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods. 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien. 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 

Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  cliief  ; 
Every  buniing  word  hu  spoke 

FuU  of  rage  and  full  of  grief. 

"  Princess  !  if  our  ageil  eyes 
Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

'T  is  Ijccaiise  resentment  ties 
Ml  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

"  Rome  shall  perLsh  —  write  tliat  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt,  — 

Perish,  hopeless  and  aljhorred. 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

"  Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramides  on  a  thou.sand  .states  ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground,  — 
Hark  !  the  Gaul  is  at  Iier  gates  ! 

"Other  Romans  shall  arise, 
Heedl&ss  of  a  soldier's  name  ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

"Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land. 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings. 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

"  Regions  Ca;sar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway  ; 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew. 

None  invincible  as  they." 

Such  the  bard's  pro])lietic  words. 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride. 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow  ; 

Ru.shed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died,  — 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud. 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due  ; 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed. 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you  ! 

WIIJ_IAM  COWPC 


-- s 


& 


512 


POXMS  OF  PATMIOTISM  A.\l>  FMJiEDOM. 


-fb 


RIKN2I  TO  THls:  ROMANS. 

I  come  not  hei'e  to  talk.     Ye  kuow  too  well 
The  stoi-v  of  our  thi'aldoui.     We  are  slaves ! 
The  blight  sun  vises  to  his  course,  aud  lights 
.\  race  ol"  slaves  !  he  sets,  and  his  last  beam 
FiOls  ou  a  slave  !     Kot  such  as,  swept  along 
Uy  the  full  tide  of  power,  the  toiujuoiw  leads 
To  orimsou  glory  and  vindyiug  tUme, 
r>ut  Ktse,  ignoble  slaves  !  —  slaves  to  a  hoixle 
Of  jwtty  tyrants,  feudal  desix>ts  ;  lojxls 
Kioh  in  some  doicn  jialtry  vilhiges, 
Strong  in  some  hundrevl  sj>eai'men,  only  gi'eat 
In  that  strange  spell,  —  a  name !     Each  horn', 

dark  fraud. 
Or  ofieu  rapine,  or  pixite^'tetl  muuler, 
l\ies  out  against  them,     Bxit  this  very  day 
An  honest  man,  my  neighbor,  —  thei'ehestands,  — 
Wits  struck — struck  like  a  dog — by  one  who 

wore 
The  badge  of  Ursini !  be^-ause,  foi'sooth. 
He  tossevl  not  high  his  ivady  cap  in  air, 
Xor  lift«l  up  his  voice  in  servile  shouts. 
At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian  !     Be  we  men. 
And  suffer  such  dishonor !  men,  and  wash  not 
The  stain  away  in  blowl  <    Such  shames  are  com- 
mon. 
1  have  known  deeper  wrongs.     I,  that  speak  to 

ye  — 
I  havl  a  brother  once,  a  gracious  boy. 
Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  ho{ie, 
Of  sweet  and  ^uiet  joy  ;  there  W!«s  the  look 
Of  Heaven  upon  his  face  which  limners  give 
To  the  belove*!  disciple.     How  I  love<l 
That  gracious  boy  !  younger  by  fifteen  years, 
B»x>ther  at  once  and  son  !     He  left  my  side,  — 
A  summer  bloom  on  his  fair  cheeks,  a  smite 
Farting  his  innocent  lijis.     In  one  short  hour 
T!ie  pretty,  harmless  boy  was  slain  )     1  saw 
The  coi-se,  the  manglei,!  corse,  and  then  1  cried 
For  vengeance  !    Rouse  ye,  Komans  !    Rouse  ye, 

slaves  ! 
Have  ye  brave  sous  ?  —  Look  in  the  next  fierce 

brawl 
To  see  them  die!     Have  ye  fair  daughters?  — 

Lix>k 
To  see  them  li%-e,  torn  from  your  arms,  distaine^l. 
Dishonored  ;  suid,  if  ye  daj-e  call  for  justice. 
Be  auswei-e<.l  by  the  lash  !    Yet  this  is  Rome, 
That  sat  on  her  seven  hills,  and  from  her  throne 
Of  beauty  rule«.l  the  world .'     Yet  we  are  Komans ! 
Why,  in  that  elder  day,  to  be  a  Rotuau 
Was  greater  than  a  king  '.    And  once  again  — 
Hear  me,  ye  walls,  that  echoed  to  the  tread 
Of  either  Brutus  I  —  once  again,  1  swear. 
The  eternal  city  shall  be  free  ! 

.MARY  KUSSBIL   MITFORD.       [ 


BKUC£  AHV  TH£  SFIDKK. 

FoK  Scotland's  and  for-  freeilom's  right 

The  Bruce  his  jwrt  had  jilayeil. 
In  five  snci-essive  fields  of  fight 

lieeu  coiujuered  and  dismayeil  ; 
Ouce  more  against  the  Eiiglisli  hiwt 
His  K»nd  he  linl,  and  once  more  Uwt 

The  meed  for  which  he  fovight ; 
And  now  from  battle,  faint  and  worn. 
The  homeless  fugitive  forlorn 

A  hut's  lone  slielter  sought. 

And  cheerless  was  that  I'esting-place 

For  him  who  claime<l  a  throne  : 
His  canopy,  devoid  of  grace. 

The  nule,  ix>ngh  beajus  alone  ; 
The  heather  conch  his  only  Wl,  — 
Y'et  well  1  ween  had  slumber  tW 

From  couch  of  eidei--down  1 
Through  darksome  night  till  dawn  of  day, 
Absorlievl  in  wakeful  thoughts  he  lay 

Of  Scotland  and  her  crown. 

The  sun  rose  brightly,  and  its  gleam 

Fell  on  that  hajJess  betl, 
And  tingetl  with  light  each  shaj>ele«s  beam 

Which  a>ofetl  the  lowly  stie<.l ; 
AVhen,  looking  up  with  wistful  eye. 
The  Bruce  belield  a  spider  try 

His  filmy  thread  to  tliug 
From  lieam  to  t>ean»  of  that  rude  cot ; 
And  well  the  insect's  toilsome  lot 

Taivght  Scotland's  future  king. 

Six  times  his  gosssunery  thread 

The  wary  spider  threw  ; 
In  vain  the  filmy  line  was  sped. 

For  }x)werless  or  untrue 
Each  aim  appeaivil,  and  back  i^ecoiled 
The  jvatient  iusei-t,  six  times  foiled. 

And  yet  nno-mnuered  still  ; 
And  soon  the  Bl'uce,  with  eager  eye, 
Saw  him  prepare  om-e  more  to  try 

His  courage,  strength,  and  skill. 

One  effort  more,  his  seventh  and  last  ; 

The  hero  hailevl  the  sign  ! 
And  ou  the  wishevl-for  beam  hung  fast 

That  slender,  silken  line  ! 
Slight  as  it  was,  his  spirit  caught 
The  more  than  omen,  for  his  thought 

The  lesson  well  could  trace. 
Which  even  "he  who  runs  may  i-ead," 
That  Perseverance  gains  its  meevl. 

And  Patience  wins  the  race. 

Ber.nak:i  >uri\>n- 


c:u. 


■^ 


e-^- 


POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


il3 


■a 


BANNOCKBURN. 

At  IJannockljurn  the  English  lay, — 
The  Scots  they  were  na  far  away, 
But  waited  lor  the  break  o'  day 
Tliat  glinted  in  the  east. 

But  soon  the  sun  broke  through  tlic  heatli 
And  lighted  up  that  field  o'  death. 
When  Bruce,  wi'  saul-insjiiring  breath, 
His  heralds  thus  addressed  :  — 

"  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  olteu  led, 
AVelconie  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  glorioiui  victory ! 

"  Kow  's  the  day,  and  now  's  the  hour  ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour  ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  [xjwer,  — 
Edward  !  chains  and  slavery ! 

"  Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sac  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor  !  coward  !  turn  and  flee  ! 

'*  Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Caledonia  !  on  wi'  me  ! 

"  By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  tliey  sliall  Ijc — shall  l>e  free  ! 

"  Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
TjTants  fall  in  every  foe  I 
Liberty  s  in  every  blow ! 

Forward  !  let  us  do,  or  die  '." 

KOBERT  Burns. 


LOCHIEUS  WARNING. 


t 


WIZARD.  -  LOCHIEL. 


LocHlEL,  Loehiel  I  beware  of  the  day 

AVhen  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle 

array, 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight. 
And  the  clans  of  CuUoden  are  scattered  in  fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,   for  their  kingdom  and 

crown. 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down  ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain. 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the 

plain. 


But  liark  !  through   the  fast-Hashing   lightning 

of  war. 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
"r  is  thine,  O  Glenullin  I  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the 

gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin  !  to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
0,  weep  i  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead ; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  CuUoden  shall  wave, 
CuUoden  !  tliat  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  bi-ave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go,   jireach  to  the  coward,   thou   death-telling 

seer ! 
Or,  if  gory  CuUoden  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 


Ha  !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be 

torn  ! 
Say,  rushed  the  Ixild  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of  the 

noith ! 
Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeedin;.',  he 

rode 
Comjiauionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  liavoc  on  high  ! 
Ah!  home  let  him  speed,  —  for  the  sjKiiler  is 

nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?    Why  shoot  to  the 

blast 
Those  cmljers,  Uke  stars  from  the  firmament  ca.st  ? 
'T  is  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  aU  dreailfully  driven 
From  his  eyrj',   that   beacons  the  darkness  of 

heaven. 
0  crested  Lochiel !  the  jxjerless  in  might. 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height. 
Heaven's  fire  Is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  '.  all  lonely  return  ' 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it 

stood. 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing 

broofl. 

LOCHIEL. 

False  Wizard,  avaunt !  I  ha  ve  marshaled  my  clan. 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are 

one  1 
Tliey  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their 

breath. 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then   welcome   be   Cumberland's   steed    to   tlie 

sliock  ! 


--& 


Let  liim  dash  his  proud  loam  like  a  wave  on  the 

rook  ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud. 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tiirtau  array  — 


—  Lochiel,  Lochiel  !  beware  of  the  day ; 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  1  may  seal. 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
'T  is  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
1  tell  thee,  CuUoden's  dread  echoes  sliall  ring 
With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive 

king. 
Lo !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  phials  of  wrath, 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path ! 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my 

sight  — 
liise,  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 
'T  is  finished.    Their  thnnders  are  hushed  on  the 

moors. 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores, 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  !     Where  ? 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and 

torn  ■ 
Ah  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  ; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling  ;  0  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  tliat  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell  ! 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs. 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 
Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet. 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases  to 

beat, 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale — 


—  Down,  soothless  insulter !  I  trust  not  the  tale ; 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet, 
.So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat  ! 
Though  my  perishing  i-anks  should  be  strewed  in 

their  gore. 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the 

foe; 
And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name. 
Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of 

fame  ! 

THOMAS  Campbell. 


0  C.iLEDOxi.i  !  stern  and  wild, 

Jleet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  Hood, 

Land  of  my  sires  !  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand  ? 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene. 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been. 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left ; 

And  thus  I  love  them  better  still. 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  mo  stray. 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feclile  way  ; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break. 

Although  it  chilled  my  withered  cheek  ; 

Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  stone. 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone. 

The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

siK  \valter  Scott. 


MACGREGOR'S  GATHERING. 

(These  verses  are  ncbpted  to  a  very  wild,  yet  lively,  jjathering 
tune,  used  by  the  Macgrcgors.  The  severe  treatuieut  of  this  clan, 
their  outlawry,  and  the  proscription  of  their  very  name,  are  alluded 
to  in  the  ballad.] 

The  moon 's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist 's  on  the 

brae, 
And  the  clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  day  ; 

Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Gregalach  I 

Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 

Our  signal  for  fight,  that  from  monarehs  we  drew. 
Must  be  heard  but  by  night  in  our  vengeful  haloo ! 

Then  haloo,  Gregalach  !  haloo,  Gregalach  ! 

Haloo,  haloo,  haloo,  Gregalach,  etc. 

Glen  Orchy's  proud  mountains,  Coalchuirn  and 

her  towers, 
Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon  no  longer  are  ours  : 

We  'relandless,  landless,  landless,  Gregalach ! 

Landless,  landless,  landles.s,  eU: 

But  doomed  and  devoted  by  vassal  and  lord  ; 
Macgregor  has  still  both  his  heart  and  his  sword  ! 

Then  courage,  courage,  courage,  Gregalach ! 

Courage,  courage,  courage,  etc. 

If  they  rob  us  of  name,  and  pui-sue  us  with  beagles. 
Give  their  roofs  to  the  flame,  and  their  flesh  to 
the  eagles ! 
Then    vengeance,     vengeance,     vengeance, 

Gregalach  ! 
Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  etc. 


-^ 


fl- 


PUEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


515 


-a 


U^ 


While  there 's  leaves  in  the  forest,  and  foam  on 

the  river, 
Macgregor,  despite  theni,  shall  flourisli  forever  ! 
Come  then,   Gregalach  !  come  then,  Grega- 

lach  ! 
Come  then,  come  then,  come  then,  etc. 

Through  the  depths  of  Loch  Katrine  tlie  steed 

shall  career. 
O'er  the  peak  of  Ben  Lomond  the  galley  shall 

steer. 
And  the  rocks  of  Craig- Royston  like  icicles  melt. 
Ere  our  wrongs  be  forgot  or  our  vengeance  uufelt ! 
Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Gregalach  ! 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MY  COUNTRY. 

FROM   "THE  T1.MEP1ECE." 

England,  with  all  tliy  faults,  I  love  thee  still,  — 
My  country  !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  left 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found. 
Shall  be  constrained  to  love  thee.     Tliough  thy 
/         clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  jiart  deformed 
With  dripping  lains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies. 
And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  wanner  France 
With  all  her  vines  ;  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage  and  her  myrtle  bowers. 
To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  height  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  fl:ish  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task  : 
But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  soitows  with  as  true  a  lieart 
As  any  thunderer  there.     And  I  can  feel 
Thy  follies  too  ;  and  with  a  just  disdain 
Frown  at  effeminates  whose  very  looks 
Reflect  dishonor  on  the  land  I  love. 
How,  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense. 
Should  England  prosper,  when  sucli  things,  as 

smooth 
And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenced  o'er 
With  odors,  and  as  profligate  as  .sweet, 
Wlio  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 
And  love  when  they  shoiiItTfight,  —  when  such 

as  these 
Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark 
Of  lier  magnificent  ami  awful  cause  ? 
Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 
In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 
That  we  were  born  her  children.     Praise  enough 
To  fill  the  ambition  of  a  jn'ivate  man, 
That  Cliatham's  language  was  his  mother  tongue, 
And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 
William  Cowper. 


THE  LAND  OF  LAlfDS. 

Yotr  ask  me  why,  thougli  ill  at  ease, 

Within  this  region  I  subsist, 

Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  nu'st, 
And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 
Tliat  sober-suited  Freedom  chose  ; 
The  land  where,  girt  with  friends  or  foe.s, 

A  man  may  speak  tlie  thing  he  will  : 

A  land  of  settled  government, 
A  land  of  just  and  old  renown. 
Where  freedom  broadens  slowly  down, 

From  precedent  to  precedent  : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head  ; 
But,  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought. 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime. 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Though  power  should  make,  from  land  to  land. 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Though  every  channel  of  the  state 

Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth. 
Wild  wind  !  I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  1  will  see,  before  I  die. 

The  palms  and  tem]iles  of  the  South. 


RULE  BRITANNIA  I 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command. 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  tlie  charter  of  the  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sung  this  strain  : 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  ! 
For  Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 

Must,  in  their  turns,  to  tyrants  fall ; 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  ilread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule,  Britannia  '.  etc. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 

As  the  loud  blasts  that  tear  the  skies 
Serve  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule,  Britannia  !  etc. 


^ 


©-: 


5H> 


rouMs  or  i'ArmoTi&M  Asn  FUJisvoM. 


■^ 


Thtv  liaii^hty  tymiits  up'or  shall  tamo  ; 

All  their  »tl«»iin>ts  tv>  Iwuil  tluv  liowii 
Will  but  ai\i>is<>  tl>,v  j^n\oiv«s  tlaiiu\ 

Aiul  wAxi'k  tlvoir  ww  —  1>»H  thy  ivju>wh. 
Kolc,  IJritiUiuia  !  rtv, 

'IV  lluv  K'U\i>^irs  the  vut-al  ivijju  ; 

Thy  oitiivs  sluUl  with  (\iH\tuoiw  shine  ; 
All  thine  shall  Iw  the  sulyev-t  main, 

Auvl  every  sluwv  it  eiivh-s  thine. 
Knle,  Uritiumia  !  etv\ 

The  Mnsj'*,  still  with  F\-»H\U«n  iVmuil, 

Shall  to  thy  hapi'V  v\v>st  iviviir  ; 
UU^t  Isle  !  with  «\atehless  K'auty  eivwn<\l, 
AnU  manly  h«als  to  j;\ia>\l  the  lair. 
IvuUs  liiitaunia  !  eto, 

J.VJaSiS  rn>.>Msvv\, 


THK  ^Jil'O   l.n-n.K  1SI-\M\ 

l^Ai<i>Y  NKrrfXB,  one  »lay,  to  Wnslom  ilivl  say> 

If  ever  I  livnl  n)xm  vlry  land, 
The  sin>t  I  should  hit  on  wouhi  l>e  little  Britain  ! 
iSays  l'\vt-»lom,  ■•  \V  hy,  that 's  my  own  isltuitl ! " 
f,  it  "s  a  suuj»  little  island  ! 
A  ri^ijht  litths  ti^irht  little  islsuid  ! 
Susxivh  the  gloK>  wund,  none  ea«  W  tovutd 
So  ha|>\>y  as  this  little  island, 

Julius  (.'V«!ur,  the  Kiwnui,  who  yiehUnl  to  no 
man, 
(.\une  l\v  water,  — he  couldn't  ixane  hy  land  ; 
And  l^ie,  Hot,  and  Saxon,  their  honi«$  turuMl 
their  Isxeks  on. 
And  all  for  the  sake  of  our  islai\d. 
O,  what  a  snuj;  little  isliuid  I 
They  'd  all  have  a  touoh  at  the  island  ! 
S*nne  weiv  sliot  dt\-«d,  si>me  of  them  fl<\l. 
And  some  stayxnl  to  live  on  the  islunl. 


Voor  llaixdd,  the  ki\i^  of  our  island  ! 

lie  K^l  lH>tli  his  life  and  his  islan\l. 

That 's  all  verv  true  ;  what  nnnv  eould  he 

do? 

Like  a  Uritou  he  ditnl  for  his  islautl  ! 

The  S|vuiisl>  armada  st>t  ont  to  invade  —  a, 
"T  will  suiv,  if  they  ever  ivme  nij;h  laml. 
They  ivuld  n't  do  U>ss  than  tuek  np  tjluwn  lh>ss, 
And  take  their  l\ill  swinjj  on  the  island, 
1^  the  (vor  <|UtH'n  of  the  i.sluud  ! 
The  IVns  came  to  i>lun>ler  the  islam) ; 
Uut  snujj  in  her  hive  the  nmvn  was  alive. 
And  ••  huts "  was  the  woi\l  of  the  island. 

Thesi'  i>ivn>l  i>ull<Hl-np  cakes  thoujiht  to  n»ake 
ducks  and  ilrakes 
t^f  our  wealth  ;  but  they  hawlly  ivnUl  s|\v  land. 
When  our  Urake  had  the  luck  to  make  their 
j>ride  duck 
.\ml  stvH>i>  to  the  lads  of  the  ishuid  ! 
The  jtvxvl  wiHvlen  walls  of  the  island  ; 
IVvil  or  Oon,  let  them  conu'  on, 
.\iul  s»H>  how  they  \l  come  olf  the  island  ! 

Since  FlxWom  iuui  Kejitune  have  hitherto  kept 
tune. 
In  KKch  saying.  "  This  shall  Iv  n\y  land  "  ! 
Should  the  "Arn>y  of  Vatgljuul,"  or  all  it  iMuld 
bring,  land. 
We  \l  slu>w  "em  sotne  play  for  the  island. 

We'd  light  for  onr  right  to  the  island  ; 
We  'd  give  them  eitough  of  the  island  ; 
I  nvsulers  should  just  —  luteonceat  thedust. 
But  not  a  bit  more  of  the  island. 

TIK>M.\S  OlWMN. 


MONCONTOUK. 


Then 


1:1 


very  grei>t  wai^man 
Nonnan, 
Orievl,  "  Prat  it,  I  nevxT  liked  nry  land. 
It   wovtld  l>e   much   n«\re  han»ly  to  leave  this 
Xonuandy, 
And  liv<<  on  your  b<\'>ntit\il  island." 

Says  he,  '•  Tis  a  snvig  little  island  ; 
Sha'  n't  us  go  visit  the  isl.aiul  * " 
Hoi\  skij\  and  jum\v,  there  he  was  plnm|\ 
And  he  kickcvl  up  a  dust  in  tlie  island. 

But  jvwty  dewit  helix\i  the  Xormans  to  beat  ; 

Of  ti'aitors  they  nian!>g<sl  to  buy  laud  ; 
B\-  V>ju»e,  Saxvui,  ixr  Kct,  liritons  ne'er  had  luseu 
lickcil. 

Had  they  stuck  to  the  king  of  tlieir  island. 


0  WKKP  for  Moncontour  !    l\  we«'p  for  the  hour 
iUled  Billv  the  '  ^Vhen   the  children  of  darkness  and  evil  had 


jvw»<r ; 
When  the  ho\-semeu  of  Valois  triumphantly  tiwl 
On  the  K^svuns  that  blwl  for  their  rights  and 

their  1<ikI. 

0,  wet>p  for  Momxuitour  !    O,  w«vp  for  the  slain 
Who  for  faith  and  for  frctnlom  lay  slanghteiW  in 

vain  ! 
l">,  w«x-p  for  the  living,  who  linger  to  K>ar 
The  r<uuvgade's  sliame  or  the  exile's  despair  ! 

One  hx>k,  one  last  hvk,  to  the  ivts  aiul  the 
tvwers, 
]  To  the  rvws  of  our  viut-s  and  the  K^ls  of  our 
,         fto\v»rs ; 


^ 


jg—- »_Qj 

^-'  I'OKMH  Olf  I'A'nUOTlHM.  ASb  I'lifCKPUM.  TAJ   ^-^ 


'I'll  till;  clitifBh  <n\u!rH  tilt;  Uitu*  of  our  IMiKn  I  An/1  hark  !  Ilk*  tb*  r'>ar  of  th*  \A\\iivi»  oh  th« 

'Iwjaywl,  »li//f<;, 

WW'j   y/<!   foiidly  had  <WH/fl   tliat  '/ur  own  ]  TJi*  cry  '/f  t«ttlft  riwas  iil//n({  tMr  <;l>ar({i/)^  lifo: ; 

*ih//iil>l  t*  lai/L  f (/r  f/'^'l !  hr  tin:  i-jMHh  !  —  Uir  l\iy.  '-huf':h  '  t'/r 

U«;  laws ! 
Ala«  !  w<:  mruit  l<«v<;  tlw*,  'lAar  'l/jj/date  liz/rn*;,     [  f<yr  Cl/arhai,  kiujj  '/f  Knglaii/1,  a«</l  Uufi^rt  of  tli« 
To  tlie  >t]i';iiiiiif.u  of  t'li,  the  i(hav';liii{{»  of  (i//Hj<; ;  Uhi//*  ! 

'I'o  th<!  wrjxiot  of  VUiKiuM,  till:  Kiiltaw  of  Hj/aio  ; 
To  tlu;  j/ri/l«  of  Afijorj,  aij/1  the  guih:  of  ly/rraine,    TItf;  fnrunv/.  (imiinii  '/iiiu-x,  with  hi»  <:Uiri//iw  awl 

I  hi*  <lrar/W(, 

Kar<;w<:ll  t/<  thy  foimtal/w,  funwhW  Ui  thy  tiAiiuhtti,  \  Hi*  hravows  of  Al«itia  af//l  |/'^<ffl  of  'Whit*h»ll  ; 
To  the  viun  of  thy  youtlus,  awl  llu;  'laww  of  thy  ,  Tlj«y  ar";  l/tjntiiij;  on  our  fiaxk*  ;    Cfa*{(  your 

»iai<h« ;  (;iki»  !     ';i//ix!  your  rank*  I 

To  th«  l/r<5»th  of  thy  (jar'hai*,  tlwj  hum  'if  thy  I  for  i'M^ftrX  Mvnt  </iuit»  l/in  t//  'y/zcjiwrr,  or  tii 

U^«,  fall. 

Awl  th«  \iinn  waving  Iin«  <yf  tlw;  hliie  I'ymnxx  ! 

Th<;y  ar<!  Uitn,  —  tf</;y  rij»lj  '/ti,  —  w*  ar*  V/folwfi, 
Far<;w.:ll  an/1  fr/rev<;r  !    Tlw;  j/ri/At  arcl  tlw;  clave  \  ~  «"=  af^*  «'"»«.  — 


Miiiy  rule  in  tlw;  halln  of  tlie  free  and  tip;  1/rave  ; 
f)orh<*irth»weal<an/lon,  — our  lanilx  we  r««ij{n,  — 
IJut,  Father,  we  kn<«l  t//  no  altar  imt  thine. 


Otir  left  ij(  Ix/rne  Wore  tluirtn  like  rtoW^  on  the 

Ua«t. 
0  I>/r<l,  put  forth  thy  rniglit !    O  fy/r'l,  'lefen/1 

the  /i^^lit ; 
Htniiil  W;k  t/^  hci/;k,  in  Oo<r»  narne  !  an/1  fi(f)/t 

it  t//  tlu;  Ja*t ! 

Stout  Skii/j>en  hath  a  w</un'l,  —  tlie  center  hath 


0,  WHWiKFoiiB  'y/rne  ye  forth  in  tnumi/h  from  \  ,,    J^,    .   ^ ,      .   ^  .i     ^         ,■         , 

,.  ^,  Hark ;    riark !    wt»at   tiueni»    tJie  tmtitAiitx  of 

the  n//rth,  •  •, 


With 


li//rw«/ien  on  our  r'^or  ? 


.1  I  r     d.  I  •  11*11  i^-IIIKtl    'III    'I'll    f'^l  I 

your  itan/u,  an/1  your  l/^^,  an/l  your  rai- 1  ,,,,        ,  ,    ,  .        ,.,.,...,■, 

.,'!,.  Wn//ise  tjanner  'I//  1  nee,  r/oy»  f      fu  be  !  tiiank 
K;Ht  all  re<l  f  r-    I  -  'i '    1      V        t 

At</1  wh/;r<rf'or<;  'l/>th  your  rout  een/l  forth  a  joy-  ,,      '      "      ,       '  ■    \.',    •,        ,  ,■       -   .       , 

,        .  -^  *  '  iJear  un  an//tii/rr  minute !     IJrave  Oliver  i*  Jiere : 

'/u«  >,hout  f 

An/1  when/^,  he  tli/;  i^i-f:*  of  the  wirie-j/re**  tliat   'j-j^j,;,  ]^i^  ^  ,,t,^,,,i„^  i,^^  tl<«r  yAtiU  all  in 
ye  tr'ja/l  ?  ,  ^  „„j,^ 

Like  a  whirlwi«/l  on  the  tree«,  like  a  'lelujre  on 
O,  evil  wa»  tlie  root,  an'l  Mtt/;r  wa*  tfi/;  frtiit,  jj,^  dike* 

\n/l  erinuson  wa»  tfie  jui/«  of  the  vintajje  that    r>ur  <;tiirawi/;ri  Jiave  l/ar*t  //n  the  rank*  of  the 

For  we  trarni,h4  on  tlie  throng  of  tlie  liauglrty    ^^^  ata  «hflek  have  »catt/*«d  tlie  f'/re*t  of  hi« 


an/l  the  xtrotii^ 
Willi  «at<;  in  tJie  higli  j/la/ies  and  >.h^  tlie  isaintx 
of  Oo-l. 

It  wa«  aU/ut  til*  nor/n  of  a  jjl/wious  day  <yf  June 
Tliat   we   saw  tl/eir   imutiKn    dan/:«  an<l   their 


j/ik/:«. 

Fa«t,  fa»t  tlie  gallaritu  ride,  in  nooie  tafe  no'/k  l// 
hid/j 

Tfieir  owar*!  liead*,  i/r«<le«tine<l  tr<  r'/t  on  Tem- 
ple Bar; 


euiraow*  *hine,  And  lie -he  turn*;  lie  fli/A;  »Iiara<;  on  t>/o«« 

An/1  til/;  man  of  iiUxA  wa«  there,  with  him  long  (-niel  ey'« 

'«!<rti/»^  liair,  Xiuit  lx/r<:  t//  1/y/k  on  torture,  and  dare  n'/t  W/k 

And  /Viitl/;y,  an/1  Sir  M^mia/luke,  and  K<i(<ert  of  fyn  war ' 

tlM;  llhin/:.  I 

I  Ho,  eornrad/;*  I  K/«nr  t)ie  plain  ;  an'l  ere  ye  xtrip 
Like  a  (servant  of  tlie  ly/rd,  with  hi*  BilJ*  and  the  *lain, 

hix  bwopL  I  Firijt  give  another  »tab  to  make  yimr  teareh  se- 

The  Oeneral  ro<le  along  u»  to  fi/na  w>  ff/r  the  figlit ;  ]  rMf: ; 

Wli/;n  a  munniiring  w/und  broke  out,  an/1  tswelh^l    Ttien  xliake  from  nbseve*  an/1  poekete  tli/rir  br'/ad^ 

int//  a  sliout  pie';e«  and  l/><;ket«, 

Am//ng  the  go'll/si*  lior»ewien  U(x/n  the  tyrant"*   'Ilie  t/zkems  of  the  wanton,  tlie  plun/ler  of  th* 

right,  pf/or. 


\Er. 


olS 


IVEAtS  OF  PATSIOnSM  AXD  FR^EDOH. 


-o 


Fools !  \\>«r  douhU'ts  slwno  with  gv^Ul,  ami  vout  ! 

ht>!>rts  wxnv  jp>y  ami  VvW,  I 

AVhoJi  \vv»  kissinl  jxiur  lily  liiUuU  t«  yxnir  lonimis  ! 

tv>-<lt>y ;  [ 

Ami  t>>-ni>M'i\«v  shall  tho  fox  ftvm  hor  cIuuiiVk'W  \ 

in  tho  t\vks  I 

l^Hul  lovtli  hertawtiy  o«lv5 1\>  howl  alxnt'  tho  j>t«y.  ! 

Whoro  Iv  >vur  t\M>j:m<s,  that  lat»>  mooktsl  at ! 
hoi»\-on  suul  holl  aud  fevto  !  i 

Ai\d  tho  liivgo>-s  that  one*  w»ro  s».>  Inisy  with  yovir  1 
Waa<\-s  >  , 

Yovir  iwl\u\u\l  s<»tin  olotlio*,  \w»r  oatohos  auvl 
\\>ur  K\«ths ! 

Your  sti\^>-|>laj"s  ami  wur  sonuots,   jwir  dia- 
monds ami  wur  sjvulos? 

IVwu :  dowii !  fotwor  dowu,  with  tho  witor  aiul 

tho  orv«vn ! 
With  tho  lUJial  of  tho  court,  ami  tho  Mamiuou 

of  tho  ro\w ; 
Thoro  is  w\h>  iu  OxfoM  halls,  thoiv  is  wail  in 

Purlnun's  stalls ; 
Tho  >U>svut  suiitos  his  Ivsiwi,  tho  bishoi>  r«>uds 

his  oi>jHV  ] 

And  slu>  of  tho  suvon  hills  shall  mourn  hor  ohil- 1 

dron's  ills. 
And  tn-mWo  \vho«  slio  thinks  »>n  tho  oiljo  of 

Kitgland's  s\n<i\l ;  ! 

And  tho  kinjrs  of  «uth  iu  fosu-  shall  slmddox 

whon  thoy  ho!>r 
Wluit  tho  hiuul  of  Cnxl  hath  wi\inj;ht  for  tho 

housos  aiul  tho  WMnl ! 

Thomas  iukinv.kw  Macai'lav,     | 


LKT  RRIX  RKMEMEKR  THK  PAYS  OF  OLD, 

Lkt  Krtn  romomlxr  tho  dsix-s  of  old. 

Kro  hor  fiuthloss  sons  Mrawl  hor  : 
Whon  Miilaohi  \\\>iv  tho  ivllar  of  gold 

Which  ho  wvui  fixMu  hor  proud  in\-5\dor : 
Whoji  hor  kin^sTS  with  stsxndarvl  of  gr>\<n  nnfurlod 

1*h1  tho  Koil-Btanch  Knij;hts  tv>  dan^^r. 
Kt*  tho  omoiald  ^\m  rf  tho  western  wvrld 

Was  sot  iu  tho  ciown  of  a  stt?u\gor. 

On  Lough  Xoagh's  Ivxnk  as  tho  tishonnan  stra\-s, 

Whon  tho  cK\->r  vvld  o\v  "s  divlinin^. 
Ho  sx-os  tho  rvnmd  towvrs  of  other  d,->\-s 

In  tho  waw  Ivnoath  him  sliining  ! 
Thus  sliall  memory  oftvn,  in  drt-juus  suhlimo, 

t^tch  a  gliinjvso  of  tho  d,\\-s  tlwt  aw  ov«r. 
Thus,  sighing,  look  thnmgh  tho  waves  of  timo 

For  tho  long-fadcvl  glories  tl«y  cover !  , 

T»v^MAS  M>X«B.   I 


THK  HAKT  THAT  ONC«  THROtmH  TARA'S 
HALLS, 

TuK  harp  that  o\u>o  tluvngh  Tarn's  ludls 

Tho  so\il  of  music  shrtl, 
Now  hangs  !»s  muto  on  'l\ira's  wsUls 

As  if  that  svml  woiv  ll^l. 
So  slivjis  tho  prido  of  formor  daj-s. 

So  glory's  thrill  is  oVt, 
And  hi'sirts  that  once  Iwat  high  for  pmist" 

Sow  tVl  that  i>ulso  no  morx> ! 

N  0  inor«>  to  chiefs  and  ladios  hright 

Tho  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
Tho  chonl  alone  that  hivaks  at  night 

Its  tide  of  ruin  tolls. 
Thus  KV»wlom  now  so  seldom  W!>ki\s, 

The  only  thrv^h  she  gix^vw 
Is  when  svimo  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  sl»ow  that  still  slvo  lives, 

Thomas  Mookb. 


SllvV>'   VAN   VOOHT. 

0.  rii  K  French  are  on  tho  s;iy  ! 

S!>ys  the  Slum  Van  Wwht ; 
Tho  b^vnch  aiv  on  tho  ssiy. 

SaN"s  tho  Shan  Van  Yoi-ht ; 
O,  tho  FlYUch  ar\'  in  the  l«y  ! 
They  "U  K-  here  without  delay. 
Ami  tho  Oi-sxnge  will  decay. 
Sji\-s  the  Sh!U\  Yaji  Yooht, 
0.  Ikf  PrrMcM  nw  »n  tht  ha^ .' 
Tkfji  'II  bf  htty  bji  bitaH-  tj/'rfrtV, 
Ami  tif  OntHg*  tnfW  dfcan, 
Stttfn  lAf  S*rtn  Van  J'otXL 

And  whoro  will  thoy  havv  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  A\vht ; 
Where  will  thoy  haw  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Slum  Yan  Yocht ; 
On  the  ^.^n•^ach  of  Kildaro, 
Tho  K\\-s  thoy  will  Iw  thorv 
With  their  pikos  in  gocnl  rei«ir, 
Sjn-s  tho  Shim  Yan  Vooht- 
7",>  .'*<■  (""hmxiA  i>r"  A'lWujY 
Tkf  N>,ws  rtcv  tfiV/  ref>>u'r. 
And  £f>r\i  Riir^tnl  trUI  b(  Mfiv, 
Snys  tt«  S»<w  Van  J'oe^K 

Thou  what  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

S,a\-s  the  Shan  Y,an  Yoi-ht ; 
What  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Sa\-s  the  Shan  Yan  A"oi-ht  ; 
AVliat  shvnild  tho  yeomen  di\ 
l^U  tlmw  oir  tho  re>l  and  Muo, 
And  s\\>v>r  that  thoy  '11  Iw  tnw 

To  tho  Shan  Y.^n  Yoiht  ? 


tQ^- 


-^ 


iD- 


J'UEMH  OF  I'ATUIOTIHM  AND  fUEEUOM. 


n.'.) 


-a 


ll^/i/tl  n/uml'l  tJu:  ycoifuiiL  ihi, 

Hal.  IhTinn  iijf  lliA  rm),  awl  Um, 

A, id  Huxwr  UujX  IImj  'il  Ik  Inu:, 

To  l.h;  Slum  Van  Vodd  < 

Aiiil  what  tv>\i>t  will  tlu;y  weir  { 

Hnyh  111'!  Hliaii  Van  Voclit ; 
Wliat  c/tUir  will  tliey  wear  i 

Hityn  til":  SImii  Van  Voclit ; 
Wliat  miUtr  hIkjuIiI  Ik:  wrun, 
W|ji;r(;  our  (:illi':r»'  lixiiiiw  Iiav<!  W;n, 
Hut  our  own  im mortal  gincn  i 
Sayn  till;  Hlian  Van  Voi;lit, 
IVImI  oilor  Hlundd  Ik  vxn, 
IVItf.ri;  owr  ftiUixfil  lumwM  lujivi:  heen, 
IjuI,  irar  iivm  imin/jrOd  ijm.ii,  'I 
Hiiija  line  Shin  Vmn  yiKlU. 

And  will  lr>.-lan<l  then  tx;  free  I 

Kayo  thr;  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
Will  lii.laii'I  then  Ix;  free! 

Sayit  the  Shan  Van  Vrx;lit ; 
Ye»  !  Irelan.l  Bliall  he  free, 
From  the  i:i:uU:i  Ui  the  wtfi ; 
Then  hurrah  for  lilx.-rty  ! 
.Sayt.  the  Shan  Van  Voeht. 
Vim  /  IrdawJ,  h)uiM  Ik  frix, 
Vi'ina  Ijut  ct.nlt'.r  hi  tlw,  h^ji  ; 
'I'lv.it  kurrak  fi/r  HIktIj)  I 
HayH  titr,  HImu  Vuii,  VuiM. 

A«0.>(VMOU«, 


fe 


8HAMU8  O'BKIEN. 

JiHT  afther  the  war,  in  the  year  ninety-eij^ht, 
Ail  Koon  an  the  boys  wor  all  (scattered  and  \ai>:, 
"r  was  the  c.wtUim,  whenever  a  jiiisant  wa»  got, 
To  hanj;  him  by  thrial,  —  Varrin'  fiich  ax  wan  dhot, 
TlirTe  waa  thrial  by  jury  goin'  on  by  daylight, 
And  tlift  martial -law  hangin'  the  lavinH  by  night, 

II'h  them  waH  liard  timenforan  honest  gouwjon  ' 

If  he  miftdwl  in  tlu;  judgcsi,  —  he'd  mitiA  a  dra- 
gw<n  ; 

An'  whether  tlie  sodgeru  or  judgen  gev  dentemw. 

The  divil  a  rnach  time  they  allowed  for  repent- 
ance. 

An'  it'H  many'd  the  fine  boy  waa  then  on  hi« 
keepin' 

Wid  ftmall  share  iv  nfdtin',  or  atin',  or  nlwpin' ; 

An'  liecauHC  they  love<l  Erin,  an'  tviomi^X  t'l  oell 
it, 

A  prev  for  the  blowlhound,  a  mark  for  the  bul- 
hk,  -  i 

I'n»helt'.-re<l  by  night,  and  unre«t/:d  by  day,  | 

With  the  h<jath  for  their  l)arra/;k,  revenge  for 
their  \iny  ;  | 


An'  tlu;  brav<9(t  an'  liardii:!it  U.y  iv  them  all 
Waj»  Slianiii«0'liri<;n,  from  the  t/)wn  iv  filing;  I! 
llix  limlot  were  well  wX,  an'  lii»  liody  wa/(  light, 
An'  the  kiarn-langwl  hound  \iiul  not  tt/.-th  \ut\< 

mi  whiU; ; 
iJut  hi*  fiu*  wan  ajt  jiale  im  the  fa/x  of  the  de:wl, 
An/1  liijt  eh<«k  never  wnnniA  with  the  bluxh  of 

the  r<A  ; 
An'  for  all  that  Ik,'  Wiia  n't  an  ugly  young  b'y. 
For  the  divil  liimwlf  could  n't  blaw;  with  hin  eye, 
S'j  droll  a/i'  HO  wicke/1,  w,  dark  and  no  bright, 
Like  a  (ire-(la»sh  that  erowra  the  dejrth  of  the 

niglil ! 
An'  he  wan  the  Ixsit  mower  that  ever  liax  t««:n. 
An'  the  illiganti.ift  liuilcr  tlwt  ever  wjui  »n:i:/i  ; 
An'  hix  dancin'  wa«  HJeh  that  the  men  ii«d  to 

litiire. 
An'  tlie  women  tuni  crazy,  he  done  il  mi  <jiiare  ; 
An',  by  gorra,  the  whole  world  gev  in  Ui  liini 

there. 
An'  it'H  he  wim  the  Ixyy  thai  win  hard   Ui   l/c 

'»ught, 
An'  it'h  ofti.-n  he  run,  an'  it'ii  often  he  fought. 
An'  it's  many  the  one  («in  rememlx;r  right  well 
The  <iu;ire  things  lie  done  ;  an'  h'mifti:!!  I  heerd 

U;ll 
How  he  latlierrj/l  the  ywmen,  himw.df  agin'  four, 
An'  uln-.U'.iiiA  the  two  Htrongeisl  on  old   flalti- 

mori,'. 
liut  thf:  fox  miuit  (deep  oometimeit,  the  wild  di'cr 

niUKt  rent. 
An'  treachery  prey  on  the  bhxxl  iv  the  l<e<tt ; 
Aftlier  many  a  brave  a/;tion  of  jiower  and  pri<l(t, 
An'  many  a  hard  night  on  the  mountain'))  bliak 

Hiilc, 
An'  a  thoinund  grisit  'langent  and  toil»  overjaiit, 
In  the  darknesH  of  night  he  w-m  tiiken  at  la»t. 

Now,  Stiamuj*,  hwk  lja/:k  on  tlu:  Ixsjutiful  ni'xjn. 
For  the  lUxir  of  the  piixon  mutit  dow;  on   you 

(Kxjn, 
,\n'  tiike  your  la«t  I'xik  at  her  dim,  lovely  light. 
That  faliji  on  the  mountain  and  valley  thih  night ; 
f)iii:  look  at  the  village,  one  look  at  the  (hxxl, 
.\n'  one  at  the  xhelthering,  fiir-diKtant  wixxl ; 
Farewell  to  the  forcirt,  larewcll  t/i  the  hill. 
An'  farewell  to  tlie  friend*  that  will  think  of  you 

Htill  ; 
Farewell  t/j  the  fiiitbeni,  the  liurlin',  an'  wake. 
And  farewell  to  the  girl  tliat  would  die  for  your 

Bake. 
An'  twelve  »o<lgcr(i  brought  birn  Ut  Jlarylx^rougb 

jail. 
An'  tlie  turnkey  reitavixl  him,  refuBin'  all  l;ail ; 
The  (l':et  limlxt   wor  chained,   an'  the  Bthrong 

ban'U  wor  Ixjiind, 
An'  he  laid  down  lii»  length  on  the  cowld  iirmrn 

giound. 


^ 


LtJ- 


i^-20 


J'OJiMt!  OF  J'ATKIOTISM  AKD  KREKDOM. 


-^ 


All'  lln'  ili'i>iim.i  of  Ills  iliiMlioiul  Kt'iH  oviu-  liini 

lll.M-O 

As  fjtmllo  an'  sort  «s  tlio  swcol  suminoi'  air  ; 
All'  lmi>i\v  ivim'iiil'iiimi's.  I'nnviliiij;  on  nvi'V, 
As  I'usl   lis  llio  I'mim  lliiki's  illiiit't  ilowu  on  tlio 

livoi', 
lii'iii);  tWh  to  liis  lioiirt  im'i'i'\'  iluvs  loiij;  };\>in> 

»\v. 
Till  llu>  trtii's  gi\tlu'ivil  lii'iivy  mul  thick  in  his 

ryo, 
r»il  thi>  tola's  iliil  u't  I'tiU,   lor  the  jirido  of  his 

h«irt 
Woulil  not  suH'ov  ono  ihvji  ilowii  his  jviln  ohi-i-k 

to  stnrt  ! 
All'  ho  spiiuij!  to  his  fwt  in  thoilark  (irison  oavo. 
All'   ho   swoiv  with   tho  lU>ivoiu>ss  that   niisory 

I'lV  till-  ho|>os  of  tho  }^>oil,  iu\'  tlio  oaiiso  of  tlu> 

hravo, 
'riiat  whon  ho  was  nioliloriug  in  tho  >'oUl  gravo. 
His  oiiomios  uovor  sliouKl  havo  it  lo  boast 
Mis  sooni  of  thoiv  voiij^'aiu'o  one  iiiouioiit  was 

hvst  ; 
His  lnvsotu  tnisht  Wooil,  hut  his  iliook  slionUl  Ih> 

aiiry. 
For  muhuiutoil  ho '<!  livovl,  luul  uiulamiteil  ho'U 


Woll,  as  soon  as  a  tow  wooks  was  ovor  auvl  ji^uio, 

Tho  lorrihlo  liay  iv  tho  thrial  koin  on  ; 

Tht'iti  was  aioh  »  oiMWvl  thoiti  was  soaivo  ivoni  to 

stanil. 
An"  so>l,s;^'i>i  on  i;iiai\l,  an'  ilhraj^vions  s\\vii\l  in 

haiul  ; 
An'  tho  ooiuihonso  so  full  that  tho  jwoiJo  woiv 

Kitlioivd, 
An'  attornoys  an'  oriel's  c»n  tho  point  iv  Knn' 

sinothoi'jHl ; 
An"  oonnsolors  almost  s«>v  ovor  for  doad. 
An"  tho  jniy  sittin'  ni>  in  tlunr  1h>n;  ovorhoail  ; 
An'  tho  juilno  sotthsl  out  so  >lolarniinoil  an'  hii;. 
With  his  i^>wn  on  his  l>aok.  and  an  illogimt  now 

wis  : 
All'  siloiu'o  was  oalhnl,  an'  thomiimto  't  was  si\ul 
Tho  ooin't  was  as  still  as  tho  luvut  of  tho  doad  ; 
An'  thov  hi-iuil  hnt   tho  ojH'tuu"  of  oiio  jirison 

hvk. 
All"  Shamns  O'lhion  kom  into  tho  dook. 
For  ono  tninnto  ho  turnwl  his  oyo  w>und  on  tho 

thi\>njc. 
An'  ho  lookod  at  tho  Ivu-s,  so  tivm  and  so  stivnj;. 
An'  ho  saw  that  ho  had  not  t\  hoi>>>  or  a  iViond, 
A  oliaiuo  to  osoajv.  or  a  wot\i  to  dofond  ; 
An'  ho  foldod  his  arms  as  ho  stv>od  tlioiv  alon<\ 
As  oalm  anvl  as  void  as  »  stattu'  of  stono  ; 
Aiivl  thoy  rtsid  a  hij;  writin',  a  yai\l  loiij;  at  lasfo. 
An'  Jim  didn't  niidoi^tand   it,  nor  mind  it  a 


tl-- 


tasto 


,  All'  tho  jlldjjo  look  a  I'ij^  I'ilioli  iv  siiiilV.  uu.l   lio 
says, 

,  "Alv  yon  K"'''y  "''  "'''•  '''"'  **  I'lion.  av  yon 

I  jilaso  (" 

I 

An'  all  hold  tlioir  hivalli  in  tho silonoo  of  dUi-iiul, 
An'  Shanuis  O'llrioii  niado  answov  and  said  ; 
"■  My  lorvl,  if  you  iisk  mo,  if  in  my  lifotimo 
1  tlioujiht  any  ti'»>ason,  or  did  any  orimo 
That  should  oall  to  my  ohook,  as  1  stand  aloiio 

llOlH<, 

Tho  hot  hlnsh  of  sliamo,  or  tho  oohlnoss  of  I'oar, 
Thouj;h  1  stooil  hv  tho  j;ravo  to  ivi'oivo  my  death- 

Wow. 
Uoforo  l!od  and  tlio  world   1   would  aiiswor  vou, 

No  ! 
Hut  if  yon  would  ask  mo,  as  I  think  it  liko, 
If  ill  tho  I'ldH'Uion  1  oarriod  a  piko, 
An'  fonxlil  for  onld  liwland  fivni  tho  lii-st  to  tlui 

I'loso, 
An'  shod  tho  hoart's  Wood  of  lior  hittoi'.vst  i'iios, 
1  answor  yon,  Yivs  j  and  I  toll  you  ajpiiii, 
Thoujth  1  stand  horo  to  jiorish,  it's  my  glory 

that  tlion 
In  hov  oanso  1  was  williiij'  my  voins  should  run 

dhry. 
An'  that  now  for  hor  sako  1  am  ivady  to  dio." 

Thon  tho  silonoo  was  jjivat,  and  tho  jury  sniilod 

hright. 
An'  tho  judgr'  wasn't  soirv  tho   joh  was  mado 

light  : 
liv  inv  sowl,  it's  hiius.lf  was  tho  oraliKnl  ould 

oha,.  ! 
In  a  twiiiklin'  ho  pullod  on  his  ugly  hlaok  oap, 
Thon  Sliamus'  mothor  in  tho  orviwd  staiidiu'  hy, 
I'alloil  out  to  tho  judgo  with  a  pitiful  ory  : 
"  0  jnilgt<  1  darlin',  doit't,  0,  don't  say  tho  wonl  I 
Tho  orathnr  is  young,  havo  moivy,  my  loi'*! ; 
llo  was  fmdish,  ho  did  n't   know  what  ho  was 

doin'  ; 
You  don't  knv>w  him,  my  Uml,  —  t\  don't  givo 

him  to  rnin  I 
Vlo's tho  kindliost  orathnr,  tJu<tondhoivst-hoart(Hl ; 
Vion't  i>art  us  foivvov,  wo  that 's  Ihhmi  so  long 

\>art<Hl. 
.luilg<\   mavonnuvn,  foi-givo  hiiu,  forgivo  him, 

my  loi\l, 
An'  Oixl   will  foi'givo  yvw>  —  t^,   don't   say   tlio 

\voi\l ! " 
That  was  tlio  first  minnto  that   O'Rrion  was 

shakivn, 
Whon  ho  s!iw  that  ho  was  not  nuito  fo\^>t  or 

foi'sakon  ; 
An'  down  his  jvvlo  ohooks,  at  tho  won!  of  his 

mothor, 
Tho  hig  toars  wor  ruuuiu'  fast,  ono  aft  hor  tho 

othor ; 


-S 


a- 


I'OKMH   ')/•■  I'ATIUOTIHM  AMI)   FltKF.hOM. 


12?^ 


An'  twi)  or  tliri;is  tiriicn  iiu  «)i<li!aivor'»l  to  njakfi,  ;  At  limt  tlii;y  tlii'W  ii|.i'ii  tlir:  \,in  (iiiw(r)  ({al<;, 

lint  till;  Htlir(i(i({,  iiiiiiily  voi<;i:  wwiiicil  to  liiltliKr  An'  out  kiiiiij  tin;  nlii'iitlH  imil  »oilg<;ii)  in  ntjiUf, 

iiml  liir:ul<  ;  An'  a  liiti't  in  tli<;  rrii>i<lli;,  un'  Hlianiiix  wan  in  it, 

lint  lU  limt,  Ijy  Ihi;  htri;n;{lli  of  lii«  lii;^li-nionnl-  Not  j/aler,  lint  |iroii<l':r  llian  cvi;!,  lliat  niiniiti:, 

in«  |>nili,',  An'  m  noon  an  tti<;  {h<i\i\i:  »aw  Khaniim  0'liii<ri, 

III:  W)niiui!ii:<l  and  maKt)ii;ri:il  liiji  griufn  »w«llin;(  W'iil  piayin'  ami  McsHin',  anil  all  tin-  ;^irl«  iiyin', 

liili!,  A  Willi  wailin'  wiiiml  ki;in  on  l/y  i|i'({iii'K, 

An',   Mayo   In;,    "  Mother,    durUn',    lion't   lirwik  l/iku  l)i«  Mounil  of  tin;  lohi;»i<nii;  wind    Mowin' 

your  poor  lifiurt  1  tlirougli  tri«:ii, 

I'or,  hoonur  or  lati.-r,  the  d(!«r««t  iniiiit  pait ;  On,  on  to  tin;  gallows  tin:  HluTiHii  an:  ({"m-, 

And  (Jod  known  it'H  biitlhor  than  wandering  in  An'  the  i.-art  an'  tin:  nodgi  i»  go  ntwidily  on  ; 

Tear  An'  at  every  hide  ewellin'  around  of  the  I'ait, 

On    the   Weak,   lrai;kleHH   mountain,   among  the  A  wild,  xorrowlnl  noiind,  that  id  o)H-n  your  heiirt, 

wild  deer,  Now  under  the  gallows  the  eart  taken  ili!  xtand. 

To  lie  in  the  grave,  where  the  he;id,  heart,  and  An'  the  hangnmn  getit  uji  with   the  ro|»e  in  hi« 

hieaitt,  hand  ; 

I'roni  thought,  lahor,  and  Borrowforeveniti/ill  rent.  An'   the  j/rient,  havin'   Mint  hini,  goi:i  down  on 

Then,  mother,  my  da;lin',  don't  ery  any  more  !  ;  the  giound, 

I>on't  make  me  ii<:em    hroken,   in  lliiii,  my  hmt  An' Khamun  (»'l!rii-n  thrown  one  lant  look  around. 

hour  ;  Then  the  hangman  dhrew  near,  an'  the  j«:oj.ln 
l''or  I  winli,   when  niyhcail'H  lyin'  undher  the  giew  nlill, 

raven,  Voiing  laeii,   turned    iiiekly,    and    warm    hi-arlH 
No  thrue  man  ean  nay  that  I  diwl  like  a  eraven  ! "  turned  ehill  ; 

Then  lowaidn  the  judge  Hhai/nix  hent  down  hU  An'  the  ro|>i:    liein'  ready,  IiIh  iieek    wan   made 

head,  hate. 

An'  that  minute  the  wdemn  death-Hinlcnc<j  wao  J'or  the  grii*  iv  the  liCe-ntrangiing  lord  Ui  jire- 

»aid.  jwre. 

An'  the  good  JiHent  haii  left  him,  havin'  «:iid  hh) 
1'hft  inornin'  was  hiight,   an'   the  nii»t«  rotio  on  '""'•  praye-r. 

Iiigli,  ISiit  the  gooil  priest  done  more,  lor  his  hand»  lie 
An'  the  lark  wlii«tled  merrily  in  the  elear  nky  ;  unhound, 

lint  why  are  the  men  ntandin'  idle  w<  late  <    '  And  with  one  ihiring  npiing  Jim  ha»  leajwl  on 
An'  why  do  the  erowdn  gather  Cant  in  the  htnet  ?  t'""  ground  ; 

What  eonie  they  to  talk  of?   what  eome  they  to  !''»"«  !  l«'"K  '■  K'»--»  t'"-  '•arhifien,  and  eh.sli  goe« 

Hi-e  ?  '  Ihe  nalierii ; 

An'  why  doen  the  long  roj.e  hang  from  the  ero»».  He'n  not  down  !  he's  alive  Klill  I  now  f.tand   to 

tree  y  him,  neighliorn  ! 

O  Hhamun  O'ltiien  I   pray  fervent  and  fast,  \  Through  the  Hniokc  and  the  horf«;»  lie's  into  tho 
May  the  Haints  take  your  HonI,  for  this  day  io  eiowd,  — 

your  last ;  Hy  l'"'  heavens,  he 's  frw: !  —  than  thunder  more 
I'ray  fiutt  an'  pray sthrong,  foi'  the  moment  isnigli,  '''"''> 

When,  sthrong,  proud,  an'  great  as  you  are,  you  '*y  """  •*'"'"'  •"'""'  ^'"-'  l""l'''-'  ••'"=  l"'avenB  were 

must  die.  |  shaken,  — 

An'  fastlier  an'  Cisthcr  the  erowd  gathereil  there,  """  "'"'"^  '-''"'  ^'"=  ''"■"'  "'    ^'"'   "'"'''   "''*<'''^ 
I'loys,  hoiw;s,  and  gingerhreail,  just  like  a  fair  ;  awaken. 

An'  whiskey  was  sellin",  an'  eussamiiek  too,  The  soilgers  ran  this  way,  the  sheiilfs  ran  that. 

An'  onid  men  and  young  women  enjoying  the  An'  Father  Malone  lost  his  new  Suinhiy  hat ; 

view.  To-night  he  'II  Ut  sleepin'  in  Aherloe  Olin, 

An'ould  Tim  Mulvany,  he  med  the  remark.  An'  the  divil's  in   the  diee   if  you  eaU;h   him 
There   was  n't  sieh  a   sight   sinee    the   time   of  ag'in. 

Noah's  ark.  "a  '  your  Ki)K:iis  may  clash,  and  your  carl/ines 
An'  Ij«  gorry,  'twas  thrue  for  him,  for  divil  sieh  K"  '"""«> 

a  seiugu,  j  Hut  if  you  want  liangin',  it's  yoursi;lf  you  must 
Kieh  divarshin  and  crowds,  was  known  since  tlie  hang. 

deluge,  I 

For  thousands  were  gathered  there,  if  there  was  "e  has  niount<;d  his  hor:i<-,  and  soon  he  will  U: 

one,  In  Ameiiea,  darlinl,  the  hind  of  the  fid:, 
Waitin'  till  such  time  as  the  hangin'  id  eome  on.  '  ''  '•'■  ''*'"'• 


©-*- 


-^ 


&-: 


POEMS  OF  PATlUOriSM  AXD  FREEDOM. 


--a 


OOUOAliNK   liAKRA. 

I  Vhc  l-.ikc  of  ViOU^Atiiir  Ivtin,  I.  *-.  llio  liollow.  or  recess  v>f  St. 
J-imi  liAr.  ii\  iIk*  incx^l  tctiitvuy  ol'  lbtt-L.;u^tKtirv  (the  O'LcArys' 
coiinnyt  ill  ll«?  "'est  oiKt  or  the  csnmly  of  Cork,  is  tho  |>AT«nt  of  the 
rticr  l.c«.  Its  waters  clitlttAcc  a  siuaII  btit  s^nUlU  islAiul  of  alHHit 
U;»lt  All  Acre  In  OMOIU.  which  apimxwhes  its  pitstcn\  shvirc.  The 
Uke.  AS  lis  ivinu'  iinplics.  is  sitnAte  in  a  lU-eji  hollow,  surmiuuletl  on 
cvv-ty  si.ll^  ls;»ve  tlic  OAsl.  where  its  su|)er.\hunilAUt  waters  Are  tlis- 
ch.ir)^!)  hy  vAst  An.l  Almost  perpcuvlicuLw  tiunuMAins.  whose  il«rk 
in\  ertea  shAtKws  .tre  nhnnnily  rvtlcelctl  in  its  still  wittctN  IvncAth.J 

TiiKKK  is  0  jji'^'p"  isliuul  in  lono  (uiujjauuo  Kivni, 
M"lunv  AUiu\  of  songs  vuslios  I'nith  tis  «i\  !iri\i\v; 
In   tU'o|i-vi\lloyiHl    l\'sn>ond  —  :>   tlnnisiiiul  wiUl 

fountains 
Ooino  down  to  that  luko  fivm  tlioiv  homo  in  tlie 

mountains. 
TluMv  gi-ows  tho  wiKl  ash.  and  a  tiino-striokon 

willow 
Looks  ohiiiingly  down  on  tlio  niirtli  of  tho  billow  : 
As,  Ukosomog-ayoliild.  tliat  s;ul  monitor  sooining, 
It  lightly  langhslwokto  tUo  laugh  of  tho  moniing. 

And  its  zoiio  of  dark  hills,  —  0,  to  soo  them  all 
brightoniii};, 

\Vhi'n  tho  ton>iH>st  llings  out  its  ivil  Iwnnov  of 
lightning. 

And  tho  wators  rush  down,  mid  tlio  thnudi'r's 
dooji  rattlo. 

liiko  ohms  tivm  tluir  hills  at  tho  voice  of  the 
Ivittle  : 

.Vnd  brightly  the  liiv-eivsted  bilUnvs  an>  gleaming, 

.Viid  wiUUy  fivm  MuUagh  the  eagles  «ro  scream- 
ing ! 

i,\  whoiv  is  the  dwelling,  in  valley  m'  highhmd, 

So  meet  for  a  l>ai\l  as  this  lone  little  island  ■ 


And  gleaned  eai'h  grtiy  legend  that  darkly  was 

sleeping 
Whert<  the  mist  aiul  the  niin  o'er  their  beauty 

weiv  eiveiiing  ! 

Lei\st  huxi  of  the  hills, — were  it  mine  to  inlierit 
The  liiv  of  thy  harp  and  tlie  wing  of  thy  spirit. 
With  the  wivngs  which  like  thee  to  our  country 

have  bound  me, 
IMil  your  mantle  of  song  lling  its  radiance  aiMuiul 

me, 
Still,  -•itiU  in  those  wilds  might  young  Liberty 

rally. 
And  send  her  stivng  shout  over  mountain  and 

valley. 
The  star  of  the  west  might  yet  rise  in  its  glory, 
And  the  laml  that  was  darkest  Iw  brightest  in 

story. 

I  loo  shall  be  gvue  ; — but  my  name  shall  1h> 
spoken 

When  Erin  awake-s  tmd  her  fettet^  aiv  broken. 

Some  minstrel  will  come,  in  the  summer  eve's 
gleaming. 

When  I'reeilom's  young  light  on  his  spirit  is 
beaming, 

.\nd  iieiid  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion. 

Wheiv  calm  Avon-lhiee  seeks  the  ki.sses  of  ocean, 

Ov  plant  a  wild  wivatli,  fi\>m  the  Kuiks  of  that 
river. 

O'er  tJio  heart  and  the  harp  that  aiv  sleeping  for- 
ever. 

.I.\MtiS  JOSUrU  CALLAN.XN. 


How  oft  when  the  summer  sun  ivsted  on  flam. 
Auil  lit  the  tlark  heath  on  the  hills  of  Ivei-a, 
Have  1  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home 

by  the  oeean,  j 

.\ml  trod  idl  thy  wilds  with  a  miiistivl's  devotion,  I 
.\!id  thought  of  thy  lvti\ls,  when  assembling  to-  j 

gether,  1 

111  the  cleft  of  thy  iveks,  or  the  depth  of  thy  I 

heather  : 
Tliev  lied  ti\>m  the  SswtMi's  dark   bondago  and 

'slaughter. 
And  waked  their  last  song  by  the  rush  of  thy  I 

water. 

High  sons  of  the  lyw,   (1,  how  pivnd  was  tho 

feeling. 
To  think  while  alone  thivugh  that  solitude  steal- 
ing. 
Though  loftier  minstivls  given  Krin  can  nuinlior, 
1  only  awoke  your  wild  harp  fi\Mn  its  shunlHU-, 
And  niingh>d  once  moiv  witli  the  voice  of  those 

fountains 
The  songs  even  Leho  foi-gv>t  oil  her  tnounttiins ; 


KXILK  OF  ElUN. 

THKllK  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 

The  tlew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill ; 
For  his  country  he  sighed,  when  at  twilight  iv- 
iwiring 
To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 
Uut  tlie  day-star  attmeted  his  eye's  s;>d  devotion. 
For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isU'  of  the  oeean, 
Wheif  once,  in  the  liiv  of  his  youthful  emotion, 
He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  gti  bitigh. 

Sad  is  my  fate !  sjtid  the  heart-broken  strsuiger  ; 

The  wild  deer  tind  wolf  to  a  covert  can  lice. 
But  1  have  no  ivfuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A  home  ami  a  country  romain  not  to  me. 
NevtH'  ag!>in  in  the  given  sunny  lKnvei"S 
Wheiv  my  foivfathcrs  lived  shall  I  sjwnd  tho 

sweet  lioui-s. 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowei-s. 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Vain  go  bragh  ! 

Erin,  my  country  !  though  sad  and  forsttken, 
In  divams  1  ivvisit  thv  sea-' 


,-lH>aten  shoiv  ;  t 
3 


©- 


I'OEMH  OF  J'ATUIOTISM  AND  FHKEDOM. 


fj'Z:', 


n 


u 


I5ut,  (iliiH  !  ill  11  fill'  loiijij;ii  IhihI  1  iiwiikBii, 
Ami  Hi^li  for  llio  IricmU  who  can  iiirat  imj  no 

O  rriii:!  liiti-  !  will,  tlioii  i.<:vi;r  rojiliun;  iiin 

ill  u  iiiau.Hioii  ol  jM::ii:i-,  wiicn;  no  {icriiif  i:iin  cliimc 

me  'I 
Never  again  ttliall  my  l)ioliic:r;i  cmbrai.'c  mo? 
They  (lieil  to  ilelenrl  me,  or  live  to  ile[.loro  ! 

Where  is  my  caliin  iloor,  fiiHt  hy  the  wiMwwjil  ? 

SiBtera  and  Hire;,  diil  ye  weep  lor  its  fiill  f 
Wlierei«tliemollier  that  looked  on  my.hililliood  ? 

Ami  wlieie  iH  tlie  hoHom-frieiiil,  ileaier  tiian  all  ; 
0  my  (tail  heart !  long  ahaniloneil  by  [JeaHurc, 
Wliy  (lid  it  dote  on  a  t'ant-l'ading  tieaiturc  I 
Tear»,    like    the    rain-droji,    may   fall    without 
nieiiHure, 

I5ut  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

Yet,  all  itn  Had  recolleetionH  «ii|)[)rcH»ing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  Ikwomi  can  draw,  — 

Erin,  an  exile  befiueatlm  thee  lii«  blesiting  ! 
I-and  of  my  forefatlierx,  Krin  go  bragh  I 

IJuried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  Htillx  her  motion. 

Green  In;  thy  lieldx,  swectcBt  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

And    thy  liarp-»tiiking    barda   ning   aloud  with 
devotion,  — 
Erin  mavourneen,  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

THOMAS  CAMI'DKI.I. 


IRELAND. 

TiiEY   are  dying!  they  are  dying!  where   the 

golden  corn  in  growing  ; 
Thiiy  are   dying  I  they  aie   dying !  where  the 

crowded  herds  are  lowing  ; 
'J'hey  are  gaHjiing  for  existence  where  the  Htrcamo 

of  life  are  (lowing. 
And  they  perish  of  the  ];lagiic  where  tlie  breeze 

of  health  i-i  blowing  I 

(UA  of  justice  !  Ood  of  power  I 

I)o  we  dream  !     Can  it )«, 
In  this  land,  at  this  liour, 

With  the  blossfjni  on  the  tree. 
In  tlie  gladsome  month  of  May, 
When  the  young  lambs  Jilay, 
When  .N'aturc  looks  around 

On  her  w.-iking  children  now, 
The  seed  within  the  ground. 

The  bud  upon  the  bough  ? 
Is  it  light,  is  it  fair. 
That  we  perish  of  despair 
In  this  land,  on  this  s^jil, 

Where  our  destiny  is  set. 
Which  we  cultured  with  our  toil, 

And  watered  with  our  sweat  ? 


We  have  plowed,  we  have  sown, 
r.iit  the  crop  was  not  our  own  ; 
We  have  reapwl,  but  harjiy  hands 
.Swept  the  harvest  from  our  lands  ; 
We  were  perishing  for  food, 
When  lo!  in  pitying  mood. 
Our  kindly  rulers  gave 
The  fat  fluid  of  the  slave. 
While  our  corn  filled  the  manger 
Of  the  war-horse  of  the  stranger  I 

Ood  of  mercy  I  must  this  lost? 

Is  this  land  prconlained, 
For  the  present  and  the  past 

And  the  future,  to  U;  chained,  — 

To  be  ravaged,  to  be  ilrain(»l, 
To  be  robbed,  to  In;  spoiled. 

To  1«!  hushed.  Id  be  whipt. 

Its  soaring  pinions  dipt. 
And  its  every  ed'ort  foileil  'I 

iJo  our  numWs  multiply 
J5ut  to  ]«;ri8li  and  to  die  ? 

Is  this  all  our  destiny  Vdow,  — 
That  our  bodies,  as  they  rot. 
May  fertilize  the  sjiot 

Where  the  harvests  of  the  stranger  grow  I 

If  this  be,  indeed,  our  fat«. 
Ear,  far  better  now,  though  lat*;. 
That  we  seek  some  other  land  and  try  some  other 
zone  ; 
The  coldest,  bleakest  shore 
Will  surely  yield  us  more 
Than  the  storehouse  of  the  stranger  that  we  dare 
not  call  our  own. 

Kindly  brothers  of  the  West, 
Who  from  I-iberty's  full  breast 
Have  fed  us,  who  are  oi-jihans  beneath  a  step- 
dame's  frown, 
liehold  our  haji[iy  state. 
And  weeji  yoiii-  wrctclied  fate 
That  you    share  not   in   the   splendors  of  our 
empire  and  our  crown  ! 

Kindly  brothers  of  the  Eiott,  — 

Thou  great  tiara'd  priest. 
Thou  sanctified  Kicnzi  of  Kornc  and  of  the  earth,  — 

Or  thou  who  bcar'st  control 

Over  golden  IstamUd, 
Who  felt  for  our  misfortunes  and  helped  us  in 
our  dearth,  — 

Turn  here  your  wondering  eyes, 
C'all.your  wis(«t  of  the  wise. 
Your  muftis  and  your  ministers,  your  rnen  of 
deepest  lore  ; 


^ 


f 


524 


POSAIS  OF  PATBJOTISM  AKD  FSKKDOM. 


■fb 


l.ot  U\o  saJ^^st  of  your  saj^vs  ' 

^^[v  our  isJauvl's  mystic  i\«j?<s. 
And  oxnl»iu  unto  your  liij;lm<>ss  tho  \vo«>loi-s  of 
our  slioKV 

A  fruitftil,  tivmiHj!  soil, 
Wluviv  tho  jMtiout  i<otuiiiuts  toil 
Bout>»tli  tho  svuumor's  sun  and  tho  witorv  wiutor 
sky : 
Whoiv  thoy  toiul  tho  J;^lldou  gcstiu 
'nU  it  U'uds  u[H>u  tho  ulaiii. 
Thou  iwm  it  for  tho  stR>JUg<-r,  and  turu  asido  to 
dio: 

AVhoiv  thoy  watch  thoir  Hooks  incit>aso. 
And  stoiv  tho  suowy  t\ootv 
Till  thoy  sond  it  to  thoir  niastoi's  to  lx>  wovon 
o'or  tho  W!»vx<s ; 
AVhoi\\  haviujj  s»-ut  thoir  nioat 
Kor  tho  fon'ijjuor  to  oat, 
Thoir  mission  is  I'ultilUHl,  and  thoy  ciwji  into 
thoir  graves. 

"T  is  for  this  thoy  aiv  dying  whor*  tho  golden 

ivrn  is  givwiug, 
'T  is  lor  this  thoy  aro  dyii\j;  \vhoix<  tlu>  ovwdinl 

hoi\ls  aiv  lowing, 
"r  is  for  this  thoy  aro  dying  whoiv  tho  strvonis 

of  lifo  ajv  llowing. 
And  thoy  jx-rish  of  tho  j^laguo  whoiv  tho  hnvio 

of  hoitlth  is  Mowing  ! 

l^^;MS  1-l.OKl.X.  >.   M  >.•■>■  >KV!1V 


MARCO  BOZZAIU& 

(M»iv-\<  Rvxsrsris.  thf  Ki«n\im\n,kis ,«"  imyWrn  Circctv  Ml  in 
ni»jhl  fttUck;  uvH>i\  tho  TviriKK^h  c*uxj.  At  l.A^tv.  the  saw  \\f  the  ai 
okM^I  rfe»t.-v«.  Avijiuiit  j,\  iSft^v  aiut  cSkViiw^i  in  the  uUM»v»t  v^  victv^r; 
Mis  Ust  wwvis  vcM« !  "  To  v(w  (vM  UNfrt)'  is  «  jJwisttK,  »m\  wot 

Ar  n\\dnight,  in  his  guawUxl  tout, 

Tho  Turk  was  divsuniuj;  of  tho  hour 
\Vhoi\  GftHvo,  hor  knw  in  su|>i>liiuutL<  liont, 

Should  tivnihlo  at  his  nowoi\ 
In  diwuus.  iluvugh  camp  and  »\iurt,  ho  \xir» 
Tho  tiv(<hios  of  a  ivn>(Uoi\>r  ; 

lu  diw>ms  his  s^>ng  of  trivmiph  ho!U\l ; 
Thou  wow  his  nionaivh's  signot-ring. 
Thou  mvssrtl  that  monaivh's  tlmmo — a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  g;iy  of  wing. 

As  K.don's  gai\lon  Wrvl. 

At  midnight,  in  tho  forost  shades. 

B>«iaris  rsuigrtl  his  Sulioto  K>nd,  — 
Trvio  as  tho  stwl  of  thoir  trioil  VJades, 

Hoiws  in  heart  and  hand. 
Theiv  had  the  rei-sian's  thonsjiuds  st5ixl. 
There  had  the  slad.  earth  drunk  their  WivhI. 


On  iJd  riatav>'s  day  ; 
.\ud  now  thoiv  l>i\s>th>Hl  that  hauuttnl  air 
Tho  sous  of  siivs  who  counuoiwi  theiv. 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  .soul  to  dtuv, 

.\s  vjuiek.  as  far,  as  they. 

All  hour  ^>asso^l  on,  tho  'l\\rk  awoko  ; 

That  bright  divam  was  his  last  : 
He  woko    -  to  hoar  his  st'utries  shriek, 

"To arms !  they vvmo  1  the  tiiwk  1  thetliwk  ! 
He  woke —  to  die  midst  llamo,  and  smoke, 
.\nd  shout,  and  groi\u,  and  s;dH>r-slivko, 

.\nd  death-shots  falUug  thick  auvl  fust 
As  lightnings  fivm  tho  mountain-cloud  ; 
And  h(>ai\l,  with  voiiv  as  trumjvt  loud, 

Ui«iaris  ohwr  his  Wud  ; 
"Strike  —  till  tho  last  armtnl  fiH<  oxi«i\>s  ; 
Strike  —  for  your  altars  and  your  liivs  ; 
Strike  —  tV>r  the  gtwn  graves  of  your  .siiivs, 

GvkI.  and  your  native  laud  '.  " 

Thoy  fought  —  like  bravo  tuon,  long  and  woll ; 

Thoy  i>iUsl  that  givund  with  Moslem  slain : 
Thoy  vvnuuoivvl  —  Imt  l>o£/;aris  fell, 

Ulooiliug  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  wnu-ados  saw 
His  snxilo  when  rang  their  \uvud  hurrah, 

And  tho  ixsl  tield  wtis  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  cU>so 
».\ilmly,  as  to  a  night "s  ivjxvso, 

Uko  tlowoi's  at  sot  of  sun, 

Oomo  to  tho  hridal  chamlvr,  Ooath. 

Oomo  to  the  xuother,  when  she  fivls. 
For  tho  tirat  tituo,  her  tirst-Kiri\'s  hwith  ; 

Conio  whoi\  the  hlesstsl  seals 
That  chvso  the  iH'stilenco  aiv  bi\)ko, 
,\nd  eivwded  cities  wail  its  stix>ko  : 
Ootno  in  consnniption's  ghastly  form, 
Tho  earthiiuake  slnx-k,  the  ocean  storm  : 
Come  when  the  heart  l>eats  high  a\id  warm. 

With  Kvnuuet  song  and  dance  and  wine,  — 
.\nd  thou  art  terrible  ;  the  t«>i', 
Tho  grvxtn.  the  knell,  tho  jvill,  the  bier. 
And  all  wo  know,  or  d>\v>n>,  or  fwxr 

Of  agvMiy,  aiv  thine. 

But  to  tlu>  hero,  when  his  swo>\l 
Has  won  tho  K-<ttle  for  the  fixv. 

Thy  voivv  .souvids  like  a  pivjiliet's  wvnl, 

And  in  its  hollow  toi\es  aiv  h>\u\l 
I      Tho  thanks  of  millioi\s  yet  to  Kv 
i  OvMno  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wivught  ; 

l\«no  with  hov  lauivl-K>i»f,  Wwd-Knight : 
'      Oomo  in  hor  crowning  hour,  —  and  then 
I  Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 

To  hin>  is  welcome  as  the  sight 
1      Of  sky  and  staiis  to  jiriiioni'vl  men  ; 


ig 


■-& 


f 


fOEMH  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FliEKlJOM. 


525 


■a 


^- 


Thy  irTim\t  in  vttWiuu:  an  th«  harul 
01  l(r'jl)ii;r  ill  a  foreign  laiid  ; 
'I'Jiy  >iuiimi<ji)«  v,t:\f/iiiin  a»  tlic  cry 
'Diat  VA<1  lii-.  Iijiliaii  ihhm  w<;rc  liigli 

To  th<;  W(,l\i[-fiti:kilin  (jdliwiu:, 
W'lii;ii  til'.-  laii'l-wiii'l,  (ioiii  wiKKbt  of  j>glm. 
Ami  oraiiJ5<!-){rov<;ii,  a;i<i  (ioM*  of  Iwliii, 

|j)<;w  O'.-i  tlte  Jfaytiaii  wiaij. 

Vi<r/.7.anii !  with  th*  xUirv-A  hrave 

liriv.fu:  nurtun^l  in  ln;r  ({loiy'i*  time, 
I£';Bt  tliw  ;  tli'.-r<;  i)t  no  prou'l'ir  gtave, 

Kven  ill  lw;r  own  [iroml  itliiitK. 
81ii!  wore  no  funeral  kvAx  lor  ttw;*;, 

Nor  Iwli;  tlie  <l;iik  h'-Mtrm  wave  itx  plnme, 
Like  toni  l«an'.l)  liom  i\v<it\in  k-alleii»  tree, 
In  witow'h  [Mnij)  ami  i<ag<stntry, 

'I'lie  lieartlci*»  luxury  of  the  tomb. 
But  »he  rmiuniitmn  the';  ajs  one 
I>jn;{  love<l,  ami  for  a  muttim  gone. 
For  thi«;  lw.-r  jK^et'i*  lyre  ix  wreatli'j'l. 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  nioni/;  br'aitlied  ; 
Kor  thee  fcli*  ringx  the  biithilay  Urlhs ; 
Of  th'«  her  l/aU;»'  linst  limping  t/;ll«  ; 
Kor  thine  her  evening  i<rayer  io  )>ai<l 
At  laUfx  ixiui:U  an<j  i^rttage  Ij<:/1, 
Her  Kol'Jier,  eloning  with  the  IVx:, 
Oive»  for  thy  «ake  a  .lea'lli/fr  blow  ; 
Hi)i  I>light/;<1  niaiilen,  when  ohe  fearu 
For  him,  the  joy  of  hrrr  young  yearn, 
Thinkis  of  thy  fat<;,  anil  eheckJi  her  t«ara. 

Anil  she,  thft  mother  of  thy  txiys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  fa/hyl  ehe/jk 
I»  read  the  grief  ishe  will  not  npirfik. 

The  memory  of  her  burii^l  joys,  — 
And  even  she  who  gave  thi*  birth,  — 
Will,  by  her  jiilgiim-eireled  hearth. 

Talk  of  thy  duoni  without  a  isigh  ; 
For  thou  art  freedom's  now,  and  fame' 8,  — 
I  One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  name* 

That  were  not  Ix/ni  to  die. 

rnz-CKHExn  Halleck. 


SOKO  OF  THK  (il'.EKK   POET. 

FKOM  "O'JW  ;i,'A.'*" 

TllF.  ixlej*  of  Cre»y-e,  the  'mhrn  of  Orewe! 

Where  biiniing  .Sapjjho  loveil  and  nung, 
Where  grew  the  art*  of  war  and  pea/*,  — 

Where  iJehi*  r<mi,  and  Phoibun  Bj/ning  I 
F,ti;nial  uurnrner  gilds  them  yet  ; 
But  all,  i:xiv\A,  their  nun,  in  set. 

The  Si.i'an  and  the  Teian  rnuw;. 
The  hiiro'tt  harj),  the  lover's  lute. 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  ; 
Their  pla/e  of  birth  alone  is  mut/; 


To  wunds  vh'uili  w;ho  fcirtlu^r  west 
Tlian  your  sired'  "  Island*  of  tin:  Blest." 

The  mountains  hx^ik  on  Alarathon, 
And  .Marathon  lv*k»  on  the  wia  ; 

And  musing  th<;re  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  tliat  Oi':':^;';  might  still  U;  fre*  ; 

Kor,  standing  on  the  I'ersians'  grave, 

I  i;ould  not  ili^-m  mywdf  a  slave. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rwky  brow 

Whieh  lixjks  o'er  wsi-lxyni  hulmu'w  ; 

And  shi]«  by  thousamis  lay  iflow, 
And  men  in  nations,  —  all  were  hi*  ! 

He  eounteil  tlK;m  at  biisik  of  liay,  — 

And  when  the  sun  w;t,  wliere  were  theyf 

And  where  are  they '!  an/1  where  art  thou, 
ily  i^/juntrj'?    On  thy  voiiajless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tunelews  w>w,  — 
The  heroic  tftvjui  U«it«  no  more  ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  si^  long  divine, 

lJegem;rat/;  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'T  is  w^rnething,  in  the  'leartli  of  fame, 
Though  Unkt-A  among  a  fi:tV:T'A  nfJt, 

To  feel  at  least  a  jratriot's  sliame, 
Kven  as  I  sing,  suHus*:  my  {mx  ; 

For  what  is  left  the  jH)".!  him  I 

Kor  Gr'^'iks  a  blush,  —  for  OriAi*  a  Ujar. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  Imt  blush  f  —  our  fathers  bliyL 
Earth  !  render  \ai'k  from  out  thy  brsist 

A  remnant  of  our  .SjiailUtn  dea/1  ! 
Of  the  thre«  hundre'l,  grant  but  three 
To  make  a  new  'niermopyla;  I 

Wljat,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah,  no  '.  the  voi/;',-s  of  the  d<-a/l 
Sound  like  a  dUtant  torrent's  fall. 

And  answer,  "  I>;t  one  living  hea/l. 
But  one,  ariic;,  —  we  come,  we  come  ! " 
'T  is  but  tlie  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain,  —  in  vain  ;  strike  other  choril*; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
l>;ave  Ijatthrti  Ut  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  sh/jil  the  Uvdl  of  Scio's  vine, ! 
Hark !  rising  Ut  the  ignoble  ':all. 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacclianal  I 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet,  — 
Where  i«  the  Pyrrhic  plialanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  imvinii,  why  forgift 
The  nobler  and  the  rnanli<:r  one  ? 

You  Iiave  the  letters  Ca/lmiw  gave,  — 

lliink  ve  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 


-^ 


e^ 


5-26 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


■^ 


Fill  high  the  howl  with  Samiaii  wine  ! 

We  w'ill  not  think  of  thomes  like  these  ! 
It  made  Auaoreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served,  hut  sexveii  Tolyerates,  — 
A  tjT.uit ;  bnt  our  mastei-s  tlien 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  t>-rant  of  tlie  Chersonese 

Was  fi-eedom's  liest  and  bravest  friend ; 
That  tvRuit  was  Miltiades  ! 

0  that  the  pivsent  hour  would  lend 
Another  desjmt  of  the  kind  ! 
Sueh  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wino  ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  sliore 
Exists  the  ivmnant  of  a  lino' 

Such  as  the  Poric  mothere  bore  ; 
And  there  perhaj>s  some  seed  Is  sown 
The  Heracleidau  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks,  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells  : 

In  native  swonls,  and  native  ranks. 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Wovild  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  \rith  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  diuice  beneath  the  sliade,  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 
My  own  the  burning  tear-diMp  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  nie  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep. 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ;'~ 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine,  — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

Lord  bvron. 


FROM  "CHIU>E  HAROLD." 

Fair  Greece  !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth ! 
Immortal,  though  no  more ;  though  fallen, 

great  ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scattered  children  forth. 
And  long-accustomed  bondage  unv'reate  ? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilom  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriore  of  a  willing  doom. 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait,  — 
0,  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume. 
Leap  from  Eurot;»s'  banks,  and  call  thee  from 

the  tomb? 


Spirit  of  Freedom  !  when  on  Pbyle's  brow 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thnisybulns  and  his  train, 
Couldst  tliou  forbode  the  disnnU  horn-  which 

now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  ! 
Not  thirty  tyi-iuits  now  enforee  the  chain. 
But  every  carle  can  loixl  it  o'er  thy  land  ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sous,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  Ih^neath  the  scoui-ge  of  Turkish  hand, 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved :  in  wonl,  in  deetl, 

unmanned. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed  1  ami  who 
That  murks  the  lire  still  sjmrkling  in  each  eye. 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burned  anew 
WitJi  thy  uunuenched  lieani,  lost  Lilierty  ' 
And  many  divam  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  Ixick  their  fathers'  heritage  ; 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage. 
Or  tear  their  name  detiled  frem  Slavery's  mourn- 
ful imge. 

Hcrenlitary  Ixmdsmcn  !  know  ye  not, 

Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the 

blow  ? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conijucst  must   Ix' 

wrought  I. 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  desjKnlers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altju-s  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  ,'  triumph  o'er  your  foe  : 
Greece  !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the 

same  ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thy  years  of 

shame  ! 

LORD  B\'RON'. 


FROM  "THU  GIAOVK." 

Clime  of  the  unfoi^itten  brave  ! 
Whose  land,  from  plain  to  monntflin-cave. 
Was  Freolom's  home  or  Glory's  grave! 
Shrine  of  tlie  mighty !  can  it  be 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  > 
Approach,  thou  craven,  crouching  slave  ; 

Say,  is  not  this  Therraopyh«  ? 
These  w-.itere  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

0  servile  offspring  of  the  free,  — 
Pronounce  what  seji,  what  shore  is  this  ? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis  ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown. 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own  ; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  emlx>ra  of  their  former  fires  ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theii's  a  name  of  fear 


B-«- 


-^ 


rOEMH   Ob'  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


^ 


ifl- 


That  Tyranny  shall  ([Uake  to  hear, 
Anil  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  ilie  than  shame  ; 
For  Freedom's  hattle  onee  begun, 
l!e(iueatheil  liy  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  balllcid  oft  is  ever  won. 
Hear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page  ; 
Attest  it,  many  a  deathless  age  : 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid. 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid. 
Thy  lieroes,  though  the  geni'ral  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command. 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land  ! 
There  points  tliy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye 
'I'lje  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die  ! 
'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Kach  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace  : 
l'",nough,  —  no  foreign  foe  could  (luell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itsidf  it  fell ; 
Yes  !  self-abasement  ]iav(!d  the  way 
To  villain-boniis  ami  despot  sway. 

Wliat  can  he  tell  wlio  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time. 
No  theme  on  whieh  the  Muse  might  soar, 
High  as  tliine  own  in  days  of  yoi-e, 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
Tlie  fiery  souls  that  might  liave  led 

Thy  .sons  to  dee<ls  sublime, 
Now  crawl  from  eradhi  to  the  grave, 
.Slaves  —  nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave. 

And  callous  save  to  crime. 

LORD  nVRO.M. 


WAIiSAW'shist  il;am|.ii)Ti  from  her  height  sur- 
veyed, 
\Vid(!  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  niiii  laid  ; 
"<)   Heaven!"  he  cried,  "  my  lilccdinj,' eonntiy 

save !  — 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  sliield  the  brave  ? 
Yet,  though  destruction  swee])  these  lovely  ]>lains, 
Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains  ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  hiijh, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live  —  with  her  to  die  !  " 
He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  aiTayed 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed  ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form. 
Still  as  the  breeze,  hut  dreadful  as  the  storm  ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  thdr  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death,  —  the  watchword  and  reply  ; 
Then  pealed  the  notes,  omniiiotent  to  ehann. 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alann  !  — 


In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few  '. 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew  :  — 
O,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time  ! 
Sarmatia  fell,  unweiit,  without  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
.Strength  in  her  amis,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe  ! 
Drop[jed  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered 

spear,  - 

Closed  heT  briglit  eye,  and  curbed  her  higli  career ; 
Hope,  for  a  sea,son,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked  —  as  Kosciusko  fell  ! 


MEN  AND   BOYS. 

The  storm  is  out ;  the  land  is  rouse<l  ; 
Where  is  the  coward  who  sits  well  housed  ? 
Fie  on  thee,  boy,  disguised  in  curls, 
Uehinil  the  stove,  'mong  gluttons  and  girls  ! 

A  graceless,  worthless  wight  tliou  must  be  ; 

No  (jerman  maid  desires  thee, 

No  German  song  inspires  thee. 

No  German  Hhine-wine  fires  thee. 
Fortli  in  the  van, 
Man  by  man, 

Swing  the  Ijattle-sword  who  can  ! 

When,  we  stand  watching,  the  livelong  night. 
Through  piping  storms,  till  morning  light. 
Thou  to  tliy  downy  bed  canst  creep. 
And  there  in  dreams  of  ra|iture  sleep. 
A  graceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

When  hoarse  and  shrill,  the  tninijiet's  tilast, 
Like  the  thunder  of  God,  makes  our  hearts  beat 

fast. 
Thou  in  the  theater  lov'st  to  appear. 
Where  trills  ami  quavers  tickle  the  ear. 
A  graceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

Wlieii  the  glare  of  noonday  scorches  the  lirain. 
When  our  parched  lips  seek  water  in  vain. 
Thou  canst  make  champagne  coiks  ily 
At  the  groaning  tables  of  luxury. 
A  gi-aeeless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

When  we,  as  we  rush  to  the  strangling  fight. 
Send  home  to  our  true-loves  a  long  "Good-night," 
Thou  canst  hie  thee  where  love  is  sold, 
And  buy  thy  plea.sure  with  paltry  gold. 
A  gi'aceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

When  lance  and  bullet  come  wliistling  by, 
An<l  death  in  a  thousand  shapes  draws  nigh. 
Thou  canst  sit  at  thy  cards,  and  kill 
King,  queen,  and  knave  with  thy  spadille. 
1     A  graceless,  worthles.s  wight,  etc. 


^ 


rOEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


-a 


If  on  tlio  rod  Urlil  our  licll  .sliouUl  toll, 
Thoii  woli'Oiiio  1)0  iloalli  to  llio  pntriot's  soul  I 
Thy  piim|ieri'il  llcsli  shiiU  nuaku  at  its  ilooiii, 
Aud  crawl  ill  silU  to  a  liojiolcss  tomb. 
A  [lilii'iil  oxil  Ihiiio  sluiU  ho  ; 
No  (icniiaii  iiiaiil  shall  \\'w['  for  tlieo, 
No  ('■I'liii.'iii  soiij;  shall  they  sing  for  thoo, 
No  (ifiniaii  gobk'ls  slinll  ring  for  thoo. 
Forth  ill  the  van, 
Man  for  man. 
Swill"  tlu'  biUtlo-sworil  who  can  I 


THE  MARSEILLES  HYMN. 

Yk  sons  of  froodom,  wake  to  glory  ! 

Hark!  hark!  what  myriads  bid  you  riso I 
Your  I'hildron,  wivos,  and  grnndsiros  hoary, 

lU'liolil  thoir  tears  and  hoar  their  cries ! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  niisehiefs  breeding, 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  vuflian  baud, 
All'right  and  desolate  the  land. 
While  iieiieo  and  liberty  lie  bleeding? 
To  arms  !  to  arms  !  ye  brave  I 

Tir  avenging  sword  unsheathe ; 
March  on  !  march  on  !  all  hearts  resolved 
tin  victory  or  death. 

Now,  now  the  daiigerons  storm  is  rolling, 

Whii'h  treacherous  kings  eonfederate  raise; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  howling. 

And  lo  !  our  lields  and  cities  blaze  ; 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  riiiii. 

While  lawless  force,  with  giiilly  stride, 
S)iveads  desolation  far  and  wide, 
With  .rimes  and  blood  his  hands  ombruing. 
To  arms !  to  anus !  ye  brave,  etc. 

0  Liberty !  can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  llaraot 
fan  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  conliue  theo! 

Ov  wliiiis  thy  noble  sjiirit  tamo  ! 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  liewailing 
That  falsehood's  dagger  tyrants  wield, 
But  freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms!  to  anus!  ye  brave,  etc. 

KoucKT  DB  Lisle. 


MAKE  WAY  FOR  LIBBaRTY  I 

(Oil  (tie  exploit  of  Ar»oUt  Winlcclrlal  nt  the  Iwttle  of  SemiMcli. 
n  «lu*;h  ttie  SwKs.  fiKhtin,;  for  tlictr  iiulcpcndeiice,  totally  clefeated 
lie  .\iistrians,  in  tlic  fourtecmh  century  ] 

Make  way  for  Liberty  !  "  —  he  cried  ; 


U 


"  Make  way  for  Liberty  !  "  — 
JIado  vn\y  for  Liberty,  luid  died 


In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ! 
A  wall,  where  every  conscious  stono 
Seemed  to  its  kiudred  thousands  grown  ; 
A  rampart  all  assaults  to  bear. 
Till  time  to  dust  their  frames  should  wear  ; 
A  wood,  like  that  euehanted  grove 
In  which  with  liends  Kiualdo  strove, 
Where  every  silent  tree  Jiossessod 
A  spirit  prisoned  in  its  breast, 
Which  the  first  stroke  of  coming  strifo 
Would  startle  into  hideous  life  : 
So  dense,  so  still,  the  Austrians  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  linman  wood  ! 
Impregnable  their  front  appears. 
All  horrent  with  projected  spears. 
Whose  polished  points  before  them  shiuo, 
From  Hank  to  ilank,  one  brilliant  line, 
Hright  as  the  breakers'  splendois  run 
Along  the  billows  to  the  sun. 

Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 
Coutemicd  for  their  native  land  : 
Teasants,  whoso  new-found  si  length  had  broke 
From  manly  necks  the  igiiobU'  yoke, 
And  forged  their  fetters  into  swords. 
On  eiiiial  terms  to  light  their  lords. 
And  what  insurgent  rage  had  gained 
In  numy  a  mortal  fray  maintained  ; 
Mai-shalod  once  more  at  Freedom's  call, 
They  came  to  comiuer  or  to  fall. 
Where  he  who  compiered,  he  who  fell, 
Was  deemed  a  dead,  or  living.  Tell  ! 
Such  virtue  hatl  that  patriot  breathed, 
So  to  the  soil  his  soul  benueathed, 
That  wheresoe'er  his  arrows  flew 
Heroes  in  his  own  likeness  grew. 
And  warrioi-s  sprang  from  every  sod 
Which  his  awakoniug  footstep  trod. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 
Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath  ; 
The  lire  of  eonnict  burnt  within. 
The  battle  tivmlilcd  to  begin  : 
Yet,  while  the  Austrians  held  tlieir  gixnind, 
I'oint  for  attack  was  nowhere  found  ; 
Where'er  the  impatient  Switzers  giued, 
The  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed  : 
That  line 't  were  suicide  to  meet. 
And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet,  — 
How  eoiilil  they  rest  within  their  graves, 
And  leave  their  homes  the  homes  of  slaves  ? 
Would  they  not  feel  tlieir  children  tread 
With  clanging  chains  above  their  head  ! 

It  must  not  lie  :  this  day,  this  hour, 
Annihilates  the  oppressor's  power  ; 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field, 
She  will  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield,  — 


--& 


[& 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FUEKDOM. 


629 


-a 


i 


Slu)  miiat  not  full  ;  hui-  liaUur  I'lito 
lli'ii'  f^ivi's  licr  III!  immortal  diite. 
I''i'u  wiiv  till'  luimliurs  slio  couKl  bonst ; 
r.ul  i\.r\   li,.iii;iii  WHS  n  luwt, 
All. I  I.  II  I,,.  Ihrnyl,  liiiuM'irwiTo  he 
(111  uliMs,.  s(.|..  arm  liuii^  vi.-|,.ry. 

It  (lid  ac'iKMid  un  wu-  i.idcrd  ; 
Hdiold  l.im,  —Arnold  Winkt'lii,..!  ! 
Tliuro  souiids  not  to  llic  tnimii  nf  lame 
Tho  echo  of  ii  iiolilev  immi>. 
Unmai'kod  ho  stood  amid  llic  llnoiit;, 
111  luiiiiiiiitioii  dcrp  ami  loiiy, 
Till  yoii  mi^'lit  sic,  wiili  siulduii  gvaw, 
Tlici  voiy  tliuu^'lit  roiiiu  o'lT  his  face, 
And  liy  lliu  motion  ol'  liis  foiin 
Aiilici|mtu  thu  liuistiiij;  storm, 
And  liy  the  iiiilil'liiit,'  ot  his  lnow 
Tell  w'luT,,  Ihr  lioll  wi.idil  strike,  and  how. 

Hill  'I  was  no  soon,  r  thoii^dit  llinn  done, 
Till'  lii'lil  was  in  a  momi'iit  won  :  — 

"  MaUo  way  for  Liljerly  !  "  hu  cried, 
Then  ran,  with  anna  extended  wide. 
As  if  his  dearest  frii'iid  to  eliisp  ; 
Ten  siieais  he  swi'iil  williiii  his  ^inisp. 

"  Make  way  for  Liberty  I"  he  cried  ; 
Their  keen  iioiiits  met  from  side  to  side  ; 
He  bowed  amonjjst  them  like  a  tree, 
Aii.l  (liiis  made  way  f.ir  Liberty. 

•Swill  lo  the  breach  his  eoinrades  liy  ; 
"  iMiike  way  for  Liberty  !"  they  cry. 
Ami  llirough  the  Austrian  idiahinx  dart, 
.'\s  rnslied  the  spears  throiifjli  Arnold's  heart  ; 
Wliile,  in.stiintaneons  as  his  fall, 
h'oiil,  niiii.  panii'.  s.Mttered  all  : 

.\ii  iaiili.|iiaK .ill. I  in. I  overlhiow 

A  .-ily  with  a  suivr  bb.w. 

Thns  Switzerhiiiil  a^;aiii  wiis  free  ; 
Thus  Death  made  wav  for  Liberlv  ! 


SWITZERLAND. 

FHOM  "WILLIAM  T1:LL,'" 

Onck  Switzerland  was  free  !     Willi  what  a  pride 
I  used  to  walk  these  hills,       l.iok  up  to  lieavcn, 
And  l.le.ss  (u)d  that  it  was  so  !      It  was  free 
l''i..iii  end  to  end,  from  elill'to  lake  't  wa«  froo  I 
Kree  as  our  torrents  are,  that  leap  our  rocks. 
And  plow  our  valleys,  without  a.sking  leave  ; 
<b-  us  our  peaks,  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow 
111  very  presence  of  tho  rognl  sun  I 


^- 


llow  hniipy  was  1  in  it  then  I   1  loveil 

Its  very  storms.     Ay,  often  have  1  sat 

In  my  boat  at  night,  when,  midway  o'er  the  lake. 

The  stars  went   out,   and   down   the   mountain 

gorge 
The  wind  came  roaring,  —  I  have  sat  and  eyed 
Thethumler  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 
To  .see  him  shake  liis  lightnings  o'er  my  head, 
And  think       1  b.i.l  no  master  save  his  own  ! 

J.\MliS  SltUKlUAN    KNUWLIiS. 


A  COURT   LADY. 

Heu  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,    her  eyes  with 

purple  were  dark, 
Ilor  cheeks'  pale  ojial  burnt  willi  a  re.l  and  rest- 

less  spark. 

Xever  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  an.l  in 

race  ; 
Never  was  hidy  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  tlie  fiii'e. 

Never  was  la.ly  on  earth  niiiie  true  as  woman 

and  wife,  ' 
Larger    in    jmlgmeut    and    inslin.-l.    pn.ii.ler    in 

manners  and  life. 

.She  stood  in  the  early  Tiioriiiiig,  an.l  said   to  her 

maidens,   "  liiing 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court 

of  the  king. 

■'liring  me  the  clasps  of  diain.ni.l,  luciil.  clear 

of  llie  mote. 
Clasp  me  th..  large  at    lb.,  waist,  an.l  clasp  me 

the  small  ill  the  ihroaL 

"  Diamonds  to  fasleii  the  hair,  and  diamonds  t.. 

fasten  the  sleeves, 
Lnees  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of 

snow  from  the  eaves." 

Oorgeons  she  entered  the  sunlight  which  gath- 
ered her  up  ill  a.  llaine. 

While  straight,  in  her  open  carriag...  sh.'  to  the 
hospital  came. 

In  she  w.'iit   at    the  door,  and  gazing,  from  end 

t..,.n.l. 
"  Maiiv  an.l  l..w  an.  the  pallets,  but   each  is  the 

plac'c  of  a  fii..n(l." 

Up  she  ]ias.sed  tlirongh   the  wanls,  an.l  slo.nl  at 

a  young  man's  bed  : 
nioody   the   baud   on    his  brow,   an.l   livi.l    the 

droop  of  his  head. 


-EP 


[fi-*: 


r>30 


POEMS  OF  PATh'JOTJSM  A^W  FKJSKDOM. 


-a 


"Art  t]>ou n  Liunlxml,  my  luvtlior !    Happy  art 

tliou  I "  shtf  oiii\l, 
Aud  saniUnl  liko  Italy  on  lum  :  ho  iIivjuiuhI  in 

hor  taoo  anil  ditxi. 

l\Je  with  liis  i^ssiuj;  soul,  sli<>  wojit  on  still  to 

a  siwunl  : 
Iff  was  a  j;ravt\  hai\l  man,  wlioso  ycai-s  by  ilnn- 

J<W>US  w-oiw  IwklUKHl. 

Wounds  in  his  Wty  wore  soiv,  wounds  in  his 

lilo  wore  soivr. 
"Art   thou  a   Uoniagnolo?"     Hor  oyos    divvo 

lij;htninip;  Ivfoiv  hor. 

"Austrian  and  priost  had  joined  to  douWo  and 

tighten  tho  o<^i\l 
AWo  to  l>ind  thoo,  0  stivng  ono,  —  hvo  l>y  tho 

stmko  of  a  s\vo(\l. 

"  Now  Iv  >;n»vo  for  tho  n>st  of  ns,  nsing  the  lifo 

ovoivast 
To  rilx'n  onr  wino  of  tho  pivsont  (ttH>  now)  in 

};hx>ms  of  tho  p-\st." 

Down  slio  stoppod  to  a  jwllot  whoiv  lay  a  faw 

liko  a  girl's, 
Yonnji,  and  jvithotio  with  dying,  —  a  dot^p  Waok 

holo  in  tho  ourls, 

"Art   thou  fivm  Tuscany,   bivthor?  and  soost 

thou,  divaniing  in  ivdn. 
Thy  motlior  stand  in  tho  piazza,  si<aivliin};  tlui 

list  of  tho  slain?" 

Kind  as  a  mothor  hoi'solf,  sho  touolunl  his  ohivks 

with  hor  hands  ; 
"Blosswl  is  sho  who  has  Iwrno  thoo,  although 

sho  sliould  woop  as  sho  stands." 

On  sl\o  (vissod  to  a  Fix'nolininn,  his  arm  oarrioil 

oil"  by  a  IwU  : 
Knooliug,  .  .  "0  more  thiui  my  Imithor !  how 

sliall  1  thank  thoo  lor  all  < 

"  Eaoh  of  tho  hoivos  arvmnd  ns  has  fo\is;ht  for 

his  land  and  lino. 
But  Mi'ii  hast  fought  for  a  strangor,  in  hato  of  a 

wrong  not  thino. 

"  Happy  aiv  all  fi-oo  jx'ojilos,  too  strong  to  Iw  dis- 

possi»ssod  ; 
Bnt  blossJd  aiv  thivse  among  nations  who  dare  to 

Ih>  strong  for  tho  ivst  !  " 

Evor  sho  )>ass«l  on  hor  way,  m)d  oamo  to  a  oovioh 

whoro  innwl 
t">no  with  a  faoo  from  Vonotia,  white  witli  a  hopo 

o\it  of  mind. 


Long  slie  stood  and  giued,  and  twice  slie  triwi  at 

tho  name, 
But  two  givat  crystal  toai-s  woiv  all  that  laltoivd 

and  oan>o. 

Only  a  tear  tW  Yonioo  !  —  sho  turned  as  in  jxis- 

sion  and  U'>ss, 
And  stoo|H'd  to  his  foivluMid  and  kissoil  it,  as  if 

sho  woro  kissing  tho  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart,  she  moved  on 

thou  to  another, 
Stern  and  stivng  in  his  dwitli.     "  .Vnd  dost  thou 

sutler,  my  l>rothor  ? " 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers  ; —  "t.>ut  of  the  Hod- 

mont  lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  fixHHlom  !  swet>tost  to 

live  lU'  to  die  on." 

Holding  his   cold,  rovigh  hands,  -"  Well,    0, 

well  have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  riodnuuit,  who  would  not   bo 

noWe  alone." 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  i\«>  to  her 

foot  with  a  sjaing,  — 
"That  was  a   riodniontoso !    and   this  is  th» 

Court  of  the  King." 

ELl-'AlillM   UAKK»;rV   UKOWXINC 


VILLA  FRANCA. 

AVait  a  little  ;  do  we  not  wait  I 
Louis  Napoleon  is  not  Fate  ; 
Francis  Joseph  is  not  Tinio  ; 
Thero  's  one  hath  swifter  feet  than  (Tl'imo  ; 
Cannon  jwrliamonts  settle  minght  : 
Venice  is  Austria's,  — wlu>so  is  thought  1 
Minie  is  gvHHl,  but,  spite  of  change,  — 
Guttonbui'g's  gun  has  the  longer  range. 

Spin,  spin,  Clolho,  spin  ! 

Lachcsis,  twist  I  and  AtrojHi.s-  sever  ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  o\it,  year  in, 

Tho  silent  hoad.snian  waits  forover  ! 


Wait,  we  -say  ;  our  years  aro  long  ; 
Men  aiv  weak,  but  Man  is  strong  ; 
Since  tho  stai's  lii'st  curved  their  rings, 
AVe  have  looktnl  on  many  things  ; 
(iivat  wai"s  conu'  and  great  wai-s  go, 
Wolf-tracks  light  on  jndar  snow  ; 
AVe  sliall  see  hiui  come  and  gone. 
This  second-hand  Napoleon. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  twist !  and  .\troiios,  sever  ! 

In  tho  shadow,  year  out,  year  in. 

The  silent  hoadsmui  waits  forowr 


-4 


a- 


POEMH  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


^r^ 


ig-- 


We  (law  the  tlder  C'oi-nican, 
An'l  C'lotho  rnuttciwl  an  hIic  ((i»an, 
While  tTowtii;ii  lackcyH  Ixire  tlie  train 
Of  the  pincljlitck  Charlemagi]';,  — 
"Sister,  »tiiit  not  length  of  Ihicail ! 
8i»t(;r,  «tay  tlie  mamn  'Ireiul  ! 
On  St.  Helen's  gianite  bleak. 
Hark  !  the  vulture  whetH  hLs  beak  I  " 

Sjiin,  Bfiin,  Clotho,  Bpin  I 

La<;he«i»i,  twist !  and  Atrojioii,  fMJver! 

In  the  shallow,  year  out,  year  in, 

The  silent  hea/lsniati  waits  forever  ! 

The  Bonajcirtes,  we  know  their  Ijees, 

They  wa<le  in  honey,  reil  t/j  the  knees  ; 

Their  |Kitent  reaper,  its  sheaves  sleep  sound 

In  doorless  garneiis  undergrouml  : 

We  know  false  Glory's  Bi^ndthrift  race, 

I'awning  nations  for  feathei-s  and  lace  ; 

It  may  be  short,  it  may  be  long,  — 

"  'T  is  reckoning  day  1 "  sneers  unpaid  Wrong. 

S[iin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lacliesix,  twiot !  and  Atrojios,  sever  ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in. 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever  ! 

The  cock  tliat  wears  the  eagh.-'s  skin 
Can  promise  wliat  he  ne'er  could  win  : 
Slavery  reaped  for  fine  wonLs  sown. 
System  for  all  and  rights  for  none  ; 
De8])0ts  at  top,  a  wild  clan  below. 
Such  is  the  Gaul  from  long  ago  : 
Wash  the  bla<;k  from  the  Kthiop's  face 
Wash  the  past  out  of  man  or  race  ! 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  twist !  and  Atropos,  sever  ! 

In  tlie  hli.'idow,  yeai-  out,  year  in. 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever  ! 

'Neath  Gregory's  throne  a  spider  swings 

And  snares  the  people  for  the  kings  -. 

"  liUther  in  dea<l ;  old  finarrels  pass  ; 

The  stake's  black  scars  aie  healed  with  grass " 

So  dreamers  prate  ;  —  did  man  e'er  live 

Saw  priest  or  woman  yet  forgive-  ? 

lint  liUther's  broom  is  left,  and  eyes 

Peep  o'er  their  creeds  to  where  it  lies. 

Sjiin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lacdiesis,  twist !  and  Atropos,  sever  ! 

In  the  sh.'idow,  year  out,  year  in, 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever  ! 

Smooth  sails  the  shi|)  of  i-ither  rralm, 
Kaiser  and  .Jesuit  nt  the  helm  ; 
Hilt  we  look  down  the  deeps,  and  mark 
Silent  workers  in  the  ilark, 


Building  slow  the  sharp-tuskf^i  reefs, 
OM  instincts  hardening  to  new  Ijtliefs  ; 
I'atienw,  a  little  ;  Icain  \m  wait ; 
Hours  are  long  on  the  clock  of  Fate. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  twist !  and  Atropos,  sever  ! 

Dark  is  strong,  and  so  is  Sin, 

lint  only  God  endures  forever  I 

JAMI^,  kC!,sliI.I.  UjwnLL, 


WESTWARD,   HOI 

PROM  "O.s  THh  f'KOM'I-xr   OP    VLA»VIUC  ART  AND  LEABH- 
IKr,  m  AMERICA."* 

WbstwakI)  the  course  of  llmpire  takes  its  way. 

The  four  first  acts  alreaily  jiast, 
A  fifth  shall  clos<;  the  ilrania  with  the  day  : 

Time's  noblest  odspring  is  the  last. 

GKoRCK  Berkeley. 


0  MfrriiKK  of  a  mighty  race. 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace  ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  [wers. 
Admire  and  hate  tliy  blooming  years; 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  sconi  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  checks  the  glow  is  spread 
Th.it  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red  ; 
Thy  st/.-ji,  —  the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet ; 

Thy  ho[ieful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Ay,  let  them  rail,  those  haughty  ones. 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
'I'hcy  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  many  a  fond  and  fcarlras  lieart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  lietwecn  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide,  — 
How  true:,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
M.ake  Ijright,  like  flowers,  the  valley  shades; 

SVhat  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen  ; 

What  cordial  welcomes  gieet  the  guest 
15y  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  west ; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  tnith  revered. 
And  man  is  loved,  and  Ood  is  feared. 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams. 


-^ 


fr: 


532 


POEMS  OF  PATJilOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


-a 


^Q- 


There  's  fl'»>eilom  at  thy  s?«tos,  M>il  I'wst 
For  earth's  do\vu-ti\>tWoii  ami  opj>i'(«st, 
A  sju>ltt-r  l\>r  thi<  luiMttnl  heail, 
For  the  starved  lalnMvr  toil  a\\d  l>iva>l. 

Tower,  at  thy  Kmmls, 
Sto\>s,  and  ejJls  Iwek  his  hatlU\l  houiuls, 

0  fair  young  motiier  I  on  thy  l>ix>\v 
Sliall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Oeep  in  the  hrightness  ol'  thy  sliies. 
The  thtxMiging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  Heet, 
P>\>1>  strength  and  riehes  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  w  ith  every  coming  hour, 
Shall  hrighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower  ; 
And  when  thy  sistei's,  elder  Kirn, 
Would  hnmil  thy  name  with  woixls  of  scorn, 

liefoit"  thine  eye 
Upon  their  lijvs  the  tannt  sliall  die. 

wuLUM  ci'iiRN  Bryant. 


Coi.VMinA,  (.'olmnhia,  to  glory  arise. 
The  nueen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies ! 
Thy  genius  commands  thw ;  with  ruptuiv  Ivliold, 
■While  ages  on  ages  thy  .sjilendors  unfold. 
Thy  reign  is  the  last  and  the  noWest  of  tin>e. 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  nuwt  inviting  thy  clime  ; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrimsou  tliy 

name. 
Be  freedom  and  science  and  virtue  thy  fame. 

To  conquest  and  slaughter  let  KuiviH'  aspire  ; 
Whelm  nations  in  hUnid,  and  wmp  cities  in  fire; 
Thy  helves  the  rights  of  mankind  sliall  defend. 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm  ;  for  a  world  1h>  thy  laws 
Enlai'gtil  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy  cause ; 
On  Fivwlom's  hixwd  Kisis  that  empire  shall  rise. 
Extend  with  the  main,  lUid  dissolve  with   the 


Fair  Science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  sliall  unbar. 
And  the  eiist  see  thy  morn  hide  the  l>eams  of  her 

star ; 
New  Ivnxls  and  new  siiges  uiiiivalcd  sliall  sojir 
To  fame  unextinguished  when  time  is  no  more  ; 
To  tlue,  tlio  hist  lelui;.'  of  virtue  designed. 
Shall  lly  fivm  all  nations  the  Wst  of  mankind  ; 
Here,  grateful  to  Heaven,  with  transport  shall 

bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  of  spring. 

Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glqry  ascend. 
And  gxaiius  turd  beatity  in  harmony  blend  ; 


The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  desiiv. 
And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish  tJie  tir»; 
Their  sweetness  unmingled,  their  manners  It?  tilled, 
.•\nd  virtue's  bright  im»g»>,   enstamped  on  the 

mind. 
With  pwice  and  soft  niptuiv  shall  teach  life  to 

glow. 
And  light  up  a  smile  on  tlie  asiiect  of  woo. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  jHiwev  shall  disiJay, 
The  nations  admiiv,  and  the  octwt  olH>y  ; 
Each  shoiv  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold, 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spicea  and 

gvMd. 
As  the  daysju'iug  unlKumded  thy  splendor  sliall 

How, " 
And  earth's  little  kiiigvloius  M'ore  thee  shall  K>w, 
While  the  en.signs  of  union,  in  triumph  unfurlinl, 
Husli  the  tumult  of  war,  and  give  peace  to  the 

world. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  viUley,  with  cedars  o'ei-- 

spread, 
Fivm  war's  dread  confusion,  I  pensively  strayed, — 
The  glootn  fivm  the  face  of  fair  heaven  ivtiitHi ; 
The  wind  ceased  to  murmur,  the  thiindera  e.\- 

piivd  ; 
Perfumes,  as  of  Eden,  flowmi  swwtly  along. 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung  ; 
"Oolumliia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. 
The  nueen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the 

skies  ! " 


AMKMCA  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

Ai.l.  hail  !  thou  noble  land, 
Our  Fathers'  native  soil  ! 
0,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
l^igantic  gixnvii  by  toil. 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore ! 
For  thou  with  magic  might 
Canst  reach  to  whciv  the  light 
Of  riuelnis  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  (.umius  of  our  clime 

Fivm  his  pine-eml>attled  steep 
Shidl  hail  the  guest  sublime  : 
While  the  Tritons  of  tliedwp 
With  their  conclis  the  kindred  loagne  shall  pro- 
claim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine,  — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line 
Like  the  Milky  Way  shall  sliiiie 
Bright  in  fame  ! 


Though  agi>9  long  have  past 

Since  our  Fathers  left  tlieir  home. 


-^ 


<£  ^  ^ 
^  >-  I  • 


r 


POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


533 


Tlicir  jiilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untraveled  sea«  to  roam, 

Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins  ! 

And  shall  we  not  i/roi;laim 

Tliat  blood  of  honest  fame 

Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 

By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  Hard  of  Avon  ^>ung. 
In  which  our  Milton  told 
How  the  vault  of  lieaven  rung 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ; 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet. 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  wliile  the  arts. 

That  mold  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, — 
between  let  Ocean  roll. 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  sun  : 
Yet  still  from  either  Ijcach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach. 
More  audible  than  speecli, 
"We  arc  One." 

WASIlI^■CTO^^  allston. 


^ 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  Iwld  ; 
Tlie  British  soldier  trembles 

When  JIarion's  name  Ls  told. 
Our  fortress  Is  the  goo<l  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us. 

As  seamen  know  the  sea  ; 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  gras.s. 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear  ; 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain. 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
Ami  hear  the  tramp  of  thou,sauds 

L'jKjn  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  releaee 
From  danger  and  from  toil ; 


-  We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  tlie  liattle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up. 
And  woodland  llowen>  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumlx;r  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  Ijand  that  Marion  leads,  — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles. 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'T  is  life  to  guide  the  lierj'  barb 

Acioss  the  moonlight  plain  ; 
'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  liritLsh  camp  — 

A  moment  —  and  away 
Kack  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  ]>eep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs  ; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  Iwnd 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  teal's  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  anns, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  .shore. 

William  Cl'Lle.n  Bry/u>t. 


SUNG  AT  T^ 


By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  (lag  to  April's  breeze  unfuiled. 

Here  once  the  embattle<l  fanners  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  compieror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creep*. 

On  this  green  bank,  Ijy  this  soft  stream. 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem. 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 


-^1 


fl-- 


f>34 


Pi>]iMS  OF  PATKtOTlSM  ANO  t'MKWM. 


-a 


Si>irit.  U»«t  mmlo  Uios»  hoivos  daw 
'l\>  dio,  or  lisivo  tln'ir  oUiUlivu  IW, 

The  shall  wo  «vis>'  to  thorn  mul  thoo, 

R.WrH  WAtlV  l^MBK.s 


WARU.KN'S  AiniKKSS, 

Si'AM>  !  the  givuiul's  yoiiv  own,  luy  hravys! 
Will  yo  jjivo  it  up  to  sIkvw  / 
Will  Yo  liHik  I'ov  giwiu'v  gravv's  t 

llo|K'  y<>  luoivY  stUl  1 
What  s  the  moi\'y  (U>slK>ts  fwl  t 
Uoiir  it  ill  that  lvittlo-iH>al  ! 
K«>vl  it  on  yoi\  hristUnj;  stwl  I 

Ask  it,  —  yo  who  will. 

F«u'  yo  I\h's  who  kill  lor  hiro  f 
Will  yo  to  yo\ir  hoints  ivtiix*  ■ 
Look  Ivhiuvl  you  :      thoy  'iv  atiiv  ! 

Ai\d,  K'l'oiv  you,  sw 
Who  havo  >lono  it  !     Wnu  the  vale 
l^u  thoy  oouii-  !  —  a«»l  will  yo  ^uail  f 
Ia\>vIou  i-.iiu  ami  iixM\  hail 

Lot  thoir  woUxxuo  ho  ! 

In  tho  l!«vl  of  Ivitthw  trust  ! 

Oio  wo  may,  —  ami  >lio  wo  must  ; 

l>ut,  0,  whoiv  oau  ilust  to  ilust 

l>o  i\>iisij;i\0(l  so  woU, 

.\s  whoro  h«>vo\i  its  dows  shall  shwl 

Ou  tho  martyivd  \v>triot's  Iwl, 

And  tho  iwks  shall  raiso  thoir  hoad. 

Of  his  d.tds  to  toll  ■ 

John  imksiwst. 


L 


THK  OU)  OOJJTINKNTALS. 

In  thoir  r!VJQ^^l  ivjjimoutnls 
StvKHl  tho  old  ooutinoutsls, 

Yioldiuj;  not, 
NVhon  Iho  jtivuadiors  wow  luugiiij;. 
And  liko  hail  toll  tho  |il«iij;iuj; 
t.'au\iou-shot  ; 
Whou  tho  filos 
Of  tho  vslos, 
tVim  tho  smoky  nij;ht  ouoauipuiout,  lH>it>  Uio 
Iwuuor  of  tho  ram|vju>t 
I'uiooru, 
And  jjrummor,  grumuvor.  s'""""'''"  voIUhI  Uio 
ivll  of  tho  drummor, 
'riu\>uj;h  tho  morn  ! 

Thou  with  oyos  to  tho  fixmt  idl. 
And  with  j!uus  horiioutal, 

Stooil  our  sii\>s  ; 
And  tho  Iwlls  whisthnl  dwidly. 
And  in  strosuus  llashiuj;  wily 

Ul,'U»\l  tlio  tti-»» ; 


As  tho  row 
t.'lii  tho  shoiv, 
Swopt  tho  sti\>uj;  l>j>ttlo-l>i\<i>ko\-s  o'or  tho  givou- 
soddwl  aoi\>s 
t>r  tho  plaiu  ; 
Aud  loudov,   loudor,   loudov,   oniokod  tho  Maok 
jjv>miowvlor, 
Cwokiug  amain  ! 

Now  liko  smiths  at  thoir  forgxvs 
Workod  tho  ivd  St.  OuKU-j^-'s 

(.'amiouooi's  ; 
Aud  tho  "villainovis  saltiiotor" 
Kuug  a  lioivo,  vlisooulant  motor 
Uouuvl  thoir  oai-s  ; 
As  tho  swift 
Storin-drift, 
^Yith  hot  swooping  augt'r,  oamo  tho  hoi'soguai\U' 
olai\j;\>r 
Ou  ovir  llanks  ; 
Thou  highor,   highor,   liighor,   huruod  tho  old- 
fashioniHl  lii~>' 
Thivtigh  tho  rjmks ! 

Thou  Iho  old-fashioiu>d  oolouol 
CalloiH'il  th>\>ugli  tho  whilo  inforual 

IVwdol^oloud  ; 
Aud  his  hi\>avl  swoi\l  was  swiugiiijt, 
.Vnd  his  hra.'ou  thi\v>t  was  ringing 
Tnuu|H't-loud, 
Thou  tho  Wuo 
UuUots  tlow. 
Aiul  tho  tivoiHn--iaokots  iwldou  at  tho  touoh  ii( 
tho  h<adon 
Uilloluvath  ; 
Alul  roundor,  wundor.  ivuudor,  iwuvd  tho  iivn 
six-jKiundor, 
Hurliuj;  di\>th  ! 

C.OV  HOM|-IIK«V  MOMASVBR. 


PAXIl,  KKVKRK-S  RinK. 

l.lsrKN.  >ny  ohiUhvu,  a\id  you  shall  hi>«r 

Of  tho  midnight  rido  of  Taul  Kovoiv, 

("•u  tho  oightotMith  of  April,  in  Sovouty-t\v»  : 

Uaixlly  a  \uau  is  i\ow  alivo 

Who  ivmomUn's  that  famous  day  aud  yoar, 

llo  s)ud  to  his  IViond,  "If  tho  l^ritish  maroh 
l>y  laud  or  s«(  fi\>m  tho  town  to-night. 
Hang  a  lantoru  alolt  in  tho  Kdfry  an'h 
Of  thf  North  Ohuivh  lowor  as  a  signal  light,  — 
lh\o,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  hy  stsi ; 
And  I  ou  tho  opiHwito  shoiv  will  Iv, 
Koady  to  rido  auil  spi\v,>d  tho  alarm 
Thivugh  ovovy  Middlosox  villagv>  aud  farm, 
For  tho  wuntj-y  folk  to  Iw  up  and  to  arm." 


-^ 


cO- 


I'OKMH  OF  l-ATiaOTIHM   AN  I)   FIlRKDOM. 


535 


:-i-tJ 


'X')ii;ri  hi:  Kiii'J,  "CiixA  iii(/lit !  '  anil  witli  iiiriHIwl  |  As  it  nmn  al/civi;  tloj  g/avnx  </i)  Ui«  till), 

l/init\y  aii/l  H|««;tial  ami  si<jliil«;r  aii'l  «till, 
I  Aii'l  )'<  I  ;o(  111;  |cx,k»,  on  llift  lx;l(iy'»  li<,-i((lit 
A  jt)iiiiiiii:i;  ami  tli/;»  a  (:{|i«ti(i  of  linlil.  1 
U<;  i>j<ii)i;{»  to  tli<!  KvlUi:,  lli<;  l/ri'll<!  Ii«  liirnn, 
lint  lUini:i-»  an'l  (^/iziM,  till  lull  on  lii;)  >ii;{l)t 
A  w.'co/i'l  lump  ill  till!  Ixilfry  l/urriK ! 


Silently  rowi;<l  to  tin:  '/'liarl<!>!t/;wn  )tli«ro, 

JiKit  (u(  till!  moon  row-  ov<;r  lli«  liay, 

Wln-ri!  itw'\uii)iin  wl'ln  at  lii;r  iiiixirliii^  lay 

'I'lii!  HoinBiwd,  IJiitixli  ma(i-of-war  ; 

A  |iiiaiit'<in  itliiji,  witli  'tfi/:!!  imuit  an<l  Hjiar 

A/;i'«»  t);<;  moon  like  a  );i!)iOii  liiir, 

Anil  a  liii;{<:  \i]:ti',k  liiilk,  tliat  wan  magniiiixl 

IJy  itx  own  ri;lli;';tioli  in  tliu  tide. 


fe- 


M'lanwliili',  li/Jf  fiiiiii'i,  tliioiigli  alley  aii'l  Htrmd, 
Wanileio  ami  wat^jln;*  witli  i^if^er  eaiii, 
'I'ill  in  tliii  oilen'w  aioiiii'l  liini  lie  lieara 
'I'lie  uiuHUir  III  men  at  tlie  ir,uiiv:k  ilifji; 
'I'liii  w/iinil  of  aiiiiB,  an'l  tlie  linni|<  of  Cwt, 
Aii'l  llie  nieamueil  tiea<l  of  tin;  ({ren;uliein, 
Mar(;liiii({  ilown  to  tlieii  \Ki:>i4  on  tlie  slioic, 

'i'lien  lie  eliinlwl   llie   t-iwei   of  tlie  Olil  Xortli 

Cliiiieli 
|{y  tlie  woollen  »tairi»,  witli  nUialtliy  tieiul, 
To  tlie  l»llry-eliainl;<;r  overlicail, 
Ami  iilartle'l  llie  |iigeonit  fioni  tlieir  (n;ieli 
On  tlie  icinilK-r  rafti;i'i),  that  loiiml  liini  in/vle 
ManJien  ami  moving  i>lia|)<;ii  of  xliaije,  — 
IJy  till!  trenililing  la/I'ler,  iit/;<;ji  ami  tall, 
To  tlie  liij;hi-Hl  wimlow  in  tlie  wall, 
W]ii:ri;  lie  |«iiiii<i|  Ui  lixt^;)!  an'l  look  <iown 
A  niomi;nl  'in  tlie  I'cifn  of  tlie  town, 
Ami  till;  m'ionli;{lit  llowiii;^  over  all, 

\'x-iir!d\i,  in  tlie  elmreliyai'l,  lay  tlie  lUtiul, 

In  tlieir  niKlit-<;n'am;iment  on  tlie  liill, 

Wi.'ij<)(i;i|  in  oilem'e  wi  'l<;/;|i  ami  «till 

Tliut  lie  eoiil'l  liear,  like  a  Kentinel'ii  trea/1, 

Tlie  walelifiil  iii(?lit-win'l,  an  it  went 

''re';|)in;<  aion;^  from  t/;nt  to  tent, 

Aii'l  w;eniin«  Ui  wliii(jn;r,  "All  in  well  !  " 

A  moni'iit  only  lie  I'eeln  llie  <i(>ell 

Of  III';  |.la<;e  ami  tlie  hour,  ami  tlie  mxrist  ilreail 

Of  llie  lonely  liell'ry  ami  tlie  ileail  ; 

For  Hii'Menly  all  liii  tlioii({litit  are  lient 

On  a  nlia'lowy  )ioriii;tliin«  far  away, 

Wlii-re  tlie  river  wi'lenii  t'l  meet  llie  lay,  — 

A  line  of  lila/;k  that  lieml»  an.l  lloatu 

On  the  ridin;^  tide,  like  a  hiiilge  of  UwIh, 

M'-anwhiJe,  im|Bitient  t'l  mount  ami  ri'le, 
li')0U;<l  an'l  «fiiiiTi;'l,  with  a  heavy  Ktri'li', 
On  the  ii]i\hmU:  whore  walk';/l  I'aiil  Severe, 
Now  he  |wtt<«l  hiH  lior>K;'n  Hide, 
Now  fiflXi'A  at  the  lamlwape  far  ami  near, 
Then,  linjietuoim,  «la)n|K«l  the  eailli, 
An'l  tunied  an'l  liiiiilitii<>i\  hin  «i'lille-((irth  ; 
I'jiit  moKlly  he  wat/;liey|  with  ea<(er  n':arcli 
The  lurlfry-tower  of  the  Ohl  .North  C'hiirch, 


A  htirry  'if  li'iofn  in  a  village  dtrwt, 

A  uliajie  In  the  niooiilighl,  a  hulk  in  the  dark. 

Ami    l)en':alli,   from   the   ix;hhle»,   in  I>!i»»lnx,  a 

()|iark 
Htrii';k  out  hy  a  nU-M  Hying  firarienii  an'l  ll'"-l : 
That  wad  all  !     An'l  yet,  through  the  glo'iin  ami 

the  light. 
The  fat";  of  a  mition  vr.iM  ri'llng  that  ni({lit ; 
An'l  the  iijwrk  Htriiek  out  hy  that  iiti;'y|,  in  hb) 

(light, 
Kimll<;<l  the  lau'l  into  ILaine  with  itn  heat. 

II';  lian  left  the  village  ami  niounl'-.'l  the  (it-<;';ii, 
Ami  lK;n<:atli  him,  tiamiuil  an'l  hroail  an'l  d>;eji, 
l«  the  .MyDti';,  mwtiiig  the  <i<:i;an  ti'lisi ; 
Au'l  un'ler  tin;  al'leiK,  that  nkiil  its  wige. 
Now  Koft  on  til';  (ianil,  now  lou'l  on  the  hvlge, 
I«  h<«ird  the  tram|)  of  hix  nt';';'!  an  he  ri'li;«. 

It  waii  tW';lve  by  the  village  elo':k 

Wh'fii  he  r.iiihivjl  the  hridge  iiili)  M^il'oil  t',wii. 

lie  liear'l  tlw;  erowing  of  the  wek, 

Ami  the  l/arking  of  tin;  farmer'/!  dog. 

Ami  fell  the  danij)  of  the  river  fog. 

That  ria.-o  alU-r  the  «u«  g'Aa  'lown. 

It  v/mt  iiif,  hy  tin;  villag';  'rioek 

When  In:  gallojied  into  l/;xingt//n, 

lie  liaw  the  giMi;'l  W':atln:ri;oek 

Hwiin  in  the  imxinlight  a>i  he  ]iium:i\, 

Ami  the  inwting-lioiiw:  wimlown,  hlank  ami  liare, 

OaW!  at  liiiii  with  a  «fK:J:li;il  glare. 

An  if  they  alf'::Kly  niinA  agtw.t 

At  the  lil'xxly  work  th';y  woul'l  hxik  uj>on. 

It  wax  two  liy  tin;  village  ';lo';k 

When  In:  eaiiie  to  the  hridge  in  O'on'iOfl  \»ivin. 

lie  hiair'l  tin;  hlcating  of  the  ll'/ek. 

Ami  the  twitt';r  of  hiriln  annmg  the  treen, 

Ami  felt  the  hreath  of  the  imiining  hret»! 

ISIov/ing  over  the  rnea/lowx  brown. 

Ami  one  Wiix  xafe  and  anleefi  in  hU  li':d 

Who  at  the  hridge  woul'l  Ik;  limt  ii>  fall. 

Who  that 'Lay  would  In:  lying  d';a/l, 

l'ier';';'l  hy  a  liriliiih  muitket-lMll. 

Voii  kinw  the  rest.     In  the  hookn  ym  have  r<5a<l, 
llov^  the  Uritixh  lt':gular«  fir':'l  an'l  (1<;'I,  — 
I  low  the  farmemgave  tlicni  hall  for  liall, 
Kroin  liehiii'l  eaeh  fenee  ai.<l  fann-yar'l  wall, 


•^ 


1- 


'.  A,¥JJ  or  I'^rwvmjSM  4,y4^  jfwtwHyu^ 


•i^ 


tv,- 

\ 


y— 


w 
V 

v>t' 

»K, 

^■HVt* 

ihv 

was 

.>.■.,■: 

X 

VM   XV- 

'.O'--' 

.V  ;s> 

.1-,  t^^^  stiUk'.'^ 

A«x>  wW^v.  ^  Uwxvl 

Hv\^\*  iiU  »....  >.,. x|>HM»v(» 

AHvI  jt\xv>i  jwNmmi  X"Vii»  *w>,i  l5sU 


ru*i  u> 


V^r^X    W\*>*rvvji>'i   \^   ' 


r>«ss  x*«' «^^' ^-^^ ■^^""  ""^' 

ijixx,,  ,  v»kI 

A'-  v.A 

R'  .■  ■. 

\Vh*»V  Iv. „U  tsMiUw  V«^ 

,>vVi«LW  H\X*VM.VN  »x»*A>i». 


WW 


stiU  »hwv  ( 
O  Si^v,  xlv>«v-i  !>>»«  *t»»vin>*\xsW  Kww*»-  \v<  \v«v# 
0'«~  <W  Uiul  vxf  lh#  (W  »"xl  5>H>  hxXttW  vx>'  th* 

1 

1)x*  \1*<H\ 

A*  h  fi»l\»ll>-  Wv»W!i<,  »V>W  vVWvxiil^K  »vxw  vli*>UiiJi*»  * 

\tt  »\»U  ^xx-v  tv>rt<>*>t«\V>  »»v\\«  »hi»»«»  <v»  th*  »»»v*w ;     T 
-# 


.*".-. 


I'OKMH  oif  I'ATiaonaa  amp  //■ukui/jm. 


527 


way* 
<■/«*■  tto  \>mA  lA  rti*  ft«*  «*i4  tJj*  \tfmn  'A  rive 


And  wti*»*  j#  tieat  t/»«<J  WV/  *■/  VAW^tW^y  »W'^* 
'fbjM,  fit*-,  hikvtfc,  i4  )MM  m/A  ttuK  i/Mh't  '/miai^iii 


/jilt  tJj*  ew««»,  <a)Ai  '>/j  ^  u<Uii'»  WJ*, 
Tii«^ivi-v..  V,,.',  v'  _v...  t.;^J  IWJ, 


I'jvuj  Ujis  Vtffir  <A  fiij^  m  Uj*  j^xah  'A  tiw 

^/*f  tin  l!«i<l  '/<■  til*  fl**  «*■!   t}»*  }iV«*i:  'A   til* 

b«iy« ! 


'i"il*    »>  '    !jl-Ad//UI  <//ttl<: 

Til*  h]x>**A 


(),  tiiij*  U  it  tcvier  Yfimi  ft******  tJiiJJ  *t««*4 
I'^wixii  ilam  hv/i  ymts*  utA  ti*«  *«*'»  "iw/J*- 
ti'/// : 

''  '•      •  tbat  liiirtti  untM  >uA  j**»«»ywJ       ('>!««*-.. 

,', .        ,.-:  A  vvj  u»Ai/i,  "in  *i'j4  Uoui  trut^"  ;        Jjjavti 

(y<tt  Umi  UiuA  fA  til*  ft«*  «*4  Hi**  V«<*  '^  tii* 


haul;.,  •-  -  -      ^   /< '..ton   ■' tfjiaw  J-r-jJlK  J 


iiiav* ! 


*^*A«':jt  iyy/jj  ir.t.r 


AJ:   VI- 


Tiii  XL-  . 

h: 

OdU*    illMiltVM'. 

l»vuw 


y  —  Uj  iiSi-i  ha 


'or  y-yyi-:-::  : 


'i/ll'iM   ti*  li*)'>;,  ill' 


ft,.,.*., 

in  M~'jVK!i  v;, 

Ait4     }j.<*)tS       V,.-.; 

A,. 

As  '• 

A,v 


•  vi  tflt  uj>, 


tr-* 


Ey*ft  so  /»«■  *y*«  fiav*  vniiuA  km^ ; 


ficaid,  "  i'/'/yt,  tii» 


i  vJ  j«  ' "  swud  i* 


iillKfYvi   Win   PMil'A    'l/ZVIIi. 

'i'M\  tL*  ■  »  ti**  l/Jeet*"! 

-xUK,  a»  Ju*  ^/WT' 


A*<i  til*  f//)4  '/ 
ia.W'. 
«gv1iiy   K     • 


a- 


538 


POEMS  OF  PATiaOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


^ 


Thmi  tllil  Hi'owii, 
Osiiwivlomiii  liniwii, 

Sllrd   II. .1   II  liilU',    hut  sllllt    hi',  I.M'lli, 

II  U'lrihh.  IVmvii  I 


'I'l 


I.U.V, 


not  iiniiil 
■r,       iiii.l 


Ih.y  Mri/ol  Miiulhn  h., 
Ih.<  himt  ul'liiillh', 
I'lul    III    pi'iii'ii,    hi'liiiiil    hlM    l>hiw»hiii 
lhii,V  himUa  hliM  wiUi  flmiiis, 
All, I  »ilh  |,ikos,  lichiio  Ih.urlmrai.a,  ..v.mi  aa  Ih.'.v 
Kimil  Lhnir  ciilih', 
Di'uvci  him,  cM'iinlly,  I'lir  Uiuir  aiiui't,  iiiul  at  liwl 
hknv  mil  hiH  lnuilia; 
'I'hc.ii  (Ud  Brown, 
(l.sawiitoniio  llrown, 
UiiiHwl  liis  li-lil    hiina    up   to    llnivcii,   I'.illiiif^  ^      Ciiiiy  lln'  foiiiity  iin.l  th..  Stutc',  ay,  ami  all 


llu    huii^^hl    no   |ilo\vs  and   IlivI'l'oWH,   simuIoh  iinil 

hIiuvi-U,  or  Miii'h  trill™  ; 
liut  i|iiii'll\  1,1  liiH  raiirho  lliiMii  niiiii',  hy  rvory 
llalll, 
lloxrs  lull  of  iiiki'.s  an.l  pislols,  aiul   hin  wi'll-h,,- 
Iov.hI  Shai'iir'H  vilh'M  ; 
And    I'ifilarrn     ollmr     nnidnioii   joined    Un'ir 
liiadm'  llniro  iiHiiin. 
Siiy.s  Did  lirovvn, 
Osinvaloniiii  I'linwii, 
"lloya,  wo  'v>'  ;;ol  an  iiiiny  hirf^c  imoiij^di  toniiirch 
and  wliiji  tlio  town  I 

"TaUi.  tho  touii,  and  H,i/.,  lli„  imi^kids.  fivi-  tlio 
iiof^rors,  Mild  llu'ii  ann  lln-in  ; 


llt'avim'.t  vi'iignauri!  dowi 

And    liii   sworo  a  hailiil  oalh,   hv   I  lie    naiiio  of 
tlio  AlmiKhlv. 
11.^  would   hiinl   IhiH  ravening  .vil    that  liad 
Heathed  an.l  loni  him  so  ; 
II.'  w.uihl  aeizo  it  hy  tlio  vilaU  ;  he  woiil.l  einsh 
it  .lay  ami  iii^dit  ;  he 
W'oul.l  so  ]iursiie  il.s  hiolstniw, --so  veliiin  it 
hhnv  loi'  hhiw,     - 
Thai  OKI  lii'own, 
(laawalonii.'  Hrown, 
.Shonl.l  he  a  namo  to  sw.'iir  hy.  in  haekwo.i.l.s  or 
in  town  I 

'I'lieii   his   h,.:inl   h,,eame  mole  f{ii/,zl,.,l,   and  lii.s 

wihl  hliiii  eye  .,'i'ew  wil.ler, 

An.l    m.ii'o   Hliai'iily  enrve.l   his   Imwk'a-noao, 

aniilliii>{  liatlle  IVoin  al'ar  ; 

.\n.l  he  and  the  two  lioys  hit,  thoiinh  111..  Kan- 

.snR  stril'o  wiixe.l  miUler, 

^\\w\'    more  siilh'ii,    till   was  ov..r    the   hlo.i.ly 

H.ir.h.i-  War, 

An.l  Ol.l  i!r..wn, 
Osawal.imie  Brown, 
Ua.l  j;.iiit'  .'riuy,  as  they  roekone.l  hy  his  rearl'nl 
glai'i'  and  IVown. 

So  he  h.l'l  111.,  iilniiis  of   Kansas  an.l    their  hitter 
w.igs  hehiiid  him, 
.Slii't  oil'  into  Virginia,  where  the  stnlesiii..n  all  j 
iiro  horn, 
llii.'.l  II  I'arm  hy   Harper's    Kerry,   an.l    no   on., 
knew  where  t.i  liu.l  him. 
Or  whether  ho '.1   tnrn.'d  pars.m,  .ir  waa  jaek- 
et.'.l  an.l  shorn  ; 
K.a'Ohl  l!r.iwn, 
I  >siiwatomii'  Briiwn, 
Ma.l  as  he  was,    knew  toxts    iin.mj<h   to  wiiiir  a 
piirs.in'H  ({own. 


111..  p.it.'Ut  Sonlh 
t)n  their  own  hea.ls  h..  the  slan«liler,  if  their  vi.'- 
liins  rist.  t.i  harm  Hi. 'in 
TlioHo  Virginians!  who  h.'li..ve  not,  ii.ir  w.ml.l 
hoed  the  warning,'  month." 
Siiys  Olil  Brown, 
Osawatoinie  Brown, 
'•'IMie  world  shall  se..  a  U.'pnhlie,  or  my  mini.'  is 
not  John  Brown  I  " 

"r  was  the  sixl.'.nlh  ot  (litoh.r,  on   111.'  ..v.'iiiii^! 
ota  .Snn.lay; 
••Thist,'oodwork,".h.elar.'.llh...'aplain.  '■shall 
he  on  a  h.ily  nij^dil  !  " 
It  was  on    a  Snn.lay  evening;,   an.l,   heh.re    Ih.. 
n.i.m  nl'  Mon.hiy, 
With  two  sons,  and  Captain  Sli'plu.iis,  lill.>eii 
pvivattis—  hhi.'k  an.l  white, 
Captain  Br.iwn, 
(Isuwatomie  Br.iwn, 
Mareh.'.laei'osslhehri.l>!.'.l  l",i|oina.-,aiidkinn'ke.l 
the  sentry  .l.iwn  ; 

T...ik    111.'    K»»l''l'''l     lUiiioiy-huildiiiK,    an.l    the 
mnskets  and  the  caniuin  ; 
Caplnri'd  all  the  eoniity  majors  and  Urn  eolo- 
ni'ls,  .mo  hy  one  ; 
S.'ai.'.l  I.)  .hath  eaeli  gallant  s.'ion  ..1'  Virginia 
lh.>y  ran  mi, 
An.l  h,,f.ire  tin.  n.i.m  of  Mon.hiy,   I  say,  llio 
.hH..l  was  .l.nn.. 
Ma.l  (U.l  l!r.iwii, 
Osiiwiitmnie  Brown, 
With  his  eighteen  othev  erazy  uieii,  wiiit  in  an.l 
t...di  th.'  t.iwn. 

W'ly  Utile  n..ise  an.l  hhister,  little  smell  .if  p..w- 
.h-r,  niiulii  he  ; 
II  was  all  doiio  in  tho  nii.lnight,  like  the  em- 
poror'a  cmip  il'eM  ; 

1    \_j' 


a- 


rOEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


539 


-a 


u 


"Cut  tho  wires  I  stop   the   rttil-i;urn  !  hold    llic 
streets  iiml  bridges  !  "  said  lie, 
Then  decliired  tlie  new  KciMildic,  will.  Iiii.iself 
lor  f^iiidirjg  star,  — 
Tliis  Old  Drown, 
(jHawiitomie  Hrown  ; 
And  till)  liold  two  thousand  citizens  run  uK  and 
lelt  the  town. 


Then  wiiH  riding  iuiil  railroading  and  exiirossing 
here  and  thither  ; 
Aiid  the  Marlinsljurg  Shariisliooters  and  the 
Chailestown  VoliiiiteeiT), 
And  the  tjhepherdstown  and  Winchester  Militia 
hastened  whither 
Old   lirowii  was  said  to  muster  his  ten  thou- 
sainl  grenadiers  ! 
( leneral  IJrown, 
Osawatoniie  Urown  ! 
liehind  whose  ranipaiit  banner  all  the  North  was 
jiouring  down. 

I5ut  at  hist,   't  is  said,   some   prisoners  oseajped 
from  Old  Brown's  <Uiranee, 
Aiid    the   eU'ervesceiit   valor  ol'   the   Chivalry 
broke  o\it, 
When  they  h^arned  that  tiineleen   mailmen  had 
the  marvelous  assurance  — 
Only  nimleen  —  thus  to  seize  tho  pluco  and 
driv(!  tliem  straight  about ; 
And  Old  lirowii, 
Osawatoniie  lirowii. 
Found   an   army  come    to    take   liiin,   eneamiied 
around  the  town. 

But  to  storm  with  all  the  forces  we  have  men- 
tioned, was  too  risky  ; 
So  they  Imrricd  oil' to  liiclinioud  for  the  Gov- 
ernment Marines  — 
Tore  themfrom  their  woejiing  matrons,  fired  their 
souls  with  Hoiirbon  whiskey. 
Till  they  battered  down   I'rown's  castle  with 
their  ladders  and  machines  ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatoniie  Brown, 
Received  thici!  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his 
brave  (dil  crown. 

Tallyho  !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  tho 
baying  ! 
In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting 
lustily  away  ; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  iclid,  Ihosit  who  eamo 
too  late  for  slaying, 
Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their  bullets 
in  his  clay  ; 


And  Old  Drown, 
Osawatoniie  Brown, 
.Saw  his  sons  fall  dead   beside  him,  and  between 
them  laid  him  down. 

How   the   coni|uerors    wore    their   laurels;  how 
they  hastened  on  the  trial  ; 
How  Old  Brown  was  iilaced,  half  dying,  on  tho 
Charlestown  court-house  floor ; 
How  ho  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  aeorn  of 
all  denial  ; 
What  tho  braveold  madman  told  thorn,  —  those 
are  known  the  country  o'er. 
"  Hang  Old  Brown, 
Osawatoniie  Brown," 
Said  the  judge,   "anil  all  such  rebels  I"  with  his 
most  judicial  frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it  I  for  I  tell  you  that 
the  flagon, 
Killeil  with  blood  of  Old  lirown's  olfspring,  was 
first  jioured  by  Southern  hands  ; 
.■\nd  each  drop  frutn  f)ld  Brown's  life-veins,  like 
the  red  gore  of  the  dragon, 
May  spring  lip  a  vengeful  Kiiry,  hi.s.sing  through 
your  slave-worn  lands! 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatoniie  Brown, 
May  trouble  you  more  than  I'vcr,  when  you've 
nailed  his  collin  down  ! 

UDMUNO  Cl.AUIiNCI'.  SrCDMAN. 


8IIERIDAN'.S  RIDE. 

Ill-  from  the  South  at  break  of  day. 

Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 

The  alfrighted  air  with  a  .shudder  bore, 

l,iko  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  ehieflain's  door, 

The  terrible  grumble  and  rumbh,'  and  roar, 

Telling  the  battle  w.as  on  once  more. 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Tliundcred  along  the  horizon's  bar  ; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled. 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway,  leading  down  ; 

And  there,  through  the  flash  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night. 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight. 

As  if  he  know  the  terrible  need. 

He  stretched  away  with  the  iifmost  speed  ; 

IlilK  ruse  and  fell,  —but  his  lii'art  was  gay, 

With  Sheriilaii  fifteen  miles  away. 


-^t? 


1&-, 


540 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


--a 


[&. 


Still  apniii};  (tova  thoso  swift  houfs,  thuiidoring 

South. 
The  tlust,  liko  sinoko  flviii  tho  oiiimou's  mouth  ; 
(.'i-  tlio  tniil  of  n  oonu)t,  s\vw(>iuj;  I'listt'i'  uud  t'listor, 
Koioboiliug  to  ti'jiitocs  tho  ilooui  ol'ilisustor. 
'rtio  hoHit  ol'  tho  stooil,  mill  tho  hoiiit  of  tlio  uuistor, 
Woiv   lu'iitiui;,    liko   piisonoi's   iissuultiuj;  thoir 

walls, 
ln>)>iilioiit  to  ho  whoiv  tho  Imttlo-tiohl  oalls  ; 
Kvoiy  uoivo  of  tho  oluivsoi'  was  stiiunoil  to  full 

phiy. 
With  Shoiuliui  ouly  ton  uiilos  iiwny. 

Ihidor  his  siuiiiiinj;  foot,  tJio  ivad 

Like  nil  nnvwy  Aliiino  rivor  llowoii, 

And  tho  lauilsoinio  sihhI  invay  bohiuil, 

Liko  an  oooaii  tlyiiij;  hot'oiv  tlio  wind  ; 

And  tho  stood,  liko  a  Iwik  fod  with  fiivnaoo  iiv, 

Swopt  on,  with  his  wild  oyos  full  of  lire  ; 

liut,  lo  !  ho  is  noariujc  his  heart's  dosiiv, 

Ho  is  snulling  tho  swoko  of  tho  rotiring  fray, 

AVith  Shoiidau  oi\ly  tivo  milos  away. 

Tho  lii'st  that  tho  t^onoml  saw  woiv  tho  grouiis 
t~>f  stvaggloi-s,  n\id  thou  tho  ivtivatinj;  tivojis  ; 
What  was  dono,  —  what  to  do, — a  glauoo  told 

him  hoth. 
And,  sti'ikinj;  his  spurs  with  a  tovrihlo  oath, 
llo  dashod  down  tho  lino  mill  a  stoim  of  huitzas. 
And  tho  wavo  of  retivat  oheokod  its  ooui-so  thore, 

hooanso 
Tho  si_s;lit  of  tho  mastor  oomjiollod  it  to  (kuiso. 
With  foan>  and  with  dust  the  hlaok  ohai'gor  was 

Si-ay : 
Uy  the  Hash  of  his  oyo,  and  his  nostiil's  )>lay, 
llo  soomiHl  to  tho  whole  givat  anny  to  say, 
"  1  Imvo  Invujtht  you  Shoiidan  all  the  way 
t^vrn  Winoliostor  down,  to  save  tho  day  ! " 

lluniih,  hurrah  tor  Sheridan  ! 
Hurndi,  hurrah  for  hoi-so  ami  man  ! 
And  when  thoir  statues  aiv  plaoed  on  high, 
Tudor  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky,  — 
Tho  Amorioan  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame,  — 
Thoiv  with  the  glorious  (loneral's  name 
I5e  it  said  in  lettei's  both  hold  ami  bright  ; 
"  Uoiv  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
r>y  earrying  Slu>ridan  into  the  light, 
Kivm  Winoliostor,  — twenty  milos  awsiy  !  " 

Thomas  IU'OIIANAN  Rkao. 


THE  BIVOXtAC  OF  THK  DKAD. 

Thk  n\utlled  drum's  sad  ivU  has  heat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  life's  (larado  shall  moot 

That  hrave  and  fallen  few. 


On  Fmno's  eternal  eamping-giwiiul 

Their  silent  touts  aif  spread. 
And  glory  guai'ils,  with  solonm  round, 

Thehivouaeof  the  a.ud. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advanoo 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  Imuuts, 

0(  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow 's  strife 

The  warrior's  divam  alarms  ; 
No  hrayi\ig  horn  or  sewaming  Rfo 

At  dawn  shall  eidl  to  arms. 

Thoiv  shivewd  swoi\ls  are  nd  with  rust, 

Tlieir  pluuu^d  heads  are  bowed. 
Their  li.iuglity  liiinner,  trailed  in  dust. 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud  ; 
And  plenteous  funend  twirs  have  wasluid 

The  ltd  stains  from  eaeh  brow. 
And  the  proml  forms,  by  Iwtlle  gashed, 

Are  free  fiiun  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  Hashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast. 
The  eharge,  the  dreadful  eannonado, 

The  din  and  shout  aro  ]iast  : 
Nor  war's  wild  mito,  nor  glory's  poal, 

Shall  thrill  with  lieree  delight 
Thoso  bivasts  tliat  ni'ver  moi'i'  may  feel 

Tho  rapturo  of  the  light. 

Liko  tho  tioivo  Northern  hurrieane 

That  sweeiis  his  great  plateau. 
Flushed  with  the  triumpli  yet  to  gain, 

t'an\e  down  the  serried  foe ; 
Who  heanl  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Hroak  o'er  the  Held  hev\eath. 
Knew  well  the  watehwonl  of  that  day 

Was  Vietory  or  Peath. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

l^'er  .•\n_gv>stura's  plain. 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  nmldeivd  slain. 
The  raven's  .seivam  or  eagle's  llight, 

Or  shephenl's  pensive  lay. 
Alone  now  wake  eaeh  solenni  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  divad  fray. 

Sons  of  tho  Dark  and  Bloody  0  round  ! 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Wheiv  sti-angiM-  steps  and  tongues  rosi^und 

Along  the' heedless  air: 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  he  yo<ir  litter  grave  ; 
She  elainis  fivun  war  its  richest  spoil  — 

Tho  ashes  of  hor  bravo. 


a-*- 


POEMfi  OF  FArmOTlHM  AND  FliKKUOM. 


541 


■a 


Thiui,  'ncatli  their  [Kircnt  turf  tbey  r«(it, 

Far  from  tlic  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  rnotlicr'u  Ijreast 

f>ii  iiiaiiy  a  IdooiJy  xliield. 
The  suhithiiie  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  i«ully  on  tlieni  licrc, 
And  kindrwl  eyes  and  lie:ii-t«  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchcr. 

Itest  on,  einl»alni<!'l  and  sainted  dea*!, 

I>(jar  as  the  blood  ye  gave  ! 
No  impious  footstep  herw  shall  tr<«ul 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  re/»rd  keejis, 
Or  Honor  jtoints  the  hallowe<l  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeiw. 

Yon  marble  miiiHtrel's  voi'^dess  stone 

In  deathless  song  sliall  tell, 
When  many  a  vani»h<^J  y<«ir  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  he  fell  ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  ehange,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  time's  remorsidess  doom, 
Can  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gillhi  your  glorious  tomb. 

Tllli/JfXyKE  O'lUKA. 


e-- 


THE  WOOD  OF  CHANCELL0E8VILLE. 

TnK  ripe  re-l  Ix-rries  of  the  wintergrwn 
Lure  me  to  jjause  awhile 

In  thi«  deep,  tangle<l  wood.     I  stoji  and  lean 
Down  where  these  wiW-flowcrs  smile, 
And  rest  me  in  tlii*  sha/le  ;  for  many  a  mile, 

Through  lane  and  dusty  street, 

i  've  walkeil  with  weary,  weary  feet ; 

And  now  1  tarry  mid  this  woodland  scene, 

'Mong  ferns  and  mosses  sweet. 

Here  all  around  me  blows 

The  i<ale  i)rimrose. 

I  wonder  if  the  gentle  blossom  knows 

The  feeding  at  my  heart,  — tlie  solemn  grief 

So  whelming  and  so  deep 
Tliat  it  disilaiiis  relief, 

And  will  not  let  me  weep. 
I  wonder  that  the  wooilbine  thrives  and  grows, 
And  is  indifferent  to  the  nation's  woes. 
For  while  tlies";  mornings  shine,  tlie«<;  bloss<jms 

bhwin, 
Impious  ItcUillion  wraps  the  Laud  iu  gloom. 

Nature,  thou  art  unkind, 
Unsym[>athizing,  blind ! 
Yon  liehen,  elinging  t/i  th'  o'erlianging  rock, 

Is  happy,  and  <iaeh  blade  of  grass. 

O'er  which  unconsciously  I  pass 


Smiles  in  my  fa<«,  and  seems  to  mo<;k 
Me  with  its  joy.     Alas  !  I  cannot  find 
One   charm   in   Ixjunteous  nature,   while   tlui 
wind 
That  blows  ujKjn  my  cheek  lj<;ars  on  each  gust 
The  gioans  of  my  j/oor  <;<iuntry,  bhicling  in  the 
dust. 

The  air  is  musical  with  notJis 

Tliat  gush  from  winged  warblers'  throats. 

And  in  the  liafy  trees 

I  hear  the  drowsy  hum  of  hxa. 

Prone  from  tlie  blinding  sky 

JJancc  rainlsjw-linti^l  sunbeams,  thick  with 
mot^is. 

Daisies  are  shining,  and  the  butterfly 
Wavcis  from  flower  to  flower  ;  yet  in  this  woo<l 
The  ruthless  fo<!man  sU^fj*!, 
And  every  tuif  is  drenehi^l  with  human  bloo<l. 

0  heartless  flowers  ! 

O  trc<;s,  cla<l  in  your  roljcs  of  glist^.-ring  shten, 
I'ut  off  this  'anopy  of  gorgeous  grwn  ! 

These  are  the  hours 

For  mourning,  not  for  gla/lncss.     While  this 
smart 

Of  treason  dire  gashes  the  Nation's  heart, 

Ix!t  birds  refuse  Ui  sing. 

And  flowi;is  ti>  bloom  ujjon  the  lap  of  spring. 

Iy:t  Nature's  fa<;e  its<;lf  with  tears  o'crllow, 

In  dee|)<;st  anguish  for  a  jjeople's  woe. 

While  rank  1'cl.Kdlirjn  stan'ls 

With  bl'xj<l  of  martyrs  on  his  impious  hau<ls  ; 

While  slavery,  and  chains. 

And  cruelty,  and  direst  liatc, 

Uplift  their  IkswIs  within  the  afflicted  State, 
And  frwze  the  bhx><l  in  every  jwtriot's  veins,  — 
Let  these  old  wwj<llands  fair 
Grow  blaxik  with  gl<x;m,  and  from  its  thunder- 
lair 
Ijtt  lightning  leap,  and  s';<jrch  the  accui-sfal  air. 
Until  the  Buffering  earth. 
Of  treawjn  sick,  sliall  sjniw  the  monst<;r  fortli. 
And  each  regenerate  soil 
lie  consecrate  anew  Ui  VvAvlom  and  to  Coil ! 

Dhlia  k.  Cekuam. 


THE  OLD  SEKXJEANT. 

"CoMK  a  little  nearer.  Doctor,  —  tliank  you  — 
let  me  take  the  cup  : 

Draw  your  chair  up,  — draw  it  closer,  —just  an- 
other little  sup ! 

M«ylx;  you  may  think  I  'm  liett^ir ;  but  I  'm 
pretty  well  uscl  up,  — 

Doctor,  you've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I  'm 
just  a-going  up ! 


& 


[fi-^: 


42 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


-n 


h 


"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't 
iiuicli  use  to  try  —  " 

"  Never  say  tlmt,"  saiil  tlie  surgi'Oii,  as  he  smoth- 
ered down  a  sigh  ; 

"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to 
say  die ! " 

What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  Doctor, 
when  you  come  to  die. 

"Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter?"  "You 
were  very  faint,  they  say  ; 

You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."  "  Doctor, 
have  1  been  away  ? " 

"  Not  that  anybody  knows  of !  "  "  Doctor —  Doc- 
tor, please  to  stay  ! 

Tliore  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you 
won't  have  long  to  stay  ! 

"  I    have  got  my  marching  orders,   and   1  'm 

ready  now  to  go  ; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ?  —  but  it  could  n't 

ha'  been  so,  — 
Kor  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  Sergeant,  and  was  wounded 

at  Shiloh, 
I've  this  very  night  liecn  back  there,  on  llie  old 

field  of  Sliiluh  ! 

"Tliis  is  all  that  1  rcnienil.er  ;  The  last  time 
the  Lighter  came. 

And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the 
noises  much  the  same. 

He  had  not  licen  gone  five  minutes  before  some- 
thing called  my  name  : 

'OiiiiERi.Y  SunriEANT  —  KoiiEUT  Burton!'  — 
just  that  way  it  called  my  name. 

"And  1  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  dis- 
tinctly and  so  slow, 

Knew  it  couldn't  bo  the  Lighter,  —  lie  could 
not  have  spoken  so  ; 

And  I  tried  toanswer,  'Here,  sir  !'  but  I  cimldn't 
make  it  go  ! 

For  I  could  n't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  couhl  n't 
make  it  go  ! 

"Then  I  thought:  It's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a 

humbug,  and  a  bore; 
Just  another  foolish  (jrapc-vinc*  —  and  it  won't 

come  any  more  ; 
liut  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same 

way  as  before  : 
'  OrjiKiu.Y  Sekoeant  —  KoiiKiir  Riikton  ! '  even 

plainer  than  before. 

"That  is  all   that  I    remember,   till   a   sndden 

burst  of  light. 
And  I  stood  beside  the  River,  where  wo  stood 

that  Sunday  night, 


Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  tlie  dark  blulfs  op- 

jiosite. 
When  the  river  was  perdition  and  all  hell  was 

opposite  ! 

"And  the  same  old  palpitation   came  again  in 

all  its  power. 
And   I   heard  a  bugle  sounding,    as  from  some 

celestial  tower  ; 
And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said  ;  '  It  is  tiik 

eleventh  iiouh  ! 
Orderly    Sekoeant  —  Robkkt    Bi'rton  —  it 

is  the  eleventh  uouu!' 

"  Doctor  Austin  !  —  what  diii/  is  this  ? "     "  It  is 

Wednesihiy  night,  you  know." 
"Yes, — to-morrow  will  be  New-Year's,  and  a 

right  good  time  Iwlow  1 
What  lime   is   it,    Doctor  Austin?"    "Nearly 

twelve."     "Then  don't  you  go  ! 
Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened  —  all  this  —  not 

an  hour  ago ! 

"There  was  where  the  gun-boats  opened  on  the 

dark,  reliellions  host ; 
And  where   Webster   semicirclod  liis  last  guns 

upon  the  coast ; 
There   were  .still    the   two  log-houses,  just  the 

same,  or  else  thidr  ghost,  — 
And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  mo 

over  —  or  its  ghost  ! 

"  And  the  old   field  lay  befi>re  me  all  deserted 

far  and  wide  ; 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss,  —  there 

McClernand  met  the  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stern   Sherman  rallied,    and 

where  Hurlbut's  heroes  died,  — 
Lower  down,  where  Wallace  charged  tliem,  and 

kejit  charging  till  he  died. 

"There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them 

he  was  of  the  canny  kin, 
There   was   where  old    Nelson    thundered,   and 

where  Rousseau  waded  in  ; 
There  iMcCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  ami  we  all 

began  to  win  — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as 

we  began  to  win. 

"  Now,    a   shroud    of    snow   and    silence   over 

everything  was  spread ; 
And  but  for  this  old  lilue  mantle  and  the  ohl 

hat  on  my  head, 
I  should  not  have  even  doul)ted,  to  this  moment, 

I  was  dead,  — 
For   my  footsteps  were  as   silent  as   the  snow 

upon  the  dead  ! 


--& 


POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


543 


ra 


43--- 


"Death  and  silence!  —  Death  and  silence!  all 

around  me  as  1  sped  ! 
And  behold,  a  mighty  Tower,  as  if  builded  to 

the  dead, 
To   the   heaven    of  the   heavens,   lifted   up  its 

mighty  head, 
Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  Heaven  all  seemed 

waving  from  its  liead  ! 

"Round    and    mighty-based    it    towered  —  up 

into  the  infinite  — 
And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built 

a  shaft  so  bright ; 
For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine  ;  and  a  winding 

stair  of  Hglit, 
Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound 

clear  out  of  sight ! 

"And,  behold,  as  I  approached  it  —  with  a  rapt 
and  dazzled  stare,  — 

Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascend- 
ing the  great  Stair,  — 

Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke,  of  — 
'  Halt,  and  who  goes  there  I ' 

'I'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  'if  you  are.'  —  'Then 
advance,  sir,  to  the  Stair!' 

"I  advanced  !  —  That  sentry,  Doctor,  was  Elijah 
Ballantyne  !  — 

First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had 
formed  the  line  : 

'  Welcome,  my  old  Sergeant,  welcome  !  Wel- 
come by  that  countersign  ! ' 

And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  tliis  old 
cloak  of  mine  ! 

"As  he  grasped  my  haiul,  I  shuddered,  think- 
ing only  of  the  grave  ; 

But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward  with  a 
bright  and  bloodless  glaive  : 

'  That 's  the  way,  sir,  to  Headquarters.'  '  What 
Headquarters  ! '     'Of  the  Brave.' 

'But  the  great  Tower?'  'That,'  he  answered, 
'  is  the  way,  sir,  of  the  Brave  ! ' 

"Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uni- 
form of  light ; 

At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so 
new  and  bright ; 

'Ah!'  .said  he,  'you  have  forgotten  the  New 
Uniform  to-night,  — 

HuiTy  back,  for  you  mu.st  be  here  at  just  twelve 
o'clock  to-night ! ' 

"And  the  ne.vt  thing   I   remember,    you  were 

sitting  there,  and  I  — 
Doctor — did   you   hear   a   footstep?     Hark!  — 

God  bless  you  all !     Good  by  ! 


Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knap- 
sack, when  I  die, 

To  my  Son,  —  my  Son  that 's  coming,  —  he  won't 
get  here  till  I  die ! 

"Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him  as  he 

never  did  before,  — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket "  —  Hark !  a  knock 

is  at  the  door  !  — 
"Till  the  Union'  — See!  it  opens!  — "Father! 

Father!  speak  once  more!"  — 
"Bless  youl" — gasped  the  old,  gray  Sergeant, 

and  he  lay,  and  said  no  more, 

BVRON'  FOkCEVTHE  WILLSON. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

Ui"  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn. 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde. 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
AVhen  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall,  — 

Over  the  mountains,  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  ;  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then. 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down  ; 

In  her  attic-window  the  staH'  she  set. 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt !"  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast; 
"Fire!" — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 


-S 


[f3 — 

r>44 


rOKMS  OF  PATRrOTISM  AND  FKKKDim. 


--a 


& 


Quiok,  US  it  I'l'U,  I'lMni  llui  liivki'u  stivIV 
Uaiuo  UuiU'tm  smiti-hoil  llio  silkoii  si'iirl'; 

Sho  loaiioil  lav  out  on  llu'  wiiulowsill. 
Ami  shook  il  forth  witli  a  ii'val  will. 

"Slioot.  it' voii  miisl,  this  oKl  gia.v  hoa.l, 
liut  siKUV  your  oouiitrj's  llaj;,"  shr  sai.l. 

A  shailo  of  Siulnoss,  n  hhisli  of  sliaiiu'. 
Over  the  fai-o  ol'  tho  IciuU'r  oimu' ; 

The  nohlcr  iiatuiv  within  him  slinvil 
To  lil'o  at  that  wonian's  ilooil  ami  woixl : 

"  Who  toiu'hos  a  hair  of  yon  gray  hoail 
Pics  like  a  dog!  ^  Maivli  on!"  ho  said. 

All  day  long  tlnviiKli  Krtuloriok  stroot. 
Soundinl  tho  tivail  of  niarohing  foot ; 

All  (lay  long  thai,  fivi>  Hag  tost 
Over  till'  hoails  of  tho  ivlud  host. 

Kv(\r  its  torn  folds  wise  anil  I'l-U 

On  tho  loyal  winds  that  lovod  il  woU ; 

And  Ihivugh  tho  hiU-gaiis  snnsot  light 
Sliuno  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

HarUu-a  Krii'tehio's  work  is  o'rr. 

And  tho  ivln'l  ridos  on  his  raids  no  nuuv. 

U.inor  lohor!  and  let  a  l.'ar 

Kail,  for  hor  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Uarl«ira  Krielehie's  grsive, 
Flag  of  fivedom  and  union,  wave  ! 

Teaoe  ai\d  oixler  and  beanty  draw 
Koiuid  thy  symlnd  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  over  tho  stai's  above  liKik  down 
On  thv  stai-s  below  in  Kivderiek  town  ! 


AS  isv   rill-.  siionK  .xr  in;i'..\K  oi'  i>ay. 

As  liy  llie  shore,  at  bivak  of  ilay, 
A  vainiuished  ehief  expiring  lay, 
rpon  the  sands,  with  hi\>ken  swoM, 

lie  trueed  his  faivwell  to  the  five  ; 
.•\nd  there  the  last  ni\Hnished  word 

lie  dying  wrote,  was  "  l.ibeiiy  I" 

A{  night  a  sea-hiixl  shrieked  the  knell 
Of  him  who  thns  for  fiwdoni  fell  ; 
Tlio  woixls  he  wrote,  eiv  evening  eaum, 

Were  covered  by  the  son  tiding  sea  ;  — 
So  i>ass  away  the  cause  and  name 

Of  him  who  dies  for  liliorty  ! 

THOMAS  M0OK>. 


ODK  TO  FaEBDOM, 


Who  Cometh  over  the  hills, 

ller  garments  with  morning  swoot, 

The  dance  of  a  thousand  rills 

Making  music  bcfoiv  her  leel  1 

ller  luv.seneo  freshens  the  aiii, 

Sunshine  steals  light  I'imiu  her  faci), 

The  leaden  footsteii  of  Caiti 

Leaps  to  the  l\ine  of  lu'r  (laco, 

Kairuess  of  all  that  is  fair, 

O.raee  at  the  h.'arl  of  .'dl  gmco  I 

Swei'tencr  of  hut  and  of  hall, 

Ihingcr  of  life  out  of  naught, 

Fivedom,  O,  faiivstofall 

The  duugliters  of  Time  aiul  Tluniglil  1 

She  comotll,  eoiudh  lo-d.iy  : 
lliirk  !  hear  ye  not  her  tiva.l. 
Sending  a  thrill  thivngh  your  elav, 
I'lider'lhe  sod  theiv,  ye  d'ead. 
ller  chiiiui'ioiis  and  chosen  ones  I 
Do  ye  not  hear,  as  she  comes, 
The  Imy  of  the  dee\i-mouthed  guns  1 
The  gathering  buzz  of  the  ilrums  ( 
The  bells  thai  called  ye  to  luiiyer, 
How  wildly  they  clamor  on  her, 
Oryiiig,  "She  Cometh!  nivjuu'o 
ller  to  praise  and  her  to  honor, 
That  a  hundivd  y<'ars  ago 
Scatteivd  here  in  blood  and  tears 
Foteiit  seeds  when>froin  should  grow 
(iladlicss  for  a  liumlivd  veal's"  ( 

Tell  me.  young  men,  have  ye  seen 

Oivaluiv  of  diviner  mien. 

For  tine  hearls  to  long  ami  cry  for. 

Manly  hearts  to  live  and  die  for? 

What  hath  she  that  othei's  want  I 

lirows  that  nil  endearments  haunt, 

Fyes  that  make  it  sweet  to  daiv, 

Smiles  that  glad  untimely  death, 

l.o,.ks  that  fortify  despair, 

Tones  nioiv  brave  than  trumpet's  bit>nth ; 

Tell  me,  imiidens,  have  ye  known 

Household  charm  more  sweetly  nu'e  f 

Onice  of  woman  ampler  blow  ii  i 

Modesty  moiv  debonair  ' 

Yonngt'r  heart  with  wit  full-giMwn  f 

O  for  ail  hour  of  my  prime. 

The  pulse  of  my  hotter  yeai's. 

That  I  might  praise  her  ill  rhyme 

Would  tingle  your  eyelids  to  tears. 

Onr  sweetness,  our  sln'iigth,  and  our  star, 

("lur  hope,  our  joy,  and  onr  trust, 

Who  lilted  ns  out  of  the  dust 

And  nuido  us  whntovor  we  aro  ! 


-S 


e-- 


I'OF.MH  OF  I'ATiaoriHM  ANJJ  intKKDOM. 


54: 


-^ 


WhlU-r  tliari  mixmnhxiv  iijkiii  huuvi 

Her  raiiri<,-iit  h  ;  Imt.  rodiiil  tliB  li'.-lii 

CriioeKjii-titoiJX!'!  ;  aiii|,  ii«  \^>  ami  Cro 

ll<;l'  Kttfi'lulit  flfwli,  v/i;  UfA:  till  t,)i<!lil, 

Aiul  on  licr  iii«li!|<  vciiiwl  with  IjIikj, 

Ifh'ckti  of  ci'iiiiioii,  — 1)11  tli(»w!  liiir  fwst, 

lli;<li-«i(;l)(!<l,  J>i«ii.-t-)ik«,  ami  fl«rjt, 

Kit  fur  HO  urtmiv.r  «t,aiii  tliaii  'lew; 

0,  i.ali  Uieiij  lattii;/'  <;lili«iiiH  Ijiai)  nhium, 

H;vivt\  ami  IVoiii  liei-oic  vciim  ! 

Kor,  ill  111':  n\iity-n»siriM  \>!im, 

War  liauj^lily  ati'l  SM-MnUiu.  I>''a<l 

Hli<:  Ixjweil  to  uli/ive  Lwijiiilan 

Willi  lii»  iiiijieriftluiljli!  il(»iil ; 

Her,  too,  Morgui-Ujii  naw, 

Wlieie  llie  Hwixit  lion  llenheil  liix  iey  [/aw; 

Hlie  tolloweil  f-'roniweH'ti  ((iienelileim  lUir 

Wliere  tlie  grim  piirilan  tri;a<l 

Hliook  MartiU/n,  Naseliy,  ami  iJiintKir ; 

Yea,  on  lier  IV*t  are  ilearer  'lyex 

Vet  freoli,  nor  lookr^l  on  v/itli  iintiarlul  eyen, 

Oiir  lalljeni  l'oiin<l  lier  in  the  woo<l>i 

Where  Nature  nieditat/iH  aii'l  lirooilx 

Till:  i«.'e<l»  of  unexani|il«l  thin^it 

Wliii:li  Time  \Ai  winKiininiation  liiinx« 

Tlijoii^^li    life   anil    'leath    anil    nian'n    iinntiihle 

They  met  her  liere,  not  rwognizisil, 

A  Kylvan  hiiiitrexx  elolli<;<l  in  luin, 

To  wliow;  ehiuiU;  wunt»  lier  Ixiw  Hulliwl, 

Nor  ilreanieil  wtiat  deiititiieK  were  henc 

Hhfc  taiighi  them  hee-like  to  ereaV! 

Their  iiini|iler  fornw  of  Chiireh  aii'l  St-it';  ; 

8he  tiiMf^ht  tlicni  to  eniliie 

'I'he  Taut  with  other  funelionn  than  it  knew, 

Ami    turn    in   ehannelx   Htrarijje   the   iineeitain 

Ktreain  of  fal/;  ; 
l',ett^rr  than  all,  itlie  fenwl  them  in  their  neeil 
With  Iron-hanileil  |JMty'n  nVi-nn-M  f.rfM, 
'Cainot  He)r»  lean  wolf    that  ravena  wonl   an'l 

ilee.1. 

What  marvelous  ehanjje  of  thingd  am!  men  f 
Khe,  a  worM-wamleiin;{  orphan  then, 
So  nii((hly  now  !     Thow;  are  her  fttreamx 
That  whirl  the  myria/1,  inyria'l  w)u«;U 
Of  all  that  'loex  ami  all  that  'Ir'jatnd, 
Of  all  that  thinks  ami  all  that  feelx 
Through  h]i;u:i-n  «tr<delii»l  from  ivm.  Uj  ic;a ; 
I'V  i'lle  lonj^uen  ami  huxy  hrainn, 
lly  who  'loth  ri^^ht  ami  who  refrainii, 
lI'^rK  are  our  limivm  ami  our  utiiim, 
Our  maker  an'l  our  vie-tim  xlie. 


© 


Away,  iinj^rat'ifiil  iloulit,  away! 
At  l<ai>.t  hIh:  i«t  our  own  to-'lay ; 
Break  into  rapture,  my  nong, 


VeiwM,  leap  I'ortii  in  the  xiiii, 
IJ';arin(^  tli';  j'/yan'*  along 
l,ik':  a  train  of  fici  a^  ye  run  I 
I'auin;  not  foj-  ehooising  of  wor'U, 
l,el  them  hut  hloMnom  aii'l  sing, 
Ulilhe  iu(  the  orijhar'lx  and  hir'U 
With  tlie  new  eoniing  of  upring  I 
Oanee  in  your  jollity,  liellx, 
Khoiit,  i;annon  !  '■eaic;  n'lt,  ye  'Iriiniii ! 
Answer,  ye  hillKi'liw  an'l  'lellii ! 
How,  all  y;  people  !  Hlie  '•omen, 
Hailianl,  ':alin-front/"l  an  when 
Khe  hall.,w'r«l  that  April  'lay: 
Ktjiy  with  UK  !     Ve»,  thou  »halt  nlay, 
HofN;ner  anil  wtrengthemr  of  in':n, 
Kr':"f'loin,  not  won  liy  the  vain, 
Not  Ui  In:  fjiiirli'ii  in  Jilay, 
Not  U)  \)i:  kept  without  pain  ! 
Kljiy  with  un  I     Veil,  tli'iu  wilt  HUiy, 
llau'lmai'l  an'l  nii>.li' "H  ol  all, 
Kin'ller  '/f  ile<-l  an'l  ',1  th-iiight. 
Thou,  that  t»  hut  ami  to  hall 
K<|ual  'leliveran'e  hrought ! 
KouIh  of  li';r  niartym  !  'Iraw  near, 
Toiieh  our  'lull  li|m  with  your  llr<:, 
That  we  may  |iraiw  without  fear 
lier,  our 'lelight,  our 'leiiiie, 
Our  laith'n  inextinguit-.hahle  utar. 
Our  lio|«-,  our  r'-memhranie,  oiii  titnit, 
Our  prewmt,  our  )>;i»t,  our  to  Ije, 
Who  will  mingle  her  life  with  our  'liint 
Ami  make  u»  'lencrvc  to  Ik;  friM; ! 

lAMi;i  lii;^'^.r.i.r-  I-z/wki-u 


ckntknnia;-  mkwtation  of  <:(i\.vmma 

I)lilli(!'>lll«"l'^"l"l! '•'''":  ll.lMn.ili/,it.li;«(/-illi™ll.  l-l.ll»4el. 
(/hU,  May  I'/,  t'K^*t  I 

I'lioM  thifi  liiin'lre<l-t':rrii'"il  height 
Might  more  large  with  noliler  light      ■ 
IJiing'«  'lown  yon  t/)Wering  year»  ; 
Hiimhler  Kmiles  an'l  lor'llier  lear» 
Khine  an'l  fall,  i»liine  an'l  liill. 
While  ol'l  voi'ies-.  rii«:  anil  ';all 
Von'ler  where  the  fj-an'l-fio 
Well'^rliig  of  my  l/jiig-Ago 
Movesi  aljiyiit  the  movelexii  tiiuf; 
far  Iwlow  my  rcxling-plaee, 

Mayflower,  Mayllower,  slowly  hither  Hying, 
Tremhling  wentwanl  o'er  yon  talking  wa, 
II<K>rt.(«  within  farewell  'I'-ar  Kiiglao'l  nighing, 
Wimlti  without  Hut  'l(«ir  in  vain  re[ilying, 
Oray-lipi»cl  waven  atioiit  tln-e  nhoiitit'l,  erying 
No  !     It  xliall  not  Ik;  ! 

Jamedt'/wn,  out  of  tlie<;  - 
I'lymoiith,  th«<;—  lh<«,  All/any  — 


-ff 


e- 


546 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


"^ 


Winter  cries,  Ye  fVeene  :  away ! 
Fever  cries,  Ye  burn  :  away  ! 
Hunger  cries.  Ye  starve  :  away ! 
Vengeance  cries.  Your  graves  shall  stay  ! 

Then  old  Shapes  and  Masks  of  Things, 

Framed  like  Faiths  or  clothed  like  Kings, — 

Ghosts  of  Uoods  once  fleshed  and  fair. 

Grown  foul  Bads  in  alien  air  — 

War,  and  his  most  noisy  lords, 

Tongued  with  lithe  ;uul  poisoned  swords  — 

Error,  Terror,  Kage,  and  Crime, 
All  in  a  windy  night  of  time 
Cried  to  me  from  land  and  sea, 
No  !  thou  shalt  not  be  ! 
Hark  ! 
Huguenots  whis[)ering  Yea  in  the  dark, 
Puritans  answering  Yea  in  the  dark  ! 
Yea,  like  an  arrow  shot  true  to  his  mark, 
Darts  through  the  tyrainious  heart  of  Denial. 
Patience  and  Labor  and  solemu-souled  Trial, 
Foiled,  still  beginning. 
Soiled,  but  not  sinning. 
Toil  through  the  stertorous  death  of  the  Night, 
Toil,  when  wild  brother-wars  new  dark  the  Liglit, 
Toil,  and  forgive,  and  kiss  o'er,  and  replight. 

Now  Praise  to  God's  oft-granted  grace. 
Now  Praise  to  Man's  undaunted  face. 
Despite  the  land,  despite  the  sea, 
I  was  :  I  am  :  and  I  shall  he  — 

How  long,  (lood  Angel,  0  how  long  ? 

Sing  nie  from  Heaven  a  man's  own  song ! 

"  Long  as  thine  Art  shall  love  true  love, 
Long  as  thy  Science  truth  shall  know, 
Long  as  thine  Eagle  harms  no  Dove, 
]>ong  as  thy  Law  by  law  shall  grow, 
Ivong  as  thy  God  is  God  above. 
Thy  brother  every  man  below,  — 
So  long,  dear  Land  of  all  my  love, 
Thy  name  shall  shine,  thy  fame  shall  glow ! " 

0  Music,  from  this  height  of  time  my  Word  un- 
fold ; 

In  thy  large  signals  all  men's  hearts  Man's  Heart 
behold  : 

Mid-heaven  unroll  thy  chords  as  friendly  flags 
unfurled. 

And  wave  the  world's  best  lover's  welcome  to  the 
world. 


CENTENNIAL  HYMN. 

[Sun^at  the  npciiin^j  of  tlic  Imernation.il  tvp.isitinn  in  Fhilac 
piiia.  May  lo.  t8;6.J 

OuK  fathers'  Goil  !  from  o>it  whose  hand 
The  centuries  fall  like  grains  of  sand. 


We  meet  to-day,  united,  free, 
And  loyal  to  our  land  and  thee, 
To  thank  thee  for  the  era  done. 
And  trust  thee  for  the  opening  one. 

Here,  where  of  old,  by  thy  design. 
The  fathers  spake  that  word  of  thine, 
Whose  echo  is  the  glad  refrain 
Of  rended  bolt  and  falling  chain, 
To  grace  our  festal  time,  from  all 
The  zones  of  earth  our  guests  we  call. 

Be  with  us  while  the  New  World  greets 
The  Old  World  thronging  all  its  streets. 
Unveiling  all  the  triumphs  won 
By  art  or  toil  beneath  the  sun  ; 
And  unto  common  good  ordain 
This  rivalship  of  hand  and  brain. 

Thou,  who  hast  here  in  concord  furled 
The  \Viir-Hags  of  a  gathered  woihl, 
Beneath  our  Western  skies  fullill 
The  Orient's  mission  of  good-will, 
And,  freighted  with  love's  Golden  Fleece, 
Send  back  the  Argonauts  of  peace. 

For  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 
For  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 
We  thank  thee,  while,  withal,  we  crave 
The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 
The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 
The  manhood  never  bought  or  sold  ! 

0,  make  thou  us,  through  centuries  long, 
In  peace  secure,  injustice  strong; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  thy  righteous  law  ; 
And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mold, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old  ! 

JOHN  G.    WHIITIER. 


THE  NATIONAL  ODE. 


READ    AT    THE   CE 


NDENCE    HALL. 


L— 1. 

Sun  of  the  stately  Day, 
Let  Asia  into  the  shadow  drift. 
Let  Europe  bask  in  thy  ripened  ray, 
And  over  the  severing  ocean  lift 
A  brow  of  broader  splendor  ! 
Give  light  to  the  eager  eyes 
Of  the  Land  that  waits  to  behold  thee  rise  : 
The  gladness  of  morning  lend  her, 
With  the  triumph  of  noon  attend  her, 
And  the  peace  of  the  vesper  skies  ! 
For  lo  !  she  cometli  now 
With  hope  on  the  lip  and  pride  on  the  brow, 
Stronger,  and  dearer,  and  fairer, 


-4? 


^' 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


547 


-a 


To  smile  on  the  love  we  bear  her,  — 
To  live,  as  we  dreamed  her  and  sought  her. 

Liberty's  latest  daughter  ! 
In  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  in  the  secret  places, 

We  found  her  traces  ; 
On  the  hills,  in  tlie  crash  of  woods  that  fall, 
We  hearil  her  call ; 
When  the  lines  of  battle  broke. 
We  saw  her  face  in  the  fiery  smoke  ; 
Through  toil,  and  anguish,  and  desolation, 

We  followed,  and  found  her 
With  the  grace  of  a  virgin  Nation 
As  a  siicred  zone  around  her  ! 
Who  shall  ivjdice 
With  a  ri^htuous  voice, 
Far-heard  through  the  ages,  if  not  she  ? 
For  the  menace  is  dumb  that  defied  her, 

The  doubt  is  dead  that  denied  her, 
And  she  sta7ids  acknowledged,  and  strong,  and 
Iree  ! 


II. 


■1. 


&^ 


Ah,  hark  !  the  solemn  undertone 
On  every  wind  of  human  story  blown. 

A  large,  divinely-molded  Fate 
Questions  the  right  and  purpose  of  a  State, 
And  in  its  plan  sublime 

Our  eras  are  the  dust  of  Time. 

The  far-otf  Yesterday  of  power 

Creeps  back  with  stealthy  feet, 

Invades  the  lordship  of  the  lionr, 
And  at  our  bancpiet  takes  the  unbidden  seat. 
From  all  unchronicled  and  silent  ages 
Before  the  Future  first  begot  the  Past, 

Till  History  dared,  at  last, 
To  write  eternal  words  on  granite  pages  ; 
From  Egypt's  tawny  drift,  and  Assur's  mound, 

And  where,  uplifted  white  and  far, 

Earth  highest  yearns  to  meet  a  star, 
And  Man  his  manhood  by  the  Ganges  found,  — 
Imperial  heads,  of  old  millennial  sway. 

And  still  by  some  pale  splendor  crowned, 
Chill  as  a  corpse-light  in  our  full-orbed  day. 

In  ghostly  grandeur  rise 
And  say,  through  stony  lips  and  vacant  eyes : 
"Thou  that  a-ssertest  freedom,  power,  and  tame, 
Declare  to  us  tliy  claim  !  " 

I. —2. 

On  the  shores  of  a  Continent  cast, 
She  won  the  inviolate  soil 
By  loss  of  heirdom  of  all  the  Past, 
And  faith  in  the  royal  right  of  Toil ! 
She  planted  homes  on  the  savage  sod  : 
Into  the  wilderness  lone 
She  walked  with  fearless  feet, 
111  her  hand  the  divining-rod, 
Till  the  veins  of  the  mountains  beat 


With  lire  of  metal  and  force  of  stone  ! 
She  set  the  speed  of  the  river-head 

To  turn  the  mills  of  her  bread  ; 
She  drove  her  plowshare  deep 
Through  the  piairie's  thousand-centuried  sleep  ; 
To  the  South,  and  West,  and  North, 
She  called  Pathfinder  forth. 
Her  faithful  and  sole  companion, 
Where  the  flushed  Sierra,  snowy-starred. 

Her  way  to  the  sunset  barred. 
And  the  nameless  rivers  in  thunder  and  foam 
Channeled  the  terrible  canyon  ! 
Nor  paused,  till  her  uttermost  home 
Was  built,  in  the  smile  of  a  softer  sky 

And  the  glory  of  beauty  still  to  be, 
Where  the  haunted  waves  of  ;Vsia  die 

On  the  strand  of  the  world-wide  sea  ! 

II.  — 2. 

The  race,  in  conquering. 
Some  fierce  Titanic  joy  of  comiuest  knows  : 

Whether  in  veins  of  serf  or  king, 
Our  ancient  blood  beats  restless  in  repose. 

Challenge  of  Nature  unsubdued 
Awaits  not  Man's  defiant  answer  long  ; 

For  hardship,  even  as  wrong, 
Provokes  the  level-eyed,  heroic  mood. 
Tills  for  herself  she  did  ;  but  that  which  lies. 

As  over  earth  the  skies. 
Blending  all  forms  in  one  benignant  glow,  — 

Crowned  conscience,  tender  care, 
Justice,  that  answers  every  bondman's  prayer, 
Freedom  where  Faith  may  lead  or  Tliouglit  may 
dare, 

The  power  of  minds  that  know. 

Passion  of  hearts  that  feel, 

Purchased  by  blood  and  woe, 

Guarded  by  tire  and  steel,  — 
Hath  she  secured  ?     What  blazon  on  lier  shield, 

In  the  clear  Century's  light 

Shines  to  the  world  revealed, 
Declaring  nobler  triumph,  born  of  Right  ? 

I.  — 3. 

Foreseen  in  the  vision  of  sages, 

Foretold  when  martyi-s  bled, 
She  was  horn  of  the  longing  of  ages, 
By  the  truth  of  the  noble  dead 
Anil  the  faith  of  the  living  fed  ! 
No  blood  in  her  lightest  veins 
Frets  at  remembered  chains, 
Nor  shame  of  bondage  has  bowed  her  head. 
In  her  form  and  features  still 
The  unblenching  Puritan  will, 
Cavalier  honor,  Huguenot  grace. 
The  Quaker  truth  and  sweetness, 
And  the  strength  of  the  danger-girdled  race 
Of  Holland,  blend  in  a  proud  completeness. 


-^ 


fi- 


548 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


-a 


y-- 


From  the  liomes  of  all,  where  her  being  began, 

She  took  what  she  gave  to  Man  : 

Justice,  tliat  knew  no  station, 
Belief,  as  soul  decreed, 

Free  air  for  aspiration, 
Free  force  for  independent  deed  ! 

She  takes,  but  to  give  again, 
As  the  sea  returns  the  rivers  in  rain  ; 
And  gathers  the  chosen  of  lier  seed 
From  the  hunted  of  every  crown  and  creed. 
Her  Germany  dwells  by  a  gentler  Rhine  ; 
Her  Ireland  sees  the  old  sunburst  shine  ; 
Her  France  pursues  some  dream  divine  ; 
Her  Norway  keeps  his  mountain  pine  ; 
Her  Italy  waits  by  the  western  brine  ; 

And,  broad-based  under  all. 
Is  [ilanted  England's  oaken-hearted  mood. 

As  rich  in  fortitude 
As  e'er  went  worldward  from  tlie  island-wall ! 

Fused  in  her  candid  liglit. 
To  one  strong  race  all  races  here  unite  : 
'roni;ucs  melt  in  hers,  hereditary  foemen 
Forget  their  sword  and  slogan,  kith  and  clan  ; 

'T  was  glory,  once,  to  lie  a  Roman  ; 
She  makes  it  glory,  now,  to  be  a  Man  ! 

II.  — 3. 

Bow  down  ! 
Dotf  thine  isonian  crown  ! 

One  hour  forget 
The  glory,  and  recall  the  debt : 

Make  expiation. 

Of  humbler  mood. 
For  the  pride  of  thine  exultation 
O'er  iieril  couiiuereJ  and  strife  .subdued  ! 
But  lialf  the  riglit  i.s  wrested 

When  victory  yields  lier  prize, 
And  half  the  marrow  tested 

When  old  endurance  dies. 
In  the  sight  of  tliem  that  love  thee. 
Bow  to  the  Greater  above  thee  ! 

He  faileth  not  to  smite 
The  idle  ownership  of  Right, 
Nor  spares  to  sinews  fresh  from  trial, 
And  virtue  schooled  in  long  denial. 
The  tests  that  wait  for  thee 
In  larger  perils  of  prosperity. 

Here,  at  the  Century's  awfnl  shrine, 
Bow  to  thy  Fatlier's  God  —  and  thine  ] 

1.  —  4. 

Behold  !  she  bendeth  now. 
Humbling  the  chaplet  of  her  hundred  years  : 
There  is  a  solemn  sweetness  on  her  brow, 
And  in  her  eyes  are  sacred  tears. 
Can  she  forget, 
In  present  joy,  the  burden  of  her  debt, 


When  for  a  captive  race 
She  grandly  staked  and  won 
The  total  pi'omise  of  her  power  begun, 
And  bared  her  bosom's  grace 
To  tlie  sharp  wound  that  inly  tortures  yet  ? 

Can  she  forget 
The  million  graves  her  young  devotion  set. 

The  hands  that  clasp  above 
From  either  side,  in  sad,  returning  love  ? 
Can  she  forget. 
Here,  where  the  Ruler  of  to-day, 
The  Citizen  of  to-morrow. 
And  equal  thousands  to  rejoice  and  pray 

Beside  these  holy  walls  are  met. 
Her  birth-cry,  mixed  of  keenest  bliss  and  sorrow! 
Wliere,  on  July's  immortal  morn 
Held  forth,  the  People  saw  her  head 
And  shouted  to  the  world  :   "The  King  is  dead. 

But  lo  !  the  Heir  is  born  !  " 
When  lire  of  Youth,  and  sober  trust  of  Age, 
In  Farmer,  Soldier,  Priest,  and  Sage, 
Arose  and  cast  upon  her 
Baptismal  gannents,  —  never  robes  so  fair 
Clad  prince  in  Old- World  air,  — 
Their  lives,    their   fortunes,   and    their  sacred 
honor  I 


II. 


-4. 


Arise  !     Recrown  thy  head. 
Radiant  with  blessing  of  the  Dead  ! 
Bear  from  this  hallowed  place 
The  prayer  that  purifies  thy  lips. 
The  light  of  courage  that  defies  eclipse. 
The  rose  of  Man's  new  morning  on  thy  face  ! 

Let  no  iconoclast 
Invade  thy  rising  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 

To  make  a  blank  where  .\dani<  stood, 
To  touch  the  Father's  sheatl... I  ,,n>l  saeivd  lilade, 
Spoil  crowns  on  Jeff'erson  and  Fiaiiklin  laid, 
Or  wash  from  Freedom's  feet  the  stain  of  Lin- 
coln's blood  ! 
Hearken,  as  from  that  haunted  hall 
Their  voices  call  : 
"  We  lived  and  died  for  thee  : 
We  greatly  dared  that  thou  might'st  be  ; 
So,  from  thy  chililren  still 
We  claim  denials  which  at  last  fulfill, 
And  freeilom  yielded  to  preserve  tliee  free  ! 
Beside  clear-hearted  Eight 
That  smiles  at  Power's  uplifted  rod. 
Plant  Duties  that  reipiite, 
And  Order  that  sustains,  upon  tliy  sod. 
And  stand  in  stainless  might 
Above  all  self,  and  only  less  than  God  !  " 

III.  — 1. 
Here  may  thy  solemn  challenge  end. 
All-proving  Past,  and  each  discordance  dii 


-^ 


fl-^ 


POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


549 


t] 


U 


Of  douljtful  augury, 
Or  in  one  choral  with  tliu  Piesent  WcmuI, 
And  that  luill'-heard,  sweet  harmony 
01"  something  noliler  that  our  sons  may  see  ! 

Thoiigli  poignant  memories  burn 
Of  days  that  were,  and  may  again  return, 
When  thy  fleet  foot,  0  Huntress  of  the  Woods, 
The  sli]i[]ory  brinks  of  danger  knew. 
And  dim  the  eyesight  grew 
That  was  so  sure  in  thine  old  solitudes,  — 

^'et  stays  some  richer  sense 
Won  from  the  mixture  of  thine  elements. 

To  guidi;  the  vagiant  scheme. 
And  winnow  truth  from  each  conflicting  dream  ! 

Yet  in  thy  blood  shall  live 

Some  force  unspiuit,  some  essence  primitive, 

To  seize  the  highest  use  of  things  ; 

For  Fate,  to  mold  thee  to  her  plan. 

Denied  thee  food  of  kings, 

Withheld  the  udder  and  the  orchard-fruits. 

Fed  thee  with  savage  roots. 
And  forced  thy  liarsher  milk  from  barren  breasts 
of  man  ! 

III.  — 2. 

0  sacretl  Woman-Form, 
Of  till'  first  People's  need  and  passion  wrought,  — 

No  thin,  pale  ghost  of  Tliought, 
Hut  fair  as  Morning  and  aslieart'a-blood  warm,  — 
Wearing  thy  |iricstly  liar  on  .ludah's  liills  ; 
Clear-eyed  beneath  Athene's  lielni  of  gold  ; 

Or  from  Home's  central  seat 
Hearing  the  pulses  of  the  Continents  beat 
In  th\inder  where  her  legions  rolled  ; 
Compac-t  of  high  heroic  hearts  and  wills. 

Whoso  being  circles  all 
Tile  selfless  aims  of  men,  and  all  fulfills  ; 
Thyself  not  free,  so  long  as  one  is  thrall  ; 
(loddcss,  that  as  a  Nation  lives. 

And  as  a  Nation  dies, 
That  for  her  children  as  a  man  defies, 
And  to  her  children  as  a  mother  gives,  — 

Take  our  fresh  fealty  now  ! 
No  more  a  Chicftainess,  with  wampum-zone 

And  feather-cinctured  brow,  — 
No  more  a  new  Britannia,  grown 
To  s)ireacl  an  equal  banner  to  the  breeze, 
And  lift  thy  trident  o'er  the  double  seas  ; 

Rut  with  unborrowed  crest, 
In  thine  own  native  beauty  dressed, — 
The  front  of  imrc  roiiniiMiid,  the  unflinching  eye, 
thine  own  ! 

III.  —3. 
Look  up,  look  forth,  and  on  I 
There 's  light  in  the  dawning  sky  ; 
The  clouds  are  parting,  the  night  is  gone  : 


Prepare  for  the  work  of  the  day  ! 
Fallow  thy  pastures  lie 
Anil  far  thy  shepherds  stray. 

And  the  lields  of  thy  vast  domain 
Are  waiting  for  pnrer  seed 
Of  knowledge,  desire,  and  deed. 

For  keener  sunshine  and  mellower  rain  ! 
But  keei>  thy  garments  pure  : 

Pluck  them  back,  with  the  old  disdain. 
From  touch  of  the  hands  that  stain  ! 
So  shall  thy  strength  endure. 

Transmute  into  gooil  tlie  gold  of  Gain, 

Compel  to  beauty  thy  ruder  powers, 
Till  the  bounty  of  coming  hours 
Shall  plant,  on  thy  fields  aiiart, 

With  the  oak  of  Toil,  the  rose  of  Art ! 
lie  watchful,  and  keep  us  so  : 
Be  strong,  and  fear  no  foe  : 
I>e  just,  and  the  world  shall  know  ! 

With  the  sanK'.  love  love  us,  as  we  give  ; 
And  the  day  shall  never  come, 
That  finds  us  weak  or  dumb 
To  join  and  smite  and  cry 

In  the  great  task,  for  thee  to  die. 

And  the  greater  task,  for  thee  to  live  ! 


THE  PEOPLE'S  SONG  OF  PEACE. 


The  grass  is  green  on  Bunker  Hill, 
The  waters  sweet  in  Brandywina  ; 

The  sword  sleeps  in  the  scabbard  still, 
The  farmer  keeps  his  flock  and  vine  ; 

Then,  who  would  mar  the  .scene  to-day 

With  vaunt  of  battle-field  or  fray? 

Tlie  brave  corn  lifts  in  regiments 
Ten  thousand  sabers  in  the  sun  ; 

The  ricks  replace  the  battle-tents, 
The  bannered  tassels  toss  and  run. 

The  neighing  steed,  the  bugle's  blast, 

These  be  but  stories  of  the  past. 

The  earth  has  healed  her  wounded  breast, 
The  cannons  plow  the  field  no  more  ; 

The  heroes  rest  !  0,  let  them  rest 
In  peace  along  the  peaceful  shore  ! 

They  fought  for  peace,  for  peace  they  fell ; 

They  sleep  in  peace,  and  all  is  well. 

Tlie  fields  forget  the  battles  fought. 
The  trenches  wave  in  golden  grain  : 

Shall  we  neglect  the  lessons  taught. 
And  tear  the  wounds  agape  again  ? 

Sweet  Mothca'  Nature,  nurse  the  land. 

And  heal  her  wounds  with  gentle  liand. 


-^' 


e^- 


550 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


-^ 


Lo  !  jioace  on  eni-th.     Lo  !  Hock  iiiul  I'olil, 
1.0  !  rifh  nbuuilanee,  fiit  increase, 

Ami  valleys  clad  in  sheen  of  gold. 
0,  rise  and  sing  a  song  of  pence  ! 

For  Theseus  i-oiinis  the  land  no  more, 

And  .Iiinus  rests  with  rusted  door. 

JOAyUlN   MlLLliK. 


NOT  KIPE   FOR  POLITICAL    POWEK. 

The  men  wliose  minds  move  faster  than  their  age, 
Antl  taster  than  society's  dull  llight, 

Must  bear  the  rilwld  railings  and  tlie  rage 
Of  those  who  lag  \)ehind  it.     As  the  light 
Plays  on  the  horizon's  verge  before  its  night 

(.'an  penetrate  life's  dark  and  murky  stage  ; 

As  the  tired  hadgi,  on  his  |iilgrimage, 

Hears,  ere  he  sees,  the  fountain  bubl  iling  bright ; 

As  the  sweet  smiles  of  infants  promise  youtli, 

And  martyr  sulferings  herald  sacred  truth,  — 
So  Thought  Hung  forward  is  the  prophecy 

Of  Truth's  nuijestic  nuirch,  and  shows  the  way 

Where  future  time  shall  lead  the  proud  array 
t)f  peace,  of  jiower,  and  love  of  liberty. 

SIK  JOH.N  BOWRING. 


THE  REFORMER. 

Ai.L  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 

1  s!uv  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Snuting  the  godless  shrini's  of  num 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church  beneath  her  trembling  dome 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambei'S  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 

Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 

To  ilrown  the  din. 


Vet  lovuier  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke. 

Yet  nearer  Hashed  his  ax's  gleam ; 
SluuUlering  and  sick  of  heart  1  woke. 
As  from  a  dream. 

1  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled, — 

The  Waster  .seemeil  the  Huilder  too  ; 
Upspringing  from  the  ruined  Old 
1  saw  the  Now. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Wiui  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away. 
And  left  behind  a  .smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow  ; 
The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plow. 

Where  frowned  the  f<u't,  pavilions  gay 

And  collage  windows,  Howi'r-intwinod, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaca'ful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreatlicd  cups  with  wine  once  red. 

The  lights  on  brimming  I'rystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 
.■\nd  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 

The  young  child  i)layed. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
(Had  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 


"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "yon  holy  pile  ; 
That  grand  old  time-worn  turret  spare' 
Meek  Ueverencc,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "Forbear  !" 


I  Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 
1      1  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
i  That  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven 
The  best  IVuits  grow. 


fe^- 


Ciray-boariled  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Gro[)ed  for  his  old  accustomed  stone. 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  Hud 
His  seat  o'orthrown. 

Young  Homance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold  ; 

"  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 

"  The  fair,  the  old  ? " 


The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 
!      The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
j  The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 

Of  wrong  alone,  — 
1 
These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day  ; 
And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 


^ 


c§- 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


551 


-^ 


t&-- 


0  backwiiicl-looking  sou  of  time  ! 
The  new  is  olil,  tlie  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 

Still  sweeiiing  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer  ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Bralira, 
Who  wake  ))y  turn  Earth's  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

Idly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine  ; 
So,  in  his  time,  tliy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

Hut  life  shall  on  an<l  upward  go  ; 

Th'  etei'nal  step  of  I'rogress  beats 

To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow. 

Which  God  re[)eats. 

Tak.-  lieart  '.  —  the  Waster  builds  again,  — 

A  eharnieil  life  old  Goodness  hath  ; 
The  tares  may  perish,  —  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  lirst  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  1  —  the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light  1 

John  Gkeenlhaf  wmmER, 


WHAT  CON.STITUTES  A  STATE? 

What  constitutes  a  State  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound. 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned ; 

Not  biiys  and  broad-armed  ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride ; 

Not  staiTed  and  spangled  courts. 
Where   low-browed  baseness  wafts   perfume  to 
pride. 

No  :  —  men,  high-minded  men. 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  bnites  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
As  bea-sts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude,  — 

Men  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  main- 
tain. 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain  ; 

These  constitute  a  State  ; 
And  sovereign  law,  that  State's  collected  will. 

O'er  thiones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  emi)ress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

Smit  bv  her  sacred  frown. 


The  fiend.  Dissension,  like  a  vapor  sinks  ; 

And  e'en  the  all-dazzling  crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  1)iilding  shrinks 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle. 
Than  l/cslios  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore  ! 

No  more  shall  freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Hritons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign, 
Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the  brave 

'T  is  folly  to  decline, 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

SiK  William  Jones. 


CARACTACU.S. 

Befoi!E  proud  Home's  imperial  throne 

In  mind's  uncoufiuered  mood. 
As  if  llie  triumph  were  hLs  own. 

The  dauntless  captive  stood. 
None,  to  have  seen  Ids  free-born  air, 
Had  fancied  him  a  captive  there. 

Though,  through  the  crowded  streets  of  Rome, 

With  slow  and  stately  tread, 
Far  from  his  own  loved  island  home, 

That  day  in  trium|ili  led,  — 
Unliound  his  he.ad,  unbent  his  knee, 
Undimmed  his  eye,  his  aspect  free. 

A  free  and  fearless  glance  lie  cast 

On  temple,  arch,  and  tower, 
liy  which  the  long  pi-ocession  passed 

Of  Home's  victorious  power  ; 
And  somewhat  of  a  scornful  smile 
Upcurled  his  hauglity  lip  the  while. 

And  now  he  .stood,  with  brow  serene. 
Where  slaves  might  prostrate  fall, 

Bearing  a  Briton's  manly  mien 
In  Caesar's  palace  hall  ; 

Claiming,  witli  kindled  brow  and  cheek. 

The  liberty  e'en  there  to  sjieak. 

Noi'  could  Home's  haughty  loid  withstand 

The  chain)  that  look  prefr-ired. 
But  motioned  with  ujilifted  h.and 

The  suppliant  should  be  heard,  — 
If  he  indeed  a  supjjliant  were 
Whose  glance  demanded  audience  there. 

Deep  stillness  fell  on  all  the  crowd, 

From  Claudius  on  his  throne 
Down  to  the  meanest  slave  that  bowed 

At  his  imiierial  throne  ; 
Silent  his  fellow-captive's  gi-ief 
As  fearless  spoke  the  Island  Chief  : 


-^ 


[fj- 


5r.2 


POIiMS  OF  JfATHJOTISM  AND  FRKKWM. 


-a 


i<T- 


••  'I'liiiik  not,  tluui  oajjlo  l.oi\l  nl'  i;v>mo, 

Aiul  miislor  of  tlio  wiuM, 
'I'lioiijili  vii'lovv's  Iwumv  o'l'i'  tli_Y  ilomo 

In  Iiiimn'h  now  is  rmlml. 
I  woiiM  !nl>ln-ss  tlioo  i\s  tliv  sliivo, 
r>ut  i\s  tho  K>M  siioiiia  fiiv'i't  tho  buivo  ! 

"  1  inij;lit,  (H'lvliiuuo,  couKl  1  Imvo  iloijjnpd 

To  lloUl  ft  VrtSSlll's  thlXMIO, 

K'on  now  in  liiiliiiu's  islo  Imvo  ivi^iunl 

A  kini;  iu  \i»mt>  alone. 
Yet  hoUlinj;,  iis  ihy  in<n<k  tiUy, 
A  nionaivh's  niiniio  |mj;vi«uti'.v. 

"Thon  tliiMnjjIi  Homo's  oi-owdod  slnn'ts  to-il»y 

1  niijjht  hiivo  null!  with  tlieo, 
Not  in  ft  I'iiiitivo's  Imso  «nii_v, 

lint  t'ottriK'ss  iinil  tivo,  — 
It"  I\v(hIoui  lio  oonlil  liopo  to  tind, 
AVlioso  lH>n(luj^>  is  of  l>wiit  iinil  niinil. 

"  Uut  onu.it  thon  ninrvol  Unit,  IVot'lioin, 

Witli  h«irt  iinU  soul  nn>iuolKd, 
Tliivno,  oivwn,  lunl  sioptor  I  sluniUl  si'oru, 

liy  tli.v  (loi'mission  lii'Kl  I 
Or  thftt  1  slioulil  i\>t!un  niv  lijilit 
Till  wuvstinl  l>_v  ft  von<iin>»\>\'s  \niglit  ( 

"  Homo,  with  hcv  inilucos  nml  towors. 

My  us  luiwishrti,  nnivll, 
lU'i-  lionioly  huts  ami  wootlliinil  bowel's 

To  liiilftin  luiijht  hiivo  lol't  ; 
Woithh'ss  to  you  thoii'  wwillh  must  bo, 
r>«t  th'iiv  ti>  ns,  I'ov  thoy  wciv  I'lvo  ! 

"  1  mijcht  hftvo  bowod  bol'oiv,  but  whoiv 

Urtil  boon  thy  li'iumi>h  now  ( 
To  my  ivsolvo  no  yoko  to  bom- 

'l'lio\i  ow'st  tliy  ItinivltHl  blow  ; 
Ingloiious  victory  hud  boon  lliino, 
Auil  moiv  iuj;lorions  bomhijji'  niino. 

"  Now  I  hftvo  spokon,  ilo  thy  will  ; 

IW  lilV  or  iloftth  my  lot, 
Siuoo  Ihitiiin's  thwuo  no  n\oio  1  till, 

'I'o  u\o  it  nnittoi-s  not. 
My  fiuno  is  olonr  ;  but  on  my  fftto 
Thy  fjlory  or  thy  shanio  must  w«it." 

Ilo  oi'ftsnl  :  fivni  uU  aivnml  ni>sin'unj; 

.\  murmur  of  ftinilanso. 
For  woU  hiiil  truth  and  fivt'iloni's  touj;ui' 

Miuutai\unl  thoir  holy  oauso, 
Tho  lonnuoivr  was  tho  raiitivo  thon, 
Ilo  Ivnlo  tho  slftvo  bo  t\vo  ajjain. 

UKRNAKO  ttAKI'ON. 


■I'llf:    l.ANlUNll    Of    I'lIK    I'lUlUlIU     KAniKUa 
IN   NKW   KNtn^V.NlV 

TnK  bivftkinj;  wavos  ilashtxl  hiijh 

On  a  storn  ami  iwk-bouml  coast, 
An*l  tlio  wooils  aj^aiust  n  stormy  sK.V 

Their  giant  biiuu-hos  tiwawl  ; 

Ami  the  htwvy  uijcht  hunj;  dark 

Tho  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  ft  IhuuI  of  exiles  mooitnl  tln>ir  Ixuk 

On  tJio  wild  Kew  Kngland  shiuv. 

Not  tts  tho  eom|noiHir  oonu>s, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  eame  ; 
Not  with  tho  imU  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sinjp*  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  tlyiuj;  eome, 

In  silenee  and  in  fear  ;  — 
They  shook  llie  depths  of  the  desert  j;l»*'i» 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

.Vmidst  the  storm  they  s«nj<, 

.\ml  the  stai's  heaixl,  and  the  sen  ; 
And  the  sonndiuj;  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  tho  anthem  of  tlio  ftve. 

The  oe«in  eajjle  souixhI 

KiMUi  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
.\nd  the  meking  pines  of  tlu'  foivst  iwuvd,  — 

This  was  their  weleonu'  lunne, 

Tlu'iti  weiv  nnin  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrini-l«unl  ; 
Why  had  they  eoi\ie  to  wither  thei-e, 

Away  fr\>n>  their  eliildhood's  laud  I 

Theiv  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  trutli  ; 
Theiv  was  manhood's  brow  seit>nely  high, 

And  the  liery  hwirt  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ' 

bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ■ 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  f  — 

They  sought  a  faitli's  puii'  -shriue  ! 

Ay,  eall  it  holy  ground, 

Tho  soil  wheiv  lii'st  they  trod  ; 
They  haveleftunstainedwhattheh'they  found,  — 

Fivedoni  to  woi-sliip  tnid, 

rt'.l.lClA   III. MANS. 


TllK  VKKKMAN, 


II K  is  tho  hiHuuttU  whom  the  truth  makes  tVew, 
And  all  aro  slaves  beside.     There  's  not  a  elmin 


-U 


C&-- 


POEMH  OF  PArnwriUM  AND  FREEDOM. 


553 


■a 


fg-- 


That  hfillisli  foes  confederate  for  )ii«  bann 
Can  winil  arouml  liinfi,  liiit  lie  ea«t(t  it  off 
With  a»  much  ease  a»  Saijisoii  \im  j(iei;n  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  iuUj  the  varied  field 
Of  nature  ;  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compared 
With  tliose  whose  mansions  glittiir  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  deliglitful  Bwiieiy  all  his  own. 
Hi«  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valley  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.     His  to  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel 
Hut  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 
Call  lift  to  heaven  an  un()resuni]ituou«  eye. 
And  smiling  say,  "  My  Katber  made  them  all  !" 
Arc  they  not  his  by  a  [leeuliiir  right. 
And  liy  an  emplia-sis  of  int(!rest  Ins, 
Whose  eyes  they  fill  with  Uti>i»  of  holy  joy. 
Whose    heart   with    piaiw;,   and    whose   exalted 

mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  th.at  unwearii'd  love 
That  planned  and   built,   and   still    uijholds,   a 

woild 
So  clothed  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man  ? 
Yes,  ye  may  fill  your  ganiers,  ye  that  reap 
The  loaJiid  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
[n  senseless  riot ;  but  ye  will  not  find 
In  feast,  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 
A  liljerty  like  his,  who,  uninipea<;Iied 
Of  iisiupatioii,  and  to  no  man's  wrong. 
Appropriates  nature  as  hi«  father's  work. 
And  lias  a  lieher  use  of  yours  than  you. 
He  i»  indeed  a  freeman.     Free  by  birth 
Of  no  mi'an  city,  planned  or  e'er  the  hills 
Were  built,  the  fountains  o[>ened,  or  the  sea 
With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 
Hi«  freedom  i»  the  same  in  every  state  ; 
And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 
So  niaiiifold  in  cares,  wliose  every  day 
Brings  Its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less. 
For  lie  has  wings  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 
Nor  penury  can  crip|)le  or  confine  ; 
No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreaxh*  them  there 
With  ease,  and  is  at  large.     The  oppressor  holds 
His  tiody  bound  ;  but  knows  not  what  a  range 
His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a  chain  ; 
And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 
Wlioiii  Cod  delights  in,  and  in  whom  he  dwells. 
William  CowejiR. 


THE  EVE  OP  ELECTION, 

FiioM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

Hut  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's  moon. 


In  its  pale  fin;. 

The  village  spire 
Shows  lik<!  the  zodia/;'B  s[j«etral  lanco  : 

'I'he  jiaintwl  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
'f'lansfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves. 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shallows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

TIk'  molds  of  late 

That  shajift  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  i  oiumon  weal. 

Around  I  b<!'. 

The  powers  j/iat  lie  ; 
I  stand  by  Kmpire's  primal  spiiiigs  ; 

And  jirinces  m<:et 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  trea<l  of  uncrowne<l  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crow<l 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
I'eneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

Cod  save  the  land 

A  carrdess  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon  ! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  east  am  ins 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  liearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear  ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Ueyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  bieatli  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact 

The  kingliest  tu-X 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote  I 

For  jwarls  that  gem 

A  (U.-ulem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  s<ia  dies  ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sa/;rific«  ; 

The  bloo<l  of  Vane, 
His  prison  pain 


-^ 


p 


554 


POEMS  OF   PATBIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


■a 


Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 
And  hers  whose  faith 
Drew  strengtli  from  ileatli, 

And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  bravo  men  died  to  gain  ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

Tl\e  ax,  the  sword, 
Grim  iinrsos  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadows  rend. 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
O  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms,  — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle-songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms  ! 

Look  from  the  sky. 

Like  God's  great  eye. 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam  ; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  sclf-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  desigiieil.  the  jnirpose  dark  ; 

And  smite  awav 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims. 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Troth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven. 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done. 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
AVhen  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one  ! 

John  C  Whittier. 


High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 
And  iron  gates  obstruct  the  jirisoner's  gaze, 

Aiul  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design. 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways 

But  scorns  the  immortal  mind  such  base  control 
No  chains  can  bind  it  ami  no  cell  enclose. 


Swifter  than  light  it  flies  from  pole  to  [Kile, 
And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes. 

It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount  ;  from  vale  to  vale 
Itwanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  nndflowers  ; 

It  visits  homo  to  hear  the  fireside  tale 

And  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  hours  ; 

'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar. 

And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star. 

William  i.lovd  Garrison. 


THE  ANTIQUITY   OF  FREEDOM. 

Heke  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks  and  gnarlfed  pines, 
That  stream  with  gray -green  mosses;  here  the 

ground 
Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  ami  flowers  spring 

up 
Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.     It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
And  leaping  squirrels,    wandering  brooks,  and 

winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they  pass, 
A  fragi-ance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 
With    pale    blue    berries.      In    these    peaceful 

shades  — 
Peaceful,  unpruned,  imraeasuralily  old  — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  ilim  path  of  years, 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

0  FKEF.nOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  jioets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs. 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
AVith  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man. 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  tlion  ;  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broail  shield,  and  one  the  sword  ;  thy 

brow. 
Glorious  in  beauty  tlunigh  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars  ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has 

launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  liis  lightnings  smitten  thee  ; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from 

heaven. 
Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep. 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires. 
Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  yet,  while  lie  deems  thee 

bound. 
The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward  ;  terribly  thou  s|uingest  forth. 
As  sin-iugs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile. 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Tliy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy   birthright  was    not    given    by  human 
hands : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  ideasant 
fields. 


-^ 


fl- 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


555 


:-a 


While  yet  our  race  was  few,  tliou  sat'st  with  him,  I 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars. 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf. 
His  only  foes  ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrow  on  the  mountain-side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.     Tyranny  himself. 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look. 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed. 
Is  later  born  than  thou  ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye 
The  usurfier  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou   shalt  wax  strongc^r  with   the  lapse  of 

years. 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age  ; 
Feebler,  yet  sulitler.     He  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant  forms 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear  ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread 

on  thread 
That  grow  to  fetters  ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets.     O,  no't  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corselet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword  ;  nor  yet,  0  Freedom  !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber  ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  earth   and   heaven.      But   wouldst 

thou  rest 
Awhile  from  tumult  and  tlie  frauds  of  men. 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolatcd  earth. 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new. 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoice4l. 

William  cullen  Bryant. 


LAUS  DEOl 

[On  he.lrmgr  the  bells  ring  on  the  passage  of  Uie  Constitutional 
\mentlnicnt  abolishing  slavery.) 

It  is  done  ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal. 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 


^^ 


Ring,  0  bcdls  ! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 
Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 


]jmA  anil  long,  that  all  may  hear. 
King  for  every  listening  car 
Of  Kteniity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel  : 

God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 
And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 

That  our  eyes  this  glory  see. 
That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  : 
In  the  earthquake  lie  has  .spoken  ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  waHs  asunder. 
And  the  ^tes  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 

Lift  the  old  exulting  song  ; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea  : 

He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 

Horse  and  rider  sink  ami  drown  ; 
He  has  triumphed  gloriously  ! 

Did  we  tiare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer. 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 

Wlien  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale. 
Ancient  mytli  and  .song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days. 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  jiraise  ! 

Blotted  out ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin. 

It  is  done  ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

King  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy !     On  moniing's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains, 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns. 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  ! 

JuH.\  CKF.ENLEAF  WHITTIE 


& 


556 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


U- 


BATTLK-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  gloiy  of  the  coming  of 
the  Lord  ; 

Ho  is  trampling  out  tlie  vintage  where  the  grapes 
of  wrath  are  stored  ; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terri- 
ble swift  sword  : 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-lires  of  a  hundred 

circling  camps ; 
They  have  Iniilded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening 

dews  and  damps  ; 
I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 

flaring  lamps  : 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows 

of  steel  : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you 

my  grace  shall  deal  ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  seri)ent 

with  his  heel, 
Since  Ciud  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the    trumpet    that   shall 

never  call  retreat  ; 
He  is  sifting  out  tlie  hearts  of  men  Ix^foro  his 

judgment-scat  : 
0,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him  !   be  jubilant, 

my  feet  ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across 

the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  lus  bosom  that  transfigures  you 

and  me  ; 
As  ho  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make 
men  free. 
While  (iod  is  marching  on. 

Ji'LiA  Ward  Howe. 


O  For.  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness. 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade. 
Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit. 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war. 
Might  never  reach  me  more  !     My  ear  is  pained. 
My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  llesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart ; 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  natural  bond 
•  )f  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  fla.x, 
Tlmt  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire, 
lie  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Kn\  colored  like  liis  own,  and,  having  power 


To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ; 
And,  woree  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  liim,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
Weeps,  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  ?     And  what  man,  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 
And  liang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ' 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground. 
To  cany  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep. 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No  ;  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  luid  nnich  rather  bo  myself  the  slave. 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home.  — Then  why  abroad? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  tho  wave 
That  parts  us  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That 's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then. 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of  all  your  empire  ;  that,  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

William  Cowplr, 


BOSTON  HYMN. 

READ  IN  MUSIC   HALL.  JANUARY   I,    1863, 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 
As  they  sat  by  the  seasiile, 
And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

Ood  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 
I  sufl'er  them  no  more  ; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc  and  war. 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor  ? 

My  angel,  —  his  name  is  Freedom,  — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king  ; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 
And  fend  you  witli  his  wing. 


-S 


a- 


POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


557    T 


ffe- 


Lo  !   I  micover  the  land 
Wliich  1  l.id  of  old  tiiiii;  ill  the  West, 
As  tlie  seulptor  uncovers  the  statue 
When  ho  has  wrought  liis  best ; 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Wliicli  (lip  their  foot  in  the  seas. 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  Hocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods  ; 
Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave  : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble. 
And  nunc  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 
No  lineage  counted  great ; 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  plowmen 
.Shall  constitute  a  state. 

CJo,  rut  d(jwn  trees  in  the  forest. 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs  ; 
(-'ut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  build  lue  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  pi.'ople  together, 
The  young  men  and  the  sires. 
The  digger  in  the  harvest-field. 
Hireling,  and  him  that  hires  ; 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 
In  every  needful  faculty, 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now  !  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea. 
And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun. 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 

'T  is  nobleness  to  serve  ; 

Help  them  who  cannot  helji  again  : 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  mastershi]is. 
And  I  uni-hain  the  slave  : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  lienceforth 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 
His  proper  good  to  flow  ; 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth. 
So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But,  laying  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 


To-day  unbind  the  captive, 
So  only  are  ye  unbound  ; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 
Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound  I 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner. 

And  fdl  the  bag  to  the  brim. 

Who  is  the  owner  ?     The  slave  is  owner, 

And  ever  was.      l"ay  liim. 

0  North  !  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  0  South  !  for  his  shume ; 
Neva<la  !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and"name. 

Up  !  and  the  dusky  race 
That  sat  in  darkness  long. 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemotli  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  ;i,s  snow-flakes. 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth. 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulliUed  shall  be, 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 

0,  PRAISE  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  .set  de  people  free  ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  h('ap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trablxds  gone  ; 

He  le.af  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  coni-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plow, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold  ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  -sell  de  cow, 

But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  gi'ow,  de  cotton  blow. 
We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 


-^ 


[fi- 


i)Ob 


POEMS  OF  PATlUOnSM  AXD  FliEKDOM. 


■a 


0  uoWhjt.vou  fear,  if  iiobbw  you  liwir 
Do  driver  blow  his  lioiii  ! 

Wo  i>ray  ilo  l.iuxl  :  ho  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  wo  bo  I'lvo  ; 
Pe  uorlwiud  toll  it  to  do  piuos, 

Po  wiUl-duok  to  do  sea  ; 
Wo  tiiik  it  when  do  olmivh-boU  riug, 

Wo  droaiu  it  in  do  divani  ; 
Ho  lioo-bii-d  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
Pe  oaglo  when  ho  soivam. 

Do  yam  will  grow,  de  Ok)tton  blow, 

Wo  '11  liab  de  riee  an'  eorn  : 
0  noblx'r  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
Po  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  do  iiromise  nebber  fail, 

An'  neblx'r  lie  de  woixl  ; 
So  like  de  '[uistU's  in  do  jail, 

We  waited  for  do  l^ord  : 
An"  now  he  open  obery  door, 

An'  trow  away  do  key ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  beforo, 
^\■o  lub  him  better  free. 
Pe  yam  will  gix>w,  do  eotton  blow, 

lie  11  gib  de  riee  an'  eorn  : 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
Do  drivoi'  blow  bis  horn  ! 

John  OKi:r..NLUAi-'  wiuitikk. 


NOW  OR  NEVER. 

LlsrEX,  young  heroes !  your  eountry  is  ealling  ! 

Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  bmvo  and  the 
true  ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  lighting  and  falling. 

Fill  up  the  ranks  Uiat  have  opened  for  you  I 

You  whom  the  fathei-s  made  free  and  defendevl, 
Stain  not  the  seroU  that  emblazons  their  lame  I 

You  whoso  fair  heritage  spotless  deseended, 
Leave  not  your  ohildren  a  birthright  of  shanu'  I 

Stay   not  for   questions  while   Fivedom   stands 

gasping  ! 

Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wnipped  in  his  p.dl  I 

Brief  the  lips'  mooting  be,  swift  the  hands'  elusp- 

ing.  — 

"  Oil' for  the  wars  "  is  enough  for  them  all  I 

Break  from  the  anus  that  wouhl  fouvUy  earess  you  ! 

Hark  !  't  is  the  bugle-blast !  sabers  are  dnnvn  ! 
Motliei's  shall  prayforyou,  fathe\-s  shall  bless  you. 

Maidens  shiUl  weep  for  you  when  you  are  gime  I 

Never  or  now  I  eries  the  blood  of  a  nation 
Toured  on  the  turf  where  the  rod  rose  should 
bloon\  ; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salvation  ; 
Never  or  now  !  peals  the  trum[iet  of  doom  ! 

OLl\'l'.R  WilNOHLL  lioLMliS, 


fr.- 


»  \__>i 


er- 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


h 


FROM  "CHILDE  HAROLD." 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  tlie  patliless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  nioi'e, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  1  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  lieeu  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  — roll  I 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
JIau  marks  the  earth  with  ruiu, — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ; — ujion  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  uuknellcd,  uncoffined,  and  un- 
known. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  tliy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength 

he  wields 
For  earth's  destraction  thou  dost  all  dcsjiise. 
Spuming  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  scnd'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  liowling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  ; — there  let  him 

ky. 

Tlie  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee  and  arbiter  of  war,  — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save 

thee  ; 
Assyi-ia,    Greece,   liome,    Carthage,   what   are 

they  ? 
Thy  waters  washed   them   power  wliile    they 

were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  not  so  thou; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play, 
Time  writes  no  wriukles  on  thine  azure  brow  ; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  belield,  thou  roUcst  now. 

Thou  gloiious  mirror,   where  the  Ahuighty's 

form 
f!la,s.ses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  tiiue. 
Calm   or  convulsed, — in  breeze,   or  gale,   or 

storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  ;  boundless,    endless,   and  sub- 
lime, 
The  image  of  Eternity,  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  !  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  maile  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathoudcss, 
alone. 

And  1  have  loved  thee.  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Bonic,  like  thy  bubbles,  onw'ard  ;  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers,  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  't  was  a  pleasing  fear  ; 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  tnisted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane,  —  as  I   do 
here. 


Beautiful,  subliuic,  and  glorious  ; 

Mild,  majestic,  foaming,  free,  — 
Over  time  itself  victorious, 

Image  of  eternity  ! 


--ff 


©- 


560 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


"-Qi 


Sun  anil  moon  ami  stai's  sliine  o'er  tliee, 
See  tliy  surface  ebb  and  How, 

Yet  attomiit  not  to  exploi'o  tlieo 
In  thy  soundless  dejiths  below. 

Whether  morning's  splendors  steep  thee 
With  the  rainbow's  glowing  grace, 

Tempests  rouse,  or  navies  sweep  thee, 
'T  is  but  for  a  moment's  space. 

Earth,  — her  valleys  and  her  mountains. 

Mortal  man's  liehests  obey  ; 
The  unfathomable  fountains 

Scotf  his  search  and  scorn  his  sway. 

Such  art  thou,  stupendous  ocean  ! 

I'lUt,  if  overwhelmed  by  thee, 
Can  we  think,  without  emotion, 

What  must  thv  Creator  be  ; 


THE  OCEAN. 

I  at  Scarborough,  in  the  Slimmer  of  ifxts] 


t 


All  liail  to  the  ruins,  the  rocks,  and  the  sliores ! 

Thou  wide-rolling  Ocean,  all  hail  ! 

Kow  brilliant  with  sunbeams  and  dimpled  with 

oat's. 
Now  dark  with  the  fresh-blowing  gale, 
While  soft  o'er  thy  bosom  the  cloud-shadows  sail, 
And  the  silver-winged  sea-fowl  on  high, 
Like  meteoi's  bespangle  the  sky, 
Or  dive  in  the  gulf,  or  triumphantly  ride, 
Like  foam  on  the  surges,  tlie  swans  of  the  tide. 

From  the  tumult  and  smoke  of  the  city  set  free, 
With  eager  and  awful  delight, 
From  the  crest  of  the  mountain  I  gaze  upon  thee, 
I  gaze,  —  and  am  changed  at  the  sight  ; 
For  mine  eye  is  illumined,  my  genius  takes  flight. 
My  soul,  like  the  sun,  with  a  glance 
Embi'aces  the  boundless  expanse. 
And  moves  on  thy  watere,  wherever  they  roll, 
From  the  day-darting  zone  to  the  night-shadowed 
pole. 

My  spirit  descends  where  the  dayspring  is  born. 

Where  the  billows  are  rubies  on  fii'e, 

And  the  breezes  that  rock   the  light  cradle  of 

morn 
Are  sweet  as  the  Pha'nix's  pyre. 
0  regions  of  beauty,  of  love  and  desire  ! 
0  gardens  of  Eden  !  in  vain 
Placed  far  on  the  fathomless  main, 
WhereNature  with  Innocencedwelt  in  her  youth. 
When  pure  was  her  heart  and  unbroken  lier  truth. 


But  now  the  fair  rivers  of  rai-aiUso  w  ind 
Through  countries  and  kingiloms  o'erthrown  ; 
^\'here  the  giant  of  tyranny  crushes  mankind, 
Where  he  reigns,  — and  will  soon  reign  alone  ; 
For  wide  and  more  wide,  o'ei'  the  sun-beaming 

zone 
He  stretches  his  hundred-l'old  arms, 
Despoiling,  destroying  its  charms  ; 
r>eneath  his  broad  footstep  the  Ganges  is  dry, 
Antl  the  mountains  recoil  from  the  flash  of  his 


Thus  the  pestilent  I'pas,  the  demon  of  trees, 

Its  boughs  o'er  the  wilderness  spreads, 

.And  with  livid  contagion  iioUuting  the  breeze, 

Its  mildewing  influence  sheds  ; 

The  birds  on  the  wing,  and  the  flowers  in  their 

licds. 
Are  slain  by  its  venomous  breath. 
That  darkens  the  noonday  with  tleath, 
And  pale  ghosts  of  travelei's  wander  around, 
While    thek    moKlering   skeletons   whiten    the 

ground. 

Ah  !  why  hath  Jehovah,  in  forming  the  world, 

With  the  waters  divided  the  land, " 

His  ramparts  of  rocks  round  the  continent  hurled, 

And  cradled  the  deep  in  his  hand. 

If  man  nniy  transgress  his  eternal  comnnxnd, 

And  leap  o'er  the  bounds  of  his  birth. 

To  ravage  the  uttermost  earth. 

And  violate  nations  anil  realms  that  should  be 

Distinct  as  the  billows,  yet  one  as  the  sea  ? 

There  are,  gloomy  Ocean,  a  brotherless  clan, 

Who  travei'se  thy  banishing  waves. 

The  poor  disinherited  outcasts  of  man, 

Whom  Avarice  coins  into  slaves. 

From  the  homes  of  their  kimlred,  their  fore- 
fathers' graves, 

Love,  friendship,  and  conjugal  bliss. 

They  are  dragged  on  the  hoary  abyss  ; 

The  shark  hears  their  shrieks,  and,  ascending 
to-day. 

Demands  of  the  spoiler  his  share  of  the  prey. 

Then  joy  to  the  tenii)est  that  whelms  them  be- 
neath. 

And  makes  their  destruction  its  sport  ; 

But  woe  to  the  winds  that  propitiously  breathe, 

.■\nd  waft  them  in  safety  to  ])ort. 

Where  the  vultures  and  vamjiires  of  Manunon 
resort  ; 

Where  Europe  exultingly  drains 

The  life-blood  from  .Africa's  veins  ; 

Where  man  rules  o'er  man  with  a  merciless  lod, 

And  spurns  at  his  I'ootstool  the  inuige  of  God  ! 


^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  TEE  SEA. 


561 


a 


The  liour  is  approaching,  —  a  terrible  hour  ! 
And  Vengeance  is  bending  her  bow ; 
Already  the  clouds  of  the  hurricane  lower, 
And  the  rock-iending  whirlwinds  blow  ; 
Back  rolls  the  huge  Ocean,  hell  opens  below ; 
The  floods  return  headlong,  —  tliey  sweep 
The  slave-cultured  lands  to  the  deep. 
In  a  moment  entombed  in  the  horrible  void, 
By  their  Maker  himself  in  his  anger  destroyed. 

Shall  this  be  the  fate  of  the  cane-planted  isles, 

More  lovely  than  clouds  in  the  west. 

When  the  sun  o'er  the  ocean  descending  in  smUes, 

Sinks  softly  and  sweetly  to  rest  ? 

No !  —  Father  of  mercy  !  befriend  the  opprest ; 

At  the  voice  of  thy  gospel  of  peace 

May  the  soiTows  of  Africa  cease  ; 

And  slave  and  his  master  devoutly  imite 

To  walk  in  tliy  freedom  and  dwell  in  thy  light ! 

As  homeward  my  weaiy-winged  Fancy  extends 

Her  star-lighted  course  througli  the  skies, 

High  over  the  mighty  Athintic  ascends, 

And  tui-ns  upon  Europe  her  eyes  : 

Ah  me  !  what  new  jn'ospects,  new  liorrors,  arise  ! 

I  see  the  war-tempested  flood 

All  foaming,  and  panting  with  blood  ; 

The  panic-struck  Ocean  in  agony  roars, 

Rebounds  from  the  battle,  and  flies  to  his  shores. 

For  Britannia  is  wielding  the  trident  to-day, 

Consuming  her  foes  in  her  ire. 

And  Imrling  her  tliunder  with  absolute  sway 

From  her  wave-ruling  chariots  of  the. 

She  triumphs  ;  the  winds  and  the  waters  conspire 

To  spread  her  invincible  name  ; 

The  universe  rings  with  her  fame  ; 

But  the  cries  of  the  fatherless  mix  with   Iier 

praise, 
And  the  tears  of  the  widow  are  shed  on  her  l)ays. 

0  Britain,  dear  Britain  !  the  land  of  my  birtli  ; 
O  Isle  most  enchantingly  fair  ! 
Thou  Pearl  of  the  Ocean  !  thou  Gem  of  the  Earth  ! 
0  my  Mother,  my  Mother,  beware. 
For  wealth  is  a  phantom,  and  empire  a  snare ! 
0,  let  not  thy  birthright  be  sold 
For  reprobate  glory  and  gold  ! 
Thy  distant  dominions  like  wild  graftings  shoot. 
They  weigh  down  thy  trunk,  they  will  tear  up 
thy  root,  — 

The  root  of  thine  oak,  0  my  countrj* !  that  stands 

Rock-planted  and  flourishing  free  ; 

Its  branches  are  stretched  o'ertheuttermost  lands. 

And  its  shadow  eclipses  the  sea. 

The  blood  of  our  ancestors  nourished  the  tree  ; 


From  their  tombs,  from  their  ashes,  it  sprung  ; 
Its  boughs  with  their  trophies  are  hung  ; 
Their  spirit  dwells  in  it,  and — hark!  foritsiwke, 
The  voice  of  our  fathers  ascends  from  their  oak  ; 

"Ye  Britons,  who  dwell  where  we  conquered  of 

old, 
Who  inherit  our  battle-field  graves  ; 
Though  poor  were  your  fathere,  —  gigantic  and 

bold. 
We  were  not,  we  could  not  be,  slaves  ; 
But  finn  as  our  rocks,  and  as  free  as  our  waves, 
The  spears  of  the  Romans  we  broke, 
We  never  stooped  under  their  yoke. 
In  tlie  shipwreck  of  nations  we  stood  up  alone,  — 
The  world  was  great  Caisar's,   but   Britain  our 

own." 

James  Montgomery 


U-- 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright. 

Where,  miles  away. 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light. 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  blufis  and  wastes  of  sandy 
gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  sea  ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free. 
With  varj'ing  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles 
around. 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 

Our  seaward  way, 
Through    dark-green  fields   and    blossoming 

grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane. 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust 
Sjiray. 

Ila  !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  an<l  feverish  glow. 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life,  —  the  healing  of  the 
seas ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 
In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  wi<eds  with 
cool  spray  wet. 


^^ 


& 


562 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


■a 


e- 


t^nl  by  t«  jwh\  »uil  iww  !     1  take 

Miup  east!  t»>-iiay  ; 
Hert\  wluMV  tlio  sunny  waters  ln\>iik, 
Auil  rii>i>U\s  this  kivn  l>\V(>i<\  I  sliako 
AU  l>m\l<'ns  llvui  tin-  lu-siii,  all  wi-iuy  tliouj;lils 
away. 

1  vlraw  a  fhi*i-  brxiatli  —  1  s«ni> 

Liko  all  1  st><'  — 
Wavt-s  in  tl\o  sun  -    tUc  whitt'-wiujj^vl  j»l<xm\ 
Of  sva-biixls  in  tin-  slanting  Wani  — 
A«>1  ra\--i>ll'  ssiils  which  Hit  KiUnv  tho  south-w  intl 

So  whon  'Huxo's  vvil  shall  tall  asumlor, 
Tho  s\>ul  may  know 
No  fearlul  chauj;^,  nor  suU>it>n  womU'i', 
Ji  or  sink  tht>  woij;ht  of  mystovy  umlov. 
But  with  tht>  ui>w»i\l  riso,  lUid  wilh  tho  vastnoss 
givw. 

Ami  all  wo  shrink  flvni  viow  n>ay  swut 
No  i\i>w  ivvcalinj;,  — 
Familiar  as  onr  oliiUUiooirs  stixNtm, 
(■•r  \iloas<vnt  momorv  of  «  ih\>am, 
Thi>  lovovl  anvl  olu'rishinl  Vast  uiwn  the  new  life 
sttvalinj;. 

Seivue  anil  niihl,  the  untriiil  lij;lit 

May  have  its  ilawiiinj; ; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  nij;ht 
The  evening  anvi  the  dawn  unite, 
The  snnset  hiu>s  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul's 
new  nu>rning, 

1  sit  alone  ;  in  fiwni  auil  simiy 

Wave  after  wave 
Breiiks  on  the  roeks  whieh,  stern  ami  gray. 
Shoulder  the  bmken  tide  away, 
Or  murn\m's  luvti-se  and  st\\>ng  thivugh  mossy 
cleft  and  cave. 

What  htH-tl  1  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ' 
1  see  the  mighty  tleep  e.\l>and 
Fivm  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  wher«>  the  blue  of  li«»veu  ou  bluer  waves 
shuts  down  I 

In  listless  nuietude  of  mind, 

1  yield  to  all 
Tlu>  ehangi-  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind  ; 
And  |wssive  on  the  Hood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  wa\'<'s,  and  with  them  rise 
and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  divamer  !  —  wave  and  slioiv 
In  shadow  lie ; 


The  ni^ht-wiml  warns  m«  l>«ok  ouo»  mow 
To  wheiv,  my  native  hill-toivs  o'er, 
l<euds  like  an  aivh  of  fu\'  the  gl,>\ving  sunaet 
*ky  ! 

So  then,  Iwach,  blnll',  and  wave,  fai-i'wcll  ! 

1  Kiar  with  n\e 
No  token  stone  nor  glittering  .■>hell, 
Uut  long  and  oft  shall  M.'UUMv  tell 
iM"  this  l>rief  thouj;htl\il  hovir  v>f  musing  by  the 
sea. 

lOnN  \;KltKMKAF  WHITTIHK. 


t")KR.\'r  Oc<>au  !  strongi'st  of  eiwvtioti's  sons, 

Unconijuerjible,  nu\x<]>iv!tHl,  nntiivd. 

That  ivlle\l  the  wild,  )>i\ifound,  eternal  Ivtss 

In  uatuiv's  antl\et\i,  and  made  nnisic  such 

.\s  iilw\sed  the  «ir  of  t!od  !  original, 

rnmariiHl,  unfadtnl  work  of  Ueity  ! 

A\>d  uuburlesiiutHl  by  mortal's  unuy  skill; 

W>m  agt>  to  age  enduring,  and  nnchai\ge<l, 

Miyestical,  inimitable,  vast, 

l.oud  \itteriug  satiiv,  day  and  night,  on  each 

Succeeding  i-.u-e,  and  little  i>onnu>us  work 

llf  n>nn  ;  \mfallen,  ivligious,  holy  sea  ! 

Thou  K«vedst  thy  glorious  head  to  none,  fi'aretlst 

none, 
HwHvlst  none,  to  i\one  didst  honor,  but  to  (!od 
Thy  Maker,  only  worthy  to  iveeive 
Thy  great  olnnstuu-e. 


r>Kttoi.i>  the  Sea, 
The  oiwline,  the  iilentif\il  and  strong. 
Yet  K»autifl\l  as  is  the  ivse  in  ,lui\e, 
Fiwh  as  the  trickling  raii\bow  of  ,luly  : 
Sea  t\>ll  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
l>irger  of  earth,  and  medicine  of  men  ; 
l^witing  a  sweet  climate  by  niy  iM-eath, 
Washing  out  harms  ami  griefs  IVom  memory, 
And,  in  n\y  matheniatic  ebb  and  How, 
(iiving  a  hint  of  that  whieh  changt'S  not, 
Ivich  are  the  sen-gods  ;  —  whogive-sgiftsbnt  theyl 
They  grv>i>e  the  soft  for  (wavls,  but  more  than  pwirls : 
They  plnek  Fon-e  thence,  and  giv<[  it  to  the  wise. 
For  every  wave  is  wealth  to  Oanlalus, 
Wealth  to  the  cui\i\itig  artist  who  can  work 
This  matchless  stivnglh.     Whciv  shall  he  lind, 

O  waves  ! 
A  lo!ul  your  .-\th\s  shoulders  cannot  lift  ( 
1  witli  my  hammer  (wundiug  evermore 
The  rocky  ciwst,  smite  Andes  into  dust. 
Strewing  my  Kxl,  and,  in  another  «g», 
KobniUi  a  continent  of  hotter  mou. 


4 


[fl- 


POEMH  OF  THE  HKA. 


5C3  "-^ 


Tlien  I  un>iar  Ux:  'loorx  ;  i/iy  jatiu)  )';a/J  out 

'ITie  exwiij*  of  riationo  ;   I  limii'trif. 

Men  t>i  all  «l)or<«  tliat  front  tlie  h'ary  main. 

KAfXl  V/AL.M/  hUl'.iatJH. 


DOVKIi  BBAOH, 

'I'llK  !c?a  ui  ';alm  to-ni«l/t, 

'I'li'j  ti'l'i  i«  fiill,  tliC  mw^n  li<s»  fair 

L' jwn tl«) Straitx ;  —  on  tlie  Fniii'-.U  lytwt,  tlic Ii({ht 

(iUatum  and  i*  gone  ;  the  elilfu  of  Knglan-I  rAAu<\, 

<i\\muii;rUm  null  va«t,  out  in  tlin  tian-jiiil  t/ay. 

','o/ni;  Ui  thu  window  ;  nwiivt  ix  tli<;  night  air  ! 

f)nly,  from  th<j  long  line  of  ttjiray 

Wh';r<;  the  ebh  rneetx  the  (nwnljlanche'l  fsand, 

\akUm  !  you  h<;ar  tJie  grating  roar 

f)f  j;ehhl(«)  which  the  wave*  nu'.k  l«<:k,  ami  fling, 

At  their  return,  op  tlje  high  >itran<l. 

Kegin  and  ccaoc,  and  then  again  Urgin, 

With  tremulou))  ea/Ien';/;  ojow,  and  hring 

'I'he  etenial  not<;  of  mulmtmi  in. 

MAttHliW     AUNOI.ri 


HEA-MT7EMTJE«. 
TiiKKK  'h  a  tone  in  the  de/jp 
Like  the  niunnuring  hreatli  of  a  lion  a«lwp. 

OUTWAKD  BOTTND. 
fJ-MT.  more  ujKjn  the  wninn '.  yet  once  more  ! 
And  the  waveit  lx<und  ixiw'siith  m/;  a»  a  stee/I 
'I'hat  known  hi/s  Hder.    Weliyjme  Vi  their  r';ar  I 
Swift  l)e  their  gijidan'*,  whereioe'er  it  lca/1 ! 
Though  thentrainclmaxtHhould'iuiverajsareed, 
And  the  r^mt  canvax,  fluttiiring,  (strew  the  gale, 
Ktill  miuit  I  <m  ;  for  I  am  a«  a  weifl, 
Flung  from  the  ro<;k,  on  ocean's  foam  to  Bail 
Where'er  the  (surge  may  fswe^jp,  the  teini>e(st'») 
breath  prevail. 


y-«- 


T ilK  niglit  ijs  ma<le  for  wxJing  (sha<le. 

For  (sihaic*;,  and  for  (slefip  ; 
And  whsm  I  wsb  a  chihl,  I  laid 
My  han'iis  ujon  my  br'sust,  and  prayed, 

And  (sank  to  (slumljens  de<;p  : 
Childlike  an  then  J  lie  t//-night. 
And  watch  my  lonely  cabin-light. 

Ea<;h  movement  of  the  iswaying  lamp 

Showti  how  the  vi.isisel  reehs : 
A»  o'ct  her  dcik  the  hillow(s  tramp, 
And  all  her  tirnl»cr(s  (strain  ami  cramp 

With  every  (shock  (she  feeU, 
It  (startis  and  (shuddens,  while  it  bunus. 
And  in  it(s  hingW  (socket  tum(s. 


Sow  ((Winging  »l<w  and  »Uuting  low, 

It  alm'«t  level  li<«  ; 
And  yet  I  know,  while  t/j  a(»d  fro 
I  wafih  the  iK^;ining  (xjndiile  go 

With  r<fl)tlews  fall  and  riw-,, 
The  nUsniiy  (shaft  ijs  (still  upright, 
l'oi»ing  it's  little  glol*<!  of  light, 

0  hand  of  (i<A  !     0  lan(p  of  ixai«<; ! 
O  \itiim'w.  of  my  is<>ul  : 

Though  w<aik,  and  Umiifji,  mid  ill  at  <:»»:, 
Amid  the  r</ar  of  isndting  (i<«oi. 

The  ohip'(S  wnvul/sive  roll, 
J  own  with  love  and  t/:n"lcr  awe 
yon  jciife'.-t  tyi*  of  faith  and  hiw. 

A  heav.  :.  ;.irit  calnw, 

Jly  •,'.  li;^l(t  : 

TheO":j  .^  \'\uu  ^nmhiin, 

The  W'lld  wiieU  eiiaiil  :  I  i-.tum  n(y  J»alm», 

Hapjjy  a»  if  t'>-night 
Un'Jer  the  cottage  r'xjf  again 

1  heard  the  «o<Ahing  (summer  rain, 

;o(IH  ToWWbKKD  TtoWJJ(iIL*GK, 


THK  LAUNCH. 

FkOM  "THK  Isi;iL(>I»0  OC  THE  »HIF." 

Aw,  ix  finiJihe'l !  and  at  length 

Hajs  (^/me  the  bridal  'Jay 

Of  Ijeaiity  and  of  (strength. 

To,<lay  tiie  vei>>i';l  »liaU  U;  launche<l  ! 

With  (tc^y  clou'bs  the  (sky  id  blanched 

And  o'er  the  Uiy, 

Slowly,  in  all  hiis  xplendons  diglit 

Tlie  gr<at  (sut(  riaeis  to  )x;hold  the  sight. 

Tlie  fx^ain  old, 

f>;nturie((  old. 

Strong  aii  youth,  and  as  un'y>n trolled. 

Pa-:**  re«tlei«s  t/.  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  (saichs  of  gold. 

Hi*  Ix^jting  h'^rt  i»  not  at  re(st ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  i^swd'^is  flow, 

Hi»  Ixard  of  (snow 

Heave(s  with  the  heaving  of  hits  brea«t. 

He  wait*  irni»atient  for  hijs  bride. 

Tliere  (she  »itan<hs, 

Witl(  her  f'Xrt  ujion  the  (sandji, 

iJeckcl  with  flagis  and  (strc-amert)  gay 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  (snow-white  (signalis  fluttering,  blending, 

li/jund  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Iiea<ly  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  (sea. 

H.  w.  ly^K'-.v 


-^ 


a- 


564 


POEMS  OF  THE  iiEA. 


-a 


ADDKKSS  TO  THK  OCKAN, 


0  THOl'  vast  Ooean  !  evpr-souiiiUng  Sea  ! 
Tln>>»  s_vmK>l  of  a  lUvai'  immouiiitY  ! 

Tliou  Uiiiig  that  wimlfst  ivuud  the  »>Uil  wovUl 
Like  a  hiij;o  animal,  whioh,  downwaivl  huvlevl 
tVui  the  bliU'k  elouils,  litw  weUeiiiij;  ami  alone, 
l„Hsliii>j;  ami  writhing  till  its  stivngth  If  gvine  ! 
'lliy  vovee  is  like  the  tluuulev,  luul  thy  sloeji 
Is  as  a  giant's  slaniK'v,  hmvl  a>nl  ilicii. 
Tlion  sjn^akest  in  the  twst  ami  in  the  wt'st 
Ai  oncf.  anU  on  tliy  heavily  laden  hi\>i»st 
Fleets  eonie  and  go,  ami  shajws  that  have  no  life 
Ov  (notion,  yet  aiv  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 
The  earth  has  nanght  of  this  ;  no  ehanee  or  ehang»> 
Untiles  its  surfaee,  and  no  spirits  daiv 
llive  answer  to  the  tem)>«st-\vakenevl  air  ; 
Uut  o"er  its  wastes  the  w«»kly  tenants  >--.uig»> 
At  will,  and  woun\l  its  Ihvsoi\>  as  they  g^> ; 
Kver  the  sjuue,  it  hath  no  el>l>,  no  How  ; 
r>nt  in  their  stated  ivuuds  the  seasons  eomo. 
And  jviss  like  visiotis  to  their  wonted  home  ; 
Ami  eoine  agsiin,  and  vanisli ;  the  young  Spring 
Looks  ever  hriglit  with  leaves  and  Mossoming  ; 
And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn, 
When  the  wild  Antnu\n,  with  a  look  forlorn. 
Pies  in  his  stormy  msitihood  ;  and  the  skies 
\V(H>i>,  and  (lowers  sieken,  when  the  snmn\er  llies. 
0,  wonderful  thou  art,  givat  element. 
And  fearful  in  thy  spletmy  humors  l>ent. 
And  lovely  in  ivjivse  !  thy  snmnwn-  form 
Is  iH'auiiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make  ntusie  in  earth's  dark  and  winding  eavi>s, 

1  love  to  wander  on  thy  ix'hWed  heaeh. 
Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour. 
And  heiirken  to  the  thoughts  thy  watei-s  teaeh,  — 
Kteruitv  —  Kternitv  -  and  Vower. 


^- 


ON  THK  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  OSOROS. 

WKirVKN  WHHN   VHP  SBWS  AKKU'He;  »7^ 

Toi  L  for  the  brave,  — 

The  hravo  that  aiv  no  more  ! 

All  sunk  Knieath  the  wave. 
Fast  l>y  tlioir  native  slioiv. 

V^iglit  hundred  of  the  hrave. 
Whose  eourago  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  lu-el. 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-hreeze  shook  tlie  sliivnds, 

.\nd  she  was  overset  ; 
Pown  went  the  Koyal  Heorg»<, 

With  all  hor  er-ew  complete. 


Toll  for  the  Ixrave  ! 

Brave  Kemjienfelt  is  gon#  ; 
Hi«  last  sea-li^ht  is  fought. 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  little  ; 

No  tennwst  gave  the  slnwk  ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 

She  ran  upon  no  reek. 

His  swo>\l  was  iu  its  sheath. 

His  lingei-s  hi>ld  the  pen. 
When  Kempenl'elt  went  ilowu 

With  twice  fonr  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  ni>, 

thiee  dr<«ded  l>y  our  foes  ! 

.-\nd  mingle  with  our  eup 
The  tear  that  Knglaud  owes. 

Her  timK>rs  yet  are  .sonvul. 

And  she  may  tliwt  agjiin. 
Full  ehargnl  with  Kiigland's  thunder, 

And  plow  the  distant  main. 

15nt  Kempenl'elt  is  gvme  ; 

His  vietories  are  o'er  ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hnnvlred 

Shall  (Jow  the  wave  no  i\iore. 


THK  SlIIirWT5K0K. 

Ix  vain  the  eoi\ls  and  axes  were  prei>ared. 
For  now  the  amlaeious  swis  insnlt  tln>  yaixl ; 
High  o'er  the  ship  they  threw  a  horrid  shade, 
.\nd  o'er  her  Inu-st  in  terrible  ea.seade. 
Uplifte*!  on  the  surg»\  to  heaven  slie  Hies, 
Her  -•diatteuHl  top  half  buried  in  the  skiiv-i. 
Then  headlong  plunging  thuudei-soi\  thegreimd  ; 
Karth  giwins !  air  trembles !  and  tlu<  deejvs  re- 
sound I 
Her  giant-bnlk  the  dr«ul  eoneussion  fet^ls, 
.\nd  ((uivering  with  the  wound  in  torment  reels. 
So  iwls,  eonvulseil  with  agonizing  threes. 
The  bletxling  bull  Kuieath  the  n>ui\leivr's  blows. 
Ag!Un  slie  plungx's  !  hark  !  a  second  sluu-k 
Tears  her  streng  Kittom  on  the  inarWe  reck  : 
Pown  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries. 
The  fatwl  victims,  shuddering,  rell  their  eyes 
In  wild  desjwir  ;  while  yet  another  streke. 
With  deep  convnlsion,  rends  the  solid  oak  ; 
'IHll  like  the  n>ine,  in  wluise  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  denwns  of  d(^struction  dwell, 
.\t  length  asunder  torn  her  fi'sune  divides. 
And,  crasliing,  spiwids  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 

0,  were  it  mine  with  tuneful  Mare's  art 
To  wake  to  symi«thy  the  feeling  heart ; 


^ 


[& 


POEMU  OF  THE  HE  A. 


1^:^ 


e- 


Like  him  the  smooth  and  mouroful  verse  to  <lr««> 

In  all  t)ie  jxjwp  of  erquuiite  <li»tr«»», 

'rh*n  too  wveiely  taught  by  '.-ruel  fate, 

To  share  in  all  the  jjerU*  I  relate, 

Then  migtit  1,  with  uurivale'l  strains  deplore 

The  injjxjrvious  horroi*  of  a  leeward  «h<^re  1 

Aa  o'er  the  surge  the  stoopinjj  uminniaiit  hung, 
Still  on  the  rigf^g  thirty  hkhuimi  elung  ; 
Some,  struggling,  on  a  broken  erag  were  ca*t, 
And  tliere  by  oozy  tangles  grapple'l  last. 
Awhile  they  F^^re  the  o'erwhelrning  billows'  rage, 
UiKj'jual  I'jtiii^M  with  their  fate  t/>  wage ; 
Till,  all  l*enunib<!'l  and  fe«Ue,  they  forego 
Tlieir  »lipix.-ry  hold,  and  sink  Xi>  slxa/Jes  Ijelow, 
(iouie,  ffouj  the  niain-yard-arrn  injjjetuous  thrown 
On  inarble  li'lges,  di<;  without  a  S(r'/im. 
Three  with  I'alernon  ou  their  skill  <lepend, 
And  from  the  »Te<;k  on  oars  and  rafts  de»e«nd. 
Now  on  tlie  mountain  wave  on  high  they  ri<le, 
Then  downward  plunge  ljen<aith  the  involving 

tide, 
Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  U>  strive. 
The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive  ; 
The  rest  a  si>eo<lier  end  of  anguish  knew. 
And  pre»8':d  the  stony  beach,  a  lifeless  crew  '. 

WJU.IAM  FAUyjttESL 


WRECK  OF  THE  "GEACE  OF  SUJ.DEELAKT>." 

"Hk  's  a  rare  man. 
Our  lamm  ;  half  a  head  above  us  all." 

"That 's  a  great  gift,  and  notable,"  said  I. 

"  Ay,  sir  ;  and  when  he  was  a  younger  man 
He  went  out  in  tlu;  life-boat  very  oft. 
Before  tlie  '  Gra/;e  of  Sunderland '  was  wre<;kiedL 
He 's  never  l*en  his  own  roan  Bin';e  tjjat  hour  ; 
For  there  were  thirty  men  alx«rd  of  her, 
Anigh  a*  close  as  you  are  now  to  me, 
And  ne'er  a  one  was  saved. 

They  're  lying  now, 
With  two  small  children,  in  a  row  :  the  church 
And  yard  are  full  of  seamen's  graves,  and  few 
Have  any  names. 

"She  Vjumi>e'l  upon  the  p^f; 
Our  i«ir»<^n,  my  young  son,  and  several  more 
Were  lashed  t'^ether  with  a  two-inch  miih, 
And  crept  along  to  her  ;  their  mates  ashore 
Kta/ly  Ui  liaul  them  in.     The  gale  was  high. 
The  sea  was  all  a  UAlui^  tnn^hing  froth, 

/'Anil  G<yi  Almigbt/s  guns  wer*  going  ofli  V  I 

^And  the  land  trembled, 

"  When  she  to<jk  the  ground, 
She  went  to  pieces  like  a  lock  of  hay 
To«s©d  from  a  pitchfork.     Ere  it  came  to  that. 


Til*  ';ajrtain  re«le<l  on  deck  with  two  suiail  things. 
One  in  each  arm,  —  bis  little  la/i  and  lass. 
Thfcir  hair  was  long  and  blew  before  his  law. 
Or  else  we  thought  he  ha<l  Wn  saved  ;  he  Jell, 
liut  li*ld  them  £a*t.     'I'he  crew,  j^x/r  luckless 

souls '. 
'I'he   breakers  licked  them  off;  and  some   were 

crusliu'l, 
iyjtat:  swallowed  in  the  yeast,  soiu«  flung  up  dead. 
The  dear  breath  beaten  out  of  th-xi  •  not  one 
Jumi>e'l  lioui  the  wjc.k  '.:         ' 
Tlie  han'ls  that  strain'?'!  t/j 
With  eyes  wide  ojxm,     1'/ 

Ajid  clung  —  theoniy  man  i,,.!;.    X;i';>  pianj.!  -- 
'  for  God's  sake,   caj/tain,  thiow  the  chihireu 
i         here ! ' 
'Throw  them  '. '  our  i/nnun  criwl ;  and  then  she 

struck  : 
And  he  threw  one,  a  pretty  two  years'  child. 
But  t!ie  gale  dashci  him  on  the  slipi;<:ry  vergi-, 
And  down  he  went,     Th«y  say  they  heard  liim 

cry. 

"Then  he  rose  up  and  Uyjic  tJie  '/ther  one, 
And  all  our  uien  reachfed  out  their  hungry  arm«, 
And  crieil  out,  '  Throw  her,  throw  her  : '  and  he 

dii 
He  threw  her  right  against  the  {/artmn's  l^rwust. 
And  all  at  on'>;  a  sea  broke  over  tb<-ni, 
.And  they  '•  ...         _^.  j 

It  strjck  ■  '■!  it, 

-Just  as  a  V. 

That  'twiit  iu.j  i^ik'hi  iuUj  the  kijmiuiii^iAU 
She  breaks  and  crumbles  on  her  rising  bread, 

"  We  hauled  our  men  in  :  two  of  tfa«m  were 

dead  — 
The  sea  had   beaten   them,  their  heads  hung 

down  ; 
Our  J«rson'^:  zrrri".  ■wrrr-  prr.pt-,-.  for  *v  r.  wave 
Ha/1  torn  ;;■. 
We  often  ■ 
But   t  wa«  :. 

THE  BEA  FIGHT. 

Ab  70U>  fcy  A!i  A^C:^:^■T  KAAJ.'VEK. 

Ah,  yes,  —  the  fight !     Well,  messoiatfes,  well, 
I  served  on  V/ard  that  N'inety-<;ight ; 

■ifet  what  I  saw  I  loathe  to  telL 
To-night  be  sure  a  crushing  weight 

Ujwn  my  sleeping  breast,  a  hell 
Of  dread,  will  sit.     At  any  rate, 

Tliough  laud -locked  here,  a  watch  I  '11  keep, — 

Grog  cheers  us  stilL     Who  cares  for  sleep  ? 


That  Ninety-tight  I  sajlcl  on  board  ; 
Along  the  Frenchman's  coast  we  flew ; 


f 


566 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


-^ 


43- 


Eight  aft  the  rising  tempest  roared  ; 

A  noble  first-rate  liuve  in  view ; 
And  soon  high  in  the  gule  there  soared 

Her  streamed-out  bunting,  — red,  white,  blue 
We  cleared  for  fight,  and  landward  bore, 
To  got  between  the  chase  and  shore. 

Masters,  I  cannot  spin  a  yarn 

Twice  laid  with  words  of  silken  stuff. 

A  fact 's  a  fact  ;  and  ye  may  larn 

The  rights  o'  this,  though  wild  and  rough 

My  words  may  loom.     'T  is  your  consarn. 
Not  mine,  to  understand.     Enough  ;  — 

We  neared  the  Frenchman  where  he  lay, 

And  as  we  neared,  he  blazed  away. 

We  tacked,  hove  to  ;  we  filled,  we  wore  ; 

Did  all  that  seamanship  could  do 
To  rake  him  aft,  or  by  the  fore,  — 

Now  rounded  off,  and  now  broached  to  ; 
And  now  our  starboard  broads»;,e  bore, 

And  showers  of  iron  thro'.^'di  and  through 
His  vast  huU  hissed  ;  our  larboard  then 
Swept  from  his  threefold  decks  his  men. 

As  we,  like  a  huge  serpent,  toiled. 

And  wound  about,  through  that  wild  sea, 

The  Frenchman  each  maneuver  foiled,  — 
'Vantage  to  neither  there  could  be. 

Whilst  thus  the  waves  between  us  boiled. 
We  both  resolved  right  manfully 

To  fight  it  side  by  side  ;  —  began 

Then  the  fierce  strife  of  man  to  man. 

Gun  bellows  forth  to  gun,  and  pain 
Rings  out  her  wild,  delirious  scream  ! 

Redoubling  thunders  shake  the  main  ; 
Loud  crashing,  falls  the  shot-rent  beam. 

The  timbers  with  the  broadsides  strain; 
The  slippery  decks  send  up  a  steam 

From  hot  and  living  blood,  and  high 

And  shrill  is  heard  the  death-pang  cry. 

The  shredded  limb,  the  splintered  bone. 
The  unstitfened  corpse,  now  block  the  way ! 

Who  now  can  hear  the  dying  groan  ? 
The  trumpet  of  the  judgment-day. 

Had  it  pealed  forth  its  mighty  tone. 

We  should  not  then  have  heard,  —  to  say 

AVouId  be  rank  sin  ;  but  this  1  teU, 

That  could  alone  our  madness  quell. 

Upon  the  forecastle  I  fought 

As  captain  of  the  for'ad  gun. 
A  scattering  shot  the  carriage  caught ! 

What  mother  then  had  known  her  son 
Of  those  who  stood  around  ?  —  distraught, 

And  smeared  with  gore,  about  thcv  run, 


Then  fall,  and  wi'ithe,  and  howling  die  ! 
But  one  escaped,  —  that  one  was  1  ! 

Night  darkened  round,  and  the  storm  pealed  ; 

To  windward  of  us  lay  the  foe. 
As  he  to  leeward  over  keeled. 

He  could  not  fight  his  guns  below  ; 
So  just  was  going  to  strike,  —  when  reeled 

Our  vessel,  as  if  some  vast  blow 
From  an  Almighty  hand  had  rent 
The  huge  ship  from  her  element. 

Then  howled  the  thunder.     Tumult  then 
Had  stunned  herself  to  sUence.     Round 

Were  scattered  lightning-blasted  men  ! 

Our  mainmast  went.     All  stifled,  drowned. 

Arose  the  Frenchman's  shout.     Again 
The  bolt  burst  on  us,  and  we  found 

Our  masts  all  gone,  — our  decks  all  riven  : 

Man's  war  mocks  faintly  that  of  heaven  ! 

.Just  then,  —  nay,  messmates,  laugh  not  now, 

As  I,  amazed,  one  minute  stood 
Amidst  that  rout,  —  I  know  not  how,  — 

'T  was  silence  all,  —  the  raving  Hood, 
The  guns  that  pealed  from  stem  to  bow, 

And  God's  owii  thunder,  —  nothing  could 
1  tlieu  of  all  that  tumult  hear. 
Or  see  aught  of  that  scene  of  fear,  — 

My  aged  mother  at  her  door 

Sat  mildly  o'er  her  humming  wheel  ; 

The  cottage,  orchard,  ami  the  moor,  — 
I  saw  them  plainly  all.     1  '11  kneel, 

And  swear  1  saw  them  !     0,  they  wore 
A  look  all  peace  !     Could  1  but  feel 

Again  that  bliss  that  then  I  felt. 

That  made  my  heart,  like  childhood's,  melt  ! 

The  blessM  tear  was  on  my  cheek. 

She  smiled  with  that  old  smUe  I  know  : 

"Turn  to  me,  mother,  turn  and  speak," 
Was  on  my  quivering  lips,  —  when  lo  ! 

All  vanished,  and  a  dark,  red  streak 
Glared  wild  and  vivid  from  the  foe, 

That  flashed  upon  the  blood-stained  water,  — 

For  fore  and  aft  the  flames  had  caught  her. 

She  struck  and  hailed  us.     On  us  fast 
All  burning;  helplessly,  she  came,  — 

Near,  and  more  near  ;  and  not  a  mast 
Had  we  to  help  us  from  that  flame. 

'T  was  then  the  bravest  stood  aghast,  — 
'T  was  then  the  wicked  on  the  name 

(With  danger  and  with  guilt  appalled) 

Of  God,  too  long  neglected,  called. 

The  eddying  flames  with  ravening  tongue 
Now  on  our  ship's  dark  Imlwarks  dash,  ■ 


-^ 


i 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


56'; 


-a 


We  almost  touched,  — when  ocean  rung 
Down  to  its  depths  with  one  loud  crash  ! 

In  heaven's  top  vault  one  instant  hung 
The  vast,  intense,  and  blinding  ilasU ! 

Then  all  was  darkness,  stillness,  dread,  — 

The  wave  moaned  o'er  the  valiant  dead. 

She  's  gone  !  blown  up  !  that  gallant  foe  ! 

And  though  she  left  us  in  a  plight, 
We  floated  still  ;  long  were,  I  know, 

And  hard,  the  labors  of  that  night 
To  clear  the  wreck.     At  length  in  tow 

A  frigate  took  us,  when  't  was  light ; 
And  soon  an  English  port  we  gained,  — 
A  hulk  all  battered  and  blood-stained. 

So  many  slain,  — so  many  drowned  ! 

1  like  not  of  that  light  to  tfU. 
Come,  let  the  cheerful  grog  go  round  ! 

JIussmates,  1  've  done.     A  spell,  ho  !  .spell,  — 
Though  a  pressed  man,  1  '11  still  be  found 

To  do  a  seaman's  duty  well. 
I  wish  our  brother  landsmen  knew 
One  half  we  jolly  tars  go  through. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  MARINER'S  DREAM. 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-hoy  lay ; 

His  liammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the 
wind  ; 
I'ut  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away. 

And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dreamt  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  bowers, 
And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's  merry  mom ; 

While  memory  stood  sideways,  half  covered  with 
flowers. 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise  ; 

Now  far,  far  beliind  him  the  green  waters  glide, 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flowers  o'er  the  thatch, 
And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her  nest  in 
the  wall  ; 

All  trembling  with  transport  he  raises  the  latch. 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  rejily  to  his  call. 

.V  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight ; 
His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a  mother's  warm 
tear  ; 
And  the  lips  of  the  hoy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 
Witli  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom 
':  bU  dear. 


u 


I  The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast ; 
I      Joy  quickens  his  pulse,  all  his  hardships  seem 

o'er  ; 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his 
rest,  — 
"0  God!  thou  hast  blest  me,  —  I  a.sk  for  no 
more." 

Ah  !  whence  is  that  flame  which  now  liursts  on 
his  eye  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  that  sound  which   now  larums 
his  ear  ? 
'T  is  tlie  lightning's  red  glare,  iiainting  hell  on 
the  sky ! 
'T  is  the  crash  of  the  thunder,  the  groan  of  the 
sphere  ! 

He  springs  from  his  hammock,  he  flies  to  the 
deck  ; 
Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire  ; 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  tlie  vessel  a 
wreck  ; 
The  masts  fly  in  splinters  ;  the  shrouds  are  on 
fire. 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously  swidl  ; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  mercy  to  save ; 
Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell. 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wing 
o'er  the  wave  ! 

0  sailor-boy,  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight ! 
In  darkness  dissolves   the   gay  frost-work  of 
bliss. 
Where  now  is   the   picture  that  fancy  touched 
bright,  — 
Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honeyed 
kiss  ? 

0  sailor-boy  !  sailor-boy  I  never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes  roiray ; 

Unblessed   and   unhonored,   down   deep   iu   the 
main, 
Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  ilccay. 

No   tomb   shall  e'er  plead  to   remembrance  for 
thee. 
Or  redeem  form  or  fame  from   the  merciless 
surge ; 
But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding- 
sheet  be,  , 
And  winds  in   the   midnight   of  winter  thy 
dirge  ! 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs  shall  be 

laid,  — 
Around    tliy  white   hones   the    red    coral    shall 

gi-ow  ; 


-& 


e-:- 


5G8 


roKMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


■a 


Of  thy  fair  yoUow  locks  tliroivils  of  amlior  bo 
miulo, 
Ami  I'vory  part  suit  to  tliy  iiiiiimiiui  l>olcuv. 

Diiys,  uiontlis,  yours,  and  njjos  slmll  circlo  rtwny, 
And  still  tlio  VMstwntors  iiliovo  tlioo  slmll  roll; 

Earlli  liisivs  lliy  jiaUoni  Ibrovor  ami  uye,  — 
O  siiilur-liciy  !  sailor-lioy  !  [loaco  to  tliy  soul  I 


HERVf;  RIEL. 

On  \\w  sen  ami  at  tlio   lloguo,  sixlocii  liundrod 

niui'ly-lwo, 
Did   tlir    Ku-lisli   (ij,dil    Uic   Krciirli,    -    woo  to 

Krauoo  ! 
Ami,  tlui  lliirly -lirstof  May,  liultor-slvollortlirougli 

llio  l)luo. 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightoued  porpoises  a  shoal  of 

sharks  pursue, 
Camu  crovvdiuj;  ship  on  ship  to  St..   Malo  on 

I  ho  Kanoo, 
Willi  Uio  Knglisli  Hoot  in  view. 

"I'was  tho  s(iuadron  that  escaped,  with  the  vic- 
tor in   full  chase, 
First  and  foremost  of  tho  drove,  in  his  great 
ship,  |)aud'revillo  ; 
Close  on  him  lied,  great  and  small. 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 
And  they  signaled  to  tho  plnco, 
"  Help  tlie  winiu'rs  of  a  race  ! 
Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harhor,  take  us  quick, 

—  or,  i|uieker  still, 
Hero's  tlie  Kngllsh  can  and  will  !  " 

Tlien  llie  pilols  of  the  place  put   out  brisk  and 
l.aped  MX  lioard. 
"\Vliy,  what  liO])e  or  chance  have  shijis  like 
these  to  imss!"  lauglicd  tlicy  ; 
"Hocks  to  starboard,  ro.'ks  to  port,  all  the  pas- 
sago  searr<Hl  and  scored. 
Shall  the  Kormidalilc  here,  witli  her  twelve  and 
eighty  guns. 
Think  to  make  tlu<  rivcr-moulli  by  the  single 
narrow  way. 
Trust  to  cuter  wlJcrc  'l  is  ticklish  for  a  craft  of 
twenty  tons, 
Ami  with  (low  at  full  beside? 
Now  't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide, 
lieach  the  nuioring  ?     Hather  say. 
While  rock  stamls  or  water  runs. 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  !  " 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight  ; 
Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  ; 
li    I    . . 


"Hero's  tho  Knglish  at  our  heols;  would  you 

have  them  lake  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  tho  lleet,   linked    together 

stern  and  bow, 
Kor  a  prize  to  I'lymouth  Souml  / 
IJottor  run  the  ships  aground  ! " 

(Knded  Daml'reville  his  speech.) 
"  Not  a  minute  nuire  to  wait  1 
Let  tho  captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  n|i,  burn  tlu^  vc.s.scls 
on  the  beach  I 
France  must  undergo  her  fati'. " 

"Give  the  word  !  "     I'mt  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck 
amid  all  these, 
A   captain  /     A    lieutenant  ?     A   mate,  —  first, 
socoiul,  third  f 
No  such  man  ol  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  ! 
liut  tt  simpli^  liretou  sailor  pressed  by  Tour- 
villo  for  the  Meet,  — 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  lli'rve  Kiel  tlu>  Croi- 
sickoso. 

And  "  What  mockery  or  nudice  have  wo  hero  !" 

cries  Herve  liicl  ; 
"  Aro  you  imul,  you  Malouins  ?    Aro  you  cow- 
ards, fools,  or  rogues  ? 
Talk  to  nio  of  rocks  and  shoals,  nu-  who  took  the 

soundings,  tell 
On  my  lingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every 
swell 
'Twixt  the  ofhng  here  and  Grcvi',   where  tho 
river  disembogues  t 
Aro  you  Ixuight  by  English  gold  ?     Is  it  love  tho 
lying's  for  ? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloteil  your  bay, 
Knterod  free  ami  anchored   fast  at  the   foot   of 
Solidor. 
Burn  the  tleet,  and  ruin   Franco?     That  were 
wcuse  than  fifty  lloguos  I 
Sirs,   they  know  I  speak  the  truth  !     Sirs, 
believe  uu',  there 's  a  way  ! 
Only  let  mo  lead  tho  line, 

Have  tho  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Gel  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mim\ 
And  1  lead  them  most  and  Iciust  by  a  pnasag*  1 
know  well, 
Kighl  to  Solidor,  past  Grove, 

And  lliero  lay  them  safe  and  sound  ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave,  — 

ICcel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground,  — 
Why,    I  've   nothing   but   my  life  ;   here  's   my 
hoiul  !  "  cries  Herve  Heil. 


ff 


©- 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


5G9 


-a 


Not  a  uiiuutc  more  to  wail. 
"Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  ^reat  I 
Take  tlie  helm,  lead  the  line,  »avc  the  squad- 
ron !  "  el-ied  its  idiief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

lie  is  Adnjiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace. 
See  tlie  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  cntiy  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  tlio  passage  as  its  inrh  of  way  were  the 
wide  .sea's  profounrl  I 
See,  safe  through  shoal  an'l  rock. 
How  they  follow  in  a  Hock. 
N'ot  a  ship   that   misbehaves,    not  a  keel   that 
grates  the  ground. 
Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  [last, 
All  are  harbored  to  tlie  last ; 
And  just  as  Herv(i  Kiel  halloos  "Anchor!"  — 

sure  as  fate, 
(Tp  th<;  Knglish  come,  too  late. 

So  the  storm  subsides  to  calm  ; 

They  see  the  greifii  trees  wave 

On  th(5  heights  o'erlooking  Greve  : 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
".Just  our  laptui'e  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay. 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  ghire  askance 

As  they  cannouiiile  away  ! 
'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the 

liance  !  " 
How  Iiope   sueceeils  despair  on  each   captain's 

countenance  I 
Outburst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell  ! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  ! " 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herv(!  Kiel," 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Ureton  eyes. 
Just  the  sanii:  )nan  as  before. 


Then  said  Daml'n-ville,  "  My  friend, 
1  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard  : 
I'laisi'  is  di-cper  than  the  lips  ; 
Voii  havr'  saved  I  lie  king  his  ships, 

Vrju  must  name  your  own  reward. 
Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will. 
Franco  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  contt^nt,  and  have  !  or  my  name 
not  Damfreville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  tlie  bearded  mouth  that  sjiokc. 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  ol'  Ureton  blue  : 
"  Since  1  needs  must  say  my  say. 

Since  on  board  the  duty  'h  done. 

And  from  Malo  ItoaJls  to  Croisic  Point,  what 
is  it  but  a  run  ? 
.Since  't  is  ask  and  have  I  may,  — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore,  — 
Come  I     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  wliom  I  call  the 
Belle  Aurore  ! " 

Thatheaskeil,  and  that  he  got,  —  nothing  njore. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost  ; 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  tlie  feat  aa  it  befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone 
to  wrack 
All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence 
England  bore  the  l»dl. 
Go  to  Paris  ;  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  ]iell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  (lank  ; 

You  shall  look  long  enougli  ere  you  come  to 
Herve  Kiel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Hervi'!  I{iel,  ai.'cept  my  vei-se  ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Kiel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squmlron,  honor  Fiance,  lore  thy  wife 
the  Belle  Aurore. 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR. 

I  J.ovK  contemplating —  ajBirt 

From  all  his  homicirlal  glory  — 
The  traits  that  soften  Vd  our  heart 
Napoleon's  glory  ! 

'T  was  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 
His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him  —  I  know  not  how  — 

Unprisoned  on  the  .shore  to  roam  ; 
And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  f^nglaiid's  home. 

His  eye,  ni'-tliinks  1  pursued  the  flight 

Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  ovi;r  ; 
With  envy  lluy  eoulil  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 


©-.- 


-^ 


[&-■ 


570 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


--a 
i 


A  stormy  miduight  watch,  he  tliought, 

Than  this  sojoui'ii  wouKl  have  been  dearer, 
ir  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  EngUmd  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning,  dreaming,  doting, 
An  empty  hogshead  from  llie  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating ; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 

The  livelong  day  laborious  ;  lurking 
Until  lie  launched  a  tiny  boat 
liy  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  'twas  a  thing  beyond 
1  lescription  wretched  ;  such  a  wherry 
Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond. 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  plowing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder  ; 
Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled,  — 
Ko  sail,  no  rudder. 

From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 

His  sorry  skill'  with  wattled  willows  ; 
And  thus  eiiuipi>ed  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows,  — 

But  Frenchmen  cauf,'bt  him  on  the  beach. 

His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering  ; 
Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Najioleon  stood. 

Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger  ; 
And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger  :  — 

"Rash  man,  that  wouldst  yon  Channel  pass 

On  twigs  and  staves  .so  rndely  fashioned, 
Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"I  have  no  sweetheart,"  .said  the  lad  ; 

"  But —  absent  long  from  one  another  — 
Great  wa.s  the  longing  that  1  had 
To  see  my  mother." 

"And  so  thou  shalt,"  Xapoleon  said, 
"  Ye ' ve  both  my  favor  fairly  won  ; 
A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  jiieee  of  gold, 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 
He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 


Oui-  sailor  oft  could  seautly  shift 

To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty, 
But  ni-vm-  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELU 


HOW'S  MY  BOY? 

"  Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! 

How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? " 

"  What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife. 

And  in  what  ship  sailed  he  ! " 

"  My  boy  John  — 

He  that  went  to  sea  — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

My  boy 's  my  boy  to  nie. 

"  Yon  I'ome  back  from  sea. 

Anil  not  know  my  John  ? 

I  niiijlit  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman, 

Yimder  down  in  the  town. 

There  's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 

But  knows  my  John. 

"  How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

And  unless  you  let  me  know, 

I  '11  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no,  — 

Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no,  — 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  'Jolly  Briton'  —  " 

"Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  !  " 

"And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor. 
About  my  own  boy  John  .' 
If  1  was  loud  as  1  am  proud 
I  'd  sing  him  over  the  town  ! 
Why  should  1  speak  low,  sailor  ? " 
"That  good  ship  went  down." 

"  How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

I  was  never  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 

Sinking  or  swimming,  1  '11  be  bound 

Her  owners  can  afford  her  ! 

I  say,  how  's  my  John  ? " 

' '  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
What  care  1  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I  'm  not  their  mother  — 
How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  ! 
How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? " 


6-- 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


57 


r^ 


B-^ 


MAKING  PORT. 

All  day  long  till  the  WKSt  was  red, 

Over  and  under  the  white-Heuked  blue  ; 

"  Now  lay  her  into  the  wind,"  he  said  ; 
And  south  the  liai'bor  drew. 

And  tacking  west  and  tacking  east, 

Spray -showers  upward  going, 
Hi:r  wake  one  zigzag  trail  of  yeast, 

llcr  gunwale  I'airly  flowing  ; 

All  lluttcrous  clamor  overhead, 
Lee  scuppers  white  and  spouting, 

Upon  the  deck  a  stamping  tread, 
And  windy  voices  shouting  ; 

Her  wenthcr  shrouds  as  viol-strings. 

And  leeward  all  a-clatter,  — 
The  long,  lithe  schooner  dips  and  springs  ; 

The  waters  cleave  and  scatter. 

Shoul.lcr  to  shouhlrr,  l.rcast  to  breast. 
Arms  locked,  hand  over  hand  : 

Bracing  to  leewavd,  lips  compressed, 
Eyes  forward  to  the  land  ; 

Diiving  the  wheel  to  wind,  to  lee. 

The  two  mi'n  work  as  one  ; 
Out  of  the  southwest  sweeps  the  sea  ; 

Low  slants  the  summer  sun. 

The  harbor  opens  wide  and  wide, 

Draws  up  on  either  ([uarter  ; 
The  Vineyard's*  low  hills  backward  slide  ; 

The  keel  finds  smoother  water. 

And  tacking  starboard,  tacking  port, 
Hows  hissing,  heeled  to  leeward, 

Through  craft  of  many  a  size  and  sort. 
She  trails  tlie  long  bay  seaward. 

Ilall'-way,  slic  jibes  to  come  about,  — 
Till'  hurling  wind  drives  at  her  ; 

The  louil  sails  flap  and  flutter  out. 
The  sheet-blocks  rasp  and  clatter. 

A  lumberman  lies  full  abeam,  — 
The  flow  sets  scpiarely  toward  her  ; 

We  lose  our  headway  in  the  stream 
And  drift  broadside  aboard  her. 

A  sudden  Hurry  fore  and  aft. 

Shout,  trample,  strain,  wind  howling  ; 
A  ponderous  jar  of  craft  on  craft, 

A  boom  that  threatens  fouling  ; 

•  Martha's  Vincyatd 


A  jarring  slide  of  hull  on  hull,  — 
Her  bowsprit  sweeps  our  ipiarter  ; 

Clang  go  the  sheets  ;  the  jib  draws  full ; 
Once  more  we  cleave  the  water. 

The  anchor  rattles  from  the  bow. 
The  jib  comes  wrapping  downward  ; 

And  (|uiet  rides  the  dripping  prow, 
Wave-Iappc'd  and  pointing  townward. 

0,  gracious  is  the  arching  sky. 
The  south-wind  blowing  lilandly  ; 

The  rippling  white-caps  Heck  and  ily  ; 
The  sunset  flushes  grandly. 

And  all  the  grace  of  sea  and  land, 
And  splendor  of  the  painted  skies. 

And  more  1  M  give  to  hold  her  hand, 
And  look  into  her  eyes  ! 


A.NONVMOUS. 


TACKING  SHIP  OFF  SHORE. 

The  weather  leach  of  the  topsail  shivers, 

The  bowlinesstrain  and  thelee  shrouds  slacken, 

The  braces  are  taut  and  the  lithe  boom  quivers. 
And  the  waves  with  the  coming  squall-cloud 
blacken. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather  bow 

Is  the  lighthouse  tall  on  Fire  Island  head  ; 

There 's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain's  brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel  and  with  eager  eye 
To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  I  gaze. 

Till  the  muttered  order  of  "  Full  and  by  !  " 
Is  suddenly  changed  to  "  Full  fob  stays  ! " 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze. 

As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays  ; 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas 
As  the  pilot  calls,  "Stand  by  for  stays  !" 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place. 

With  the  gathered  coils  in  his  hardened  hands. 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace. 
Waiting  the  watchword  impatient  stands. 

And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  Head  draws  near. 
As,  trumpet-winged,  the  pilot's  shout 

From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel  I  hear. 
With  the  welcome  call  of  "  Ready  !  about  ! " 

No  time  to  .spare  !  it  is  touch  and  go. 
And  the  captain  growls,  "Down  helm  !  hai'.d 
DO'WN  ! " 


f 


572 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


-a 


& 


As  my  we.iglit  on  the  whirling  spokes  I  throw, 
While  heaven  grows   black  with   the   storm- 
cloud's  IVown. 

High  oV-r  till-  knight-heails  flies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea  ; 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  1  lay,- 
As  1  answer,  -'Ay,  AY,  sill  !  hard  a  lee  !" 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind. 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede. 

And  the  headland  white  we  have  left  behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse 

And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats  ; 

The  spanker  slaps  and  the  mainsail  flaps, 

Andthunderstheorder,  "Tacks and  sheets!" 

Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp  of  the 
crew 
Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall ; 
The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew, 

And   now   is   the   miiment   for    "  iMai.nsail, 
HAUL !" 

And  the  heavy  yards  like  (i  baby's  toy 
By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung  ; 

She  holds  lier  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 

For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the   bulwarks 
flung. 

"  Let  go,  and  iiaitl  !  "  't  is  the  last  command, 
And  the  head-sails  fill  to  the  blast  once  more  ; 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land. 

With  its  breakers  white  on  the  shingly  shore. 

What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the  squall  ? 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea  ; 
The  first-mate  clamors,  "  Belay  there,  all  !" 

And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes  free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly ; 

Little  care  1  how  the  gusts  may  blow. 
In  my  fo' castle-bunk  in  a  jacket  dry,  — 

Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  watch  is  below. 

WALTER  F.  MITCHELL. 


THE   DEEP. 

Tmekk's  beauty  in  the  deep  :  — 
The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky ; 
And,  though  the  light  shine  bright  on  high, 
Jlore  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below  ; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
Wh"n  on  the  waters  they  are  laid, 


And  sun  and  moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 

There 's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There's  music  in  the  deep  :  — 
It  is  not  in  the  surf's  rough  roar. 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore  — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea-nymph's  shell. 
That  sends  its  loud,  clear  note  abroad. 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood, 
Kchoes  through  groves  with  coral  gay. 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 
There  's  niusie  in  the  ileep. 

There  's  quiet  in  the  ilee]i  :  — 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rMve, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  tlie  wi 
Above,  let  care  and  fear  contend. 
With  sin  and  sorrow  to  the  end  : 
Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam. 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  luiine, 
We  dream  in  joy,  ami  wake  in  love, 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 

There  's  (piiet  in  the  deep. 


THE  TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP. 

What-  hid'st   thou  in   thy  treasure-caves  and 
cells ! 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main ! — 
Pale  glistening  pearls  and  rainbow-colored  shells. 
Bright  things  which  gleam  unrecked  of  and  in 
vain  !  — 
Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea  ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet  more,  the  .lejitlis  have  more  I  — what  wealth 
untold. 
Far  down,  and  .shining  through  their  stillness 
lies  ! 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold. 
Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  argosies  !  — 
Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful 
main  ! 
Earth  claims  not  tktsc  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  !  —  thy  waves 
have  rolled 
Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by  ! 
Sand  liath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old. 

Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry. 

Dash  o'er  them.  Ocean,  in  thy  scornful  i)lay  ! 

Man  yields  them  to  decay. 

Yet  more,  the  billows  and  the  depths  have  more ! 
High  hearts  and  brave   are  gathered    to   thy 
breast ! 


-ff 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


— a 

573 


^- 


They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar. 

The  battle-thuuders  will  not  break  their  rest.  — 

Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  ! 

Give  back  the  true  and  brave  ! 

Give  hack  the  lost  and  lovely  !  — those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long ! 
Tlie  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breath- 
less gloom, 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  midst  festal  song ! 
Hold    fast   thy   buried    isles,    thy   towers   o'er- 
thrown,  — 
But  all  is  not  thine  own. 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down, 

Dark  How  tliy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble  head, 
O'er  youth's  bright  locks,  and  beauty's  llowery 
crown  ; 
Yet   must   thou    hear  a  voice,  —  Restore  the 
dead  ! 
Earth  shall  reclaim   her   precious   tilings   from 
thee  !  — 
Restore  the  di.'ad,  tliou  sea  ! 

TELICIA  Hf.mans. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE. 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us. 

Blue  sky  ovei'head  ; 
Muster  all  on  the  ijuarter, 

'We  must  bury  the  dead  ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor, 
Rugged  of  front  and  form,  — 

A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 
Grizzled  w;ith  sun  and  storm. 

His  name  and  the  strand  he  hailed  from 
We  know ;  and  there  's  nothing  more  ! 

But  iierhaps  his  mother  is  waiting 
On  tlie  lonely  Island  of  Fohr. 

Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying, 

Reason  drifting  awreck, 
"  'T  is  my  watch,"  lie  would  mutter, 

"  1  must  go  upon  deck  !  " 

Ay,  on  deck  —  by  the  foremast !  — 
But  watch  and  look-out  are  done  ; 

The  Union -Jack  laid  o'er  him, 
How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun  ! 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine. 

Stay  the  huiTying  shaft ! 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft ; 
Gather  around  the  grating, 

Carry  your  messmate  aft ! 


Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  pages  of  prayer  ; 

Let  every  foot  be  ipiiet, 
Every  liead  be  bare  : 

The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 
A  lumdred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  ser\'iee, 
(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks,) 

Tlie  grand  old  words  of  burial. 

And  tlie  trust  a  true  heart  seeks,  — 

"We  tliereforo  commit  liis  body 
To  the  deei),"  —  and,  as  he  speaks, 

Launched  from  tlie  weather  railing, 

Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark, 
Till!  ghastly,  shotteil  liammock, 

Rlunges,  away  from  the  shark, 
Down,  a  thousand  fatlioms,  — 

Down  into  the  dark. 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 

Tlie  stormy  gulf  sliall  ndl 
High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin  : 

But  silence  to  doubt  and  dole  ! 
Tliero  's  a  quiet  harbor  somewliere 

For  the  poor  a-weary  soul. 

Free  the  fettered  engine, 

Speed  the  tireless  shaft ! 
Loose  to'gallant  and  topsail, 

The  breeze  is  fair  abaft ! 

Blue  is  all  around  us. 

Blue  sky  bright  overhead  : 
Every  man  to  his  duty  ! 

We  have  buried  tlie  dead. 

Hf.nrv  Howard  brownel 


THE  SEA-BOY'S  FAREWELL. 

Wait,  wait,  ye  winds !  till  I  repeat 
A  parting  signal  to  the  fleet 

Whose  station  is  at  home  ; 
Then  waft  the  sea-boy's  simple  prayer, 
And  let  it  oft  be  wliis]>ered  there, 

Wliile  in  far  climes  1  roam. 

Farewell  to  father  !  reverend  hulk, 
In  spite  of  metal,  spite  of  bulk, 

Soon  may  his  cable  slip  ; 
But  while  the  parting  tear  is  moist, 
Tlie  flag  of  gratitude  I  '11  hoist. 

In  duty  to  the  ship. 

Farewell  to  mother,  "  first-class  "  she  ! 
Who  launched  me  on  life's  stormy  sea. 
And  rigged  me  fore  and  aft  : 


--ff 


f 


574 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


n 


u 


May  ProvicU'iice  lier  timbers  spare, 
Ami  keej)  her  hull  in  good  repair, 
To  tow  the  smaller  craft. 

Farewell  to  sister  !  lovely  yacht ! 

But  whether  she '11  be  " manned"  or  not, 

I  cannot  now  foresee  ! 
May  some  good  ship  a  tender  prove. 
Well  found  in  stores  of  truth  and  love. 

And  take  her  imder  lea. 

Fai'ewell  to  George !  the  jollyboat ! 
And  all  the  little  craft  afloat. 

In  home's  delightful  bay ; 
When  they  arrive  at  sailing  age. 
May  wisdom  give  the  weather  gage, 

And  guide  them  on  tlieir  way. 

Farewell  to  all !  on  life's  rude  main 
Perhaps  we  ne'er  shall  meet  again, 

Through  stress  of  stormy  weather  ; 
But  summoned  by  the  Board  above, 
We  'U  luirbor  in  the  [lort  of  love, 

And  all  be  moored  together  I 

ANONYMOUS. 


JAMIE'S  ON  THE  STORMY  SEA. 

Ere  the  twilight  bat  was  Hitting, 
In  the  sunset,  at  her  knitting. 
Sang  a  lonely  maiden,  sitting 

Underneath  the  threshold  tree  ; 
And  as  daylight  died  before  us, 
And  the  evening  star  shone  o'er  us, 
Fitful  rose  her  gentle  chorus,  — 

"Jamie  's  on  the  stormy  sea." 

Curfew-bells  remotely  ringing, 
Mingled  with  her  sweet  voice  singing, 
And  the  last  red  ray  seemed  clinging 

Lingeringly  to  tower  and  tree  ; 
And  her  evening  song  ascending. 
With  the  scene  and  season  blending. 
Ever  had  the  same  low  ending,  — 

"Jamie's  on  the  stormy  sea," 

' '  Blow,  thou  west-wind,  blandly  hover 
Round  the  bark  that  bears  my  lover  ; 
Blow,  and  waft  him  safely  over 

To  his  own  dear  home  and  me  ; 
For  when  night-winds  rend  the  willow, 
Sleep  forsakes  my  lonely  pillow. 
Thinking  on  the  raging  billow,  — 

Jamie's  on  the  stormy  sea." 

How  eoidd  1  but  list,  but  linger 
To  the  song,  and  near  the  singer, 
Sweetly  wooing  heaven  to  bring  her 
Jamie  from  the  stormv  sea  ? 


And  while  yet  her  voice  did  name  me, 
Forth  I  sprang,  —  my  heart  o'ercamo  me,  — 
"Grieve  no  more,  sweet ;  I  au\  Jamie, 
Home  returned  to  love  and  thee." 

t>AViD  Macbeth  Moir. 


TWILIGHT  AT  SEA. 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  tlew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free. 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky. 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea  ; 
For  every  wave,  with  dimpled  face. 

That  leaped  upon  the  air. 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace. 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 

AMtLU  B.  WELBY. 


FLOTSAM   AND  JETSAM. 

The  sea  crashed  over  the  grim  gray  rocks. 

It  thundered  beneath  the  height. 
It  swept  by  reef  and  sandy  dune. 
It  glittered  beneath  the  harvest  moon, 
That  bathed  it  in  yellow  light. 

Shell,  and  sea-weed,  and  sparkling  stone. 

It  flung  on  the  golden  sand. 
Strange  relics  torn  from  its  deepest  caves. 
Sad  trophies  of  wild  victorious  waves. 

It  scattered  upon  the  straiul. 

Spars  that  had  looked  so  strong  and  true. 

At  many  a  gallant  launch. 
Shattered  and  broken,  flung  to  the  shore, 
Wlule  the  tide  in  its  wild  triumphant  roiir 

Rang  a  dirge  for  the  vessel  stanch. 

Petty  trifles  that  lovers  liad  brought 

From  many  a  foreign  clime, 
Snatchcil  by  the  storm  from  the  clinging  clasp 
Of  hands  that  the  lonely  will  never  grasp. 

While  the  world  yet  measures  time. 

Back,  back  to  its  depths  went  tlie  eVibing  tid^ 

Leaving  its  stores  to  rest, 
Unsought  and  unseen  in  the  silent  bay. 
To  be  gathered  again,  ere  close  of  day. 

To  the  ocean's  mightj'  breast. 

Kinder  than  man  art  thou,  0  sea  ; 

Frankly  we  give  our  best. 
Truth,  and  hope,  and  love,  and  faith, 
Devotion  that  challenges  time  and  death 

Its  sterling  worth  to  test. 

We  fling  them  down  at  our  darling's  feet, 
Indifference  leaves  them  there. 


-^ 


[& 


POEMS   OF  THE  SEA. 


-^-a 


& 


The  careless  footstep  tm-ns  aside, 
Weariness,  chaiigefulness,  scorn,  or  pride. 
Bring  little  of  thought  or  care. 

No  tide  of  human  feeling  turns  ; 

Once  ebbed,  love  never  flows  ; 
The  pitiful  wreckage  of  time  and  strife, 
Tlie  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  human  life. 

No  saving  reflux  knows. 


THE  BEACON. 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  my  eye, 
Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it ; 

Tin-  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  azure-arched 
sky 
Looked  pure  as  the  Spirit  that  made  it. 

The  murmur  rose  soft  as  I  silently  gazed 
On  the  shadowy  wave's  playful  motion. 

From  the  dim  distant  isle  till   the  beacon-fire 
blazed. 
Like  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy's  breast 
Was  heard  in  his  wildly  breathed  numbers  ; 

The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest. 
And  the  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers. 

I  sighed  as  1  looked  from  the  hill's  gentle  slope. 
All  hushed  was  the  billow's  commotion  ; 

And  1  thought  that  the  beacon  looked  lovely  as 
Hope, 
That  star  of  life's  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past  and  the  scene  is  afar ; 

Yet,  when  ray  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 
Will  memory  often  rekindle  the  star 

That  Ijlazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow. 

And  in  life's  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling 
soul  flies. 
And  death  stills  the  heart's  la,st  emotion, 
0  then  may  the  Seraph  of  mercy  arise, 
Like  a  star  on  eternity's  ocean  ! 

p.\uL  MOON  James. 


AN  OLD   SEAPORT. 

EVENING  SKETCH. 

NooKED  underneath  steep  sterile  hills  that  rise 

Tier  upon  tier,  receding  far  away. 

The  quaint  old  port,  wharf-flanked  to  seaward, 

lies, 
A  dingy  crescent  round  the  curving  bay. 
Small  cruising  craft  about  the  harbor  glide. 


Mere  chips  of  boats,   each  with   its  one  bright 

wing — 
Bright  in  the  golden  glow  of  eventide  — 
Wooing  the  faint  land-wind.     A  wee  white  thing 
Shows   on   the   south   sea-line,   and   grows  and 

grows. 
Slow  shadowing  ship-shape  ;  whUo  to  westward 

far. 
Outlined  in  the  low-lying  amber  bar, 
A  .sail  sinks  with  the  day.     The  sweet  repose 
Procured  of  peace  prevails  ;  and,  folding  all 
In  one  wide  zone  of  rest,  glooms  the  gi'ay  even- 
fall. 


THE  HIGH  SEAS. 

The  host  moved  like  the  deep-sea  wave, 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave. 
High-swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE^  NIGHT-SEA. 

In  the  summer  even. 
While  yet  tlie  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  plucking  purple  pan.sies. 
Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 

Tlie  fishing  lights  their  dances 
Were  keeping  out  at  sea. 
And  "Come,"  I  sung,  "my  true-love. 
Come  hasten  home  to  me." 

But  the  sea  it  fell  a-moaning. 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon, 

.\nd  the  young  moon  dropped  from  heaven. 

And  the  lights  hid  one  by  one. 

.All  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  tlie  cruel  sea, 

.\nd  "  Wait,"criedtheni.ght,and^Tind,  andstorm, 

"  Wait  till  I  come  to  thee  '  " 

Harriet  prescott  spofford. 


'OLD  IRONSIDES.' 


At,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar  : 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more  ! 


& 


e- 


576 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


-^ 


Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  tlie  Hood 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
Ko  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread. 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  : 
The  har[iies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

Tlie  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

0  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ! 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep. 

And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail. 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 

OLIVER  Wendell  Holmes, 


THE  ESrCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea,  — 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be  ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion  ; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock. 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  rock  ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell. 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  bell. 

The  holy  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  rock  ; 
On  a  buoy  in  tlie  storm  it  floated  and  swung. 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  surges'  swell. 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 
And  blessed  tlie  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay,  — 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  around. 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  walked  his  deck. 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring,  — 
1 1  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing  ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess  ; 
Hut  the  rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  bell  and  float : 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat  ; 


And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  rock. 

And  I  'U  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row. 
And  to  the  Inchcape  rock  they  go  ; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 
And  cut  the  warning  bell  from  the  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound  ; 
The  bubbles  rose,  and  burst  around. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "The  next  who  comes  to  the  rock 
Will  not  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  sailed  away, — 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day  ; 
And  now,  gi-own  rich  with  jilundered  store. 
He  steers  his  course  to  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high  ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day  ; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  rover  takes  his  stand  ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon. 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "tlie  breakers  roar  ! 
For  yonder,  methinks,  should  be  the  shore. 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  we  could  hear  the  Inchcape  bell." 

They  hear  no  sound  ;  the  swell  is  strong  ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along  ; 
Till  the  vessel  sti-ikes  with  a  shivering  shock,  — 
0  Christ !  it  is  the  Inchcape  rock  ! 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  tore  his  hair  ; 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair. 
The  waves  rash  in  on  every  side  ; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  ever  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  he  seemed  to  hear,  — 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  bell 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 


THE  THREE  FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west,  — 

Out  into  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  the 
best. 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of 
the  town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep  ; 
And  there  's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  Ix-  mo.ining. 


^- 


^ 


e- 


POEMS   OF  THE  SEA. 


577 


a 


Three  wives  sat  up  in  tlie  liglithouse  tower, 

And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
And  they  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked 
at  the  shower, 
And  the  rack  it  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and 
brown  ; 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
Aud  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  ujoriiiug  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down. 

And  the  women  are  watching  and  wringing  their 

hands, 

For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town  ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep,  — 

And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep, — 

And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

Charles  K] 


B-^- 


THE  SANDS  0'  DEE. 

"0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Ac  ross  the  sands  o'  Dee  !  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see  ; 
The  blimling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land  : 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"0,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair,  — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
0'  drownM  maiden's  hair,  — 
Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  lier  in  across  the  rolling  foam,  — 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel,  hungrj'  foam,  — ■ 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


THE  POOR  FISHER  FOLK. 

'T  IS  night ;  within  the  close-shut  cabin-door 
The  room  is  wrapped  in  shade,  save  where  there  fall 
Some  twilight  rays  that  creep  along  the  floor, 
And  show  the  fisher's  nets  upon  the  wall. 


1  In  the  dim  comer,  from  the  oaken  chest 
I  A  few  white  dishes  glimmer  ;  through  the  shada 
Stands  a  tall  bed  with  dusky  curtains  dressed, 
Aud  a  rough  mattress  at  its  side  is  laid. 

Five  children  on  the  long  low  mattress  lie,  — 
A  nest  of  little  souls,  it  lieaves  with  dreams  ; 
In  the  high  chimney  the  last  embers  die, 
And  redden  the  dark  roof  with  crimson  gleams. 

The  mother  kneels  and  tliiiiks,  and,  pale  with  fear. 
She  prays  alone,  hearing  the  billows  shout  ; 
While  to  wild  winds,  to  rocks,  to  midnight  drear, 
The  ominous  old  ocean  sobs  without. 

Poor  wives  of  fishers  !     Ah,  't  is  .sad  to  say. 
Our  sons,  our  husbands,  all  that  we  love  best. 
Our  liearts,  our  souls,  are  on  those  waves  away,  — 
Those  ravening  wolves  that  know  nor  ruth  norrest. 

Think  how  they  sport  with  those  beloved  forms. 
And  how  the  clarion-blowing  wind  unties 
Above  their  heads  the  tresses  of  the  storms  : 
Perchance  even  now  the  child,  the  husband,  dies  I 

For  we  can  never  tell  where  they  may  be 
Who,  to  make  head  against  the  tide  and  gale, 
Between  them  and  the  starless,  soundless  sea. 
Have  but  one  bit  of  plank,  with  one  poor  sail. 

Terrilile  fear  I     We  seek  the  peblily  shore, 
Cry  to  the  rising  billows,  "  Bring  them  home  !" 
Alas  !  what  answer  gives  tlieir  troubled  roar 
To  the  dark  thought  that  haunts  us  as  we  roam? 

Janet  is  sad  :  her  husband  is  alone, 

Wrapped  in  the  black  shroud  of  this  bitter  night : 

His  chihlren  are  so  little,  there  is  none 

To  give  him  aid.     "Were  they  but  old,  they 

might." 
Ah,  mother,  when  they  too  are  on  the  main. 
How  wilt  thou  weep,  "Would  they  were  young 

again ! " 

She  takes  her  lantern,  — 't  is  his  hour  at  last ; 
She  will  go  forth,  and  see  if  the  day  breaks. 
And  if  his  signal-fire  be  at  the  mast ; 
Ah  no,  —  not  yet  I  —  no  breath  of  morning  wakes. 

No  line  of  light  o'er  the  dark  waters  lies  ; 

It  rains,  it  rains,  — how  bla(;k  is  rain  at  morn  ! 

The  day  comes  trembling,  and  the  yoimg  dawn 

cries,  — 
Cries  like  a  baby  fearing  to  be  bom. 

Sudden  her  human  eyes,  that  peer  and  watch 
Through  the  deep  shade,  a  moldering  dwelling 
find. 


-ff 


fi- 


578 


POEMS   OF   THE  SEA. 


n 


No  light  within,  —  the  thiu  door  shsJces,  —  the 

thutch 
O'er  the  greoii  wjills  is  twisted  of  the  wind, 

Yellow  and  dirty  as  a  swollen  rill. 

' '  Ah  me, "  she  saith,  ' '  here  doth  that  widow  dwell ; 

Few  days  ago  my  good  man  left  her  ill  ; 

1  will  go  iu,  and  see  if  all  be  well." 

She  iitrikes  the  door,  she  listens  ;  none  replies, 
And  Janet  shuddei's.     "  Husbandless,  alone. 
And  with  two  children,  —  they  have  scant  sup- 
plies, — 
Good  neighbor  !     She  sleeps  heavy  as  a  stone." 

She  calls  again,  site  knocks  ;  't  is  silence  still,  — 
No  sound,  no  answer  ;  suddenly  the  door. 
As  if  the  senseless  ci-eature  felt  some  thrill 
Of  pity,  turned,  and  open  lay  before. 

She  entered,  and  her  lantern  lighted  all 
The  house  —  so  still ,  but  for  the  rudo  waves'  din. 
Through  the  thin  ivof  the  plashing  niin-drops  fall. 
But  something  terrible  is  couched  within. 

Half-clothed,  dark-featui-ed,  motionless  lay  she. 
The  once  strong  mother,  now  devoid  of  life  ; 
Disheveled  specter  of  dead  miseiT,  — 
All  that  the  poor  leaves  after  his  long  strife. 

The  cold  and  livid  arm,  already  stiff. 

Hung  o'er  the  soaked  straw  of  her  «Tetched  bed. 

The  mouth  lay  open  horribly,  as  if 

The  parting  soul  with  a  gi-eat  cry  had  fled,  — 

That  cry  of  death  which  startles  the  dim  ear 
Of  vast  eternity.     And  all  the  while 
Tw  o  little  ehildven,  in  one  cradle  near, 
Slept  face  to  face,  on  each  sweet  face  a  smile. 

The  dying  mother  o'er  them,  as  they  lay. 
Had  cast  hergown,  andwmpped  her  mantle'sfold  ; 
Feeling  chill  death  creep  up,  she  willed  that  they 
Should  yet  be  warm  while  she  was  lying  cold. 

Rocked  by  their  own  weight,  sweetly  sleep  the 

twain, 
With  even  breath,  and  foreheads  calm  and  clear  ; 
So  sound  that  the  last  trump  might  call  in  vain. 
For,  being  innocent,  they  have  no  fear. 

Still  howls  the  wind,  and  ever  a  drop  slides 
Through  the  old  rafters,  whei-e  the  thatch  is  weak. 
On  the  dead  woman's  face  it  falls,  and  glides 
Like  living  tears  along  her  hollow  cheek. 


And  the  dull  wave  sounds  ever  like  a  bell. 
The  dead  lies  still,  and  listens  to  the  strain  ; 


For  when  the  radiant  spirit  leaves  its  shell. 
The  poor  corpse  seems  to  call  it  back  again. 

It  seeks  the  soul  through  the  air's  dim  expanse, 
And  the  juile  lip  saith  to  the  sunken  eye, 
"  Where  is  the  beauty  of  thy  kiiulling  ghime  '" 
"  And  wheiv  thy  lialmy  breath  ' "  it  makes  reply. 

Alas  !  live,  love,  find  primroses  in  spring, 
Fate  hath  one  end  for  festival  and  tear. 
Bid  your  hearts  vibrate,  let  your  gla.sses  ring ; 
But  as  dark  ocean  drinks  each  stii^amlet  clear, 

So  for  the  kisses  that  ilelight  the  flesh. 
For  mother's  worship,  and  for  children's  bloom. 
For  song,  for  smile,  for  love  so  fair  and  fresh, 
For  laugh,  fordance,  there  is  one  goal, — thetomb. 

And  why  does  Janet  pass  so  fast  away  ? 
What  hath  she  done  within  that  house  of  dread  ? 
What  foldeth  she  beneath  her  mantle  gray  ? 
And  hurries  home,  and  hides  it  in  her  lied  ! 
AVith  half-averted  face,  and  nervous  tread, 
What  hath  she  stolen  from  the  awful  dead  ? 

The  dawn  was  whitening  over  the  sea's  verge 

As  she  sat  pensive,  touching  broken  chords 

Of  half-remorseful  thought,   while  the   hoarse 

surge 
Howled  a  sad  concert  to  her  broken  words. 

"Ah,  my  poor  husband  !  we  had  five  before  ; 
Already  so  much  care,  so  much  to  find, 
For  he  must  work  for  all.     1  give  him  more. 
What  was  that  noise  ?     His  step  !    Ah,  no,  the 
wind. 

"  That  I  should  be  afraid  of  him  1  love  ! 
1  have  done  ill.  If  he  should  beat  me  now, 
I  would  not  blame  him.  Did  not  the  door  move  ? 
Not  yet,  i-xior  man."  She  sits  with  careful  brow, 
Wmpped  in  her  inward  grief ;  nor  heare  the  roar 
Of  winds  and  waves  that  dash  against  his  prow, 
Nor  the  black  connorant  shrieking  on  the  shore. 

Sudden  the  door  flies  open  wide,  and  lets 
Noisily  in  the  dawn-light  scarcely  clear, 
And  the  good  fisher  diiigging  his  damp  nets 
Stands  on  the  threshold  witli  a  joyous  cheer. 

"  'T  is  thou  !  "  she  cries,  and  eager  as  a  lover 
Leaps  up,  and  holds  her  husliand  to  her  breast  ; 
Her  greeting  kisses  all  his  vesture  cover. 
"'T  is  I,  good  wife  I"  and   his  broad  face  ex- 
pressed 

How  g!ty  his  heart  that  Janet's  love  made  light. 
"What  weather  was  it?"     "Hard."     "Your 
fishing  ?  "     "  Bad. 


B- 


^ 


a-^- 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


;:;ra 


579 


e-«- 


The  sea  was  like  a  uest  of  thieves  to-night ; 
But  I  embrace  thee,  and  my  heart  is  glad. 

"  There  was  a  devil  in  the  wind  that  blew  ; 
I  tore  my  net,  caught  nothing,  broke  my  line, 
And  once  1  thought  the  bark  was  broken  too  ; 
What  did  you  all  the  night  long,  Janet  mine  ?  " 

She,  trembling  in  the  darkness,  answered,  "  I, 
0,  naught !  1  sewed,  1  watched,  I  was  afraid  ; 
The  waves  were  loud  as  thunders  from  the  sky  : 
but  it  is  over."    Shyly  then  she  said  : 

"  Our  neighbor  died  last  night ;  it  must  have 

Wn 
When  you  were  gone.     She  left  two  little  ones, 
So  small,  so  frail,  —  William  and  Madeline  ; 
The  one  just  lisps,  the  other  scarcely  runs." 

The  man  looked  grave,  and  in  the  comer  cast 
His  old  fur  bonnet,  wet  with  rain  and  sea  ; 
Muttered  awhile,  and  scratched  his  head,  —  at 

last, 
"  We  have  five  children,  this  makes  seven,"  said 

he. 

"  Already  in  bad  weather  we  must  sleep 
Sometimes  without  our  supper.     Now  —    Ah, 

well, 
'T  is  not  my  fault.     These  accidents  are  deep ; 
It  was  the  good  God's  will.     I  cannot  tell. 

"  Why  did  he  take  the  mother  from  those  scraps. 
No  bigger  than  my  fist  ?     T  is  hard  to  read  ; 
A  learned  man  might  understand  perhaps,  — 
So  little,  they  can  neither  work  nor  need. 

' '  Go  fetch  them,  wife  ;  they  will  be  frightened 

sore. 
If  with  the  dead  alone  they  waken  thus  ; 
That  was  the  mother  knocking  at  our  door. 
And  we  must  take  the  children  home  to  us. 

"  Brother  and  sister  shall  they  be  to  ours. 
And  they  shall  learn  to  climb  my  knee  at  even. 
When  he  shall  see  these  strangers  in  our  bowers, 
More  fish,  more  food,  will  give  the  God  of  heaven. 

"  1  wiU  work  harder  ;  I  will  drink  no  wine,  — 
Go  fetch  them.     Wherefore  dost  thou  Unger, 

dear  '< 
Not  thus  were  wont  to  move  those  feet  of  thine." 
She  drew  the  curtain,  saj-ing,  "  They  are  here." 

From  the  French  of  VICTOR  HCCO, 
by  H.  w,  Alexander. 


THE  FTKE  BY  THE  SEA. 

TuEKE  were  seven  fishers  with  nets  in   their 

hands. 
And  they  walked    and   talked   by   the   seaside 
sands  ; 
Yet  sweet  as  the  sweet  dew-fall 
The  words  they  spake,  though  they  sj^ake  so  low, 
Across  the  long,  dim  ceutuiies  flow. 

And  we  know  them,  one  and  all,  — 
Ay  1  know  them  and  love  them  all 

Seven  sad  men  in  the  days  of  old. 
And  one  was  gentle,  and  one  was  )x)ld. 

And  they  walked  with  downcast  eyes  ; 
The  bold  was  Peter,  the  gentle  was  .John, 
And  they  all  were  sad,  for  the  Lord  was  gone. 
And  they  knew  not  if  he  would  rise,  — 
Knew  not  if  the  dead  would  lise. 

The  livelong  night,  till  the  moon  went  out. 
In  the  drowning  waters  they  beat  about  : 

Beat  slow  tlirough  the  fogs  their  way  ; 
And  the  sails  dropficd  down  with  ringing  wet, 
And  no  man  drew  but  an  empty  net : 

And  now  't  was  the  break  of  the  day,  — 
The  great  glad  break  of  the  day. 

"  Cast  your  nets  on  the  other  side  "  — 
('T  was  Jesus  speaking  across  the  tide) 

And  they  cast  and  were  dragging  hard  ; 
But  that  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved 
Cried  straightway  out,  for  his  heart  was  moved 

"  It  is  our  risen  Lord,  — 

Our  Mast<!r,  and  our  Lord  1 " 

Then  Simon,  girding  his  fisher's  coat, 
Went  over  the  nets  out  of  the  boat,  — 

Ay  !  first  of  them  all  was  he  ; 
Repenting  sore  the  dismal  past, 
He  feared  no  longer  his  heart  to  cast 
Like  an  anchor  into  the  sea,  — 
Down  deep  in  the  hungrj-  sea. 

And  the  others,  through  the  mists  so  dim. 
In  a  little  ship  came  after  him. 

Dragging  their  nets  through  the  tide  ; 
And  when  they  had  gotten  close  to  the  land 
They  saw  a  fire  of  coals  in  the  sand. 

And,  with  arms  of  love  so  wide, 

Jesus,  the  crucified ! 

'T  is  long,  and  long,  and  long  ago, 

.Since  the  rosy  lights  began  to  flow 
O'er  tile  hilLs  of  Galilee  ; 

And  with  eager  eyes  and  liftcii  hands 

The  seven  fishers  saw  on  the  sands 

The  fire  of  coals  by  the  sea,  — 
On  the  wet,  wild  sands  by  the  sea. 


J] 


fi-^: 


580 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


n 


'T  is  long  ago,  yet  faith  in  our  souls 

Is  kindled  just  by  that  tire  of  coals 

That  streamed  o'er  the  mists  of  the  sea  ; 

Where  Peter,  girding  his  fisher's  coat. 

Went  over  the  net  and  out  of  the  boat, 
To  answer,  "  Lovest  thou  me  >.  " 
Thrice  over,  "  Lovest  thou  me  ?" 

ALICE  Gary. 


:  PELICAN  ISLAND." 


Light  as  a  flake  of  foam  upon  the  wind 
Keel-upward  from  the  deep  emerged  a  shell, 
Shaped  like  the  moon  ere  half  her  horn  is  tilled ; 
Fraught  with  young  life,  it  righted  as  it  rose. 
And  moved  at  wUl  along  the  yielding  water. 
The  native  pilot  of  this  little  bark 
Put  out  a  tier  of  oars  on  either  side, 
Spread  to  the  wafting  breeze  a  twofold  sail. 
And  mounted  up  and  glided  down  the  billow 
In  happy  freedom,  pleased  to  feel  the  air. 
And  wander  in  the  luxury  of  light. 
Worth  all  the  dead  creation,  in  that  hour. 
To  me  appeared  this  lonely  Nautilus, 
My  fellow-being,  like  myself,  alive. 
Entranced  in  contemplation,  vague  yet  sweet, 
I  watched  its  vagrant  course  and  rippling  wake. 
Till  I  forgot  the  sun  amidst  the  heavens. 

It  closed,    sunk,   dwindled  to  a  point,   then 
nothing  ; 
While   the    last  bubble   crowned   the  dimpling 

eddy. 
Through  which  mine  eyes  still  giddily  pursued  it, 
A  joyous  creature  vaulted  through  the  air,  — 
The  aspiring  fish  that  fain  would  be  a  bird. 
On  long,   light  wings,   that  flung  a  diamond- 
shower 
Of  dew-drops  round  its  evanescent  form. 
Sprang  into  light,  and  instantly  descended. 
Ere  I  could  greet  the  stranger  as  a  friend. 
Or  mourn  his  quick  departure  on  the  surge, 
A  shoal  of  dolphins  tumbling  in  wild  glee. 
Glowed  with  such  orient  tints,  they  might  have 

been 
The  rainbow's  offspring,  when  it  met  the  ocean 
In  that  resplendent  vision  I  had  seen. 
While  yet  in  ecstasy  I  hung  o'er  these, 
With  every  motion  pouring  out  fresh  beauties, 
As  though  the  conscious  colors  came  and  went 
At  pleasure,  glorying  in  their  subtle  changes,  — 
Enormous  o'er  the  flood,  Leviathan 
Looked  forth,  and  from  his  roaring  nostrils  sent 
Two  fountains  to  the  sky,  then  plunged  amain 
In  headlong  pastime  through  the  closing  gulf. 

These  were  but  preludes  to  the  revelry 
That  reigned  at  sunset :  then  the  deep  let  loose 


Its  blithe  adventurers  to  sport  at  large. 

As  kindly  instinct  taught  them  ;  buoyant  shells. 

On  stormless  voyages,  in  fleets  or  single, 

Wherried  their  tiny  mariners  ;  aloof. 

On  wing-like  tins,  in  bow-and-aiTow  figures, 

The  llying-Hshcs  darted  to  and  fro  ; 

While  spouting  whales  projected  watery  columns, 

That  turned  to  arches  at  their  height,  and  seemed 

The  skeletons  of  crystal  palaces 

Built  on  the  blue  expanse,  then  perishing, 

FraU  as  the  element  which  they  were  made  of ; 

Dolphins,  in  gambols,  lent  the  lucid  brine 

Hues  richer  than  the  canopy  of  eve. 

That  overhung  the  scene  with  gorgeous  clouds. 

Decaying  into  gloom  more  beautiful 

Than  the  sun's  golden  liveries  which  they  lost : 

TiU  light  that  hides,  and  darkness  that  reveals 

The  stars,  —  exchanging  guard,  like  sentinels 

Of  day  and  night,  —  transformed  the  face  of 

nature  : 
Above  was  wakefulness,  silence  around. 
Beneath,  repose,  —  repose  that  reached  even  me. 
Power,  will,  sensation,  memorj',  failed  in  turn  ; 
My  very  essence  seemed  to  pass  away, 
Like  a  thin  cloud  that  melts  across  the  moon. 
Lost  in  the  blue  immensity  of  heaven. 

James  .Montgomery. 


THE  CORAL  INSECT. 

Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  ti-ain. 
Who  build  in  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main  ; 
Toil  on  !  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 
With  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of 

rock. 
Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains'  cave. 
And  your  arches  spring  up  to  the  crested  wave  ; 
Ye  're  a  puny  race  thus  to  boldly  rear 
A  fabric  so  vast  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone,  — 
The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a  stone  ; 
Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavement  spring. 
Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king  ; 
The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled  ; 
O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold  ; 
The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men. 
And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant,  'neath  the  billows  dark. 
The  wi-ecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field. 
Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield  ; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the  flowers  are  up. 
There  's  a  poison  drop  in  man's  purest  cup. 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle  !  rcath, 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  d"Tlh  ' 


&^- 


-^ 


[& 


POEMS   OF  THE  SEA. 


iSl 


-a 


With  moklering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright ; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold. 
And  the  gods  of  the  ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  in  their  halls  of  glee  ; 
Hath  earth  no  graves,  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  for  the  thronging  dead  ? 

Ye  build  —  ye  build  —  but  ye  enter  not  in, 
Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in 

their  sin  ; 
From  the  land  of  promise  ye  fade  and  die 
Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  weary  eye  : 
As  the  kings  of  the  cloud-crowned  pyramid, 
Their  noiseless  bones  in  oblivion  liid. 
Ye  slumber  unmarked  mid  the  desolate  main, 
While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  re- 
main. 

LVDIA   n.  SICOURNEY. 


THE  CORAL  INSECT. 


Every  one, 
By  instinct  taught,  performcil  its  liiili-  t:i,sk,  — 
To  hiiild  its  dwelling  and  it-  Nr|,iii.  Ii.  ,. 
From  its  own  essence  exc^uisiii  ly  uhhI.  Inl  ; 
There  breed,  and  die,  and  leave  a  progeny, 
Still  multiplied  beyond  the  reach  of  numbers, 
To  frame  new  cells  and  tombs  ;  then  breed  and 

die 
.\s  all  their  ancestors  had  done,  —  and  rest. 
Hermetically  sealed,  each  in  its  shrine, 
A  statue  in  this  temple  of  oblivion  1 
Millions  of  mUlions  thus,  from  age  to  age, 
M'ith  simplest  skill  and  toil  unweariable, 
N'o  moment  and  no  movement  unimproved, 
Laid  line  on  line,  on  terrace  terrace  spread, 
To  swell  the  heightening,  brightening,  gradual 

mound, 
By  marvelous  structure   climbing   towards  the 

day. 

.     A  point  at  first 
It  peered  above  those  waves  ;  a  point  so  small 
1  just  perceived  it,  fixed  where  all  was  floating  ; 
And  when  a  bubble  ero.ssed  it,  the  blue  film 
Exfianded  like  a  sky  above  the  speck  ; 
That   speck   became  a  hand-breadth  ;   day  and 

night 
It  spread,  accumulated,  and  ere  long 
Presented  to  my  view  a  dazzling  plain. 
White  as  the  moon  amid  the  sapphire  sea  ; 
Bare  at  low  water,  and  as  still  as  death. 
But  when  the  tide  came  gurgling  o'er  the  surface 
'T  was  like  a  resuiTection  of  the  dead  : 
From  graves  innumerable,  punctures  fine 


In  the  close  coral,  capillary  swarin.s 
Of  i-eptUes,  horrent  as  Medusa's  snakes, 
Covered  the  bald-pate  reef ; 

Ere  long  the  reef  o'ertopt  the  spring-flood's  height. 
And  mocked  the  billows  w'hen  they  leapt  upon  it, 
Unable  to  maintain  their  slippery  hold, 
And   falling   down  in   foam-wreaths  round   its 

verge. 
Steep  were  the  flanks,  with  precipices  sliarp. 
Descending  to  their  base  in  ocean  gloom. 
Chasms  few  and  narrow  and  irregular 
Formed  harbors,  safe  at  once  and  perilous,  — 
Safe  for  defense,  but  perilous  to  enter. 
A  sea-lake  shone  amidst  the  fossil  isle, 
Reflecting  in  a  ring  its  clilfs  and  caverns. 
With  heaven  itself  seen  like  a  lake  below. 

Compared  with  this  amazing  edifice, 
Raised  by  the  weakest  creatures  in  existence, 
What  are  the  works  of  intellectual  man  ? 
Towers,  temples,  palaces,  and  sepulchers  ; 
Ideal  images  in  sculptured  forms. 
Thoughts   hewn  in  columns,    or  in  domes  ex- 
panded. 
Fancies  through  every  maze  of  beauty  shown  ; 
Pride,  giutitude,  alfection  turned  to  marble, 
In  honor  of  tlie  living  or  tlie  dead  ; 
What  are  they  ?— fine-wrought  miniatures  of  art, 
Too  exipiisite  to  bear  tlie  weight  of  dew 
Which  every  morn  lets  fall  in  pearls  upon  them, 
TUl  all  their  pomp  sinks  down   in   moldering 

relics, 
Yet  in  their  ruin  lovelier  than  theii-  jirime  !  — 
Dust  in  the  balance,  atoms  in  tlie  gale. 
Compared  with  these  achievements  in  the  deep, 
Were  all  the  monuments  of  olden  time, 
In  days  when  there  were  giants  on  the  earth.  — 
Babel's  stupendous  folly,  though  it  aimed 
To  scale  heaven's  battlements,  was  but  a  toy. 
The  plaything  of  the  world  in  infancy  ; 
The  ramparts,  towers,  and  gates  of  Babylon, 
Built  for  eternity,  —  though,  where  they  stood, 
Ruin  itself  stands  still  for  lack  of  work. 
And  Desolation  keeps  unbroken  Sabbath  ; 
Great  Babylon,  in  its  full  moon  of  emjiire. 
Even  when  its  "head  of  gold"  was  smitten  off 
And  from  a  monarch  changed  into  a  brute,  — 
Great  Babylon  was  like  a  WTcath  of  sand, 
Left  by  one  tide  and  canceled  by  the  next ; 
Egj'jit's  dread  wonders,  still  defying  Time, 
Wliere  cities  have  been  cnmibled  into  sand, 
Scattered  by  winds  beyond  the  Libyan  desert. 
Or  melted  down  into  the  mud  of  Nile, 
And  cast  in  tillage  o'er  the  corn-sown  fields. 
Where   Memphis  flourished,   and  tlie   Pharaohs 

reigned  ; 
Egypt's  gray  piles  of  hieroglyphic  grandeur, 


CZU- 


-EP 


a- 


582 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


n 


u 


That  have   survived  the   language   which  they 

speak, 
Preserving  its  dead  emblems  to  the  eye, 
Yet  hiding  from  the  mind  what  these  reveal  ;  — 
Her  pyramids  would  be  mere  pinnacles. 
Her  giiint  statues,  wrought  from  rocks  of  granite, 
But  puny  ornaments  for  such  a  pile 
As  tliis  stupendous  mound  of  catacombs, 
Filled  with  dry  mummies  of  the  builder-worms. 

JAMI^S  MONTGOMERY. 


THE  CORAL  GRO\rE. 

Deep  in  tlie  wave  is  a  coral  grove. 
Where  the  purjile  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove  ; 
Where  the  sea-Hower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew. 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift. 
And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow  ; 
From  coral  rocks  tire  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow  : 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below. 
For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there. 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air. 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  gi-een. 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water. 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter. 
There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion. 
The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea  ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea  : 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  fomis, 
Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone. 
And  is  safe  when  the  wrathful  Spirit  of  storms 
Has  made  tlie  toji  of  the  wave  his  own. 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies. 
Where  the  myriad  voices  of  Ocean  roar  ; 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies. 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore  ; 
Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 
AVhere  tlie  waters  murmur  tranijuilly. 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 
lAMES  Gates  percival. 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign. 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main.  — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  whore  the  Siren  sings, 


And  coral  reels  lie  bale, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  stream- 
ing hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell. 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  ci-yjit  unsealed  ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew. 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new. 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through. 

Built  up  its  idle  door. 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  tlio 
old  no  moi'e. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  Ijy  thee. 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  deail  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

Wliilo  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  tliought  I  hear  a  voice 
that  sings  :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my  soul. 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll  ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last. 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast. 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  lil'o's  unresting 

sea ' 

oli\-er  we£.\de!.l  holmes. 


SEA-WEED. 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  equinox. 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  sea-weed  from  the  rocks  : 

From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
1  n  some  far-off",  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing. 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf  that  buries 
The  Orkney  an  sken'ies. 


J 


a- 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


583 


ra 


AiiswciJug  Uii;  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 

And  f'loin  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

.Sj;ars,  uplifting 
Oil  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  diifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaxihes, 
All  liave  found  repose  again. 

So  when  stoiTus  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  ere  long. 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song  : 

K)  oni  the  far-off  isles  enchanted 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  tlie  golden  fruit  of  Truth ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vi«on 

Gleams  Klysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 
Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
Fiom  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tenipest-sliattei'cd, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded. 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 

IliiNKy  V.'ADSVVOKTH  LONGFELLOW. 


^- 


GULF-WKED. 

A  wicAiiY  wee'i,  toss(;d  to  and  fro, 

IJieaiily  drenched  in  the  ocean  brine, 
.Soai-iiig  high  and  sinking  low, 

Lashed  along  without  will  of  mine ; 
.Sport  of  Die  spume  of  the  surging  sea ; 

Flung  on  the  foam,  afar  and  auear, 
Maik  my  manifold  mystery,  — 

Growth  and  grace  in  tlieir  place  apjjear. 

1  bear  round  berries,  gray  and  red, 
llootless  and  rover  though  I  I.ie  ; 

.My  si>angled  leaves,  when  nicely  spread, 
Arborescc  as  a  tninklcss  tree ; 


Corals  curious  coat  me  o'er, 

White  an<l  hard  in  apt  array ; 
Mid  the  wild  waves'  lude  uproar 

Gracefully  grow  i,  night  and  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore, 

Something  whis|j>!rs  soft  to  me, 
Ik-stless  and  loaming  foreveiiuore. 

Like  thijs  weary  weed  of  the  sea ; 
Hear  tliey  yet  on  each  beating  hi  east 

The  etiriuil  tyjw  of  the  wondrous  whole, 
Growth  unfolding  amidst  unrest, 

GiTK-e  informing  with  silent  soul. 

CoK.NELH,'S  GfcORCE  FENKEK. 


The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea, 

The  blue,  the  fiesli,  the  evci'  free ; 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  legions  round  ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds,  it  mocks  the  skies, 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'm  on  the  sea,  I  'm  on  the  sea, 

I  am  wheie  I  would  ever  he, 

With  the  blue  above  and  the  blue  l>elow, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

Wliat  matter !     I  sliall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  0,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide. 
Where  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon. 
And  whistles  aloft  its  tempest  tune. 
And  t<;lls  how  goeth  the  world  Ijelow, 
And  why  the  sou'we-st  wind  doth  blow  ! 
I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  moie  and  more. 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  l/reast. 
Like  a  bird  that  s<!cketh  her  mother's  nest,  — 
And  a  mother  she  was  and  is  to  me. 
For  r  was  boin  on  the  oj»en  sea. 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  bom  ; 

The  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 

And  the  dol))hins  Ijared  their  l>a(;ks  of  gold ; 

And  never  wa.s  heard  such  an  out-.-ry  wild, 

As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child. 

1  liavc  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 

Full  fifty  summers  a  rover's  life. 

With  wealth  to  spend,  and  a  power  to  range, 

But  never  have  sought  or  sighed  for  diange : 

And  death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me. 

Shall  come  on  the  wide,  unlwunded  sea  ! 


-& 


e-- 


584 


PUEMS   OF  THE  SEA. 


■a 


SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS  IN  BERMUDA. 

■yVHERE  the  remote  Benniidas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song : 
"  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Where  he  the  huge  sea  monsters  wracks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage. 
Safe  from  the  storms'  and  j)relates'  rage ; 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night. 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows  : 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price. 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand 
From  Lebanon  lie  stores  the  land ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  tlio  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  wo  rather  boast) 
The  gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 
O,  let  our  voice  his  praise  e.\alt 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Me.\u|ue  bay  !"  — 
Thus  sung  tliey  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
^\'ith  falling  ours  they  kept  the  time. 


A  WET  SHEET   AND  A   FLOWING  SEA. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea,  — 

A  wind  that  follows  fast. 
And  fdls  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  Tiends  the  gallant  mast,  — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  tlics,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 


But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  — 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 
The  good  ship  tight  and  free  ; 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 
And  merry  men  are  we. 

There  's  tempest  in  yon  hornkl  moon. 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  — 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys. 

The  lightning  flashing  free  ; 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


SONG  OF  THE  ROVER. 


■THE  CORSAIl 


0  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 
I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 


O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea. 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless  and  our  souls  as  free, 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam. 
Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home  ! 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway,  — 
Our  flag  the  scepter  all  who  meet  obey. 
Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
0,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 
Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave ; 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease  ! 
Whom  slumber  soothes  not,  —  pleasure  cannot 

please.  — 
0,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried. 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
The  exulting  sense,  the  pulse's  maddening  play. 
That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 
That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 
Thatseekswhat  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 
And  where  the  feebler  faint  can  only  feel  — 
Feel  to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core. 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 
No  dread  of  death  —  if  with  us  die  our  foes  — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 
Come  when  it  will  —  we  snatch  the  life  of  life  — 
When  lost  —  what  recks  it  —  by  disease  or  strife  ? 
Let  him  who  crawls  enamored  of  decay 
Cling  to  his  couch  and  sicken  years  away ; 
Heavehisthick  breath,  and  shakehis  palsied  head  : 
Ours  —  the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 
While  gasp  liy  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul. 
Ours  with  one  pang  —  one  bound  —  escapes  con- 

ti-ol. 
His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave. 
And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave  : 
Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed. 
When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchei-s  our  dead. 


ff 


f 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


585 


-a 


u 


For  us,  even  baiinuets  I'ouJ  i egiuts  supply 
In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory ; 
And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 
When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey. 
And  cry,  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 
How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  nowl 

LORD  BYRON. 


MY   BRIGANTINE. 

Just  in  thy  mold  and  beauteous  in  thy  form, 
Gentle  in  roll  and  buoyant  on  the  surge. 
Light  as  the  sea-fowl  rocking  in  the  storm, 
In  breeze  and  gale  thy  onward  course  we  urge, 

My  water-queen  ! 

Lady  of  mine, 
More  light  and  swift  than  thou  none  thread  the 

sea 
With  surer  keel  or  steadier  on  its  path. 
We  brave  each  waste  of  ocean-mystery 
And  laugh  to  hear  the  howling  tempest's  wrath. 

For  we  are  thine. 

My  brigantine  ! 
Trust  to  the  mystic  power  that  points  thy  way. 
Trust  to  the  eye  that  pierces  from  afar  ; 
Trust  the  red  meteors  that  around  thee  play. 
And,  fearless,  trust  the  Sea-Green  Lady's  star, 

Thou  bark  divine  ! 

JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


THE   HEAVING  OF  THE  LEAD. 

For  England  when  with  favoring  gale 
Our  gallant  ship  up  channel  steered. 

And,  scudding  under  easy  sail. 

The  high  blue  western  land  appeared  ; 

To  heave  the  lead  the  seaman  spiung. 

And  to  the  pilot  cheerly  sung, 

"  By  the  deep  —  nine  !  " 

And  bearing  up  to  gain  the  port. 

Some  well-known  object  kept  in  view. 

An  abbey-tower,  a  harbor-fort, 
Or  beacon  to  the  vessel  truei} 

While  oft  the  lead  the  seaman  iiung. 

And  to  the  pilot  cheerly  sung, 

"  By  the  mark  —  seven  ! 

And  as  the  much-loved  shore  we  near. 
With  tran.sport  we  behold  the  roof 

Wliere  dwelt  a  friend  or  partner  dear. 
Of  faith  and  love  a  matchless  proof. 

The  lead  once  more  the  seaman  flung. 

And  to  the  watchful  pilot  sung, 

' '  Quarter  less  —  five  I  " 


Now  to  her  'oerth  the  ship  draws  nigh  : 
We  shorten  sail,  —  she  feels  the  tide,  — 

"  Stand  clear  the  cable  "  is  the  cry,  — 
The  anchor  's  gone  ;  we  safely  ride. 

The  watch  is  set,  and  through  the  night 

We  hear  the  seamen  with  delight 

Proclaim,  —  ' '  All 's  well ! " 

I'EARCE- 


ALL'S  WELL. 


,  BRITISH  FLEET." 


Deserted  by  the  waning  moon. 
When  skies  proclaim  night's  cheerless  noon. 
On  tower,  or  fort,  or  tented  ground 
The  sentry  walks  his  lonely  round  ; 
And  should  a  footstep  hajily  stray 
Where  caution  marks  the  guarded  way, 
"  Who  goes  there  !     Stranger,  quickly  tell  !  " 
"  A  friend  !  "     "  The  word  .' "     "  Good  night " 
all  's  well. 

Or  sailing  on  the  midnight  deep, 
When  weary  messmates  soundly  sleep, 
The  careful  watch  jiatrols  the  deck. 
To  guard  the  ship  from  foes  or  wreck  ; 
And  while  his  thoughts  oft  homewards  veer, 
Some  friendly  voice  salutes  his  ear,  — 
"  What  cheer  ?  brother,  quickly  tell  ; 
Above,  —  below."     Good  night  ;  all 's  well. 

THOMAS  DIBDIN. 


THE  TEMPEST. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Kot  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep,  — 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'T  is  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  t>last, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumjict 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence,  — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath. 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness. 
Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, 

"We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered. 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Is  n't  God  upon  the  ocean 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ? " 


-^ 


©-;: 


86 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


til 


Then  wo  kissed  the  little  miiidou. 
And  we  sjioke  in  hottor  ohoor. 

And  we  anohoiwl  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  mora  was  sliining  clear. 

JAMliS  T.  FIKLPS. 

—* — 

THE  MINUTE-GUN. 

When  in  the  storm  on  Albion's  coast, 
The  night-watch  guards  his  weary  post, 

Fixnn  thoughts  of  diuiger  free, 
He  marks  some  vessel's  dusky  form. 
And  heare,  amid  the  howling  storm. 

The  miuute-guii  at  sea. 

Swift  on  the  shoiv  a  haiily  few 

The  life-boi>t  man  with  a  giilhuit  cix'w 

And  dare  the  dangerous  wave  : 
Through  the  wild  smf  they  cleave  their-  way, 
Lost  in  the  foam,  nor  know  dismay, 

For  they  go  the  crew  to  save. 

But,  0,  what  rapture  fills  each  breast 
Of  the  hojieless  crew  of  the  ship  distressed  ! 
Then,  landed  sjife,  what  joy  to  tell 
Of  all  the  dangers  that  befell ! 
Then  is  heaiil  no  wore. 
By  the  watch  on  shore, 
The  minute-gun  at  sea. 

R.  S,  SHARPE. 


L 


THE  BAY  OF  BISCAY. 

Loud  roared  the  dreadful  thunder, 
The  niin  a  deluge  showcre, 

The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 
By  lightning's  vivid  powei-s  ; 

The  night  Iwth  dn>ar  ajid  dark, 

Our  poor  devoted  Iwrk, 

Till  next  day,  there  slie  lay, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0  ! 

Now  dashed  upon  tlie  billow. 
Her  opening  timbei's  creak. 

Each  fears  a  watery  pillow, 
Xone  stops  the  dreadful  leak ; 

To  ding  to  slippery  shrouds 

Each  breathless  seaman  crowds, 

As  she  lay,  till  the  day. 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0  ! 

At  length  the  wished-for  morrow 
Broke  through  the  hazy  sky, 

Al>sorliod  in  silent  sorrow, 
Rich  heaved  a  bitter  sigh  ; 

The  dismal  wreck  to  view 

Stnick  horror  to  the  crew. 

As  she  lay,  on  that  day, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0  ! 


Her  yielding  timWi's  sever. 

Her  pitchy  seams  are  rent. 
When  Heaven,  sill  bounteous  over. 

Its  Iwundless  merey  sent,  — 
A  sail  in  sight  appeai-s  ! 
We  hail  her  with  thre'e  cheere  ; 
Now  wo  sail,  with  the  gsile. 
From  the  Bay  of  liiscay,  0  ! 

ANDKliW  CmiRRV. 


IJOCKED  IN  THE  CRADIJ;  OF  TJIE  KKEP. 

KoCKK.o  in  the  cnidle  of  the  deep, 
I  lay  me  down  iu  peace  to  sleep  ; 
Secure  I  rest  upon  the  wave. 
For  thou,  0  Loul !  hast  power  to  save. 

1  know  thou  wilt  not  slight  my  call. 
For  thou  dost  mark  the  sptxrrow's  fall ; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, 
Kocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

And  such  the  trust  that  still  were  mine. 
Though  stormy  winds  swept  o'er  the  brine, 
Or  though  the  temiicst's  liery  breath 
Koused  me  from  sleep  to  wreck  and  death  ! 

In  ocean's  caves  still  s!\fc  with  thee. 
The  germ  of  immortality  ; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, 
Eocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 


THE  STORM. 

Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer  ! 

List,  ye  landsmen  all,  to  me  ; 
Messmates,  hear  a  brother  sjiilor 

Sing  the  dangers  of  the  sea  ; 

From  bounding  billows,  lirst  in  motion, 
Wlieu  the  distant  whirlwinds  rise. 

To  the  tempest-troubled  ocean, 
Wherei  the  seas  contend  with  skies. 

Hark  !  the  boatswain  hoarsely  Imwling, 
By  tojisail  sheets  and  halyni-ds  stand  ! 

Down  top4?»ll'"'ts  <inick  be  hauling  ! 

Down  your  stsiy-sails,  —  hand,  boys,  hivnd .' 

Now  it  fresliens,  set  the  braces, 

l)uick  the  tojisail  sheets  let  go  ; 
LutT,  Kn-s,  lutf !  don't  make  wry  faces. 

Up  your  topsails  nimbly  clew. 

Round  us  roars  the  tempest  louder, 
Think  what  fear  our  minds  inthralls) 

Harder  yet  it  blows,  still  harder. 
Now  iisprin  the  boatswain  calk. 


ff 


iB- 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


587 


n 


The  topsail  yard  point  to  the  wind,  boys, 
See  all  clear  to  reef  each  course  ; 

Let  the  foresheet  go,  —  don't  mind,  boys. 
Though  the  weather  should  be  woree. 

Kore  and  aft  the  spritsail-yard  get. 

Reef  the  mizzen,  see  all  clear  ; 
Hand  up,  each  preventer-brace  set  I 

Man  the  foreyards,  —  cheer,  lads,  cheer  ! 

Now  the  dreadful  thunder 's  roaring. 

Peal  on  peal  contending  ulasli, 
On  our  heads  fierce  rain  falls  pouring. 

In  our  eyes  blue  lightnings  Hash. 

One  wide  water  all  around  u». 

All  alx)ve  us  one  black  sky  ; 
Dilferent  deaths  at  once  surround  us  : 

Hark  I  wliat  means  that  dreadful  cry  ? 

Tlie  foremast 's  gone  !  cries  every  tongue  out, 
O'er  the  lee  twelve  feet  'bove  deck  ; 

A  leak  beneath  the  chest-tree  's  sprung  out. 
Call  all  hands  to  clear  the  wreck. 

Quick  the  lanyards  cut  to  pieces  ; 

Come,  my  hearts,  be  stout  and  bold  ; 
I'himl)  the  well,  — the  leak  increases. 

Four  feet  water  in  the  hold  I 

While  o'er  the  ship  wild  waves  are  beating. 
We  our  wives  and  children  mourn  , 

Alas  !  from  hence  there  's  no  retreating, 
Alas  !  to  them  there  's  no  return  ! 

Still  the  leak  is  gaining  on  us  ! 

Both  cliain-pumps  are  choked  below  : 
Heaven  have  mercy  here  ufjon  us  ! 

For  only  that  can  save  us  now. 

O'er  the  lee-beam  is  the  land,  boys, 
Let  the  guns  o'erboard  be  thrown  ; 

To  the  pumps  call  every  hand,  lioys. 
See  !  our  mizzen-mast  is  gone. 

The  leak  wa  've  found,  it  cannot  pour  fast ; 

We  've  lightened  her  a  foot  or  more  ; 
Up  and  rig  a  jury  foremast, 

She  rights !  she  rights,  boys !  wear  off  shore. 

GEORGE  ALEXANDER  STEVENS. 


h 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Ye  mariners  of  England, 

That  guard  our  native  seas  ; 

Whose  ilag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years. 

The  Ixittle  and  the  breeze  ! 


Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe ! 
And  sweep  llirougli  the  deep, 
While  tiie  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  ragi.'s  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

.Sliall  start  from  every  wave  ; 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave. 

Wlierc  Blake  and  miglity  Xelson  fell. 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks. 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves. 

Her  home  is  on  the  ilccp. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

Slie  ijuells  the  floods  t«;low,  — 

An  they  roar  on  the  shore. 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Tlie  meteor  flag  of  England 

Sliall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  tlie  fame  of  your  name, 

Wlien  the  stonn  has  ceased  to  blow ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


TOM  BOWLING. 

Heue,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew ; 
No  more  he  '11  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  death  has  broached  him  to. 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beautj'. 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 
Faithful,  below,  he  did  his  duty ; 

But  now  he  's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed. 

His  virtues  were  so  rare. 
His  friends  were  many  ancl  true-hearted. 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair: 
And  then  he  'd  sing,  so  blithe  and  jolly, 

.\h,  many 's  the  time  and  oft ! 


-A 


fr- 


588 


PUEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


-a 


But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy, 
For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  jiooi-  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

When  He  who  all  commands 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together. 

The  word  to  "pipe  all  hands." 
Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches, 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  dolled  : 
For  though  his  body  's  umler  hatches, 

His  soul  has  gone  aloft. 

CHARLES  DIBDIN. 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL. 

The  sea  was  bright,  and  the  bark  rode  well ; 
The  breeze  bore  the  tone  of  the  vesper  boll ; 
'T  was  a  gallant  bark  with  a  crew  as  brave 
As  ever  launched  on  the  heaving  wave. 
She  shone  in  the  light  of  decliinng  day. 
And  each  sail  was  set,  and  each  lieart  was  gay. 

They  neared  the  land  wlicre  in  licauty  smiles 
The  .sunny  shore  of  the  Creciari  Isles"; 
All  thought  of  home,  of  that  welcome  dear 
Which  soon  should  greet  each  wanderer's  ear  ; 
Aiul  in  fancy  joined  the  social  throng 
In  the  festive  dance  and  the  joyous  song. 

A  white  cloud  glides  through  the  azure  sky,  — 
What  means  that  wild  despairing  cry? 
Farewell  the  visioned  scenes  of  home  ! 
That  cry  is  "Help,"  where  no  help  can  come; 
For  the  White  Si|uall  rides  on  the  surging  wave, 
And  the  liark  is  'gulfed  in  an  ocean  grave. 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL, 


t^- 


On  deck,  beneath  the  awning, 
I  dozing  lay  and  yawning  ; 
It  was  the  gray  of  dawning, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  arose  : 
And  above  the  funnel's  roaring, 
And  the  fitful  wind's  deploring, 
1  heard  the  cabin  snoring 

Witli  universal  nose. 
1  could  hear  the  passengers  snorting, 
I  envied  their  disporting,  — 
Vainly  I  was  courting 

The  pleasure  of  a  doze. 

So  I  lay,  and  wondered  why  light 
Came  not,  and  watched  the  twilight, 
And  the  glimmer  of  the  skylight. 
That  shot  across  the  deck  ; 


And  the  binnacle  pale  and  steady. 
And  the  dull  gliuipse  of  the  dead-eye, 
And  the  sparks  in  liery  eddy 

That  whirletl  from  the  chimney  neck. 
In  our  jovial  lloating  prison 
There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizzeu, 
And  never  a  star  had  risen 

The  hazy  sky  to  speck. 
Strange  company  we  harbored  : 
We  d  a  hundred  Jews  to  larboard. 
Unwashed,  uneomlied,  unbarbered,  — 

Jews  black  and  brown  and  gray. 

With  terror  it  would  seize  ye. 
And  make  your  soids  uneasy. 
To  see  those  Kaliliis  greasy. 

Who  did  naught  but  .scratch  and  pray. 
Their  dirty  cluldreu  puking,  — 
Their  dirty  saucepans  cooking,  — 
Their  dirty  fingers  hooking 

Their  swarnung  lleas  away. 

To  starboard  Turks  and  f!  reeks  were,  — 
Whiskered  and  browu  their  cheeks  were, 
Enormous  wide  their  breeks  were,  — 

Their  pipes  did  pulf  away  ; 
Each  on  his  mat  allotted 
In  silence  smoked  and  .squatted, 
Whilst  round  their  children  trotted 

In  pretty,  pleasant  play. 
He  can't  but  smile  who  traces 
The  smiles  on  those  brown  faces, 
And  the  pretty,  prattling  graces 

Of  those  small  heathens  gay. 

And  so  the  liours  kept  tolling; 

And  through  the  ocean  rolling 

Went  the  brave  Iberia  bowling, 

Before  the  break  of  day,  — 

When  a  sciuall,  U]>ou  a  sudilen, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  scudding  ; 
And  the  clouds  began  to  gather, 
.\nil  the  sea  was  lashed  to  lather, 
.Villi  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled, 
.\nd  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled. 
Anil  the  ship,  and  all  the  ocean. 
Woke  up  in  wild  commotion. 
Then  the  wind  set  up  a  howling, 
And  the  poodle-dog  a  yowling, 
An<l  the  cocks  began  a  crowing. 
Anil  the  old  cow  raised  a  lowing. 
As  she  heard  the  tempest  blowing  ; 
And  fowls  and  geese  did  cackle, 
And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  crackle  ; 
And  the  spray  dashed  o'er  the  funnels, 
And  down  the  deck  in  runnels  ; 


i 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


589 


ra 


& 


And  tlie  msliing  water  soaks  all, 
Ffoin  tlie  seamen  in  the  fo'ksal 
To  the  stokers,  whose  black  faces 
Peer  out  of  their  bed-places  ; 
And  the  captain  he  was  bawling, 
And  the  sailors  pulling,  hauling. 
And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 
Was  shivered  in  the  squalling  ; 
And  the  passengers  awaken, 
Most  pitifully  shaken  ; 
And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 
For  the  necessary  basins. 

Then  the  Greeks  they  groaned  and  quivered. 

And  they  knelt  and  moaned  and  shivered. 

As  the  plunging  waters  met  them, 

And  splashed  and  overset  them  ; 

And  they  called  in  their  emergence 

Upon  countless  saints  and  virgins  ; 

And  their  maiTOwbones  are  bended, 

And  they  think  the  world  is  ended. 

And  the  Turkish  women  for'ard 

Were  frightened  and  behorrored  ; 

And,  shrieking  and  bewildering, 

The  mothers  clutched  their  children  ; 

The  men  sang  "  Allah  !  Illah  ! 

Ihishallah  Bismillah  !  " 

As  the  warring  waters  doused  them. 

And  splashed  them  and  soused  them  ; 

And  they  called  upon  the  Prophet, 

Who  thought  but  little  of  it. 

Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewiy 

Jumped  up  and  bit  like  fury  ; 

And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 

Did  on  the  main-deck  wake  up, 

(1  wot  those  greasy  Rabbins 

Would  never  pay  for  rabins  ;) 

And  cai'h  man  moaned  .ind  jabbered  in 

His  filthy  Jewish  gabardine, 

In  woe  and  lamentation, 

And  howling  consternation. 

And  the  splashing  water  drenches 

Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches  ; 

And  they  crawl  from  bales  and  benches. 

In  a  hundred  thousand  stenches. 

This  was  the  white  squall  famous. 

Which  latterly  o'ercame  us. 

And  which  all  will  well  remember. 

On  the  28th  September  ; 

Wlien  a  Prussian  captain  of  Lancers 

(Those  tight-laced,  whiskered  prancers) 

l-'ame  on  tlie  deck  astonished. 

By  that  wild  squall  admonished, 

And  wondering  cried,  ' '  Potz  tausend, 

Wie  ist  der  Stiirm  jetzt  brausend  ? " 

And  looked  at  Captain  Lewis, 


Who  calmly  stood  and  blew  his 

Cigar  in  all  the  bustle. 

And  scorned  the  tempest's  tussle. 

And  oft  we  've  thought  hereafter 

How  he  beat  the  storm  to  laughter  ; 

For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 

With  that  vain  wind  could  wrestle  ; 

And  wlien  a  wrecli  we  thought  her. 

Ami  doomed  oureelves  to  slaughter, 

How  gayly  he  fought  her, 

And  througli  the  hubbub  brought  her. 

And  as  the  tempest  caught  her, 

Cried,  "George,  some  brandy  and  water  ! ' 

And  when,  its  force  c.\[iended. 
The  harmless  storm  Wiis  ended, 
And  as  the  sunrise  sjilendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea,  — 
I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 
My  little  girls  were  waking, 
And  smiling,  and  making 

A  prayer  at  liome  for  me. 

WlLLlA.M  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


OTJR  BOAT  TO  THE  WAVES. 

Our  boat  to  the  waves  go  free. 

By  the  bending  tide,  where  the  curled  wave 

breaks. 
Like  the  track  of  the  wind  on  the  wldte  snow- 
flakes  ; 
Away,  away  !     'T  is  a  path  o'er  the  soa. 

Blasts  may  rave,  —  spread  the  sail. 

For  our  spirits  can  wrest  the  power  from  the 
wind, 

And  the  gray  clouds  yield  to  the  sunny  mind. 
Fear  not  we  the  whirl  of  the  g.ale. 

WILLIAM  HI.LERY  CHANNING. 


To  sea !  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er, 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport. 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore. 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
And  unseen  mermaid's  pearly  song 
Comes  bulibling  up,  the  weeds  among. 
Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar : 
To  sea  !  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea  !  to  sea  !  our  white-winged  bark 
Shall  billowing  cleave  its  watery  way. 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark. 
Break  the  caved  Triton's  azure  day, 


'-S 


e- 


590 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


-^ 


Like  mountain  eagle  soai'ing  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves  !     The  sliip  swings  fi-ee  ! 

Our  sails  swell  full !     To  sea  !  to  sea  ! 

THOMAS  UOVELL  B£01>0ES. 


THE  SAILOKS  CONSOLATION. 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane. 

The  sea  was  niountains  Killing, 
When  Biuuey  Buntlinc  turned  his  nuiil, 

And  said  to  ISiUy  Bowling : 
"A  strong  nor'wester  's  blowing.  Bill ; 

Hark !  don't  ye  hear  it  roar  now  ? 
Lord  help  "em,  how  1  pities  all 

Unhappy  folks  on  sJioiv  now  ! 

Koolhaixly  chai>s  who  live  in  towns, 
What  danger  they  are  all  in, 

And  now  lie  quaking  in  their  beds, 
For  fear  the  roof  shall  fall  in  ; 


Poor  civatui-es  !  how  they  envies  ns. 

And  wishes,  I  've  a  notion. 
For  our  gooii  luck,  in  such  a  storm, 

To  be  upon  the  ocean ! 

And  as  for  them  who  "re  out  all  day 

On  business  from  their  houses. 
And  late  at  night  are  coming  home. 

To  cheer  their  babes  and  sixnises,  — 
While  you  and  1,  Bill,  on  the  deck 

Are  comfortably  lying. 
My  eyes  !  what  tiles  and  chimney-pots 

About  their  heads  aie  flying ! 

And  vei-y  often  have  we  heai-d 

How  men  are  killed  and  undone 
By  overturns  of  carriages. 

By  thieves  and  fires  in  London. 
We  know  what  risks  all  landsmen  run. 

From  noblemen  to  tailors  ; 
Then,  Bill,  let  us  thank  1^'ovideuce 

That  you  and  I  are  sailoi-s." 

TltO.MAS  Hoou* 


«sly  anribme\i  lo  Charles  Dibdin. 


U- 


-^ 


r 


-•^ 


0   yPc/^  "c^m^TTZa^/UM^    /^CI-  JlVtcj^ 

^n)   97021// t~ (/en.     /XT'  cu^a^^^    i^i-e^ /^sA^ i-^h^ j 


L -^ 


a- 


n 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL 
SPORTS. 


&^ 


CHEVT-CHASE. 

[Percy.  Earl  of  Northumberland,  had  vowed  to  hunt  for  three 
days  in  the  Scottish  border,  without  condescending  to  asic  leave 
from  Earl  Douglas,  who  was  either  lord  of  the  soil  or  lord  warden 
of  the  Marches.  This  provoked  the  conflict  which  was  celebrated 
in  the  old  ballad  of  the  "  Hunting  o"  the  Cheviot."  The  circum- 
stances of  the  battle  of  Otterboume  (A.  D.  rjSSl  are  woven  into  the 
ballad,  and  the  affairs  of  the  two  events  are  confounded  The  bal- 
lad preserved  in  the  Percy  Reliques  is  probably  as  old  as  15; 
The  one  following  is  a  modernized  form,  of  the  time  of  James  I.] 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all ; 
A  woful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  C'hevy-t'hase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way  ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make. 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  to  take,  — 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chase 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay ; 

Who  sent  Earl  Percy  present  word 

He  would  prevent  his  sport. 
The  English  earl,  not  fearing  that. 

Did  to  the  woods  resort. 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold. 

All  chosen  men  of  might. 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  gi-eyhounds  swiftly  ran 

To  chase  the  fallow  deer  ; 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt. 

When  daylight  did  appear  ; 

And  long  before  high  noon  they  had 
A  hundred  fat  bucks  slain : 


Then,  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 
To  rouse  the  deer  again. 

The  bowmen  mustered  on  the  hills. 

Well  able  to  endure  ; 
And  all  their  rear,  with  special  care, 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods 

The  nimble  deer  to  take. 
That  witli  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went. 
To  view  the  slaughtered  deer ; 

Quoth  he,  "Earl  Douglas  promised 
This  day  to  meet  me  here  ; 

"  But  if  I  tliought  he  would  not  come. 

No  longer  would  I  stay"  ; 
AVith  that  a  brave  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  earl  did  say  :  — 

' '  Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come,  — 

His  men  in  ai-mor  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

AH  marching  in  our  sight ; 

"  All  men  of  pleasant  Teviotdale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed  "  ; 
"Then  cease  your  sports,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

' '  And  take  your  bows  with  speed  ; 

"  And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Your  courage  forth  advance  ; 
For  never  was  there  champion  yet, 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

' '  That  ever  did  on  horseback  come. 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
1  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

AVith  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-white  steed. 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  his  company, 

AA'^hose  armor  shone  like  gold. 


i 


fi- 


592 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


h 


"Slunv  me,"  said  he,  "whose  men  you  be 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  witliout  my  cousent,  do  chase 

Aiid  kill  my  fallow-deer." 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make. 

Was  noble  I'ercy  ho  — 
AVlio  said,  "We  list  not  to  declare. 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be  : 

"  Yet  will  we  spend  our  dearest  blood 

Thy  chiefest  harts  to  slay." 
Then  IVniglas  swore  u  solemn  oath. 

And  thus  in  ras^e  did  say  : 

"  Ere  thus  1  will  out-brartd  be. 

One  of  US  two  shall  die  ; 
I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  art,  — 

LokI  Percy,  so  am  1. 

' '  But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were, 

And  gi-eat  offense,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men. 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

"Let  you  and  me  the  battle  try. 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
"Accursed  be  he,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"  By  whom  this  is  denied." 

Then  stepped  a  gallant  sipiirc  forth, 

Witheriugton  was  his  name, 
AVho  said,  "  1  would  not  have  it  told 

To  Henry,  our  king,  for  shame, 

"That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot. 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 
You  two  be  earls,"  said  Withcrington, 

' '  And  I  a  sqtiire  alone  ; 

"  I  '11  do  the  best  that  do  I  may. 
While  I  have  power  to  stand  ; 

While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword 
I  '11  figlit  with  heart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows,  — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true  ; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent. 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 

Yet  stays  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 

.\s  chieftain  stout  and  good  ; 
As  valiant  captain,  all  unmoved. 

The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  ho  parted  had  in  three. 

As  leader  ware  and  tried  ; 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bore  down  on  every  side. 


Throughout  the  Euglish  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound  ; 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
AU  firmly  kept  their  ground. 

And  throwing  straight  their  bows  away, 
They  gra.sped  their  swords  so  bright ; 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side,  — 
No  slackness  there  was  found  ; 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

In  troth,  it  was  a  grief  to  see 
How  each  one  chose  liis  spear. 

And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  breasts 
Did  gush  like  water  clear. 

At  last  these  two  stout  earls  did  meet ; 

Like  captains  of  great  might. 
Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode. 

And  made  a  cruel  fight. 

They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat, 
With  swords  of  tempered  steel, 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain, 
They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

"Yield  thee,  Loixl  Percy,"  Douglas  said, 

"In  faith  I  will  thee  bring 
"Wliere  thou  shalt  high  advancW  be 

By  James,  our  Scottish  king. 

"Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give. 

And  this  report  of  thee,  — 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 

"No,  Douglas,"  saith  Earl  Percy  then, 

' '  Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn  ; 
I  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 

That  ever  yet  was  bora." 

With  that  there  eanie  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow. 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart,  ■ 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow ; 

AVho  never  spake  more  words  than  these  : 
"  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end  ; 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 

Then  leaving  life.  Earl  Percy  took 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand  ; 
And  said,  "Earl  Douglas,  fur  thy  life 

Would  I  had  lost  my  land. 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


593 


tD 


"  In  truth,  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  soriow  for  thy  sake  ; 
For  sure  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take." 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was 

Wlio  saw  Earl  Douglas  die, 
Wlio  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 

Upon  the  Earl  Percy. 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  wa.s  he  called, 
Who,  with  a  spear  full  bright, 

Well  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 

Witliout  a  dread  or  fear ; 
And  through  Earl  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  spear. 

With  such  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore. 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard  and  more. 

So  llius  did  both  these  nobles  die. 
Whose  courage  none  could  stain. 

An  lOnglish  archer  then  perceived 
Tlie  noble  earl  was  slain. 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand. 

Made  of  a  trusty  ti'ee  ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

To  tlie  hard  head  haled  he. 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 

So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 
Tlie  gray  goose  wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun  ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Earl  Percy  there  were  slain 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  RatcIiH',  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 
Both  knights  of  good  account. 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slain, 
Wliose  prowess  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  my  heart  is  woe 

That  ever  he  slain  should  be. 
For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two. 

He  knelt  and  fought  on  his  knee. 


And  with  Earl  Douglas  there  were  slain 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  I'rom  the  field 

One  foot  would  never  Uec ; 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Ratcliff,  too,  — 

His  sister's  son  was  he  ; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

liut  saved  he  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die  : 
Of  twenty  hundred  .Scottish  spears. 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three  ; 
The  rest  in  Chevy-C'liase  were  slain. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Ne.xt  day  did  many  widows  come. 

Their  husbands  to  bewail  ; 
They  washed  tlieir  wounds  in  brinish  tears. 

Hut  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 

Tlicy  bore  with  them  away ; 
They  kissed  tliem  dead  a  thou.sand  times. 

Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Wliere  Scotland's  king  did  reign. 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain  : 

" 0  heavy  news,"  King  James  did  say ; 

".Scotland  can  witness  be 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 

Of  such  account  as  he." 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northuml>erland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy-Chase  : 

"  Now  God  be 'with  him,"  said  our  King, 

"  Since  't  will  no  better  be  ; 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he  : 

"  Yet  shall  not  Scots  or  Scotland  say 

But  1  will  vengeance  take  ; 
I  '11  be  revengtd  on  them  all 

For  brave  Earl  Percy's  .'sake." 

This  vow  full  wei!  the  King  performed 

After  at  Humbledown  ; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain 

With  lords  of  high  renown ; 


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594 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


-^ 


And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Dill  many  hundreds  die  ; 
Thus  endeth  the  liunting  of  Chevy-Chose, 

Made  by  the  Earl  I'ercy. 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  this  land. 

With  plenty,  joy,  and  peace  ; 
And  grant,  henceforth,  that  foul  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 

RICHARD  SHEALH. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A-DALE. 

[Of  Robin  HooJ.  the  f.uiunis  outliiw  of  ShcrwooJ  Forest,  and  Ills 
merry  men,  there  are  many  ballads  i  but  the  limits  of  this  volimic 
forbid  onr  giving  more  than  a  single  selection. 

Various  periods,  ranging  from  the  time  of  Richard  1.  to  the  end 
of  the  reign  of  Edward  II,.  have  been  assigned  as  the  age  in  which 
Robin  Hood  lived.  He  is  usually  described  as  a  yeom,-tn,  abiding 
in  Sherwood  Forest,  in  Nottinghamshire,  His  most  noted  followers, 
generally  mentioned  in  the  ballads,  are  Little  John,  Friar  Tuck, 
his  chaplain,  and  his  maid  Marian.  Nearly  all  the  legends  extol  his 
courage,  his  generosity,  his  humanity,  and  his  skill  as  an  archer. 
He  robbed  the  rich  only,  who  could  afford  to  lose,  and  gave  Jreely 
til  th.'  iK'iT.  He  protected  the  needy,  was  a  champion  of  the  fair 
sc\,  .iiul  took  great  delight  in  plundering  prelates.  The  following 
ballad  exhibits  the  outlaw  in  one  of  his  most  attractive  aspects. — 
affording  assistance  to  a  distressed  lover.] 


Come,  listen  to  me,  you  gaUants  so  free, 
All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear, 

And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bolil  outlaw, 
That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  liobin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood. 

All  under  the  greenwood  tree. 
There  he  was  aware  of  a  brave  young  man. 

As  fine  as  tine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay  ; 
Ami  lie  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chanted  a  roundelay. 

As  Kobin  Hood  next  morning  stood 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay. 
There  ditl  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 

It  was  clean  cast  away  ; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a  sigh, 

"  Alack  and  well-a-tlay  !  " 

Then  steppJ'il  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  llidge,  the  miller's  son  ; 
"Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow, 

Wheiias  he  see  them  come. 

"Stand  oft'!  stand  oil"!"  the  young  man  said, 
"  What  is  your  will  with  me  ? " 

' '  You  must  come  before  our  master  sti'a  (ght, 
Under  yon  greenwood  tree." 


And  when  he  came  bold  Eobin  before, 

Kobin  asked  him  courteously, 
"  0,  hiist  thou  any  money  to  .spare. 

For  my  merry  men  and  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  the  young  man  said, 

"  But  five  shillings  and  a  ring  ; 
And  that  I  have  kept  these  seven  long  years. 

To  have  at  my  wedding. 

"  Yesterday  1  should  have  married  a  maid. 

But  she  was  from  me  ta'en. 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight. 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain." 

"  What  is  thy  name  ? "  then  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  Come  tell  me  without  any  fail." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"  My  name  it  is  AUen-a-Dale." 

"  Wliat  wilt  thou  give  mo,"  said  Kobin  Hooil, 

"  In  ready  gokl  or  fee, 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true-love  again, 

And  deliver  her  luito  thee  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  then  ijuoth  the  young  man, 

"  No  ready  gold  nor  fee. 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  be." 

"  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true-love  ? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile. " 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"  It  is  but  five  little  mile." 

Then  Kobin  he  hasted  over  the  plain. 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  liu,* 
Until  he  came  unto  tht^  church 

AVhere  Allen  should  keep  his  weilding." 

"  What  hast  thou  here  ?  "  the  bishop  then  said, 

"  1  prithee  now  tell  unto  me." 
"  I  am  a  bold  harper,"  ijuoth  Kobin  Hood, 

"  And  the  best  in  the  north  country." 

"0,  welcome,  0,  welcome,"  the  bishop  he  said, 

"That  music  best  pleaseth  me." 
"You  shall  have  no  music,"  quoth  Kobin  Hood, 

"  Till  the  bride  and  bridegroom  1  see." 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 

Which  was  both  gi-ave  and  oltl  ; 
And  after  him  a  finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 


^- 


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e- 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


595 


ra 


"  This  is  not  a  tit  iiiatcli,"  rjuoth  Robin  Hood, 
' '  That  you  do  seem  to  make  here  ; 

For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church, 
The  bride  shall  chuse  her  own  dear." 

Tlien  Itobin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  and  three ; 
When  four-and-twi'iity  yeomen  bold 

Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 

And  when  they  came  into  the  churchyard, 

Marching  all  in  a  row, 
The  very  first  man  was  AUen-a-Dale, 

To  give  bold  Kobiu  his  bow. 

"This  is  thy  true-love,"  Robin  he  said, 

"  Young  Allen,  as  I  hear  say  ; 
Ami  you  shall  be  married  at  this  same  time, 

Lietbre  wo  depart  away." 

"  That  shall  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  ciied, 

"  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand  ; 
They  shall  be  three  times  asked  in  the  church. 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 

Roljin  Hood  ]julled  off  the  bishop's  coat. 

Anil  put  it  u]ion  Little  John  ; 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  Robin  said, 

"  This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a  man." 

When  Little  .John  went  into  the  (juire. 

The  people  began  to  laugh ; 
He  asked  them  seven  times  in  the  church 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

"  Who  gives  me  this  maid  ? "  said  Little  John, 
Quoth  Robin  Hood,  "  That  do  I  ; 

Ami  he  that  takes  her  from  AUen-a-Dale, 
Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy." 

And  then,  having  ended  this  merry  wedding, 

The  bride  looked  like  a  queen  ; 
And  so  they  returned  to  the  meiry  greenwood, 

.'Vmongst  the  leaves  so  green. 

Anonymous. 


JOCK  JOHNSTONE,    THE  TINKLER. 

"0,  CAME  ye  ower  by  the  Yoke-burn  Ford, 
Or  down  the  King's  Road  of  the  cleuch  ?  * 

Or  saw  ye  a  knight  and  a  lady  bright, 

Wlia  ha'e  gane  the  gate  they  baith  shall  rue  ? ' 

"  I  saw  a  knight  and  a  lady  bright 
Ride  up  the  cleuch  at  the  break  of  day  ; 

The  knight  upon  a  coal-black  steed. 
And  the  dame  on  one  of  a  silver-gi'ay. 


"  And  the  lady's  palfrey  flew  the  first, 
With  many  a  clang  of  silver  bell  : 

Swift  as  the  raven's  morning  flight 
The  two  went  scouring  ower  the  fell. 

"  liy  this  time  they  are  man  and  wife. 
And  standing  in  St.  Mary's  fane  ; 

And  the  lady  in  the  grass-green  silk 
A  maid  you  will  never  see  again." 

"  Hut  I  can  tell  thee,  saucy  wight,  — 
And  that  the  runaway  shall  prove,  — 

Revenge  to  a  Douglas  is  as  sweet 
As  maiden  charms  or  maiden's  love." 

"  Since  thou  say'st  that,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
(Jood  faith  some  clinking  there  will  be  ; 

Ik-shrew  my  heart   but  and  my  sword. 
If  I  winna  turn  and  ride  with  thee  ! " 

They  whipped  out  ower  the  Shepherd  Cleuch, 
And  douu  the  links  o'  the  Corsedeuch  Bum  ; 

And  aye  the  Douglas  swore  by  his  sword 
To  win  his  love,  or  ne'er  return. 

"  First  fight  your  rival.  Lord  Douglas, 

And  then  brag  after,  if  you  may ; 
For  the  Earl  of  Ross  is  as  brave  a  lord 

As  ever  gave  good  weapon  sway. 

"  But  I  for  ae  poor  siller  raerk. 
Or  thii-teen  pennies  and  a  bawbee, 

Will  tak  in  hand  to  fight  you  baith. 
Or  beat  the  winner,  whiche'er  it  be." 

The  Douglas  turned  him  on  his  steed, 
And  I  wat  a  loud  laughter  leuch  he  : 

"  Of  a'  the  fools  1  have  ever  met, 
Man,  I  ha'e  never  met  ane  like  thee. 

' '  Art  thou  .akin  to  lord  or  knight. 
Or  coui-tly  sijuire  or  warrior  leal  ? " 

"  I  am  a  tinkler,"  quo'  the  wight, 
"  But  I  like  croun-cracking  unco  weeL" 

When  they  came  to  St.  Mary's  kirk. 
The  chaplain  shook  for  very  fear  ; 

And  aye  he  kissed  the  cross,  and  said, 

"  What  deevil  has  sent  that  Douglas  here  ' 

"  He  neither  values  book  nor  ban. 

But  curses  all  without  demur  ; 
And  cares  nae  mair  for  a  holy  man 

Than  I  do  for  a  worthless  cur." 

"Come  Ill-re,  thou  bland  and  brittle  priest, 

.•\nd  tell  to  me  without  delay 
Where  you  have  hid  the  lord  of  Ross 

And  the  lady  that  came  at  the  break  of  day. " 


-tl^ 


[fi-: 


596 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


-n 


B-^- 


"  No  knight  or  lady,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
Have  I  boheld  since  bieak  of  morn  ; 

And  I  never  saw  the  lord  of  Kos3 

Since  the  woful  day  that  I  was  bora." 

Lord  Douglas  turned  him  round  about, 
And  looked  the  Tinkler  in  the  face  ; 

Where  he  lieheld  a  lurking  smile, 
And  a  deevil  of  a  dour  grimace. 

"  How  's  this,  how  's  this,  thou  Tinkler  loun '! 

Hast  Ihou  j)resumetl  to  lie  on  me  ? " 
"  Faith  thill  I  have  !  "  the  Tinkler  said, 

"And  a  right  good  turn  1  have  done  to  thee  ; 

"  For  the  lord  of  Ross  and  thy  own  true-love. 
The  beauteous  Harriet  of  Thirlestane, 

Kude  west  away,  ore  the  break  of  day  ; 
And  you  '11  never  see  the  dear  maid  again  ; 

"  So  I  thought  it  best  to  bring  you  here. 
On  a  wrang  scent,  of  my  own  accord  ; 

For  had  you  met  the  Johnstone  clan, 
Tliey  wad  ha'e  made  mince-meat  of  a  lord." 

At  this  the  Douglas  was  so  wroth 

Ho  wist  not  what  to  say  or  do  ; 
But  he  strak  the  Tinkler  o'er  the  croun. 

Till  the  blood  came  dreeping  ower  his  brow. 

"  lioshrew  my  heart,"  quo'  the  Tinkler  lad, 
"  Thou  bear'st  thee  most  ungallantlye  ! 

If  these  are  the  manners  of  a  lord, 
Thoy  are  manners  tliatwinuagangdounwi' me." 

"  Hold  up  thy  hand,"  the  Douglas  cried, 
"And  keep  thy  distance.  Tinkler  loun  !" 

"That  will  1  not,"  the  Tinkler  said, 

"  Though   I   and    ray  mure    should    both  go 
douu  ! " 

"  1  have  armor  on,"  ei-ied  the  Lonl  Douglas, 
"Cuirass  and  helm,  as  you  may  see." 

"  The  doil  mo  care  !  "  quo'  tho  Tinkler  lad  ; 
"  1  shall  have  a  skolp  at  them  and  thee." 

"  You  are  not  horsed,"  quo'  the  Lord  Douglas, 
"  And  no  remorse  this  weapon  brooks." 

"  Mine  's  a  right  good  yaud,"  ijuo'  the  Tinkler 
lad, 
"  And  a  great  ileal  better  nor  slie  looks. 

"So  stand  to  thy  weapons,  thou  haughty  lord. 
What  1  have  taken  1  needs  must  give  ; 

Tliou  slialt  never  strike  a  tinkler  again, 
F(U'  tlio  langest  day  thou  hast  to  live. " 

Then  to  it  they  fell,  both  sharp  and  snell, 
Till  the  fire  from  both  their  weapons  Hew  ; 

But  the  very  first  shock  that  they  met  with, 
Tho  Douglas  his  rashness  'gan  to  ruo. 


For  though  he  had  on  a  sark  of  mail, 
And  a  cuirass  on  his  breast  wore  he, 

With  a  good  steel  bonnet  on  his  head, 
Yet  the  blood  ran  trickling  to  his  knee. 

The  Douglas  sat  upright  and  finn. 

Aye  as  together  their  horses  ran  ; 
But  the  Tinkler  laid  on  like  a  very  deil,  — 

Siccan  strokes  were  never  laid  on  by  man. 

"  Hold  up  thy  hand,  thou  Tinkler  loun," 
Cried  the  poor  priest,  with  whining  din  ; 

"  If  thou  liurt  the  brave  Lord  .lames  Douglas, 
A  curse  be  on  thee  and  all  thy  kin  ! " 

"  I  care  no  more  for  Lord  James  Douglas 
Than  Lord  .lames  Douglas  cares  for  me  ; 

But  1  want  to  let  his  proud  heart  know 
That  a  tinkler 's  a  man  as  well  ns  he." 

So  they  fought  on,  and  they  fought  on, 
Till  good  Lord  Douglas'  breath  was  gone  ; 

And  the  Tinkler  bore  him  to  the  ground, 
With  rush,  with  rattle,  and  with  groan. 

"  O  liiin  !  ( •  liou  !  "  cried  the  proud  Douglas, 
"  That  1  this  day  should  have  lived  to  sec  ! 

For  sure  my  honor  I  have  lost, 

And  a  leader  again  I  can  never  be  ! 

"  But  tell  me  of  thy  kith  and  kin, 
And  where  was  bred  thy  weapon  hand  ? 

For  thou  art  the  wale  of  tinkler  louns 
That  ever  was  born  in  fair  Scotland." 

"  My  name  's  Jock  Johnstone,"  quo'  the  wight  ; 

"  1  winna  keep  in  my  name  frae  thee  ; 
Anil  here,  tak  thou  thy  sword  again. 

And  better  friends  we  two  shall  be." 

But  the  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath. 
That  was  a  debt  he  could  never  owe  ; 

He  would  rather  die  at  the  back  of  the  dike 
Thau  owe  his  sword  to  a  man  so  low. 

"But  if  thou  wilt  ride  under  my  banner. 
And  bear  my  livery  and  my  name, 

My  right-hand  warrior  thou  shalt  lie 

Aud  I  '11  kuight  thee  on  the  field  of  fame." 

"  Woe  worth  thy  wit,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
To  think  I  'd  change  my  trade  for  thine  ; 

Far  lietter  and  wiser  would  you  be. 
To  live  a  journeyman  of  mine, 

' '  To  mend  a  kettle  or  a  casque , 
Or  clout  a  goodwife's  yettlin'  pan,  — 

Upon  my  life,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
You  \i  make  a  noble  tinkler-man  ! 


--& 


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POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL   SPORTS. 


59 


ra 


B-- 


' '  I  would  give  you  a  drammock  twice  a  day, 

And  suiikets  ou  a  Sunday  niuru, 
And  you  should  be  a  rare  adi'jjt 

In  steel  and  copper,  brass  :ind  born  ! 

"  I  'II  fight  you  every  day  you  rise, 

Till  you  can  act  the  hero's  part ; 
Therefore,  I  pray  you,  tlduk  of  this, 

Aud  lay  it  seriously  to  heart." 

The  Douglas  writhed  beneath  the  lash. 
Answering  with  an  inward  curse,  — 

Like  salmon  wriggling  on  a  spear. 
That  makes  his  deadly  wound  the  worse. 

liut  up  there  came  two  squires  renowned  ; 

In  search  of  Lord  Douglas  they  came ; 
And  when  they  saw  their  master  down, 

i'lieir  spirits  mounted  in  a  tlame. 

Anil  they  flew  upon  the  Tinkler  wight, 

l.ikr  |..-ir.r(,  tiL'rrs  ou  their  prey  : 
Hut  till    Til! I. in  lir.ived  his  trusty  sword, 
And  nude  l.iin  ready  for  the  fray. 

"Uunic  one  to  one,  ye  eowanl  knaves,  — 
1  'oiiie  hand  to  hand,  and  steed  to  steed  ; 

1  would  that  ye  were  better  men, 
For  this  is  glorious  work  indeed  ! " 

lieforc  you  could  have  counted  twelve. 

The  Tinkler's  wondrous  chivalrye 
Hail  both  the  squires  upon  the  sward, 

And  their  horses  galloping  o'er  the  lea. 

Th(!  Tinkler  tied  them  neck  and  heel. 

And  mony  a  biting  jest  gave  he  : 
"  0  lie,  for  shame  !  "  said  the  Tinkler  lad  ; 

"Siccan  fighters  I  did  never  see  !  " 

111-  slit  one  iif  their  bridle  reins,— 
(>,  wli.it  ilisj,n:iir  th.  r,, liquored  feels  I  — 

And  hi'  sl<il[iil  the  squiies  with  that  good  tawse, 
'I'ill  tlie  blood  ran  o(f  at  baith  their  heels. 

Thr  Douglas  ho  was  forced  to  laugh 
Till  down  his  cheek  the  salt  tear  ran  : 

"  I  think  the  deevil  be  come  here 
In  the  likeness  of  a  tinkler  man  ! " 

Then  ho  has  to  Lord  Douglas  gone, 

And  ho  raised  him  kindly  by  the  hand, 

And  be  set  him  on  his  gallant  steed, 
And  bore  him  away  to  Henderland  : 

"  I!e  not  cost  down,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
Nor  writlie  beneath  a  broken  banc ; 

For  the  leech's  art  will  mend  the  part, 
Arid  your  honor  lost  will  spring  again. 


"  'T  is  true,  Jock  Johnstone  is  ray  name  ; 

I  'ra  a  right  good  tinkler,  as  you  see  ; 
For  I  can  crack  a  casque  betimes. 

Or  clout  one,  as  my  need  may  be. 

"  Jiiek  .Johnstone  is  my  name,  'tis  true,  — 
liut  noble  hearts  are  allied  to  me  ; 

For  1  am  the  loi'd  of  Annandale, 

And  a  knight  and  earl  as  well  as  thee." 

Then  Douglas  strained  the  hero's  hand, 
And  took  from  it  his  sword  again  : 

"Since  thou  art  tlie  lord  of  Annandale, 
Thou  hast  eased  my  he.irt  of  meikle  pain. 

"  1  might  have  known  thy  noble  form 
111  that  disguise  thou  'rl  pleiused  to  wear  ; 

All  .Scotland  knows  thy  matcliless  arm, 
Ami  England  by  e.xi)eriene<!  dear. 

"  We  have  been  fui-s  as  well  as  friends. 
And  jealous  of  each  other's  sway  ; 

liut  little  can  I  compreluuid 
Thy  motive  for  these  pranks  to-day." 

"Sooth,  my  good  lord,  the  truth  to  tell, 
'T  w:us  1  that  stole  youi'  love  away, 

And  gave  her  to  the  lord  of  Ross 
An  hour  before  the  break  of  day ; 

"  For  the  lord  of  Koss  is  my  brother, 

Uy  all  the  laws  of  chivalrye  ; 
And  1  brought  with  me  a  thousand  men 

To  guard  him  to  niy  ain  countryo. 

"  Hut  I  thought  meet  to  stay  behind, 
And  try  your  lordship  to  w.iylay, 

Ilesolved  to  lireed  some  noble  sport, 
Hy  leading  you  so  far  a.stray. 

"Juilging  it  better  some  lives  to  spare,  — 
Which  fancy  takes  me  now  and  then,  — 

And  settle  our  quarrel  hand  to  hanil. 
Than  each  with  our  ten  thousand  men. 

' '  God  send  you  soon,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
To  Border  foray  sound  and  haill ! 

But  never  .strike  a  tinkler  again, 

If  he  be  a  .Johnstone  of  Annandale." 

James  Hogg. 


DEATH  OF  ARTHXTR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  ; 
Until  I^ing  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyoness  about  their  lord. 
King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound  waa  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  Knights, 


-^-ff 


a-:- 


598 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


■a 


And  boro  him  to  n  chajiel  nigh  the  lield, 
A  broken  chancel  witli  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  stniit  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  mi  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  .\rtluir  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"The  scijuel  of  to-ilay  imsoldei's  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  kniglits 
Whereof  this  world  holds  roconl.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  1  loveii.     I  think  that  we 
Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  titne, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds. 
Walking  about  tlie  gaiilens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  tlio  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Though  Merlin  sware  that  1  should  como  again 
To  rule  once  more  ;  but  let  what  will  be,  bo. 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm 
That  without  help  1  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  prido  :  for  thou  remomlwrest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  lU'm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king  ; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  after-time,  this  also  shall  bo  known  : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  E.\ealibur, 
And  tling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  scest,  and  lightly  bring  mc 
word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  through  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man  ; 
Yet  1  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  woi-d." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  slept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  Hakes  of  foam,      lie,  stepping 

down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointcii  rock, 
Camo  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  hrand  Kxcalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  eloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  studs. 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.     Ho  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  stood. 


This  way  and  tliat  dividing  the  swift  mind. 
In  act  to  thnnv  :  but  at  the  hist  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-Hags, 
That  whistU'd  stilfand  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gavel 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  .'  or  what  hast  heard  /" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  I  heaixl  the  ripple  washing  in  the  iveds, 
.\nd  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  en\g." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  imle  : 
"Thou  hast  betiiiyed  thy  nature  and  thy  n.imc, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  suivr  sign  had  followed,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  u\ere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  ipiiekly  go  again, 
/Vs  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  aud  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
.\cross  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
t\)unting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fi.xed  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  tlie  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smoto 
His  palms  together,  and  ho  cried  aloud  :  — 

*'  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  eartJi, 
Which  might  have  pU'ased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  donot 
What  harm,  undone  /  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
-Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
-Vu  act  unprofitable,  against  himself '! 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  after-time,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiilcn  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  ^vrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after-time 
To  all  tlie  iicople,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  nuirh  honor  and  nuuh  fame  were  lo.st." 

So  siKike  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
.\nd  hill  Kxcalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King 


ff 


fl-- 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTUUE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


599 


-a 


'I'lioii  spoke  King  Arthur,  l;reathing  heavily : 
' '  W'liat  i»  it  thou  liaHt  Btcu  I  or  wlmt  liast  heard  ?" 

Anil  answer  rnadc  the  bold  Sir  Bedivero; 
"  I  lieard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
Ami  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

I'll  whom  replied  King  Aitluir,  rnueli  in  WTath  : 
"All,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Uiiknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woo  i»  me  ! 
Autliority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widowed  ol'  the  powi'r  in  his  eye 
Tliat  liowed  the  will.      I  see  thee  what  thou  art. 
For  Ihoii,  tlie  latestdeft  of  all  my  knights 
In  wliom  should  meet  the  odiees  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  tlie  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence  : 
IJut,  if  lliou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
i  will  arise  and  slay  tlice  with  my  liands." 

'I'lion  <juickly  rose  Sir  Hedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutched  the  sword. 
Anil  strongly  wlieelcd  and  threw  it.     The  great 

brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  Hashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an 

arch, 
Slicit  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  mom, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  crm;,'l]t  him  liy  the  hilt,  and  brandished  1dm 
Tiiii-'-  liiru's,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
Anil  li;,'htly  went  tlie  other  to  the  King. 

Tlicn    spoke    K'lUi;  .\rthur,    drawing    thicker 
breath  : 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  liold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"Sir  King,  I  clo.sed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  liero  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  though  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  liands  I  flung  him,  wheeling 

him  ; 
Hut  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 


y^- 


I      And   answer   made   King   Arthur,    breathing 
hard  : 
"My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 

J  Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  1  fear 
-My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  ]>avenicnt  he  half  roge, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  ann. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  iiicture.     Him  Sir  Bedivero 
Hemorsefully  regarded  through  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words  ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
(J'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  througli  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walked.  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Mkc  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When   all   the  house  is  mute.     So  sighed  tha 

King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear  "Quick, 

fjuick ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  1  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed   with  his   breath,   and   looking,   &h   he 

walked. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  tlie  dee[i  behiml  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  clilf  clanged  round  him,  as  ho 

based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slii>pei-y  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armW  heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  wbiter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
I5eneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  de<;ks  were  dense  with  stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-lioodcd,  like  a  dream,  — by 

tliese 
Three  Quecms  with  crowns  of  gold,  —  and  from 

them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  tlie  tingling  stars. 
Anil,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  mm-mured  Arthur,   "  Place  me  in  the 

barge  "  ; 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three 

Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and 

wept. 


-S 


r^- 


600 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


tS 


But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all, 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his 

hands. 
And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :   for  all  his  face  was 

white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dashcil  with  drojis 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  daiis-tlu'oue  —  were  parched  with 

dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mixed  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his 

lips. 
So  like  a  sliattered  column  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur,  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 
Shot  through  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  1  go  ? 
Where  shall  1  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
"When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  ovei-y  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
"Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years. 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge  : 
"The  old  order  ehangeth,  yielding  place  to  new. 
And  God  fulfills  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself  :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but  thou, 
If  thou  sliouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by 

jirayer 
Tlian  tills  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy 

viiice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  ;ire  men  lictter  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  w^ithin  the  brain, 
If,  knomng  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  tliemselves  and  those  who  call  them 

friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  bv  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 


But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest,  —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snov/, 
lior  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-nieadowed,  hajjpy,  fair  with  orchard-LiHiis 
Ami  bowery  hollows  crowne'l  with  summer  sea, 
Wheio  I  will  heal  luc  of  my  [grievous  w'ound," 

So  said  he,  and  the  bargo  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted 

swan. 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  cro  her  death, 
r.ufHes  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  Hood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  luill 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
.'\nd  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  TRUMPETS   OF  DOOLKARNEIN. 

[In  Eastern  history  are  two  Iskanders,  or  Alexanders,  who  are 
Bonietiines  confounded,  and  both  of  whom  arc  called  Doolkarnein, 
or  the  Two-Horned,  in  allusion  to  their  subjugation  of  East  and 
West,  lior(.s  beinjj  an  Oriental  symbol  of  power. 

One  of  these  heroes  is  Alexander  of  Macedon  ;  the  other  a  con- 
queror  of  more  ancient  times,  wlio  built  the  marvelous  series  of 
ramparts  on  Mount  Caucasus,  known  in  fable  as  the  wall  of  Gog 
.and  Magog,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  people  of  the  North.  It  reached 
from  the  Euxine  Sea  to  the  Caspian,  where  its  flanks  originated  the 
subsequent  appellation  of  the  Caspian  Gates.] 

With  awful  walls,  far  glooming,  that  possessed 

The  passes  'twixt  the  snow-fed  Civspian  foun- 
tains, 
Doolkarnein,  the  dread  lord  of  East  and  West, 

Shut  up  thenorthernnationsin  their  mountains; 
And  upon  platforms  where  the  oak-trees  grew, 

Trumiie ts  he  set,  huge  beyonddreamsof  wonder, 
Craftily  purposed,  when  his  arms  withdrew. 

To  make  him  thought  still  housed  there,  like 
the  thunder : 
.\nd  it  so  fell ;  for  when  the  winds  blew  right, 
They  woke  thesetrumpets  to  their  calls  of  might. 

Unseen,  but  heard,  their  calls  the  trumpets  blew, 
Ringing  the  granite  rocks,  their  only  bearers. 
Till  the  long  fear  into  religion  grew. 

And  nevermore  those heightshad human darers. 
Dreadful  Doolkarnein  was  an  earthly  god  ; 
His  walls  but   shadowed   forth  his  mightier 
frowning  ; 
Annies  of  giants  at  his  bidding  trod 

From    realm  to  realm,   king  after  king  dis- 
crowning. 
When  thunder  spoke,  or  when  the  earthquake 

stirred. 
Then,  muttering  in  accord,  his  host  was  heard. 


e--^- 


-^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


601 


,^ 


But   when   the   winters   marred   the    mountain 
shelves, 
And  softer  changes  came  witli  venial  mornings, 
Something  had  touched  the  trumpets'  lofty  selves. 
And  less  and  less  rang  forth  their  sovereign 
warnings  ; 
Fewer  and  feebler  ;  as  when  silence  spreads 
In  plague-struck  tents,  where  haughty  chiefs, 
left  dying. 
Fail  by  degrees  upon  their  angry  beds, 

Till,  one  by  one,  ceases  the  last  stern  sighing. 
One  by  one,  thus,  their  breath  the  trumpets  drew, 
Till  now  JIG  more  the  imperious  music  blew. 

Is  he  then  dead  ?     Can  great  Doolkamein  die  ? 

(Jr  can  his  endless  hosts  elsewhere  be  needed  ? 
Were  the  great  breaths  that  blew  his  minstrelsy 

Phantoms,  that  faded  as  himself  receded  ? 
Or  is  he  angered  ?     Surely  he  still  comes ; 

This  silence  ushers  the  dread  visitation ; 
Sudden  will  buret  the  torrent  of  his  drums, 

And  then  will  follow  bloody  desolation. 
So  did  fear  dream ;  though  now,  with  not  a  sound 
To  scare  good  hope,  summer  had  twice  crept  round. 

Tlii-n  gathered  in  a  band,  with  lifted  eye.s, 
The  neighbors,  and  those  silent  heights  as- 
cended. 
Giant,  nor  aught  blasting  their  bold  emprise. 
They  met,  though  twice  they  halted,  breath 
suspended  : 
Once,  at  a  coming  like  a  god's  in  rage 

With  thunderous  leaps,  —  but  't  was  the  piled 
snow,  falling; 
And  once,  when  in  the  woods  an  oak,  for  age, 

Fell  dead,  the  silence  with  its  groan  apfjalling. 
At  last  they  came  where  still,  in  dread  airay, 
As  though  they  still  mightspeak,  thetrumpetslay. 

Unhurt  they  lay,  like  caverns  above  ground, 

The  rifted  rocks,  forhands,  about  them  clinging. 
Their  tubes  as  straight,  their  mighty  mouths  as 
round 
And  fiiTn  aswhen  the  rocks werefirstsetricging. 
Fresh  from  their  unimaginable  mold 
They  might  have  seemed,  save  that  the  storms 
had  stained  them 
With  a  rich  rust,  that  now,  with  gloomy  gold 
In  the  bright  sunshine,  beauteously  ingrained 
them. 
Breathless  the  gazers  looked,  nigh  faint  for  awe. 
Then  leaped,  then  laughed.     What  was  it  now 
they  saw  ? 

Myriads  of  birds.  Myriads  of  birds,  that  filled 
The  trumpets  all  with  nests  and  nestUng  voices  ! 

The  great,  huge,  stormy  music  had  been  stilled 
By  the  soft  needs  that  nursed  those  small, 
sweet  noises  ! 


0  thou  Doolkamein,  where  is  now  thy  wall  ? 

Where  now  thy  voice  divine  and  all  thy  forces! 
Great  was  thy  cunning,  but  its  wit  was  small 
Comjiared   with   nature's   least   and   gentlest 
courses. 
Fears  and  false  creeds  may  fright  the  realms 

awhile  ; 
But  heaven  and  earth  abide  their  time,  and  smile. 
Leigh  hunt. 


ALFRED  THE  HARPER. 

Dakk  fell  the  night,  the  watch  w:is  set, 
The  host  was  idly  spread. 
The  Danes  around  their  watchfires  met, 
Caroused,  and  fiercely  fed. 

The  cliiefs  beneath  a  tent  of  leaves. 

And  Guthram,  king  of  all. 

Devoured  the  flesh  of  England's  beeves, 

And  laughed  at  England's  fall. 

Each  warrior  proud,  each  Danish  eail. 

In  mail  and  wolf-skin  clad. 

Their  bracelets  white  with  plundered  i)earl. 

Their  eyes  with  triumph  mad. 

From  Humber-Iand  to  Severn-land, 

And  on  to  Tamar  stream. 

Where  Thames  makes  green  the  towery  strand, 

Where  Medway's  waters  gleam,  — 

With  hands  of  steel  and  mouths  of  flame 

They  raged  the  king<lom  through  ; 

And  where  the  Norseman  sickle  came. 

No  crop  but  hunger  grew. 

They  loaded  many  an  English  hoise 

With  wealth  of  cities  fair  ; 

They  dragged  from  many  a  father's  corse 

The  daughter  by  her  hair. 

And  English  slaves,  and  gems  and  gold, 

Wsre  gathered  round  the  feast ; 

Till  midnight  in  their  woodland  hold, 

0,  never  that  riot  ceased. 

in  stalked  a  warrior  tall  and  rude 

Before  the  strong  sea-kings  ; 

"Ye  Lords  and  Earls  of  Odin's  brood, 

Without  a  harper  sings. 

He  seems  a  simple  man  and  poor. 

But  well  he  sounds  the  lay  ; 

And  well,  ye  Norseman  chiefs,  be  sure, 

Will  ye  the  song  repay." 

In  trod  the  bard  with  keen  cold  look. 
And  glanced  along  the  board, 
That  with  the  shout  and  war-cry  shook 
Of  many  a  Danish  lord. 


-^ 


0-. 


602 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


"^ 


u 


But  thirty  brows,  inflamed  and  stem, 
Soon  bent  on  him  their  gaze, 
While  cairn  ho  gazed,  as  if  to  loaru 
Who  chief  deserved  liis  praise. 

1,1)11(1  (iiithruni  spake,  —  "  Nay,  gaze  not  thus, 

Tlimi  ilar|ii'r  weak  and  poor! 

liy  'I'lior  !  who  bandy  looks  with  us 

Must  worse  than  looks  endure. 

Siiij.;  high  the  praise  of  Denmark's  host, 

High  praise  each  dauntless  Earl  ; 

The  brave  who  stun  this  English  coast 

With  war's  unceasing  whirl." 

The  Harper  slowly  bent  his  head. 
And  tmiched  aloud  the  string  ; 
Then  raised  his  I'aeo,  and  lioldly  said, 
"  Hear  thou  my  lay,  (t  King  ! 
High  praise  from  every  mouth  of  man 
To  all  who  boldly  strive. 
Who  fall  where  first  the  fight  liegaii, 
And  ne'er  go  back  alive. 

"  Fill  high  your  cups,  and  swell  the  shout. 

At  famous  liegnar's  name  ! 

Who  sank  his  host  in  bloody  rout, 

Whnn  he  to  H  umber  came. 

His  mi^n  were  chased,  his  sons  were  slain. 

And  lie  was  left  alone. 

They  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain 

Upon  u  dungeon  stone. 

"With  iron  links  they  bound  him  fast  ; 
Willi  siinkes  (1,,'y  lllli'd  the  hole, 
Tli:it  iiiiide  his  II, 'sh  their  long  repast, 
Aihl  bit  into  his  soul. 

"  Creid  ihiefs,  why  sink  in  gloom  your  eyes  ? 

Why  champ  your  teeth  in  ]iain  ! 

Still  lives  the  song  though  Regnnr  dies  I 

Fill  high  your  cups  again.! 

Ye  too,  )icrelinnee,  0  Norseman  lords  ! 

Who  fought  and  swayed  ,so  long, 

Shall  soon  but  live  in  minstrel  words, 

And  owe  your  names  to  song. 

"This  land  has  graves  by  thousands  more 

Than  that  where  llegnar  lies. 

Wlien  con(|uests  fade,  and  rule  is  o'er, 

The  sod  must  close  your  eyes. 

How  soon,  who  knows  ?     Not  chief,  nor  bard  ; 

And  yet  to  nie  't  is  given, 

To  see  your  foreheads  deeply  scarred. 

And  guess  the  doom  of  Heaven. 

"  I  may  not  reml  or  when  or  how. 
Hut,  Earls  and  Kings,  be  sure 
I  see  a  blade  o'er  every  brow, 
Where  pride  now  sits  secure. 


Fill  high  the  cups,  raise  loud  the  strain  I 
When  chief  and  monarch  fall. 
Their  names  in  song  shall  breathe  again, 
And  thrill  the  feastful  hall." 

Grim  sat  the  chiefs  ;  one  heaved  a  gi'oan. 

And  oni^  grew  pale  with  dread. 

His  iron  mace  was  grasped  by  one. 

By  one  his  wine  was  shed. 

And  (iuthrum  cried,  "Nay,  bard,  no  more 

We  hear  thy  boding  lay  ; 

Make  drunk  the  song  with  spoil  and  gore  ! 

Light  up  the  joyous  fray  !  " 

"Quick  throbs  my  brain," — .so  bur.st  the  song, 

"  To  hear  the  strife  once  more. 

The  mace,  the  a.x,  they  rest  too  long ; 

Earth  cries.  My  thirst  is  sore. 

More  blithely  twang  the  strings  of  bows 

Than  strings  of  harps  in  glee  ; 

lied  wounds  are  lovelier  than  the  rose 

Or  rosy  lips  to  me. 

"O,  fairer  than  a  fielil  of  llowcra, 

AVlien  llowers  in  England  grew. 

Would  be  the  battle's  marshaled  powers, 

The  plain  of  carnage  new. 

With  all  its  deaths  before  my  .soul 

Tlio  vision  rises  fair  ; 

liaise  loud  the  song,  and  drain  the  bowl  I 

1  would  that  I  were  there  !  " 

Loud  rang  the  harp,  tlie  minstrel's  eye 
Rolled  fiercely  round  the  throng  ; 
It  seemed  two  erasliing  hosts  were  nigh. 
Whose  shock  aroused  the  song. 
\  golden  cup  King  Guthrura  gave 
To  him  who  strongly  played  ; 
And  said,  "  I  won  it  from  the  slave 
Who  once  o'er  F,ngland  swayed." 

King  Guthrinii  cried,   "  T  'was  .\llre<rs  own  ; 

Thy  song  belils  llic  lirave  : 

The  King  who  cannot  guard  his  throne 

Nor  wine  nor  song  .shall  have." 

The  minstrel  took  the  goblet  bright, 

And  said,  "  I  drink  the  wine 

To  him  who  owns  by  justest  right 

The  eup  thou  bid'st  be  mine. 

"  To  him,  your  Loi.l,  O  shout  ye  all  ! 
His  meed  bo  deathless  jiraise  ! 
The  King  who  dares  not  nobly  fall, 
Dies  basely  all  his  days." 

"The  praise  thou  speakest,"  Guthrum  said, 
"With  sweetness  fills  mine  ear  ; 
For  Alfred  swift  before  me  fled. 
And  left  me  monarch  here. 


^4 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTUIiE  AND   RUIiAL   Sl'ORTS. 


603       i 


43- 


The  royal  coward  nevur  ilared 
Beneath  mine  eye  to  stand. 
0,  would  that  now  tliis  feast  lie  sliared, 
And  saw  me  rule  his  land  !  " 

Then  stem  the  minstrel  rose,  and  simko, 

And  gazed  upon  tlie  King,  — 

"  Not  now  the  golden  cup  I  take, 

Nor  more  to  thee  I  sing. 

Another  day,  a  hai)i)ier  hour, 

Shall  bring  mo  here  again  : 

The  cup  shall  stay  in  Outhrum'a  power, 

Till  I  demand  it  then." 

The  Harper  turned  and  left  the  shed. 

Nor  bent  to  Guthrum's  crown  ; 

And  one  who  marked  his  visage  said 

It  wore  a  ghastly  frown. 

The  Danes  ne'er  saw  that  Harper  more, 

For  soon  as  morning  rose. 

Upon  their  camp  King  Alfred  bore. 

And  slew  ten  thousand  foes. 

John  Sterling. 


THE  EARL  O'  QtlARTERDECK. 

A   NEW   OLO    nAI.I..VlJ. 

Tke  wind  it  blew,  and  the  ship  it  Hew  ; 

And  it  was  "Hey  for  hame  ! 
And  ho  for  hame  !  "     But  the  skipper  cried, 

"  Hand  her  oot  o'er  the  saut  sea  faem." 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  king  himsel'  : 

"  Hand  on  for  Dumferline  !  " 
Quo  the  skipper,  "  Ye  're  king  upo'  the  land  — 

1  'm  king  ujjo'  the  brine." 

And  ho  took  the  helm  intil  his  hand, 

And  he  steered  the  ship  sae  free  ; 
Wi'  the  wind  astaru,  he  crowded  sail. 

And  stood  right  out  to  sea. 

Quo  the  king,  "  There  's  treason  in  this,  I  vow  ; 

This  is  something  underhand ! 
'I'out  ship  !  "     Quo  the  skipper,    "  Yer  grace 
forgets 

Vc  are  king  but  o'  the  land  !  " 

And  still  he  held  to  the  open  sea  ; 

And  the  east-wind  sank  behind  ; 
And  the  west  had  a  bitter  word  to  say, 

W  i'  a  white-sea  roarin'  wind. 

And  ho  turned  her  head  into  the  north. 

Said  the  king  :  "Gar  fling  him  o'er." 
Quo  the  fearless  skipper  :  "  It 's  a'  ye  're  worth  ! 

Ye  '11  ne'er  see  Scotland  more." 


The  king  crept  down  the  cabin-stair, 

To  drink  the  gude  French  wine. 
And  up  she  came,  Ids  daughter  fair. 

And  luikit  ower  the  brine. 

Slie  turned  her  face  to  the  drivin'  hail, 

To  the  hail  but  and  the  weet ; 
Her  snood  it  brak,  and,  as  lang  'a  hersel', 

Her  hair  dravc  out  i'  the  sleet. 

She  turned  her  face  frao  the  drivin'  win'  — 

"  What 's  that  ahead  1 "  quo  she. 
The  skipper  he  threw  liimsel'  frae  the  win'. 

And  he  drove  the  helm  a-lee. 

"  Put  to  yer  hand,  my  lady  fair  I 

I'ut  to  yer  hand,"  (juo  he  ; 
"  Gin  she  dinna  face  the  win'  the  mair. 

It 's  the  waur  for  you  and  me." 

For  the  skipper  kenned  that  strength  is  strength, 
Whether  woman's  or  man's  at  last. 

To  the  tiller  the  lady  she  laid  her  ban', 
And  the  ship  laid  her  cheek  to  the  blast. 

For  that  slender  body  was  full  o'  soul, 

And  the  will  is  mair  than  shape  ; 
As  the  skipper  saw  when  they  cleared  the  berg, 

And  he  heard  her  quarter  scrape. 

Quo  the  skipper  :  "  Ye  are  a  lady  fair, 

And  a  princess  grand  to  see  ; 
But  ye  are  a  woman,  and  a  man  wad  sail 

To  hell  in  yer  company." 

She  liftit  a  pale  and  queenly  face  ; 

Her  een  flashed,  and  syne  they  swim. 
"  AikI  what  for  no  to  heaven  ? "  she  says. 

And  she  turned  awa'  frae  liim. 

But  she  took  na  her  han'  frae  the  good  ship's 
helm. 

Until  the  day  did  daw ; 
And  the  skipper  he  sj)ak,  but  what  he  said 

It  was  said  atween  them  twa. 

And  then  the  good  ship  she  lay  to, 

With  the  land  far  on  the  lee ; 
And  up  came  the  king  upo'  the  deck, 

Wi'  wan  face  and  bluidsliot  ee. 

The  .skipper  he  louted  to  the  king  : 
"  Gae  wa',  gae  wa',"  said  the  king. 

Said  the  king,  like  a  prince,  "I  was  a'  wrang. 
Put  on  this  mby  ring." 

And  the  wind  blew  lowne,  and  the  stars  cam'  oot, 
Anil  the  ship  turned  to  the  shore  ; 

And,  afore  the  sun  was  up  again, 
They  saw  Scotland  ance  more. 


-ff 


a- 


604 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTti. 


■-a 


^ 


'riiat  (lay  tlif  slii)!  \\\iug  at  tlu>  picr-hoitl, 
Ami  tlu>  kinj;  lio  sh'i't  oii  t)io  laiui. 

"  SkipiHii-,  knool  ilnwn,"  tho  king  lio  aaitl. 
"  Hon  (laur  y>>  nfoiv  me  staiui  f " 

Tho  skippoi'  ho  UmtiHl  on  his  kiu>o, 

Tho  king  liis  Miulo  ho  Uivw  : 
Saiil  tho  king,  "  How  ilanvoil  vo  oontro  mo  ! 

1  'ill  atiiwrU  my  ain  slii)i  noo. 

"  1  oannn  mak  yo  a  king,"  siiiil  ho, 
"  For  tho  Lonl  alono  oaii  do  tlial ; 

Anil  bosiilos  yo  look  it  intil  yoi-  ain  han" 
And  oRionod  yoi-sol'  sao  jial  ! 

"  IVit  \vi'  what  yo  will  I  ndoom  my  ring  ; 

Kor  aiu'O  1  am  at  your  hook. 
And  lirst,  as  yo  hnitit  Skijipor  o'  llooii, 

liiso  np  Yorl  o'  Qnartonloi'k," 

Tho  skippor  ho  roso  uiul  lookod  at  tlio  king 

111  Ids  0011  lor  nil  his  oiooii  ; 
Said  tho  skiiipor,  "  lloiv  is  yor  gmco's  ring. 

And  yor  daiightor  is  my  boon." 

The  roid  bhulo  sprang  into  tho  king's  faoo,  — 

A  wratht'nl  man  to  soo  ; 
"  Tho  rascal  loon  iilnises  our  grace  ; 

Oao  hang  him  upon  yon  tivo." 

Bnt  llio  .skippor  ho  spuing  nboaiil  his  ship, 

.Xnd  ho  drow  his  hiting  blado  ; 
Aiul  ho  struok  tho  ohain  that  hold  her  last, 

Hut  tho  iron  wasowor  wool  mado. 

And  tho  king  ho  blow  a  wliistlo  loud  ; 

.\iid  tmmp,  tramp,  down  tho  jiior. 
Cam'  fwoiily  ridois  on  twonty  .stoods, 

Claukiu'  wi'  spin-  and  spoar. 

'•  Ho  savod  yonr  lifo  ! "  oriod  tho  lady  fair  ; 

"  His  lifo  yo  danvna  spill  !  " 
"Will  yo  oonio  atwoon  mo  and  my  liatot" 

Qno  tho  lady.  "And  that  1  will  !  " 

And  on  cam'  tho  knights  wi'  spur  and  spoar. 

For  tlioy  hoanl  tho  iitm  ring. 
"  Gin  yo  oarti  na  for  yor  fatlior's  gmoo, 

Mind  yo  that  1  am  tho  king." 

"  I  knool  to  my  fatlior  for  his  graoe, 

night  lowly  on  my  knoo  ; 
Bnt  I  stand  ami  look  tho  king  in  tho  faoo. 

For  tho  skippor  is  king  o"  mo." 

She  tnniod  and  sho  sprang  niw'  tho  dock. 
And  the  cnblo  splashed  in  tho  son. 

The  good  sliip  sproad  her  wings  sac  white. 
And  away  with  tho  skippor  goes  .sho. 


Kow  was  not  this  n  king's  dnuglinr. 

Ami  a  hravo  laily  bosido  f 
And  a  woniiin  with  whom  a  man  luiglu  sail 

Into  (ho  hoavon  wi'  pi  ivlo  ■• 


I  TllU  TRAWin 


My  name  is  Norvnl :  on  tho  (Irainiiian  hills 
iMy  hktJior  foods  his  Hooks  ;  a  I'rngnl  swain, 
Whoso  constant  onros  wore  to  iiioronso  his  stom, 
.■\.nd  koop  his  only  son,  myself,  at  homo. 
For  I  had  hoard  of  hattlosi  and  1  longi^d 
To  follow  to  tho  Hold  somo  warlike  lord  : 
And  Heaven  soon  granted  what  my  siro  lioniod. 
This  moon  which  ixise  last  night,  roniid  as  mv 

shield, 
Had  not  yot  tilled  her  horn,  when,  by  hor  light, 
A  band  of  lioroe  bnrbariiuis,  fiimi  tho  hills, 
Hntiliod  like  a  torront  down  npon  tho  vale, 
Swooping  oin-  Hooks  and   holds.      Tho  shophords 

Hod 
For  safely  and  for  snooor.     1  alone. 
With  honded  how,  and  tpiiver  full  of  arrows, 
Hovorod  about  the  oiioniy,  and  miirked 
Tho  road  he  look,  then  hastened  to  my  friends. 
Whom,  witJi  a  troop  of  fifty  ohoson  inoii, 
I  mot  advnnoing.     Tho  pursuit  1  loil, 
Till  wo  o'ertook  the  s|uiil-onoiiiiiberod  foo. 
Wo   fought  and   oompiorod.      Fro  a  sword  was 

tlrawii 
An  arrow  from  my  bow  had  pierood  tlioir  chief, 
Who  wore  that  day  the  arms  which  now  1  wear, 
lioturning  lionio  in  triiimjih,  1  disdained 
The  shoplior<rs  slothful  lifo  ;  and  hnving  henn.1 
That  onrgood  king  had  sninnionod  his  hold  poors 
To  load  their  warriors  to  tho  I'arron  side, 
1  left  my  father's  house,  and  took  with  nie 
.■\  ohoson  servant  to  oondiiot  my  stops,  — 
Yon  tiiMiibliiig  oowaiil,  who  forsook  his  master, 
.lonrnoying   with    this    intent,    1    passed    theao 

towel's. 
And,  Heavon-dii-cctod,  oamo  this  day  to  do 
Tho  happy  dood  that  gilds  my  luuiil>lo  name. 


JOKASSK. 

.Toi;.\ssF.  was  in  his  thivo-anil-twontieth  year  ; 
Oracoful  and  active  ns  a  .stag  jiisl  roused  ; 
Cientlo  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  s|ioeoh, 
Yot  seldom  si'oii  to  smile.      He  had  grown  up 
Among  tho  hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps  ; 
Had  caught  their  st.irts  and  tits  of  thonghtful- 


Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquitvs. 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


60 


r-a 


e^- 


.     .     .     .     Once,  nor  long  tel'orc, 
Aloni;  at  daybreak  on  the  MettenVjerg, 
Hie  n\\\>\iKi\,  he  fell  ;  and,  through  a  (earful  cleft 
Gliding  from  li:dge  to  ledge,  from  deej*  to  deeper, 
Went  to  the  under-world  !     Long-while  he  lay 
(JjKjn  his  rugged  l*<i,  —  then  waked  like  one 
Wishing  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  forever  ! 
For,  looking  round,  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw, 
Innumerable  branches  of  a  cavern, 
W'inding  Ijeneath  a  solid  crust  of  ice ; 
With  here  and  theie  a  rent  that  showed  the  stars ! 
What  tlien,  alas,  wa»  left  him  but  Uj  die  f 
What  else  in  those  immeasurable  chamljers, 
St;ewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men. 
Lost  like  himself?     Yet  must  he  wander  on, 
Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free ! 
And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round  ; 
When  hark,  the  noise  as  of  some  mighty  river 
Working  its  way  to  light  !     Back  he  withdrew, 
But  soon  retuincl,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 
JJashwl  down  the  dismal  channel ;  and  all  day, 
If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 
Traveled  incessantly,  the  craggy  roof 
Just  overhead,  and  the  im[jetuous  waves. 
Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strength, 
Lashing  him  on.     At  last  the  water  slept 
In  a  dea/1  lake,  — at  the  third  sti;p  he  Uiok, 
Unfathomable,  —  and  the  roof,  that  long 
Ha*!  threatened,  suddenly  descending,  lay 
Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood, 
His  journey  ended,  when  a  ray  divine 
Shot  through  his  soul.     Breathing  a  prayer  to 

her 
Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
He  |ilung<i<J,  he  swam,  —  and  in  an  instant  rose. 
The  Ijarrier  j/ast,  in  light,  in  sunshine  !    Through 
A  smiling  valley,  full  of  cottages, 
Glittering  the  river  ran  ;  and  on  the  bank 
The  young  were  dancing  ('t  was  a  festival-day) 
All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 
His  Maiielaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  U>  hear, 
AVhen  all  drew  round,  inquiring  ;  and  her  face, 
Seen  U-liind  all,  and  varying,  as  he  sjxjke. 
With  bo|)e  and  fear  and  generous  syinjathy, 
Sub<lued  him.     From  tliat  very  hour  he  loved. 
Samcel  Rogers. 


THE  GLO\'E  AJsT)  THE  LIONS. 

King  Fkancis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a 

royal  sfjort, 
And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on 

the  court. 
The  nobles  filled  the  benches,  with  the  ladies  in 

their  pride, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with 

one  for  whom  he  sighed  : 


And  truly  't  was  a  gallant   thing  X/)  sec-   tliat 

crowning  show. 
Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  atxive,  and  the  royal 

beasts  below. 

Kamped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laugh- 
ing jaws  ; 

They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a 
wind  went  with  their  paws  ; 

With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar  they  roll<«i 
on  one  another, 

Till  all  the  pit  with  sand  and  mane  was  in  a 
thunderous  smother  ; 

The  bliwdy  foam  alx)ve  the  bars  came  whisking 
through  the  air  ; 

Said  Francis  then,  "  Faith,  gentlemen,  we  're 
better  here  than  there." 

De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  King,  a  beauteous 

lively  <iame. 
With  smiling  lij/s  and  sharp  bright  eyes,  which 

always  seemed  the  same  ; 
She  thought,   the  Count,  my  lover,  is  brave  as 

brave  can  Ije  ; 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his 

love  of  me  ; 
King,  la<lies,  lovers,  all  look  on  ;  the  occasion  is 

divine  ; 
I  '11  drop  my  glove,  to  prove  his  love  ;  great  glory 

will  be  mine. 

She  dropjMid  her  glove,  to  prove  his  love,  then 

looked  at  him  and  smiled  ; 
He  bowed,  and  in  a  moment  leaped  among  the 

lions  wild  ; 
The  leap  was  quick,   return  was  quick,  he  has 

regained  his  place. 
Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with  love,  riglit 

in  the  la^iy's  fa^*. 
"  By  Heaven,"  said  Francis,  "  rightly  done  !  " 

and  he  rosi^  from  where  he  sat ; 
"  No  love,"  quoth  he,  "but  vanity,  sets  love  a 

task  like  that." 

Leigh  hc.vt. 


If  ever  you  should  come  to  Mo<lena, 
\Vhere  among  other  trophies  may  be  seen 
Tassoni's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandiua), 
.Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  li/:ggio-gati;. 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  ai<ove  t<.-rrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  stahM.  cyj/rpsses. 
Will  long  detain  you  ;  but,  lielore  you  go, 
Enter  the  house  —  forget  it  not,  I  pray — 
And  look  awliile  upon  a  picture  there. 


rn 


[fi- 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AXD  liURAL  SPORTS. 


i 


'T  is  of  a  liuly  in  lier  eiirliest  youth, 
The  last  ot'tliat  illustiious  lainily  ; 
Done  by  Zampicri  —  but  by  whom  I  caic  not. 
He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  jiasses  on. 
Gazes  liis  till,  and  eonies  anil  eonies  again, 
That  lie  may  eall  it  up  when  I'ar  away. 

She  .sits  inclining  Ibrwanl  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  linger  up. 
As  though  she  .said  "beware!"  her  vest  of  gold 
Broidered  with  Uowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to 

foot. 
An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp; 
And  on  licr  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coroncl  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face. 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth. 
The  o\'ertlowings  of  an  innocent  heart, — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  lias  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  moldering  heirloom,  its  companion. 
An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm. 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scriptuie  stories  from  the  life  of  Christ,  — 
A  chest  that  ca\ne  from  A'cnice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor, 
That,  by  the  way  —  it  may  be  true  or  false  — 
Hut  don't  forget  the  picture  ;  and  you  will  not 
Wlien  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child,  — her  name  Uinevra, 
The  joy,  the  pride,  of  aii  indulgent  father ; 
Anil  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dn'ss. 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaycty, 
Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time. 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  ducorum ; 
And,  in  the  luster  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy  ;  but  at  the  nuptial  feast, 
"When  all  satedown,  thebride  herself  was  wanting. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
"  'T  is  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love ! " 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook. 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest. the  panic  spread. 
'T  was  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory  tootlijiln printed  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas,  W$  was  not  to  be  found ; 
Nor  from  that  hoin-  could  anything  be  guessed. 
But  that  she  was  not ! 

Wearv  of  his  life. 


Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking. 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived,  — and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  ipiest  of  something, 
Sonu'thing  he  could  not  find,  he  knew  not  what. 
M'hcn  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless,  —  then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten, 
When,  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
Mill  the  old  luudicr  in  the  gallery. 
That  moldering  chcsl  was  noticed  ;  and  't  was  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  (;ine\'ra, 
"Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place?" 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said  ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton. 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  euu'rald  stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasjiing  a  shred  of  gold  ! 
All  else  had  perished,  —  save  a  wedding-ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"(iinevra. " 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself. 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  hapjiy  ; 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 

Fastened  her  down  forever  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH. 

The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall. 
The  holly  branch  shone  on  the  old  oak  wall ; 
And  the  baron's  retainers  were  blithe  and  g!>y, 
And  keeping  their  Christmas  holiday. 
The  baron  beheld  with  a  father's  pride 
His  beautiful  child,  young  I.ovell's  bride; 
While  she  with  her  bright  eyes  seenu'd  to  be 
The  star  of  the  goodly  company. 

"I  'm  weary  of  dancing  now,"  she  cried  ; 
"Here  tarry  a  moment,  —  1  '11  hide,  1  '11  hide  ! 
.\nd,  Lovell,  be  sure  thou  'rt  first  to  trace 
The  clew  to  my  secret  lurking-place." 
Away  she  ran,  —  and  her  friends  began 
Kach  tower  to  search,  and  each  nook  to  scan  ; 
And  young  Lovell  cried,  ' '  0,  where  dost  thou  hide ! 
1  'm  lonesome  without  thee,  my  own  dear  bride." 

Theysou.yht  her  that  night,  and  they  .sought  her 

next  day. 
And  they  sought  her  in  vain  when  a  week  passed 

away  : 
In  the  highest,  the  lowest,  the  loneliest  spot. 
Young  Lovell  sought  wildly,  —  but  found  her  not. 
And  years  flew  by,  and  their  grief  at  last 
Was  told  as  a  sorrowful  tale  long  past  ; 
.A.ud  when  Lovell  appeared,  the  chddren  cried, 
"See  !  the  old  man  weeps  for  his  fairy  bride.' 


-4? 


iSr- 


POEMS  OF  ADVKNTUkE  AND  UUUAL  Hl'OUTfi. 


607 


■a 


At  length  an  oak  chest,  that  had  long  lain  hid, 
Was  found  in  the  castle,  —  they  j-aise<l  th«  lid. 
And  a  skeieton  t'orui  lay  moldftiing  there 
lu  the  bri'lal  wreath  of  that  lady  fail-! 
O,  sa-i  was  her  fate  i  —  in  sjiOJtiye  jest 
.She  hid  froD)  her  lord  in  the  old  oak  chest. 
It  closed  with  a  sjjring  !  — and,  dreadful  doom, 
The  bride  lay  clasije<l  in  her  linng  tomb ! 

Thomas  havkes  BAyi-y. 


In  wondroos  motion.     I  was  very  strong. 

I  looked  U|wu  my  Iwly,  as  a  bird 

'I'liat  bills  his  feathei  s  ere  he  lakes  to  flight,  — 

1,  watching  ovei  iSana.     Then  1  j.>rayed  ; 

And  on  a  soft  stijue,  wetUnl  in  the  brook, 

Oiound  my  long  knife ;  and  then  I  j;ray<yi  again. 

Go*!  !j«ii'i  my  voi'*,  yvyinii'/  al)  tor  me, 


PEIKCE  ADEB. 

In  Sana,  0,  in  >Sana,  Q<A,  the  Lord, 

Was  very  kind  and  merciful  to  me  ! 

Forth  fiom  the  liesert  in  my  rags  I  came, 

Weaiv  and  soie  of  toot.     I  saw  the  spiles 

And  swelling  bubbles  of  the  golden  domes 

Kise  through  the  trees  of  .Sana,  and  my  heart 

Grew  great  within  me  with  the  strength  of  Oo<i ; 

And  I  crici  out,  "Kow  shall  I  right  myself,  — 

1,  Adeb  the  desj)isi5<l,  —  lor  Go<i  is  just ! " 

Tliere  he  who  wro^iged  my  fatherdwelt  in  peace,  — 

My  wailike  father,  who,  when  gray  hairs  crejA 

Around  his  foreh<si/l,  as  on  LeI/anon 

The  whitc;niug  snows  of  winter,  was  betrayed 

Tjo  the  sly  Imam,  and  his  tented  wealth 

Swept  from  him,  'twixt  the  roosting  of  the  cock 

And  his  first  crowing,  —  in  a  single  night : 

And  1,  j>o<jr  Adeb,  sole  of  all  my  race,  I 

Smeare<l  with  my  father'sand  my  kinsmen's  blood,  ■ 

Fled  thiough  the  iJescrt,  till  one  day  a  tiil>e 

Of  hungiy  liijdouius  found  me  in  the  sand. 

Half  ma<i  with  famine,  and  they  took  me  up. 

And  maiie  a  slave  of  me,  —  of  me,  a  priu';e '.         j 

All  was  fuliilied  at  last.     I  fled  from  thenj. 

In  rags  and  s'/riow.     Nothing  V^ut  my  heart, 

Like  a  strong  swimmer,  Ixire  me  up  against 

The  howling  sea  of  my  aiiversity. 

At  length  o'er  8ana,  in  the  act  to  swoop, 

I  aV/iA  like  a  young  eagle  on  a  crag. 

The  travelei'  jMsswi  me  with  suspicious  feai 

1  askeil  for  nothing  ;  I  was  not  a  thief. 

The  leajj  dogs  snutted  around  me  ;  my  lank  bones, 

Fed  on  the  (jerries  and  the  cnisted  pools. 

Were  a  s<atut  moi-sel.    Ou<ie  a  brown-skinned  giil 

Called  me  a  little  from  the  common  jiath. 

And  gave  me  figs  and  bailey  in  a  bag. 

1  jjaid  her  with  a  kiss,  with  nothing  more, 

And  she  looked  gla<l :  for  I  was  beautiful, 

And  viigin  as  a  fountain,  and  as  cold. 

I  strettihe"!  her  bounty,  jjeiiking  like  a  bird 

Her  Sgs  and  1/arley,  till  my  strength  retuined 

So  when  rich  .Sana  lay  beneath  my  eyes, 

My  fo<>t  was  as  the  leopaiil's,  and  my  han'i 

As  heavy  as  the  lion's  brandished  paw  ; 

And  underneath  my  buniishe<l  skin  the  veins 

And  stretching  muscles  played,  at  every  step. 


' ,  au'i  ail  li.c  01  iiugi;- trees 
Is,  and  from  the  Uiaible  walls 

^and'»lumUS;  >1r:   n/.  k   wn.i.vtjt, 

ght,  until  ui\  "I 

.-ndor,   Tilh'  -  k. 


.  \.     Man  by  man 
'  inel, 

'1; 

acr  wind 

yet  never  turns  a  leaf, 
-i>  .slia/low  forth  ; 

J  i ,  swung  the  door, 
.It,  — 
'  )-.       and  sUkxI 


J .,  ....   ,,,.,  .._ -i  men. 

Then  I  reache<l  torth,  and  t<x/k<>od's  waiting  hand  : 

Afld  S*?  }.'*•  led  ffie  over  frt^wtiv  fl'Xir?. 


In  Me 


MIS  neck, 

»ber,.  1   was,  — 

.stofalL 

liei^^;  pii^gi  iiud  )i<u:.L»  <j'.  JAiiil'iciiijg  light 
I>eajjed  through  my  brain  and  danced  hietore  my 

eyes. 
So  loud  my  heart  l.)eat,  that  I  feare-l  its  sound 
W,,„W  waicethosIe^jK-r-  and  the  V.i.bbliug  bl<>yl 

'      : :        '    ■:  achUd, 

uug 


- ^  J^OUg, 

'.iiiiig  but  a  striae  ol  einjAv  aij- 
.  me  and  God's  justice.      In  a  tle^j>, 
j  Li'n  «ith  the  fumes  ■,'  "  '  grape, 

.Sprawled  the  false  Iiu:  ;4gy  breast, 

Lik«  a  white  lUv  heav: 


-^ 


e-: 


Clt8 


I'OEMU  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


fe- 


Of  some  foul  sti-enm,  tlie  fnii-est  woiuiiu  slept 

These  roving  eyes  have  ever  looked  upon. 

Almost  a  ehiUl,  her  bosom  baivly  showed 

The  ehauge  beyond  her  girlhood.    All  her  ohtirms 

Were  budding,  b\it  half  opened  ;  for  1  saw 

Not  only  beauty  wondrous  in  itself, 

Hut  possibility  of  more  to  Iw 

In  the  full  profess  of  her  blooming  days, 

1  gazed  upon  her,  nud  my  heart  gii>\v  soft. 

As  a  paiviu'd  pustuiv  with  the  dew  of  heaven. 

While  thus  1  giized  she  smiled,  and  slowly  raised 

The  loug  curve  of  her  lashes  ;  and  wo  looked 

Eaeli  upon  each  in  wonder,  not  alarm,  — 

Not  eye  to  eye,  but  soul  to  soul,  we  held 

Each  other  for  a  moment.     All  her  life 

Seemed  centered  in  the  ciivle  of  her  eyes. 

She  stirrod  no  limb ;  her  long-ilrawu,  ei[unl  breath 

Swelled  out  and  eblx'd  away  beneath  her  breast, 

In  calm  unbi-oken.     Not  a  sign  of  fear 

Touched  the  faint  color  on  her  oval  cheek, 

Or  pinched  the  aivhes  of  her  tender  mouth. 

She  took  me  for  a  vision,  and  she  lay 

With  her  sleep's  smile  vmaltered,  as  in  doubt 

Whether  real  life  had  stolen  into  her  dreams, 

Or  dreaming  stretched  into  her  outer  life. 

I  was  not  graceless  to  a  woman's  eyes. 

The  girls  of  Damar  paused  to  see  me  pass, 

I  walking  in  my  nigs,  yet  beautiful. 

One  maiden  said,  "He  has  a  prince's  air!" 

I  am  a  prince  ;  the  air  was  all  my  own. 

So  thought  the  lily  on  the  Imam's  bi-east ; 

And  lightly  as  a  summer  mist,  that  lifts 

Hefore  the  morning,  so  she  lloated  up, 

AVithout  a  sound  or  rustle  of  a  robe. 

From  her  coai'se  pillow,  and  before  me  stood 

With  asking  eyes.     The  Imam  never  moved. 

A  striile  and  blow  were  all  my  need,  and  they 

Were  wholly  in  my  power.      1  took  her  hand, 

1  held  a  warning  linger  to  my  lips, 

.Vod  whispered  in  her  small,  expectant  ear, 

'•  .'Vdeb,  the  son  of  Akcm  !"     She  replied 

In  a  low  murmur  whose  bewildering  sound 

Almost  lulled  wakeful  me  to  sleep,  and  sealed 

The  sleeper's  lids  in  tenfold  slumber,  "  Prince, 

I.onl  of  the  Imam's  life  and  of  my  heart. 

Take  all  thou  seest,  — it  is  thy  right,  I  know,  — 

Hut  spare  the  Imam  for  thy  own  soul's  sake !" 

Then  1  arrayed  me  in  a  robe  of  state. 

Shining  with  gold  and  jewels  ;  and  1  bound 

In  my  long  tiirlmu  gems  that  might  have  bought 

The  lands  'twixt  IJabelmandeb  auil  Sahan. 

1  girt  about  me,  with  a  blazing  belt, 

A  scimitar  o'er  which  the  sweating  smiths 

In  far  Damascus  hammered  for  long  years, 

Whose  hilt  and  scabbaixl  shot  a  trembling  light 

From  diamonds  and  rubies.     And  she  smiled, 

As  piece  by  piece  1  put  the  treasures  on. 

To  see  me  look  so  fair,  —  in  pride  she  smiled. 


I  hung  long  purses  at  my  side.     I  scooped, 
From  olf  a  table,  ligs  and  dates  and  rico. 
And  bound  them  to  my  ginllo  in  a  sack. 
Then  over  all  1  Hung  a  snowy  cloak. 
And  becki>ued  to  the  maiden.     So  she  stole 
Forth  like  my  shadow,  jmst  the  sleeping  wolf 
Who  wronged  my  father,  o'er  the  woolly  head 
Of  the  swart  eunuch,  down  the  paintetl  court. 
Anil  by  the  sentinel  who  stamling  slept. 
Strongly  against  the  portal,  through  my  rags,  — 
My  old  base  rags,  — and  through  the  maiden's  veil, 
I  pressed  my  knife,  — upon  X\\i>  wooden  hilt 
Was  "  Adeb,  son  of  Akem,"  carved  by  me 
In  my  long  slavehood,  — as  a  passing  sign 
To  wait  the  Imam's  waking.     Shadows  cast 
From  two  high-sailing  clouds  upon  the  sand 
l'a.ssed  not  more  noiseless  than  we  two,  as  one, 
tilided  beneath  the  moonlight,  till  1  smelt 
The  fiiigrance  of  the  stables.     As  I  slid 
The  wide  doors  ojien,  with  a  sudden  bound 
Uprose  the  startled  horses  :  but  they  stood 
Still  as  the  man  who  in  a  foreign  land 
Hears  his  strange  langvuige,  when  my  De.sert  cull. 
As  low  and  plaintive  as  the  nested  dove's, 
Fell  on  their  listening  eare.     From  stall  to  stall, 
Feeling  tlie  horses  wiUi  my  groping  hands, 
1  crept  in  darkness ;  and  at  length  1  came 
Upon  two  sister  mares  whose  rounded  sides. 
Fine  muzzles,  and  small  heads,  and  pointed  oars. 
And  foivheads  spreading  'twixt  their  eyelids  wide. 
Long  slender  tails,  thin  manes,  and  coats  of  silk. 
Told  me,  that,  of  the  hnndroil  steeds  there  st'iUed, 
My  hand  was  on  the  treasuivs.     tl'er  and  o'er 
I  felt  their  bony  joints,  and  down  their  legs 
To  the  cool  hoofs ;  —  no  blemish  anywhere : 
These  1  led  forth  and  saddled.     Upon  one 
I  set  the  lily,  gathered  now  for  me,  — 
My  own,  henceforth,  forever.     So  we  rodo 
Across  the  grass,  beside  the  stony  path. 
Until  we  gained  the  highway  that  is  lost, 
Leading  from  Sana,  in  the  eastern  sands ; 
When,  with  a  cry  that  both  the  desert-born 
Knew  without  hint  from  whip  or  goading  spur. 
We  dashed  into  a  gallop.      Far  behind 
In  sparks  and  smoke  the  dusty  highway  rose ; 
And  ever  on  the  maiden's  face  1  saw. 
When  the  moon  flashed  upon  it,  the  strange  siiiil* 
It  wore  on  waking.     Once  1  kissed  her  mouth, 
\  Wlien  she  grew  weary,  and  her  strength  returned. 
I  All  through  the  night  wescouivd  between  the  hills: 
I  The  moon  went  down  behind  us,  and  the  stars 
!  Propped  after  her ;  but  long  before  1  saw 
I  A  planet  blazing  straight  against  our  eyes. 
The  road  had  softened,  and  the  shadowy  hills 
Had  tlattened  out,  and  I  could  hear  the  hiss 
Of  sand  spurned  backward  by  the  Hying  mares. 
Glory  to  God  !     1  was  at  home  again  ! 
The  sun  rose  on  us ;  far  and  near  I  saw 


^ 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


:-n 


609 


The  level  Desert ;  sky  met  sand  all  round. 
We  paused  at  mid-day  by  a  palm-crowned  well, 
Andate  and  slumbered.    Somewhat,  too,  wassaid : 
The  words  have  slipped  my  memorj'.    That  same 

eve 
We  rode  sedately  through  a  Hamoum  camp,  — 
I,  Adeb,  prince  amongst  them,  and  my  bride. 
And  ever  since  amongst  them  I  have  ridden, 
A  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  the  best ; 
And  ever  since  my  days  have  been  of  gold. 
My  nights  have  been  of  silver,  —  God  is  just ! 
George  Henry  boker. 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE. 


"  '  liriiig   forth    the    horse  ! '  —  the    horse   was 
hrouglit, 

In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  looked  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limlis  ;  but  he  wa.s  wild. 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught. 
With  .spur  and  bridle  undefiled,  — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
.\nil  strangling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  lull  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-boni  was  led  ; 
Thr;y  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng. 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong  ; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash,  — ■ 
.\way  !  —  away  !  —  and  on  we  dash  ! 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

"  Away  !  —  away  !  —  My  breath  was  gone,  — 
1  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  ; 
'T  was  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day. 
And  on  he  foamed,  —  away  !  —  away  !  — 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  d.arted  from  my  foes. 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout  ; 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrenched  my  head. 
And  snapped  the  cord  whieh  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein. 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howled  back  my  curse  ;  but  midst  the  tread. 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed. 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed  : 

"  Awaj',  away,  my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind. 

All  human  dwellings  left  behind  ; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky. 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 


Is  checkered  with  the  northern  light  : 
Town,  —  village,  — none  were  on  our  tnn-k. 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent. 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black  ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  liold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old. 

No  trace  of  man 

"  But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away. 
And  I  could  neitlier  sigh  nor  pray  ; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  coni-ser's  bristling  mane  ; 
Hut,  snorting  still  with  rage  an<l  fear. 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career  ; 
At  times  1  almost  thought,  indeed. 
He  must  have  slackened  in  his  speed  ; 
But  no,  —  my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  liis  angi-y  might, 
.\nd  merely  liki^  a  s[)ur  became  : 
Eacli  motion  whieh  1  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 

Increased  his  fury  and  alfiiglit : 
I  tried  ray  voice,  —  't  was  faint  and  low. 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow  ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sjirang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang  ; 
Meantime  my  cords  wi^re  wet  with  gore. 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limits,  ran  o'er  ; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  tie  rcor  far  than  flame. 

"  We  neared  the  wild  wood,  —  't  was  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side  ; 
'T  was  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees. 
That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 
Which  howls  down  from  .Sil>eria's  waste, 
And  strips  the  forest  in  its  ha.ste,  — 
But  these  were  few  and  far  between. 
Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green, 
Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves. 
Ere  .strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 
That  idp  the  forest's  foliage  deatl, 
Discolored  with  a  lifeless  reil. 
Which  stands  thereon  like  stilfened  gore 
Upon  the  slain  when  battle  's  o'er. 
And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 
Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head. 
So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 
May  peck  impierced  each  frozen  cheek  ; 
'T  was  a  wild  waste  of  underwood. 
And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood. 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine  ; 
But  far  apart,  —  and  well  it  were. 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine,  — 
The  boughs  gave  way,  and  ilid  not  tear 
My  limbs  ;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarred  with  cold,  — 


-ff 


[fi- 


CIO 


WEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  SURAL  SI'ORTS. 


6- 


My  boiuis  forbaile  to  looso  iny  hold. 

We  rustlwl  tluxiugli  tlio  liuvvis  like  wind, 

Left  shiuKs  lUid  tiois  and  wolves  behind  ; 

By  nij;ht  1  heaul  theui  on  the  track, 

Theiv  troop  eiune  hai\i  upon  our  baek 

With  theii'  loiij;  gallop,  whioh  ean  tire 

The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fuv  : 

Wheiv'er  we  Hew  they  followed  on, 

Nor  left  us  witii  the  nioruiuj;  sun  ; 

Behind  1  sivw  theui,  searve  a  rood. 

At  dayluvak  winding  thumgh  the  wood. 

And  through  the  night  had  heaul  their  foet 

Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 

0,  how  I  wished  for  spear  or  swoixi, 

At  least  to  die  amidst  tlie  hoiile. 

Anil  iHH'isli  —  if  it  must  h»  so  — 

At  l«y,  destixiying  many  a  foe ! 

When  tirst  my  eoui'ser's  nice  begun, 

I  wished  the  goal  already  won  ; 

But  now  1  doubted  strength  and  speed. 

Vain  doubt  !  his  swift  and  .•«ivagt<  breed 

Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain  roe  ; 

"  The  wood  wius  pas.sed  ;  't  was  more  than  noon. 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  .lune  ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold,  — 
Prolonged  euduraiuo  tainiw  the  Iwld  j 

"  What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trank 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  stnik  i 

The  earth  gjive  way,  the  skies  rolUxl  round, 

1  seemed  to  sink  upon  the  ground  ; 

But  erred,  for  1  was  lastly  bound. 

My  heart  turned  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore. 

And  throblvd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more  ; 

The  skies  sipuu  like  a  mighty  wheel  ; 

1  s)»w  the  trees  like  drunkauls  reel. 

And  a  slight  Hash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 

Which  s!»w  no  farther  ;  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

D'ertortuitxl  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

1  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go. 

And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  coidd  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  fiMiu  below  : 
1  felt  as  on  a  jilank  at  sea, 
AVhen  all  the  waves  that  dasli  o'er  thee, 
At  the  -same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 
Antl  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm, 
ily  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  Hitting  pass 
Our  shut  eyes  in  ilecp  midnight,  when 
Fever  begins  upon  the  brain  ; 
But  soon  it  passed,  with  little  |>ain. 

But  a  confusion  wowe  than  such  ; 

I  own  that  1  sliould  deem  it  much, 
Pying,  to  feel  the  same  again; 
And  yet  1  do  supjiose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  vrv  wo  turn  to  dust : 


No  matter  ;  1  have  bared  my  brow- 
Full  in  Death's  face —  before —  and  now. 

"  My  thoughts  came  back  ;  where  was  1  f    ("old 
And  numb  and  giddy  :  pulse  by  pulse 

Life  reassumed  its  lingtning  hold. 

And  throb  by  tln-ob,  —  till  grown  a  Jiang 
Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse. 
My  blood  retlowi-d,  Miough  thick  and  chill  ; 

My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang; 
My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 

My  sight  returned,  though  dim  ;  alas  ! 

Ami  Ihickeiunl,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 

Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh  ; 

There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky. 

Studded  with  stars  ;  —  it  is  no  dream  ; 

The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stretmi ! 

The  bright,  broad  river's  gushing  tide 

Sweejw,  winding  onward,  far  ami  wide. 

And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 

To  yon  vinknown  and  silent  shore. 

The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance. 

And  with  a  temporary  strength 
My  stilfcned  limbs  were  rclmptized. 

My  cotn-ser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves. 

And  dashes  otV  the  asceiiditig  waves. 

And  onwaiil  we  advance  ! 

We  reach  the  slippery  .shore  at  length, 
A  haven  1  but  little  prized. 

For  all  U'hind  was  dark  ai\d  drear, 

And  all  Ivfore  was  night  and  fear. 

How  many  houi-s  of  night  or  day 

In  those  suspended  Jiangs  I  lay, 

1  could  not  tell ;  1  scarcely  knew 

If  this  were  human  bi-eath  1  ilrew. 

"  With  gh>ssy  skin,  and  dripping  mane. 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  tlaiik. 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 

Up  the  repelling  Iwnk. 
We  gain  the  top  ;  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

And  onwaitl,  onwaixl,  onv  tird,  seems. 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreai\is. 
To  stretch  beyoud  the  sight  ; 
And  liorev  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scattennl  sjx>t  of  dusky  green. 
In  ma.sses  broke  into  the  light 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  naught  ilistinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gjite  ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afiu' 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star  ; 
Not  even  an  iffitu-Muus  rose 
To  n\ake  him  merry  with  my  woes : 

That  very  cheat  had  cheered  me  then  ! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still. 


a-^- 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND   RURAL  SPORTS. 


611 


"-a 


&-- 


Rc-niiiiiliiij,'  II11-,  tliiougli  eveiy  ill, 
Of  the  icbudus  ol  meu. 

"  Onward  we  went,  —  but  slack  and  slow  ; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent. 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low. 

All  fi-i-lily  foaming  went. 
A  sifkly  infant  had  hud  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour  ; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  tarni;ntss  naught  availed,  — 
My  limbs  were  bound  ;  my  force  had  failed. 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feelile  efforts  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied. 

But  still  it  was  in  vain  ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrang  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er. 

Which  but  prolonged  their  pain  ; 
The  dizzy  race  seemed  almost  done, 
Altliough  no  goal  was  nearly  won  ; 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun,  — 

How  .slow,  alas  !  he  came  ! 
Methought  that  mi.st  of  dawning  gi'ay 
Would  never  dapple  into  day  ; 
How  heavily  it  rolled  away,  — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  depo.sed  the  .stars. 
And  called  the  radiance  from  their  cars. 
And  filled  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne. 
With  lonely  luster,  aU  his  own. 

"  Up  rose  the  sun  ;  the  mists  were  curled 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around  —  behind  —  before. 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river  ?     Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  lioof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  iu  the  wild  lu.xuriant  soil  ; 
No  sign  of  travel,  —  none  of  toil ; 
The  very  air  was  mute  ; 
And  not  an  in.sect's  shrill  small  horn. 
Nor  matin  bird's  new-  voice,  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  weret. 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst. 
The  weary  brute  still  staggered  on  ; 
And  still  we  were,  or  seemed,  alone. 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 
No,  no  !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  ti'oop  ;  I  see  them  come  ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  ! 

1  strove  to  cry,  —  my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride  ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  tliuusatid  horse,  —  and  none  to  ride  ! 


With  flowing  tail,  and  Hying  mane. 
Wide  nostrils,  never  .stretched  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  oi'  I'ein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod. 
And  flanks  unscarred  Ijy  sjiur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free. 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  ou, 
As  if  our  faint  api)ioach  to  meet ; 
The  sight  renerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feelily  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh. 

He  answered,  and  then  fell: 
With  gasi>s  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay. 

And  recking  limbs  immovable. 
Ills  first  and  last  career  is  done  ! 
On  came  the  troop,  —  they  saw  him  stoop. 

They  .saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong  : 
They  stop,  —  they  start,  —  they  snufl'  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there. 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round. 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound. 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed. 
Who  seemed  the  patriarch  of  his  breed. 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide ; 
They  snort,  they  foam,  neigh,  swerve  aside. 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly. 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair. 
Linked  to  the  dead  and  stilfening  WTetch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneatli  me  stretch. 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight. 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me,  and  there  we  lay 

The  dying  on  the  deaii  ! 
I  little  deemed  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  liel]>less  head. 

"  And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 
I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round. 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 

"  The  sun  wa.s  sinking,  —  still  I  lay 

Chained  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed  ; 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay  : 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need. 

No  hojie  arose  of  being  freed  : 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky. 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 
I  saw  the  cxpecring  raven  fly. 
Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die 

Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 
He  flew,  and  perched,  then  flew  once  more. 
And  each  time  nearer  than  belbre : 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit. 


xi 


[fi- 


612 


POE.VS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


-^ 


[9^ 


And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

I  could  hare  smote,  but  lacked  the  strength ; 
But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 
The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise. 
Which  scarcely  could  be  called  a  voice, 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length. 
I  know  no  more,  —  my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

Which  fixed  my  dull  eyes  from  afar. 
And  wtnt  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense. 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death. 
And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense. 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sjjarks  that  crossed  my  brain,  — 
A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 

A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

"  I  woke.  —  Where  was  I  ?  —  Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  ? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  1  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  ? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-haired  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught. 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought ; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

AVith  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free  : 
I  gazed  and  gazed,  until  1  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be,  — 
But  that  1  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast : 
And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unsealed. 
She  smiled,  —  and  I  essayed  to  speak. 

But  failed,  —  and  she  approached,  and  made 

With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free  ; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid. 
And  smoothed  the  j)illow  for  my  head, 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread. 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers,  —  ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet ! 
Even  music  followed  her  light  feet ; 

But  those  she  called  were  not  awake. 
And  she  went  forth  ;  but,  ere  she  passed, 


Another  look  on  nie  she  cast. 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say 
That  I  had  naught  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return  :  while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone. 

"  She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire,  — 
What  need  of  more  ?  —  I  wUl  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest. 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain,  — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut,  — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again,  — 
Me,  —  one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign  ! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain. 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness. 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone. 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne,  — 

What  mortal  his  o\\'u  doom  ma}'  guess  ? 
Lord  BVR 


THE  ARAB  TO  HIS  FAVORITE   STEED. 
My  beautil'ul !  mv  lieautiful !  that  standest  meek- 

ly  by. 

With  thy  proudly  arched  and  glossy  neck,  and 

dark  and  fiery  eye, 
Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now,  with  all  thy 

wingkl  speed ; 
I  may  not  mount  on  thee  again,  —  thou  'rt  sold, 

my  Arab  steed ! 
Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof,  —  siuiff  not 

the  breezy  wind,  — 
The  farther  that  thou  fliest  now,  so  far  am  I  behind ; 
Tlie  stranger  hath  thy  bridle-rein,  —  thy  master 

hath  his  gold,  — 
Fleet-limbed   and   beautiful,    farewell ;   thou  'rt 

sold,  my  steed,  thou  'rt  sold. 

Farewell !  those  free,  untired  limbs  full  many  a 

mile  must  roam. 
To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  sky  which  clouds 

the  stranger's  home ; 
Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now  thy  corn 

and  bed  prepare. 
Thy  silky  mane,  I  braided  once,  must  be  another's 

care ! 
The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again,  but  never 

more  with  thee 
Shall  I  gallop  through  the  desert  paths,  where 

we  were  wont  to  be  : 
Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth,  and  o'er  the 

sandy  plain 
Some  other  steed,  with  slower  step,  shall  liear  me 

home  again. 

Mi 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL   SPORTS. 


613 


-a 


Yes,  thou  must,  go  !  the  wiW,   free  breeze,  the 

brilliant  sun  and  sky. 
Thy   master's   house,  —  from   all    of  these   my 

exiled  one  must  fly; 
Thy  proud  dark  eye  will  grow  less  proud,  thy 

step  become  less  fleet. 
Anil  vainly  shalt  thou  arch  thy  neck,  thy  mas- 
ter's hand  to  meet. 
Oidy  in   sleep  shall    I    behold   that  dark   eye, 

glancing  bright; — 
Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again  that  step  so  firm 

and  light ; 
And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arm  to  check  or 

cheer  thy  speed, 
Then  must  I,  starting,  wake  to  feel,  —  thou  'rt 

sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

Ah  !  rudely  then,  unseen  by  me,  some  cruel  hand 

may  chide. 
Till  foam-wreaths  lie,  like  crested  waves,  along 

thy  panting  side  : 
And  the  rich  blood  that 's  in  thee  swells,  in  thy 

indignant  pain. 
Till  careless  eyes,  which  rest  on  thee,  may  count 

each  starting  vein. 
Will,  they  ill-use  thee  !     If  I  thought  —  but  no, 

it  cannot  be,  — 
Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curlied  ;  so  gentle, 

yet  so  free : 
And  yet,  if  haply,  when  thou  'rt  gone,  my  lonely 

heart  should  yearn,  — 
Can  the  hand  which  casts  thee  from  it  now  com- 
mand thee  to  return  ? 

r^elurn.'  alas!  my  Arab  steed!  what  shall   thy 

master  do, 
When  thou,  who  wast  his  all  of  joy,  hast  vanished 

from  his  view? 
■When  the  dim  distance  cheats  mine  eye,  and 

through  the  gathering  tears 
Thy  bright  form,   for  a  moment,  like  the  false 

mirage  appears ; 
Slow  and  unmounted  shall  I  roam,  with  weary 

step  alone, 
Where,  with  fleet  step  and  joyous  bound,  thou 

oft  hast  borne  me  on  ; 
And  sitting  down  by  that  green  well,  I  '11  pause 

and  sadly  think, 
"  It  was  here  he  bowed  his  glossy  neck  when  last 

I  saw  him  drink  !  " 

When  last  I  saw  thee  drink! — Away !  the  fevered 

dream  is  o'er,  — 
I  could  not  live  a  day,  and  knov-  that  we  should 

meet  no  more  ! 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful !  —  for  hunger's 

power  is  strong,  — 
They  tempted  me,    my  beautiful  !   but   I   have 

loved  too  long. 


Who  said  that  I  had  given  thee  up  ?  who  said 

that  thou  wast  sold? 
'T  is  false,  —  't  is  false,  my  Arab  steed  !   1  fling 

them  back  their  gold  ! 
Thus,  tlMS,  I  leap  upon  thy  back,  and  scour  the 

distant  plains  ; 

Away !  who  overtakes  us  now  shall  claim  thee 

for  his  paius  ! 

■  —  E.  Norton. 


HEL'VrELLTN. 

[In  the  spring  of  1805,  a  young  gentleman  of  talents,  and  of  a  most 
.Tiniable  disposition,  perished  by  losing  his  way  on  the  mountain 
I  lelvellyn.  His  remains  were  not  discovered  till  three  months  after- 
wards, when  they  were  found  guarded  by  a  faithful  terrier,  his  con- 
stant attendant  during  frequent  solitary  rambles  through  the  wilds 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.] 

1  CLi.MBEDthedarkbrowof  the  mighty  I lelvellyn. 
Lakes   and   mountains  bi^ncath    me   gleamed 
misty  and  wide  : 
All  was  still,  save,  by  tits,  when  the  eagle  was 
yelling, 
And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden  Edge  round  the  Ked  Tarn 

was  bending. 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending. 
One  huge  nameless  rook  in  the  front  was  ascending. 
When  I  marked  the  sinl  spot  where  the  wan- 
derer had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  mid  the  brown  moun- 
tain heather, 
WTiere  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched  in 
decay. 
Like  the  corjiseof  an  outcast  abandoni'd  to  weathi'r. 
Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the  tenantless 
clay; 
Xor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended. 
For.  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite  attended, 
The  much-loveil  remains  of  her  master  defended. 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  .away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was 
slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft 
didst  thou  start? 
How  many  long  days,  and  long  nights  didst  thou 
number 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  frieml  of  thy  heart ' 
And,  0,  was  it  meet  that  —  no  requiem  re.ad  o'er 

him. 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him, 
.And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretcheil  before 
him  — 
Unhonored  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 

Whenaprinceto  the  fate  of  the  peasant  hasyieldeil, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted 
hall. 


&-- 


-^ 


[&: 


614 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


-a 


With  'scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 

And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall : 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches 

are  gleaming ; 
In  the  proudly  arched  chapel  the  banners  are 

beaming ; 
Faradownthelongaisle  sacred  music  is  streaming. 
Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  People  should  fall. 

But  mecter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature. 
To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain 
lamb, 
When,  wildered,  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge 
in  stature. 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 
And  moi'e  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake 

lying. 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying. 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying. 
In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 


HELVELLYN. 

A  B.\RKlxc.  sound  the  shepherd  hears, 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox  ; 
He  halts,  and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks  ; 
And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern  ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen. 
Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed  ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy,  — • 

AVith  something,  as  the  shepherd  thinks, 

Unusual  in  its  cry  ; 

Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 

All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 

Nor  shout  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear. 

What  is  the  creature  doing  here? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

Tlint  keeps,  till  June,  December's  snow ; 

A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn  below  ! 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 

Eemote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 

Pathway,  or  cultivated  land,  — 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 

Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 

The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak 

I II  >;TOiphony  austere  ; 

Tliither  the  rainbow  comes,  the  cloud. 

And  mists  that  spread  the  iijdng  shroud ; 


And  sunbeams ;  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past, 
But  that  enormous  harrier  holds  it  fast. 

Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  awhile 
The  shepherd  stood ;  then  makes  his  way 
O'er  rocks  and  stones,  foUowing  the  dog 
As  quickly  as  he  may  ; 
Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground. 
The  appalled  discoverer  with  a  sigh 
Looks  round  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear ! 

At  length  upon  the  shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear. 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name. 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came  ; 

Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  traveler  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake 

This  Lamentable  tale  I  tell ! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 

This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  dog,  which  still  wa-s  hovering  nigh. 

Repeating  the  same  timid  cry. 

This  dog  had  been  through  three  months'  space 

A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain,  that,  since  the  day 
When  this  ill-fated  traveler  died, 
The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot. 
Or  by  his  master's  side  : 
How  nourished  here  through  such  long  time 
He  knows  who  gave  that  love  sublime, 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  STAG  HTTNT. 

FROM   "  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.' 

The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill, 
WTiere  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill. 
And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 
In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade  ; 
But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 
Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head, 
The  deep-mouthed  bloodhound's  heavj'  bay 
Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 
And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 
Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 
As  Chief  who  hears  his  warder  call, 
"To  arms!  the  foemen  storm  the  wall," 


-^ 


a-^ 


POEMS   OF  ADVEXTUEE  AXD  RURAL   SPORTS. 


G15 


n 


^^ 


The  antlered  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprung  from  liis  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But,  ere  las  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  fianivs  he  shook  ; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high 

Tossed  liis  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky  ; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry. 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh ; 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared. 

With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 

And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 

Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  jiack  ; 
Dock,  glen,  and  eaveni  paid  them  back ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 
A  hundred  <logs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  a  hundred  steeds  along, 
Tlieir  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out, 
A  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout ; 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo, 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe  ; 
Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe ; 
The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high. 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye. 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still, 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  .sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern,  where,  't  is  told, 
A  giant  made  liis  den  of  old ; 
For  ere  that  .steep  ascent  was  won. 
High  in  his  pathway  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  perforce. 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse. 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer. 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near .: 
So  shrewdly,  on  the  mountain-side. 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 

The  noble  stag  was  pausing  now 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow. 
Where  broad  extended,  far  beneath. 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteitli. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor. 
And  pondered  refuge  from  his  toil. 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  gray 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 


And  mingled  with  the  pine-trous  blue 
On  the  bold  clitfs  of  Benvenue. 
Fresh  vigor  with  the  hope  returned. 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned. 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race. 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 

'T  were  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambus-morc ; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air ; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath. 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith,  — 
For  twice  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far, 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar; 
And  when  the  Brigg  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 

Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal, 

That  horseman  [ilied  the  scourge  and  steel ; 

For,  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil. 

Embossed  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil, 

While  every  gasp  with  solis  he  drew. 

The  laboring  stag  strained  full  in  view. 

Two  dogs  of  black  St.  H\ibert's  breed. 

Unmatched  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed, 

Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came. 

And  all  but  won  that  despemte  game ; 

For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch, 

Vindictive  toiled  the  bloodhounds  stanch  ; 

Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain. 

Nor  farther  might  the  quarr\'  strain. 

Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake. 

Between  the  precipice  and  brake. 

O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

The  hunter  marked  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary. 
And  deemed  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay. 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way ; 
Already  glorjing  in  the  prize. 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes : 
For  the  death-wound  and  death-halloo 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew ; 
But  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared. 
The  wily  quaiTy  shunned  the  shock. 
And  turned  him  from  the  opposing  rock  ; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen. 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken. 
In  the  deep  Trosachs'  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There  while,  close  couched,  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head. 
He  heard  the  baflled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain, 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 


^ 


[& 


616 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


■a 


Close  on  the  }iounds  the  hunter  ciinic, 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanished  game  ; 
But,  stnmblinw  in  tlie  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein, 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labore  o'er, 
Stretched  his  stilT  limbs,  to  rise  no  more ; 
Then,  touched  with  pity  and  remorse. 
He  sorrowed  o'er  the  expiring  horse  : 
"I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slacked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  Highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed  ! 
Woe  worth  the  chase,  woe  worth  the  day. 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray  I " 

Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds. 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hountls. 
Back  limped,  with  slow  and  crippled  jiace. 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase  ; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  pressed. 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest ; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream. 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream, 
Ro\uid  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast. 
Till  echo  seemed  an  answering  blast ; 
And  on  the  hunter  hied  his  way. 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day  ; 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road, 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  showed. 

Sir  Walier  Scott. 

THE  STAG  HUNT. 


The  stag  too,  singled  from  the  herd  where  long 
He  ranged  the  branching  monarch  of  the  shades, 
Before  the  tempest  drives.     At  first,  in  speed 
He,  sprightly,  puts  his  faith  :  and,  roused  by 

fear. 
Gives  all  his  shrift  aeiial  soul  to  flight. 
Against  the  breeze  he  darts,  that  way  the  more 
To  leave  the  lessening  murderous  cry  behind  : 
Deception  short !  though  fleeter  than  the  winds 
Blown  o'er  the  keen-aired  mountain  by  the  north. 
He   bursts  the  thickets,   glances  through  the 

glades, 
And  plunges  deep  into  the  wildest  wood,  — 
1  f  slow,  yet  sure,  adhesive  to  the  track 
Hot-steaming,  up  behind  him  come  again 
The  inhuman  rout,  and  from  the  shady  depth 
Expel  him,  circling  through  his  every  shift. 
He  sweeps  the  forest  oft ;  and  sobbing  .sees 
The  glades,  mild  opening  to  the  golden  day. 
Where,  in  kind  contest,  with  his  buttinsr  friends 


He  wont  to  struggle,  or  his  loves  enjoy. 
Oft  in  the  full-descending  flood  he  tries 
To  lose  the  scent,  and  lave  his  burning  sides ; 
Oft  seeks  the  heiil  ;  the  watch  ful  herd,  alarmed, 
With  selfish  care  avoid  a  brother's  woe. 
What  shall  he  do  ?     His  once  so  vivid  nerves. 
So  full  of  buoyant  spirit,  now  no  more 
Inspire  the  course  ;  but  fainting  breathless  toil. 
Sick,  seizes  on  his  heart  :  he  stands  at  l«y  ; 
And  puts  his  last  weak  refuge  in  despair. 
The  big  round  tears  run  down  his  dappled  face  ; 
He  groans  in  anguish ;  while  the  growling  pack. 
Blood-happy,  hajig  at  his  fidr  jutting  chest, 
And  mark  liis  beauteous  checkered  .sides  with  gore. 

J.VMKS  THOMSON. 


BETH  GfiLERT. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound. 
And  cheerily  smiled  the  morn  ; 

And  many  a  brach,  and  many  a  hound. 
Obeyed  Llewelyn's  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast. 

And  gave  a  lustier  cheer, 
"  Come,  Gelert,  come,  wert  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear. 

' '  0,  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam. 

The  flower  of  all  his  race  ; 
So  ti'ue,  so  brave,  —  a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase  .'" 

In  sooth,  he  was  a  ]>eerless  hound. 

The  gift  of  royal  John  ; 
But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found. 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 

The  chase  of  hart  and  hare  ; 
And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved. 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased,  Llewelyn  homeward  hied, 

When,  near  the  portal  seat, 
His  truant  Gelert  he  espied, 

Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But,  when  he  gained  his  castle-door, 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood  ; 
The  hound  all  o'er  was  smeared  with  gore  ; 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  tierce  surprise  ; 

Unused  such  lo<iks  to  meet. 
His  favorite  checked  his  joyful  guise. 

And  crouched,  and  licked  his  feet. 


g 


-^ 


[&-- 


IVEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL   SPORTS. 


617 


ra 


tfr^- 


Onward,  in  haste,  Llewelyn  passed. 

And  on  went  Gelert  too  ; 
And  still,  where'er  his  eyes  he  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view. 

O'ertumed  his  infant's  bed  he  found. 
With  blood-stained  covert  rent  ; 

And  all  around  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  called  his  child, — no  voice  replied, — 

He  searched  with  terror  wild ; 
Blood,  l)lood  he  found  on  every  side, 

]j\it  nowhere  found  his  child. 

"Hell-hound!  my  child 's  by  thee  devoured, ' 

The  frantic  father  cried  ; 
And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sworci 

He  plunged  in  Gelcrt's  side. 

Aroused  by  Gelert's  dying  yell, 

Some  slumberer  wakened  nigh  ; 
W  hat  words  the  parent's  joy  could  tell 

To  hear  his  infant's  cry  1 

Concealed  beneath  a  tumbled  heap 

His  hurried  search  had  missed. 
All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep. 

The  cherub  boy  he  kissed. 

Nor  scathe  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread. 

But,  the  same  couch  beneath. 
Lay  a  gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead. 

Tremendous  still  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn's  pain  ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear  ; 
His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 

To  save  Llewelyn's  heir. 

William  Roblrt  Spen-cer. 


WAKEN,   LORDS  AND  LADIES  GAY. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day ; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear  ! 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling. 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Mi-rrily,  meirily  mingle  they, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

AVaken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming. 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming. 
Anil  foresters  have  busy  been 
To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green  ; 


Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away  ; 

We  can  show  you  where  he  lies. 

Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size  ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray&l  ; 

You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay  ; 

Waken,  loids  and  ladies  gay. 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay. 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  1 

Tell  them,  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 
Time,  stern  huntsman,  who  can  balk. 
Stanch  as  hound  and  Hect  as  hawk  ? 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay  I 

siK  Walter  Scott 


A  HXJNTING  WE  WILL  GO. 

TnK  dusky  night  rides  down  the  sky, 

And  ushers  in  the  mom  : 
The  hounds  all  join  in  glorious  cry, 

The  huntsman  winds  his  horn. 

And  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

The  wife  around  her  husband  throws 

Her  arms  to  make  him  stay  ; 
"  My  dear,  it  rains,  it  hails,  it  blows  ; 

You  cannot  hunt  to-day." 

Yet  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

Away  they  fly  to  'scape  the  rout, 
Their  steeds  they  soundly  switch  ; 

Some  are  thrown  in,  and  some  thrown  out, 
.And  some  thrown  in  the  ditch. 

Yet  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

Sly  Reynard  now  like  lightning  flies. 

And  swee])s  across  the  vale  ; 
And  when  the  hounds  too  near  he  spies. 

He  drops  his  bushy  tail. 

Then  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

Fond  Echo  seems  to  like  the  sport. 

And  join  the  jovial  en,- ; 
The  woods,  the  bills,  the  sound  retort. 

And  music  fills  the  sky. 

When  a  hunting  we  do  go. 

At  last  his  strength  to  faintness  worn, 

Poor  Reynard  ceases  flight ; 
Then  hungry,  homeward  we  return. 

To  feast  away  the  night. 

And  a  drinking  we  do  go. 


-Mi 


a-- 


618 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


--a 


& 


Ye  jovial  hunters,  in  the  mom 

Prepare  then  for  the  chase  ; 
Rise  at  the  sounding  of  tlie  horn 
And  health  witli  sport  embrace, 

AVlion  a  liunting  we  do  go. 
HF.NRY  Fielding. 


THE  HUNTER'S  SONG. 

KisE  !     Sleep  no  more  !     'T  is  a  noble  morn. 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 
.And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a  beaten  hound, 
Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Heboid  where  the  billowy  clouds  (low  by, 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky  ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady.  —  So,  ho  ! 
I  'm  gone,  like  a  dart  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 
Hark,  harlc! —  U'ko  calkth  the  maiden  Mom 
Prom  her  sleep  in  the  woods  and  tlie  stubble  corn  ? 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  ! 
7'he  merty,  sweet  rhtg  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

Now,  through  the  copse  where  the  fox  is  found, 
And  over  the  stream  at  a  miglity  bound, 
And  over  the  high  lands,  anil  over  the  low, 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  liuntei's  go ! 
Away  !  —  as  a  hawk  Hies  full  at  his  prey. 
So  flieth  the  hunter,  away,  —  away ! 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun. 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and  —  the  day  is  done ! 
Hark,  hark  !  —  What  sound  on  the  wind  is  borne  ? 
'Tis  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn.' 

The  horn,  —  the  horn! 
The  merry,  bold  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

Sound !     Sound  the  horn  !     To  the  hunter  good 
What 's  the  gully  deep  or  the  roaring  flood? 
Right  over  ho  bounds,  as  the  wild  stag  bounds. 
At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
0,  what  deliglit  can  a  mortal  lack, 
When  he  once  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back, 
Witli  his  stirrups  short,  and  his  snaitle  strong, 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning  song? 
Hark,  hark!  —  Now,  home!  and  dream  till  mom 
Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter's  horn  I 

The  horn,  —  the  horn! 
0,  the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  hunter's  horn! 
BRYAN  w,  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall). 

A  CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime. 

Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 

Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 

We  '11  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 

Row,  brothers,  row  !  the  stream  runs  fast. 

The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight 's  past ! 


Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ?  — 
There  is  not  a  breath  tlie  blue  wave  to  curl. 
But  when  the  wind  blows  otf  the  shore, 
0,  sweetly  we  '11  rest  our  weai-y  oar ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow !  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight 's  past ! 

Utawa's  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle,  hear  our  prayers,  — 
0,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  aii-s  ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow  !  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past! 
Thomas  Moore. 

THE  PLEASURE  BOAT. 

Come,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go ! 

They  're  seated  side  by  side  ; 
Wave  chases  wave  in  ])leasant  flow ; 

The  bay  is  fair  antl  wide. 

The  ripples  lightly  tap  the  boat  ; 

Loose  1     Give  her  to  the  wind  ! 
She  shoots  ahead  ;  they  're  all  afloat  ; 

The  strand  is  far  behind. 

No  danger  reach  so  fair  a  crew  ! 

Thou  goddess  of  the  foam, 
I  '11  ever  pay  thee  worship  due. 

If  thou  wilt  bring  them  home. 

Fair  ladies,  fairer  than  the  spray 

The  prow  is  dashing  wide. 
Soft  breezes  take  you  on  your  way, 

Soft  flow  the  blessed  tide. 

0,  might  I  like  those  breezes  be. 

And  touch  that  arching  brow, 
I  'd  dwell  forever  on  the  sea 

Where  ye  are  floating  now. 

The  boat  goes  tilting  on  the  waves  ; 

The  waves  go  tilting  by  ; 
Theio  dips  the  duck,  —  her  back  she  laves  ; 

(V,.rbe:id  the  sea-gulls  fly. 

Now,  like  the  gulls  that  dart  for  prey, 

The  little  vessel  stoops  ; 
Now,  rising,  shoots  along  her  way, 

Like  them,  in  easy  swoojis. 

The  sunlight  falling  on  her  sheet. 

It  glittei-s  like  the  drift, 
Sparkling,  in  scorn  of  summer's  heat, 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 


The  winds  are  fresh  ;  she 
Upon  the  bending  tide 


driving  fast 


-^ 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL   Sl'uRTS. 


619 


ra 


The  crinkling  sail,  and  crinkling  mast, 
Go  witli  her  side  by  side. 

Why  (lies  the  breeze  away  so  soon  ? 

Why  hangs  the  pennant  down  ? 
The  sea  is  glass  ;  the  sun  at  noon.  — 

Nay,  lady,  do  not  frown  ; 

For,  see,  the  winged  (isher's  plume 

Is  painted  on  the  sea  ; 
Below,  a  cheek  of  lovely  bloom. 

Whose  eyes  look  up  to  thee  ? 

She  smiles  ;  thou  need'st  must  smile  on  her. 

And  see,  beside  her  face, 
A  rii'h,  white  cloud  that  doth  not  stir  : 

What  beauty,  and  what  gi-ace  ! 

And  jiictured  beacli  of  yellow  sanri. 

And  peaked  rock  and  hill. 
Change  the  smooth  sea  to  fairy-land  ; 

How  lovely  and  how  still  ! 

From  that  far  isle  the  thresher's  flail 

.Strikes  close  upon  the  ear  ; 
The  leajiing  fish,  the  swinging  sail 

Of  yonder  slooji,  sound  near. 

The  parting  sun  sends  out  a  glow- 
Across  the  placid  l)ay. 

Touching  with  glory  all  the  show.  — 
A  breeze  !     Up  lielni  !     Away ! 

Careening  to  the  wind,  they  reach. 
With  laugh  and  call,  the  shore. 

They  've  left  their  footprints  on  the  beach. 
But  them  I  hear  no  more. 

RICHARD  HHNRY  DANA. 


THE  ANGLER'S  TRYSTING-TREE. 

Si  NO,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Meet  the  mom  upon  the  lea  ; 
Are  the  emeralds  of  tlie  spring 

On  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Are  there  Ijuds  on  our  willow-tree  ? 

Buds  and  binls  on  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Have  you  met  the  honey-bee. 
Circling  upon  rapid  wing. 

Round  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  see  ! 

Are  there  bees  at  onr  willow-tree  ? 

Birds  and  bees  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 


.Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Are  the  fountains  gushing  free  ? 
Is  the  south-wind  wandering 

Thiough  tlie  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

U]),  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Is  there  wind  up  our  willow-tree  ? 

Wind  or  calm  at  our  trysting-tree  ? 

.Sing,  sweet  thnishes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Wile  us  with  a  merry  glee 
To  the  flowery  haunts  of  spring,  — 

To  the  anglei''s  trysting-tree. 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Ari'  there  flowers  'iieath  our  willow-tree  ? 

Spring  and  flowei-s  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 

Thomas  Tod  stoddart. 


IN  PKAI.SE  OF  ANGLING. 

QuiVERiS'G  fears,  heart-tearing  cares, 
Anxious  sighs,  untimely  tears. 

Fly,  fly  to  courts. 

Fly  to  fond  worldlings'  sports. 
Where  strained  sardonic  smiles  are  glozing  still. 
And  grief  is  forced  to  laugh  against  her  will, 

Where  mirth  's  but  mummery, 

And  sorrows  only  real  be. 

Fly  from  our  country  ]iastimes,  fly, 
Sad  troops  of  human  nii.sery  ; 

Come,  .sen^ne  looks, 

Clear  as  the  crj'stal  brooks. 
Or  the  pure  azured  heaven  that  smiles  to  see 
The  rich  attendance  on  our  poverty ; 

Peace  and  a  .secure  7uind, 

Which  all  men  .seek,  we  only  find. 

Abused  mortals  !  did  you  know 

Where  joy,  heart's  case,  ami  comforts  gi'ow. 
You  'd  scorn  proud  towere 
And  seek  them  in  tliese  bowers. 

Where  winds,  sometimes,  our  woods  perhaps  may 
shake. 

But  blustering  care  could  never  tempest  make  ; 
Nor  murmurs  e'er  come  nigh  us. 
Saving  of  fountains  that  glide  by  us. 

Here  's  no  fantastic  ma.sk  or  dance. 
But  of  our  kids  that  frisk  and  prance  ; 
Nor  wars  are  seen. 
Unless  upon  the  green 
Two  harmless  lambs  are  butting  one  the  other. 
Which  done,  both  bleating  run,  eacth  to  his  mother; 
And  wounds  are  never  found, 
Save  what  the  plowsliare  gives  the  ground. 


-s 


[fi- 


620 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


fb 


Here  are  no  entrapping  baits 
To  hasten  to,  too  liasty  fates  ; 

Unless  it  be 

Tlie  fond  credulity 
Of  silly  fish,  which  (worldling  like)  stUl  look 
Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook  ; 

Nor  envy,  'less  among 

The  birds,  for  price  of  their  sweet  song. 

Go,  let  the  diving  negro  seek 

For  gems,  hid  in  some  foi'lorn  creek : 

We  all  pearls  scorn 

Save  what  the  dewy  morn 
Congeals  upon  each  little  spire  of  grass. 
Which  careless  shepherds  beat  down  as  they  pass ; 

And  gold  ne'er  here  appears, 

Save  what  the  yellow  Ceres  bears. 

Blest  silent  gi-oves,  0,  may  you  be, 
Forever,  mirth's  best  nursery ! 

Jlay  pure  contents 

Forever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  downs,   these  meads,    these  rocks, 

these  mountains  ! 
And  peace  stUl  slumber  by  these  purling  fountains, 

AVhieh  we  may  every  year 

Meet,  when  we  come  a-fishing  here. 

SIR  Henry  wotton. 


fr- 


THE  ANGLER. 

0  THE  gallant  fisher's  life, 

It  is  the  best  of  any ! 
'T  is  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife, 
And  't  is  beloved  by  many ; 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys  ; 
Only  this 
Lawful  is  ; 
For  our  skill 
Breeds  no  ill. 
But  content  and  pleasure. 

In  a  moniing,  up  we  rise. 

Ere  Aurora's  peeping  ; 
Drink  a  cup  to  wash  our  eyes. 
Leave  the  sluggard  sleeping  ; 

Then  we  go 

To  and  fro. 

With  our  knacks 

At  our  backs, 

To  such  streams 

As  the  Thames, 
If  we  have  the  leisure. 

When  we  please  to  walk  abroad 
For  our  recreation, 


In  the  fields  is  our  abode. 
Full  of  delectation, 

Where,  in  a  brook. 

With  a  hook,  — 

Or  a  lake,  — 

Fish  we  take  ; 

There  we  sit. 

For  a  bit, 
Till  we  fish  entangle. 

We  have  gentles  in  a  horn. 

We  have  paste  and  worms  too  ; 
We  can  watch  both  night  and  morn, 
Suffer  rain  and  storms  too  ; 
None  do  here 
Use  to  swear  : 
Oaths  do  fiay 
Fish  away ; 
We  sit  still. 
Watch  our  riuill : 
Fishers  must  not  wrangle. 

If  the  sun's  excessive  heat 
Make  our  bodies  swel  ter, 
To  an  osier  hedge  we  get. 
For  a  friendly  shelter  ; 
Where,  in  a  dike, 
Perch  or  pike, 
Eoach  or  dace. 
We  do  chase, 
Bleak  or  gudgeon. 
Without  grudging  ; 
We  are  still  contented. 

Or  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 

Under  a  green  willow. 
That  defends  us  from  a  shower. 
Making  earth  our  pillow  ; 
AVhere  we  may 
Think  and  pray, 
Before  death 
Stops  our  breath ; 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys. 
And  to  be  lamented. 

JOH.V  Chalkhill. 


THE  ANGLER'S   WISH. 

I  IN  these  flowery  meads  would  be. 
These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me  ; 
To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 
I,  with  my  angle,  would  rejoice. 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love  : 


-ff^ 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


621 


^ 


Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west-wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty  ;  please  my  mind, 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  washed  off  by  Ajjril  showeis  ; 

Here,  hear  my  kenna  sing  a  song  ; 

There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young. 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest : 

Here,  give  my  weaiy  spirits  rest. 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love. 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the  noise 
Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice  ; 

Or,  with  my  Brj-an  and  a  book. 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook ; 

There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat ; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day ; 

There  meditate  my  time  away  ; 

And  angle  on  ;  and  beg  to  have 

A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  gi'ave. 

IZAAK  Walton. 


Just  in  the  dubious  point,  where  mth  the  pool 
Is  mixed  the  trembling  stream,  or  where  it  boils 
Around  the  stone,  or  from  the  hollowed  bank 
Reverted  plays  in  undulating  flow, 
There  throw,  nice-judging,  the  delusive  fly  ; 
And,  as  you  lead  it  round  in  artful  curve. 
With  eye  attentive  mark  the  springing  game. 
Straight  as  above  the  surface  of  the  flood 
They  wanton  rise,  or  urged  by  himger  leap. 
Then  fix,  with  gentle  twitch,  the  barbed  hook  ; 
Some  lightly  tossing  to  the  grassy  bank. 
And  to  the  shelving  shore  slow  dragging  some. 
With  various  hand  proportioned  to  their  force. 
If  yet  too  young,  and  easily  deceived, 
A  worthless  prey  scarce  bends  your  pliant  rod. 
Him,  piteous  of  Ms  youth,  and  the  short  space 
He  has  enjoyed  the  vital  light  of  heaven. 
Soft  disengage,  and  back  into  the  stream 
The  speckled  infant  throw.     But  .should  you  lure 
From  his  dark  haunt,  beneath  the  tangled  roots 
Of  pendent  trees,  the  monarch  of  the  brook. 
Behooves  you  then  to  ply  your  finest  art. 
Long  time  he,  following  cautious,  scans  the  fly ; 
And  oft  attempts  to  seize  it,  but  as  oft 
The  dimpled  water  speaks  his  jealous  fear. 
At  last,  while  haply  o'er  the  shaded  sun 
Passes  a  cloud,  he  desperate  takes  the  death. 
With  sullen  plunge.     At  once  he  darts  along. 
Deep-struck,  and  nms  out  all  the  lengthened  line  : 
Then  seeks  the  farthest  ooze,  the  shelteiing  weed. 
The  cavemed  bank,  his  old  secure  abode  : 


And  flies  aloft,  and  flounces  round  the  pool, 
Indignant  of  the  guile.     With  yielding  hand, 
That  feels  him  still,  yet  to  his  furious  course 
Gives  way,  you,  now  retiring,  following  now 
Across  the  stream,  exhaust  his  idle  nige  ; 
Till,  floating  broad  upon  his  breathless  side, 
And  to  his  fate  abandoned,  to  the  shore 
You  gayly  drag  your  unresisting  prize. 

jAiiES  Thomson. 


U-- 


THE  ANGLER. 

But  look  !  o'er  the  fall  see  the  angler  stand, 
Swinging  his  rod  with  skillful  hand  ; 
The  fly  at  the  end  of  his  gossamer  line 

Swims  through  the  sun  like  a  summer  moth, 
Till,  dropt  tt'ith  a  careful  precision  fine. 

It  touches  the  pool  beyond  the  froth. 
A-sudden,  the  speckled  hawk  of  the  brook 
Darts  from  his  covert  and  seizes  the  hook. 
Swift  spins  the  reel ;  wth  easy  slip 
The  line  pays  out,  and  the  rod,  like  a  whip, 
Lithe  and  arrowy,  tapering,  slim. 
Is  bent  to  a  bow  o'er  the  brooklet's  brim, 
Till  the  trout  leaps  up  in  the  sun,  and  flings 
The  spray  from  the  flash  of  his  finny  wings  ; 
Then  falls  on  his  side,  and,  drunken  with  fright, 

Is  towed  to  the  shore  like  a  staggering  barge, 

TUl  beached  at  last  on  the  sandy  marge, 
Where  he  dies  with  the  hues  of  the  morning  light, 
While  his  sides  with  a  cluster  of  stars  are  liriglit. 
The  angler  in  his  basket  lays 
The  constellation,  and  goes  his  ways. 

Thomas  BfCHANAN-  Read. 


SWIMMING. 

FROM  -THR  TWO  FOSCARl." 

How  many  a  time  have  I 
Cloven,  with  arm  stiU  lustier,  breast  more  daring, 
The  wave  all  roughened  ;  with  a  swimmer's  stroke 
Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  drenched  hair. 
And  laughing  from  my  lip  the  audacious  brine. 
Which  kissed  it  like  a  wine-cup,  rising  o'er 
The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 
The  loftier  they  uplifted  me  ;  and  oft. 
In  wantonness  of  spirit,  plunging  down 
Into  their  gi-een  and  glassy  gulfs,  and  making 
My  waj-  to  .shells  and  sea-weed,  all  unseen 
By  those  above,  till  they  waxed  fearful  ;  then 
Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 
As  showed  that  1  had  searched  thedeep  :  exulting. 
With  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 
The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I  spurned 
The  foam  which  broke  around  me,  and  pursued 
My  track  like  a  sea-bird.  —  I  was  a  boy  tlien. 
LORD  Byron. 


^ 


Ifi- 


622 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  BUBAL  SPOBTS. 


-^ 


OUR  SKATER  BELLE. 

Along  tlie  frozen  lake  shu  comes 

In  liukiug  crescents,  liglit  and  lleet ; 

The  ice-iniprisoued  Undiuo  liums 
A  welcome  to  her  little  leet. 

I  see  the  jaunty  hat,  the  plume 

Swerve  birdlike  in  the  joyous  gale,  — 

The  cheeks  lit  up  to  burning  bloom, 
The  young  eyes  sparkling  through  the  veil. 

The  nuick  breath  parts  her  laughing  lips, 

The  white  neck  shines  through  tossing  curls  ; 

Her  vesture  gently  sways  and  dips. 
As  on  she  speeds  in  shell-like  whirls. 

Men  stop  and  smile  to  see  her  go  ; 

They  gazo,  they  smile  in  pleased  surprise  ; 
They  ask  her  name  ;  they  long  to  show 

Some  sileut  friendship  in  their  eyes. 

She  glances  not ;  she  passes  on  ; 

Her  steely  footfall  quicker  rings  ; 
She  guesses  not  the  benisou 

Which  follows  her  on  noiseless  wings. 

Smooth  be  her  ways,  secure  her  tread 

Along  the  devious  lines  of  life. 
From  grace  to  grace  successive  led,  — 

A  noble  maiden,  nobler  wife  I 

ANONVKOUS. 


SLEIGH  SONG. 

Jingle,  jingle,  clear  the  way, 
'T  is  the  merry,  meny  sleigh  ! 
As  it  swiftly  scuds  along. 
Hear  the  burst  of  happy  song  ; 
See  tlie  gleam  of  glances  bright, 
Flashing  o'er  the  pathway  white  ! 
Jingle,  jingle,  past  it  flies. 
Sending  shafts  from  hooded  eyes,  — 
Roguish  archers,  I  '11  be  bound, 
Little  heeding  whom  the)'  wound ; 
See  them,  with  capricious  pranks. 
Plowing  now  the  drifted  bauks  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  mid  the  glee 
Who  among  them  cares  for  me  ? 
Jingle,  jingle,  on  they  go, 
Capes  and  bonnets  white  with  snow. 
Not  a  single  robe  they  fold 
To  protect  them  from  the  cold  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  mid  the  storm. 
Fun  and  frolic  keep  them  wanu  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  down  the  hills. 
O'er  the  meadows,  past  the  mills, 
Now  't  is  slow,  and  now  't  is  fast ; 
Winter  will  not  always  last. 
Jingle,  jingle,  clear  the  way  ! 
'T  is  the  merry,  merry  sleigh. 

a.  W.  PRTTHE. 


U-- 


-tp 


a-^- 


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DESCRIPTIVE     POEMS. 


y-*- 


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r 


■a 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


[&- 


NORHAM    CASTLE. 


(The  ruinous  castle  of  Norham  (anciently  called  Ubbanford)  is 
situated  on  the  southern  bank  of  the  Tweed,  about  six  miles  above 
Berwick,  and  where  that  river  is  still  the  boundary  between  Eng- 
land and  Scotland.  The  extent  of  its  ruins,  as  well  as  its  historical 
importance,  shows  it  to  have  been  a  place  of  magnificence  as  well 
as  stren£fth.  Edward  1.  resided  there  when  he  was  created  umpire 
of  the  dispute  concerning  the  Scottish  succession.  It  was  repeat- 
edly taken  and  retaken  during  the  wars  between  England  and 
Scotland,  and,  indeed,  scarce  any  happened  in  which  it  had  not 
a  principal  share.  Xorham  Castle  is  situated  on  a  steep  bank, 
which  overhangs  the  river.  The  ruins  of  the  castle  are  at  present 
considerable,  as  well  as  picturesque.  They  consist  of  a  large 
shattered  tower,  with  many  vaults,  and  fragments  of  other  edifices, 
inclosed  within  an  outward  wall  of  great  circuit.] 

Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
Aiui  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  (-'heviot's  mountains  lone  : 
The  liattled  towers,  the  donjon  keep. 
The  loop-hole  grates  where  captives  weep, 
The  Hanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  luster  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Mo^dng  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

.Seemed  forms  of  giant  height  ; 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays. 
Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 

St.  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay. 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung  ; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower. 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search. 

The  castle  gates  were  barred  ; 
Aljove  the  gloomy  portal  arch. 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  warder  kept  his  guard  ; 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along. 
Some  ancient  Border-gathering  song. 

A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears  ; 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears, 
O'er  Homcliff  hill,  a  plump  of  spears. 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay  ; 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd. 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud, 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud 

Before  the  dark  array. 


Beneath  the  .sable  palisade. 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew  ; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall. 
And  warned  the  captain  in  the  hall, 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew  ; 
And  joyfully  that  knight  diil  call 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 

"  Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe. 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free. 
And  bid  my  her.alds  ready  be. 
And  every  minstrel  souml  his  glee, 

And  all  oui'  trumpets  blow  ; 
.\nd,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noble  salvo-shot  : 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below." 
Then  to  the  castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-.studded  gates  unbarred. 
Raised  the  portcullis'  ponderous  guard, 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparred, 

.■\nd  let  the  drawbridge  fall. 

Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rodi', 
I'roudly  his  red-roan  charger  trode, 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle-bow  ; 
Well  by  his  visage  you  might  know 
He  was  a  stalworth  knight,  and  keen. 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been. 
The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  revealed 
A  token  true  of  Bosworth  field  ; 
His  eyebrow  dark,  and  eye  of  fire. 
Showed  spirit  proud,  and  prompt  to  ire ; 
Yet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek 
Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 
His  thick  mustache,  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there, 

But  more  through  toil  than  age  ; 
His  square-turned  joints,  and  .strength  of  limb, 
Showed  him  no  cai-pet-knight  so  trim. 
But  in  close  fight  a  champion  grim. 

In  camps  a  leader  sage. 

■\Vell  was  he  armed  from  heid  to  heel. 
In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel  ; 
But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost, 
Was  all  with  buniished  gold  embos.sed  ; 


-^ 


e- 


62-4 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


-a 


Anlid  the  plumage  of  the  crest, 

A  falcon  hovered  on  her  nest, 

With  wings  outspread,  and  forward  breast ; 

E'en  sui'h  a  falcon,  on  his  shield, 

Soared  sable  in  an  azure  field  : 

Thr  -olden  Icyeiid  bore  ariKhl, 

21811)0  cljrcks  nt  mr  to  liratlj  is  Sigijt. 
Blue  was  the  charger's  broidered  rein  ; 
Blue  ribbons  decked  his  arching  mane  ; 
The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 
Was  velvet  blue,  and  trapped  with  gold. 

Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires 
Of  noble  name  and  knightly  sires  ; 
They  burned  tlie  gilded  spurs  to  claim  ; 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame, 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could  sway. 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away  ; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored, 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board. 
And  frame  love-ditties  passing  rare. 
And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair. 

Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs. 
With  halben,  bill,  and  battle-ax  ; 
They  bore  Lord  Marmion's  lance  so  strong, 
Ami  led  his  sumpter-mules  along, 
And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 
Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 
The  last  and  trustiest  of  the  four 
On  high  his  forky  pennon  bore  ; 
Like  swallow's  tail,  in  shape  and  hue, 
Fluttered  the  streamer  glossy  blue, 
Where,  blazoned  sable,  as  before. 
The  towering  falcon  seemed  to  soar. 
Last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two. 
In  hosen  black,  and  jerkins  blue. 
With  falcons  broidered  on  each  breast, 
Attended  on  their  lord's  behest  : 
Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good. 
Knew  liunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood  ; 
Each  one  a  six-foot  bow  could  bend, 
And  far  a  cloth-yard  shaft  could  send  ; 
Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong, 
And  at  their  belts  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys  and  array 
Showed  they  had  marched  a  weary  way. 

SIR  Walter  scott. 


MELROSE  ABBEY. 


LAV  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTRE 


u 


If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight  ; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night. 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 


When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower  ; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 

When  sih-er  edges  the  imagei-y, 

.\nd  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die  ; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave. 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  giave, 

Then  go,  —  but  go  alone  the  while,  — 

Then  view  St.  D.a\'id'3  ruined  pile  ; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair  ! 

The  pillared  arches  were  over  their  head. 

And  beneath  their  feet  were  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

Spreading  herbs  and  flowerets  bright  . 

Glistened  with  the  dew  of  night ; 
Nor  herb  nor  flow'eret  glistened  there, 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister-arches  as  fair. 
The  monk  gaz<-d  long  on  the  lovely  moon. 

Then  into  the  night  he  lookeil  forth  ; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 
Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 

He  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so  bright, 
That  .spirits  were  riding  the  northern  light. 

By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door. 

They  entereil  now  the  chancel  tall ; 
The  darkened  roof  rose  high  aloof 

On  pillars  lofty  and  light  and  small  ; 
The  keystone,  that  locked  each  ribbed  aisle, 
Was  a  fleur-de-lis,  or  a  (juatre-feuille  : 
The  corbells  were  carved  grotesque  and  grim  ; 
And  the  pillars,  with  clustered  shafts  so  trim, 
With  base  and  with  capital  flourished  aronnd. 
Seemed  bundles  of  lances   whiili  garlands  had 
bound. 

Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner,  riven, 
Shook  to  the  cold  night-wind  of  heaven. 

Around  the  screenki  altar's  pale  ; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn. 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
0  gallant  chief  of  Otterburne  ! 

And  thine,  dark  Kniglit  of  Liddesdale  ! 
0  fading  honors  of  the  dead  ! 
0  high  ambition,  lowly  laid  ! 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone. 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  lli.iuulit  sonic  fairy's  hand 
'Twixt  popl.ars  sti-iiulil  ilir,.~i-'i  u.iml 

In  many  a  freakish  knot  had  twiiird  ; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done, 
And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint. 


-3 


DliSViai'  TI I  -E   I -OEMS. 


625 


-a 


Showed  many  a  projiliet,  and  many  a  saint, 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed  ; 
Full  in  the  midst,  his  Cross  of  Ked 
Triumphant  Michael  braudishW, 

And  trampled  the  Apostate's  pride. 
TIk!  moonbeam  kissed  the  holy  pane, 
And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  liloody  stain. 


ON  ROUSSEAU'S  ISLE. 

Ai.oN'E  and  .sa<l  I  sat  me  down 

To  rest  on  Rousseau's  narrow  Isle, 

Ijelow  Geneva.     Mile  on  mih', 

And  set  with  many  a  shining  town. 

Toward  Dent  du  Midi  danced  the  wave 

Beneath  the  moon.      Winds  went  and  came, 

And  fanned  the  stars  into  a  llame. 

I  heanl  the  far  lake,  dark  and  deep, 

Kise  up  and  talk  as  in  its  slee]i. 

I  lieard  the  laughing  waters  lave 

And  lap  against  the  farther  shore. 

An  idle  oar,  and  nothing  more 

Save  that  the  Isle  had  voice,  and  save 

That  round  about  its  base  of  stone 

Tlii-re  ]ila.slieil  and  flashed  the  foamy  Rhone. 

A  stately  man,  as  black  as  tan. 
Kept  up  a  stern  and  broken  round 
Ainong  the  strangers  on  the  ground. 
I  named  that  awful  African 
A  second  Hannibal.     I  gat 
Jly  elbows  on  the  talile,  sat 
With  chin  in  upturned  palm  to  .scan 
His  face,  and  conteniplate  the  scene. 
The  moon  rode  by,  a  crowneil  queen. 
I  was  alone.     Lo  !  not  a  man 
To  speak  my  moth(U'-tonguc.     Ah  me  ! 
How  more  than  all  alone  can  be 
A  man  in  crowds  !     Acrcss  the  Isle 
My  Hannibal  strode  on.     The  while 
Uinnni.sbed  Rousseau  sat  his  throne 
Of  books,  unnoticed  an<l  unknown. 

This  strange,  strong  man  with  face  austere 
At  last  drew  near.     He  bowed  ;  he  spake 
In  unknown  tongues.     I  could  but  shake 
My  hi^ad.     Then,  half  a-chill  with  fear, 
1  rose,  and  sought  another  place. 
Again  I  mused.     The  kings  of  thought 
Came  by,  and  on  that  storied  spot 
1  lilted  up  a  tearful  face. 

The  star-set  Alps  they  sang  a  rune 
I'nbeard  by  any  soul  but  mine. 
Mont  lUanc,  iis  lone  and  as  divine 
And  white,  seemed  mated  to  the  moon. 


The  past  was  mine,  strong-voiced  and  v;ist : 
Stern  Calvin,  strange  Voltiiire,  and  Tell, 
And  two  whose  names  are  known  too  well 
To  name,  in  gi'and  procession  passed. 

And  yet  again  came  Hannibal, 

King-like  he  came,  and  drawing  neaj, 

1  saw  his  brow  was  now  severe 

And  resolute.      In  tongues  unknown 

Again  he  spake.     I  was  alone. 

Was  all  unarme<l,  was  worn  and  sad  ; 

I'ut  now,  at  last,  my  s|>irit  had 

Its  old  assertion.      I  arose. 

As  startled  from  a  dull  repose. 

With  gathered  strength  I  raised  a  hand, 

And  cried,  "  1  do  not  understand." 

His  black  face  brightened  as  I  spake  ; 
He  bowed  ;  he  wagged  his  woolly  hi  ad  , 
He  showed  his  shining  teeth,  and  .saiil, 
"Sar,  if  you  please,  dose  tables  here 
Are  consecrate  to  lager-beer  ; 
And,  Sar,  what  will  you  have  to  take  ? " 

Not  that  I  loved  that  colored  cuss,  — 

Nay !  he  had  awed  me  all  too  much,  — 

But  I  sjjrang  forth,  an<l  with  a  clutch 

I  grasped  his  hand,  and  holiling  thus. 

Cried,  "  Bring  my  countiy's  drink  for  two  I  " 

For  0,  that  speech  of  Sa.\on  sound 

To  me  was  as  a  fountain  found 

In  wastes,  and  thrilled  nie  through  and  through. 

On  Rousseau's  Isle,  in  Rous.seau's  .shade. 
Two  pink  and  spicy  drinks  wen:  made; 
In  classic  shade,  on  clas.sic  ground. 
We  stiiTed  two  cocktails  round  and  rouml. 

JOAfJUIN  MILLER. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

IbiMi;  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave. 
Alike  their  birth  ami  burial  place. 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave  ! 
Still  stenily  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Thi'ir  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

.■\s  in  his  proud  departed  hours; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "  flout  the  sky  " 

Above  his  princely  towers. 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines. 

Lovely  in  Englainl's  fadeless  green. 

To  meet  the  i(uiet  stream  which  winds 
Through  this  romantic  scene 

As  .silently  and  sweetly  still 

As  when,  at  evenini',  on  that  hill, 


-^ 


[& 


Q-2i\ 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


■a 


e- 


Wliile  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Si'ated  hv  giiUiint  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

1  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Pereys  of  old  fame. 
And  traeed  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name, 
From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  niosiiue  and  minaret. 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons, 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son. 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half-stanza,  —it  has  dashed 

From  my  warm  lip  the  sparklinj;  cup; 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  Hashed, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  liank-note  world,  is  gone  ; 
And  Alnwick  's  but  a  market  town,         • 
And  this,  alas !  its  market  day. 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way ; 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line  ; 
From  Teviot's  baixl  and  hero  land. 
From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand. 
From  WooUer,  Jlorpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Xewcastle-upou-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes. 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  ; 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable, 
Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  round  table. 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  l!oy  : 
Tis  what  "  Our  President, "  Monroe, 

Has  called  "  the  ei-a  of  good  feeling"  ; 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow. 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat. 

And  leave  olV  cattle-stealing  : 
Lord  Stalford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt. 

The  Douglas  in  red  herrings  ; 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land. 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band. 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come  ;  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 
Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally  : 


The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 
Aiul  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone, 
And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on. 
And  heai-s  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 
j      And  sees  the  Christian  father  die  ; 
I  iVnd  not  a  saber-blow  is  given 
I  For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 
I      By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

!  You  '11  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 
!      1  n  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state. 
i  The  present  representatives 
I      Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate," 
Are  some  half-dozen  servingincn 
In  the  drab  coat  of  AVilliam  Pcnn  ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye. 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curlin;,', 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon  keep  to  tunvt  wall. 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 
riTz-» 


COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  ERinC.E,  1803. 

E.^UTii  has  not  anything  to  .show  more  fair  ; 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  city  now  doth,  like  a  gjirment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  ;  silent,  bare, 
Shijis,  towers,  domes,  theaters,  and  temples  lie 
Open  >mto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky. 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  firat  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill  ; 
Xe'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deeji! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will. 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


NUREMBERG. 


:  broad 


In  the  valley  of  the  Pcgnitz,  wher 

meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franeonian  mountains,  Nuremberg, 

the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  to\vn  of  toil  and  traffic,  ipiaint  old 

town  of  art  ami  song. 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables  like  the  rooks 

that  round  them  throng  . 

-.4:5 


l^ 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


-.7^ 


627 


Memories  of  the  iliddle  Ages,  whcu  the  eiiijjer- 

ors  rouyh  aud  bold 
Had  their  dwellings  in  thy  castle,  time-defying, 

centuries  old ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in 

their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great,  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand 

to  evei-y  clime. 

In  the  courtyard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many 

an  iron  band. 
Stands   the   mighty  linden   planted    by   Queen 

Cunigunde's  hand  ; 

On  the  square,  the  oriel  window,  where  iu  old 

heroic  days 
Sat  the  poet  ilelchior,  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 

praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondious 
world  of  art ; 

Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  stand- 
ing in  the  common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bLshops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our 

own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrine<l 

his  holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from 

age  to  age  their  trust : 

Id  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix 

of  sculpture  rare, 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountain!*,  rising  through 

the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple 
reverent  heart. 

Lived  and  labored  Alhrecht  Diirer,  the  Evange- 
list of  Art ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with 

busy  hand. 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the 

Better  Land. 

EmigravU  is  the  inscriprion  on  the  tombstone 

where  he  lies. 
Dead  he  is  not  —  but  departed  —  for  the  artist 

never  dies  : 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 

seems  more  fair 
That  he  once   has  trod  its  pavement,   that  he 

once  has  breathed  its  air. 


Through  these  streets  sd  broad  and  stalely,  these 

obscure  and  dismal  lanes. 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastei'singers,  chanting  rude 

jwetic  strains  ; 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came  they  to 

the  friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  iu   Fame's  great  temple,   a.s  in 

spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle  wove  he  too  the 

mystic  rhyme. 
And  the  smith  liis  iron  measures  hammered  to 

the  anvil's  chime. 

Thanking  God,  whose  Iwundlcss  wisdom  makes 

the  (lowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinder.s,  in  the  tissues  of 

the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of 

the  gentle  craft. 
Wisest  of  ihc  Twelve   Wise  Masters,   in   huge 

folios  .sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  alehou.se,  with  a  nicely 

sanded  floor. 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  liis  face  alxjve 

the  door. 

Painted    by  some  humble  artist,   as   in   .\dain 

I'uschman's  song. 
As  the  old   man  gray  and   dovelike,   with    his 

great  beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  conies  to  drown 

his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  ma.s- 

ter's  antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my 

dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a 

faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisei-s,  win  for  thee 

the  world's  regard, 
But  thy   painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,    and   Hans 

Sachs,  thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  0  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region 

far  away. 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  courtyards,  sang  in 

thought  his  careless  lay ; 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a 

floweret  of  the  soil. 
The  nobility  of  labor,  —  the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 

HENRY  W.    LONGF--Lt.O\V. 


y-^- 


-^ 


e- 


628 


DKSCIUPTIVE  POEM:>. 


-n 


0  Italy,  liow  l>wuitirul  thou  art  I 
Yet  1  cimlil  \\oi>ii,  —  for  thou  iirt  lying,  alas  ! 
Low   ill  the  dust  ;  iiiid  they  who  conio  admire 

thee 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Tliiue  was  a  daiigi-rous  gift,  the  gift  of  heauty. 
\Vould  thou  hudst  less,  or  wort  as  oiire  thou  wast, 
liispiriug  awe  iu  those  who  now  enslave  thee  ! 
Hill  \\  liY  despair  '    Twiee  hast  tliou  lived  already, 
Twiee  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world. 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
( If  lieaveii  ;   and  slialt  again.     Tlio   hour  shall 

COllU', 

When  Ihey  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  siurit, 
W'lio,  like  tile  eagle  eoworing  o'er  his  jirey, 
Wateh  with  quiek  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  I'Ut  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  eonfess 
Their  wisdom  folly. 

SAMl'i;!.  KOCtKS. 


tN  THE  ETRURIAN  VALLEY. 


TiiK  ealm  swan  rested  on  the  breathless  glass 
t'f  dreamy  waters,  ami  the  snow-white  steer 

Near  the  ojiposing  margin,  motionless, 

Stood,  knee-deep,  gazing  wistful  on  its  eleav 

And  lifelike  shadow,  sliimniering  deep  and  far. 

Where  on  the  lurid  darkness  fell  the  star. 

Near  them,  upon  its  liehcn-tiuted  base, 
Gleamed  one  of  those  fair-fancied  images 

AVhieh  art  hath  lost,  —  no  god  of  1  dan  iiiee, 
But  the  winged  symbol  whieb   liy  Caspian 
soas. 

Or  Susa's  groves,  its  parable  addrest 

To  the  wild  faith  of  Iran's  Zendavest, 

Light  as  tho  soul,  whose  archetype  it  was. 
The  Genius  touched,  yet  spurned,  the  pedestal ; 

Behind,  the  foliage  in  its  jairple  mass 

Shut  out  the  flushed  horizon  ;  oireliiig  nil. 

Nature's  hushed  giants  stood,  to  guard  and  girth 

The  only  home  of  jieaee  upon  the  earth. 

EnWARD  lUl.WEK  (I.OKli  I.%TTON), 


Tmekk  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea. 
The  Sea  is  iu  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  and  tlow-ing  ;  and  the  salt  soa-weed 
T            Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
U-(— . . 


No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro. 

Lead  to  her  gates.     Tlic  path  lies  o'er  tho  Sea, 

Invisilile  ;  and  from  tlie  land  we  went. 

As  to  a  lloating  City,  —  steering  in. 

And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  ilreani. 

So  smoothly,  silently,  —  by  many  a  dome 

Mosiiue-like,  and  many  a  stiitely  portico. 

The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky  ; 

By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  spK'iidor, 

Cf  old  the  residence  of  merchant  kings  ; 

Tho  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  luid  sliatteied 

them. 
Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art, 
.Vs  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 

.     .     .     .     A  few  in  fear, 
Flying  away  from  him  whoso  boast  it  was 
That  tho  grass  grow  not  where  his  horse  had 

trod, 
Gave  birth  to  Venice.     Like  tho  waterfowl, 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean  waves  ; 
And  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew  fronv  the  north,  the  south  ;  where  they  that 

came 
Had  to  make  sure  tho  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Kose,  like  an  exhalation,  from  the  deep, 
.\  vast  Metropolis,  with  glittering  spires. 
With  theaters,  basilicas  lulorned  ; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  doiuinion, 
That  lias  endured  the  longest  among  men. 

And  wlu'iici'  the  talisman  liy  which  she  rose 
Toncring  !     "1'  was  found   tlicre  in  tlic   Ijarivn 

sea. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise  ;  and,  far  or  near, 
Who  met  not  the  Venetian  i  —  now  in  Cairo  ; 
Ere  yet  the  Califa  came,  listening  to  hear 
Its  bells  approaching  from  the  Kcd  Sea  coast ; 
Now  on  the  Euxine,  on  the  Sea  of  Azoph, 
In  converse  with  the  Persian,  with  the  Huss, 
The  Tartar  ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 
Pearls  from  the  gulf  of  Onnus,  gems  from  Bagdad, 
Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  light  of  love 
From  Georgia,  from  Cireassia.   Wandering  round. 
When  in  tlie  rich  bazaar  ho  saw,  displayed. 
Treasures  from  unknown  climes,  away  he  went, 
And,  traveling  slowly  upward,  drew  erelong 
From  the  well-head  supplying  all  below  ; 
Jlaking  the  Imperial  City  of  the  East 
Ilei-sidf  his  tributary 

.     .     .     .     Thus  did  Venice  rise, 
Tims  flourish,  till  the  unwelcome  tidings  came. 
That  in  the  Tagus  had  arrived  a  fleet 
I'nnn  India,  from  the  region  of  the  Sun, 
Fragrant  with  sjiices,  —  that  a  way  was  found, 
-A  channel  opened,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turned  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  and  at  last  she  fell. 
Fell  in  an  instant,  blotted  out  and  razeil  ; 


-3 


LEHCIilPTIVE  POEMS. 


G29 


"d 


She  who  hail  btood  yi.-t  longer  tliari  the  longeat 
Of  the  Four  Kingdoms,  —  who,  as  in  an  Ark, 
Had  lioat»;d  down  amid  a  thousand  wrecks. 
Uninjured,  from  th'.-  Old  World  to  the  New. 

Samuel  RocEJca. 


1  AM  in  Korne  !     Oft  as  the  morning  ray 
Vi«it»  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry. 
Whence  this  excess  of  joy?     What  lias  befallen 

me  ? 
And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replie», 
Tiiou  art  in  Koine !     A  thousand  busy  thoughts 
H:is1j  on  my  mind,  a  thousand  images  ; 
AthI  I  spring  up  as  girt  i/i  run  a  race  ! 

Thou  art  in  Kome  1  the  City  that  so  long 
lleigncd  atjsolutc,  the  mistress  of  the  world  ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  projihets  saw. 
And   trembled ;   that  from  nothing,   from   the 

least, 
The  lowliest  village  (what  but  here  and  there 
A  reed-ro<jfcd  cabin  by  a  river-side  ?) 
Grew  into  everjthing  ;  and,  year  by  year, 
Patiently,  fearlessly  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea, 
Xot  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise, 
Or  traveler  with  stafl' and  s<rip  exploring, 
But  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot  through  hosts, 
Through  nations  numberless  in  Ixittle  array, 
Ea/;h  l»ehind  each,  ea/:li,  when  the  other  fell. 
Up  and  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  alL 
Samuel  Roceks. 


THE  GRECIAN  TEMPLES  AT  P^ESTUM. 

In  Pasturn's  ancient  fanes  I  trod. 
And  mused  on  those  strange  men  of  old. 
Whose  dark  religion  could  infold 
So  many  gods,  and  yet  no  God  '. 

I>id  they  to  human  feelings  own, 
And  had  tliey  human  s<juls  indecl. 
Or  did  the  sternness  of  their  creed 
Frown  their  faint  spirits  into  stone  ? 

The  southern  breezes  fan  rny  face  ;  — 
I  hear  the  hum  of  Itees  arise, 
And  lizards  dart,  with  mystic  eyes. 
That  shrine  the  secret  of  the  place  ! 

These  silent  columns  speak  of  dread. 
Of  lovely  worship  without  love  ; 
And  yet  the  wami,  deep  heaven  above 
Whispers  a  »off-r  tale  instea/1 1 

R'/<i3ITEK  W.   RAVMOSIj 


COLISEUM   HY   MOONLIGHT. 


Thk  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  aljovc  the  tojis 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.  —  Jieautiful  ! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  Wn  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  tliat  of  man  ;  and  in  her  starry  slia/b- 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness 
I  learncl  the  language  of  another  worhL 
1  do  rememl;er  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering,  — ujjon  such  a  night 
I  Ht/xA  within  tlie  Coliseum's  wall, 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  ICome. 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  1/roken  arches 
Waved  <lark  in  the,  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
.Slione  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  V;ay<«l  U;yond  the  Tilx:r  ;  and 
More  near,  from  out  the  Ca;»ars'  |«ibu;c  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly. 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  did  ujjon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  l;eyond  the  time-worn  brea/;h 
Appcard  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  «U)od 
•  ithin  a  Ixiwshot,  —  where  the  Ca;».'irs  dwelt, 
yind  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  leveled  l/altle- 

ments. 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imjxrrial  heartbii. 
Ivy  usuqjs  the  laurel's  pla/;e  of  growth  ;  — 
But  the  gladiators'  IJowly  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  jwrfection. 
While  Ciesar's  chaml<crs  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay.  — 
And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  u[)on 
All  this,  and  ca.st  a  wide  and  tender  light. 
Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  raggfjil  desolation,  and  filled  up, 
As  't  were  anew,  the  gaj/s  of  centuries, 
I>;aving  that  lyjautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  pk' 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  I  — 
The  dear],  but  scejjterd  sovereigns,  who  still  rul^ 
Our  sjiirits  from  their  urns. 


THE  COLISEUM. 


CUIUjE  haeold," 


AKf;ilF,s  on  arches  I  as  it  were  that  Eome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  ColLseum  stands  ;  the  mwjnbeams  shine 
As  't  were  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  Uthelightwhich  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored,  but  still  exhaustless,  mine 


fr- 


G30 


DK&Cllll'Tl VE  POEMS. 


-^ 


Of  iontomi>livtiou  ;  nuil  tli«  ft/mo  gloom 
(If  nil  Italimi  iiifilU,  wlu-ro  llu' i1im'|i  skies  nssiimo 

lliu's  whi.li  Imvo  words,  iiml  speiik  to  jo  of 

luuivtMi, 
I'Moiits  o'or  lliis  vast  ami  wondrous  iiiomniu'nt, 
Ami  shadows  fortli  its  glory,      'I'Ikto  is  j,'iviMi 
l'Mlotluitliiii),'sofTOVtli,  wliicirrimi'liatli  bwil, 
A  N|iirit's  fccliiif;,  and  wlmro  Im  hatli  Iraiit 
Hi-.  Iiiiml.  Imt  lirokoliissi'vthf,  Www  is  a  iiowor 
And  mu>;ii-  in  tlio  niimid  liattliMiu'id, 
For  wliicli  till'  palai'o  of  tlu'  pivsoiit  lioiir 
MusI  yield  its  poiuii,  and  wait  till  af;osare  its  dower. 

And  liere  the  Imzz  of  eiigw  nations  ran, 
In  nuunnireil  iiity,  or  lotid-roarod  iipiilaiiso. 
As  man  was  slivuf;hterod  by  his  I'ollow-niau. 
And    wherefore   shuijjhtered  /   wherefore,    Imt 

IveeaUM^ 
Sueh  were  the  iiloodv  I'ireus'  j;enial  laws. 
Ami  the  imperial  pleasiiro.  —  Wlu'refore  not? 
^\'hat  mutters  whore  we  fall  to  till  the  mawa 
(If  worms,       on  hattloplains  or  listed  spot  / 
lioth  are  Imt  theaters  whoro  the  ehief  aetors  rot. 

1  see  lieloii'  nu'  the  (iladiator  lie  ; 
He  leans  upon  his  haml,  —  his  nnmly  hrow 
Consents  to  death,  hut  eomiliersi  aj;ony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  j;radnally  low,— 
Andthroii'^h  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebhinfislow 
Kroin  the  ifd  j;ash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  lirst  of  a  tluiliiler-sliowiM- ;  and  now 
'I'he  arena  swims  around  liim,  -•  he  is  gone, 
Kre  eeased  the  inhuman  shout  whieli  hailed  the 
wreteh  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not,  —  his  oyos 
Were  with  his  heart,  anil  that  was  far  ftway. 
He  leeked  imt  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
l!ut  when'  his  ruilo  hut  by  the  llanube  lay. 
There  were  liis  young  twrlmrians  all  at  play, 
T'herewns  their  llaoian  mother,      he,  tlieirsire, 
Hutehered  to  make  a  Koman  holiday  !  — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.  -    SJiall  he  ex- 
pire 
And  unavenged  .'     Ari.se,  yedoths,  and  glut  your 


r.ut   here.  wh,-re   Murder  breathed  lier  bloody 

.And  here,  where  lau/ing  nations  ehoked  the 

ways. 
.And  roared  or  nuuinured  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Heiv,  where  the  lunnan  millions'  blaiueor  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  erowd, 
Mv  voice  sounds  mueh,  —  tuid  fall  the  stars' 


^ 


On  the  arena  void,  seats  crushed,  walls  bowivl, 
And  galleries,  where  mv  steps  seem  eehoes  strange- 
ly lou.l. 

A  rniii,    -yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  nuiss 
Walls,  palaees,  half-eities,  Imve  been  reared  ; 
Vet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pas,s. 
And  marvel  where  t  he  siuiileouldhaveappeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  eleared  ? 
Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  deeay, 
When  the  eolossal  fabrie's  form  is  noiirod  ; 
It  will  not  bear  Urn  brightne.ss  of  the  day, 
Whieh  streams  too  mueh  on  all  years,  man,  have 
reft  away. 

Hut  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  eliinb 
Us  topmost  areh,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of 

time, 
.And  I  hi'  low  night-bree/e  waves  along  the  air 
'I'he  garland-forest,  whieh  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  l«dil  lirst  C'a'.sar's  head  ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene,  but  doth  not 

glare,  — 
Then  in  this  inagio  eirele  raise  the  dead  ; 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot,  — 't  is  on  their  dust 

ye  tread. 

•'AVhilestamlstheC'oliseum,  liome shall  stand  ; 
AVhen  falls  the  t'oliseum,  Uonn-  shall  fall  ; 
And  when  Kome  falls  —  the  AVorld."   .  Krom 

our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Sa.xon  times,  whieh  we  are  wont  to  eall 
.Aneient  ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  fouiulations,  and  unaltered  all  ; 
Kome  and  her  Uuiu  [wst  liedemption's  skill, 
The  W'iuld,  the  sai\u'  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or 

what  ve  will. 


A   DAA'  IN  TUE  rAMKlU   UOKIA, 


T'llot'iJii  the  hills  aro  eold  and  snowy. 
And  the  wind  drives  ehill  to-day. 

My  heart  goes  baek  to  a  spring-time, 
Far,  far  in  the  past  away. 

And  T  see  a  ipniint  old  eity. 

Weary  ami  worn  ami  brown, 
AVhere  the  siiring  ai\d  the  birils  are  so  early. 

And  the  sun  in  sueh  light  goes  ilown. 

\  ivmemher  that  oUl-tin\e  villa 

Where  our  afternoons  went  by, 
AVhere  the  .suns  of  Mareh  thi.shed  warndy. 

And  spring  was  in  earth  and  sky. 


--S 


DKH<JIill"n  Vli  POEMS. 


031 


-a 


U-- 


Out  of  the  inoWfcriii;<  city,  — 

Mol'icririg,  old,  ami  gray,  — 
We  H|)<;(l,  with  a  lightsome  hiart-thrill, 

For  a  Numiy,  glaflnouit  liay,  — 

For  a  revel  of  fresh  spring  verdure. 
For  a  rac<;  mid  springing  (lowers, 

For  a  vioioii  of  jilanhiug  fountains. 
Of  l)irdn  and  blossoming  Ixiwers. 

There  were  violet  l/anks  in  the  shadows, 

Violets  wliit<;  and  blue  ; 
And  a  worM  of  bright  anemones. 

That  over  the  terra/:c  grew,  — 

151  ue  and  orange  and  )mri)Ic, 

I'osy  and  yellow  and  white, 
liising  in  rainlxjw  bubbles, 

.Streaking  the  lawns  with  light. 

And  down  from  the  old  stone-pine  trees, 

'I'hose  far-off  islands  of  air, 
Tlye  birds  are  Hinging  the  tidings 

Of  a  joyful  revel  up  there. 

And  now  for  the  grand  old  fountains. 

Tossing  their  silveiy  spray  ; 
Those  fountains,  so  <[u;iint  and  ho  many. 

That  are  leaping  and  Hiui^ug  all  iJay  j 

Those  fountains  of  strange  weird  si;ulpture, 
With  lichens  and  moss  o'ergiown,  — 

Are  they  marble  greening  in  rnfjss-wreaths. 
Or  moss-wreaths  whit'-ning  to  st«ne  i 

iJown  many  a  wild,  dim  pathway 
We  ramble  from  moniing  till  noon  ; 

AVe  linger,  unheeding  the  hours, 
'I'ill  evening  eornes  all  Uxj  soon. 

Arid  from  out  the  ilex  alleys, 

Wliere  lengthening  shadows  play. 

We  look  on  the  dreamy  Cafni»agna, 
All  glowing  with  setting  liay,  — 

All  melting  in  Ijan'ls  of  purple. 
In  swathings  and  foldings  of  gold, 

In  riblyjjis  of  azure  and  lilar-. 
Like  a  princely  Ijanner  unrolled. 

And  the  srnokc  of  each  distant  cottage, 
And  the  flash  of  each  villa  white. 

Shines  out  with  an  opal  glimmer, 
Like  gems  in  a  ca«ket  of  light. 

And  the  dome  of  old  Bt.  Petf^r's 
With  a  strange  transluw;nce  glows. 

Like  a  mighty  bubble  of  amethyst 
Floating  in  waves  of  rose. 


In  a  trance  of  dreamy  vagueness. 
We,  ga/ing  and  yearning,  Iwholil 

That  city  Iwheld  by  the  j/rophet, 
Who««  walls  were  transj<arent  gold. 

And,  dropjiing  all  s<jl<:mn  and  slowly. 
To  hallow  the  soft'/ning  spell. 

There  falls  on  the  dying  twUight 
The  Ave  Maria  bell. 

With  a  mournful,  motherly  8<;ftness, 
With  a  weird  and  weary  care, 

That  strange  and  ancient  city 

.Seenu)  calling  the  nations  U)  i<rayer. 

And  the  words  that  of  old  the  angel 
To  the  Hiolher  of  .lesus  brought 

Ww:  like  a  new  evangel. 

To  liallow  the  trance  of  our  thought. 

With  the  smoke  of  the  evening  Uiixiuv: 
Our  thoughts  are  as<^;nding  then 

To  Mary,  the  mother  of  .lesiis. 
To  .Icsus,  the  Mast^ir  of  men. 

0  city  of  prophets  and  martyrs  ! 

O  shrines  of  the  saint<;d  deail  ! 
When,  when  shall  the  living  day-spring 

On<«  more  on  your  t<jwers  1*:  sprea/l  '. 

When  He  who  is  meek  and  lowly 
.Shall  rule  in  thos*;  lordly  halls, 

And  shall  stand  and  IJtcd  as  a  sluphcrd 
The  flock  which  hiji  mercy  calls,  — 

O,  then  to  those  noble  churches. 
To  ])icture  and  statue  and  gem. 

To  the  pageant  of  solemn  worshi[), 
.Shall  the  meaniwi  come  t/a<;k  again. 

And  this  strange  and  ancient  city, 
In  that  reign  of  his  truth  and  love. 

Shall  l/c  what  it  mr.rnJi  in  the  twilight. 
The  tyiie  of  that  City  alxjve. 

HARKII-T  KRIlCHeh  Stowr. 


A  VIEW  ACROSS  THE   ROMAN  CAMPAGNA. 


OvKK  the  dumb  carni/agna-sea, 

Out  in  the  offing  through  mist  and  rain, 
St,  VithTH  Church  hi-jivfM  silently 

I„ike  a  njighty  shi[»  in  pain, 

Y'dJmtii  the  tcmjiest  with  straggle  and  strain. 

Motionless  waifs  of  ruincl  UfV/<:TH, 
Soundless  breakers  of  de»olat«  land  I 


^ 


\B- 


632 


DESCIiJl'TirE  I'OEMS. 


-a 


6- 


The  $uUen  surf  of  th*  mist  ilcvoure 

Tliat  imnintniii-mii^i  uinni  pithor  hiuui, 
Efitoii  luvav  I'lviu  its  outliiu'  gi-siiui. 

Aiul  ovi>r  tlio  dumb  i!U«ivis;im-si>ii 

\Vhoi\<tlu>sluiiortlu>(.'huivhlu>avosonto\vrock, 

AloiH'  iinil  siloiit  as  (.nni  must  U' 
Tho  I'hrist  walks  !  —  Ay,  but  IVter's  nock 
Is  stilV  to  tuiu  on  tho  fouiuloiing  dock. 

Totor,  I'otov,  if  such  Ih>  thy  i«\\m>. 

Now  U'Bvo  tho  ship  lor  anollun-  to  stoor. 

And  piwing  thy  faitlv  ovormoiv  tho  samo 
t\>mo  forth,  tR'adoutthixmghtluHh»rkanddt\)«r, 
Siiioo  Uo  who  walks  on  tho  soa  is  hoiv  ! 

Totor,  IVtor  1  —  ho  doos  not  sjuvik,  — 
llo  is  not  as  rash  as  iu  oUi  tisUih'o. 

S)»tor  a  ship,  Iliougli  it  toss  aiul  leak, 
Thau  a  U'olinj;  foot  o«  a  ivUinji:  soa  ! 
—  And  ho 's  i^it  to  Ik>  round  iu  t]u>  girtli,  thiuks 
ho. 

Pot  or,  IVtor  !  —  ho  doos  not  stir,  — 
His  lU'ts  aiv  lu'avy  with  silvor  fish  ; 

Ho  ivokons  his  spiins,  and  is  koon  to  infor, 
"Tlio  luvil  ou  tho  slioiv,  if  tho  Loixl  sliould 

wisli,  — 
Hut  tJu'  sturgeon  gvios  to  tho  Civsar's  disli." 

I'otor,  Totor,  thou  fislior  of  moii, 
Kishor  of  tish  wouUist  thou  livo  instead,  — 

Haggling  for  penoo  with  tho  other  Ton, 
I'hoating  tho  market  at  so  much  a  head, 
(.■riping  tho  Iwg  of  tJio  traitor  dead  .' 

At  tho  triple  oivw  of  the  Oallio  ooek 

Thou  woep'st  not,  thou,  though  thine  oyes  bo 
diutnl : 

What  biixl  eomes  next  in  tho  tomp<>st  shook  ? 
Vultures  !  Soo.  — as  when  Komulus  gtuted, 
To  inaugurate  l?onu>  for  a  world  amazed  ! 

ELir.\i:FTH  I;,\KKK1-T  BROWNINa 


Tuts  ivgion,  suivly,  is  not  of  tho  earth. 
Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven  !    Kot  a  grove, 
t^'itiMU  or  pine  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 
Sea-worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vino. 
But  bwathes  onohantniont,    >>'ot  a  olilV  but  tlings 
On  the  clear  wave  some  imago  of  ilolight. 
Some  cabin-ivof  glowing  with  crimson  tlowors. 
Some  ruined  temple  or  fivUen  moi\niuent. 
To  muse  on  as  the  Iwrk  is  gliding  by. 
And  bo  it  mine  to  mu.^e  theiv,  mine  to  glide. 
From  daybivak,  when  the  mountain  j«K>s  his  tiiv 
Yet  nioiv  and  moix-,  and  friim  tho  mountjxin-top. 


Till  tJu'ti  invisible,  a  snmkc  ascends. 
Solemn  and  slow,  as  oi-st  fivm  Ararat, 
When  he,  the  I'atiiaivh,  who  osca{«Ml  tho  Flood, 
Was  with  his  household  sacrificing  thoiv,  — 
Fi-om  daybreak  lo  that  hour,  the  last  ami  Ivst, 
When,  one  by  one,  tho  lishing-boats  como  forth, 
Etich  with  its  gliuinicring  lantern  at  the  prow, 
-Vnd,  when  tho  nets  aiv  thivwn,  tho  evening  hyniu 
Steals  o'er  tho  tivmbliiig  waters. 

Kvorywhci'o 
Fable  and  Truth  have  .sliod,  in  rivalry, 
F.aeh  her  peculiar  intluenco.     Fable  eamo. 
And  laughed  and  snug,  arraying  Truth  in  llowora. 
Like  a  young  child  her  gnindam.      Fable  came  ; 
Ruth,  sea,  and  sky  i-ellecting,  i\s  she  llcw. 
A  thousand,  thousand  coloi's  not  their  own  ; 
.\iul  at  her  bidding,  lo  !  a  dark  descent 
To  Tartarus,  and  those  thrice  happy  lields, 
Tlu>se  fields  with  ether  pniv  and  jxirplo  light 
Ever  invested,  scones  by  him  described 
Who  heiv  was  wont  to  wander  and  iwoixl 
What  they  ivvoalwl,  and  on  tho  western  shoiv 
Slooi>s  in  a  silent  givvo,  o"erlooking  thoo, 
Helovod  rarthenope. 

Yet  hoiw  niethinks. 
Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shape 
Filling  tho  mind  by  turns  with  awe  and  love, 
liy  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstasy 
And  soK'ivst  lueditatiou. 

SAMCIU.  ROOliRS 


To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  llies, 
Kmltosomod  in  tho  deep  wheit>  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  mo  stand, 
Whoiv  tho  biwul  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And.  sedulous  to  stop  the  coining  tide. 
Lift  the  tall  ranipiiv'.s  artilicial  pride, 
llnwai-d  methinks,  and  diligently  slow. 
The  firm  coimectod  bulwark  seems  to  grow  ; 
Spivads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  iwir, 
Scoo)>s  out  an  empiiv,  and  usurps  the  shore. 
While  tho  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  tho  pile. 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale, 
Tho  willow-tufto<l  hiuk,  tho  gliding  sail. 
The  crowded  mart,  tho  cultivated  plain,  — 
.•V  new  civation  iTSCued  from  his  roign. 

Thus  while  around  tho  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  tJie  native  to  ivpeatod  toil. 
Industrious  habits  in  «ach  bosom  reign, 
.\nd  industry  K>gi>ts  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence  all  the  gxiod  from  opulenee  that  springs. 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  tivasuiv  biings, 
.\iv  here  displayed. 


-^ 


JjESCH/J'TI ve  poemh. 


G33 


-a 


GREAT  BRITAIN. 


PROM  "THIi 


My  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
Ami  flies  where  I'ritain  coui-ts  tlje  wehtern  hjji-ing ; 
Wliere  liiwiis  extend  tliat  »<.orn  Areiuliaii  jiride, 
And    brighter  streams   tlian   farned    Hyilasj/es 

gli.le  ; 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  miisie  melts  on  cvi;ry  spray ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  tlierc  com  bind, 
Extremes  arc  only  in  the  master's  mind  1 
Stern  o'er  each  Vmsorn  K<«uion  Jiol'Is  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great ; 
Pride  in  their  jiort,  delianee  in  their  eye, 
1  see  tlie  lords  of  human  kind  jiass  by  ; 
lnti;nt  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  land. 
By  forms  unfashioned,  fresh  from  Nature's  hand, 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul. 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control. 
While  e'en  the  peasant  lx»asts  thesi;  rights  to 

scan. 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 
Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured  here. 
Thine  are  those  chairns  that  ilazzle  and  endear  ! 

OLIVIik  GOLDSMITH, 


WEEHAWKEN  AND  THE  NEW  YORK  BAY. 


Wkf.hawkes  !     In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet. 
All  we  adore  of  Nature  in  her  wild 

And  frolic  hour  of  infancy  is  met ; 

And  never  Vias  a  summer's  moniing  smiled 

Upon  a  lovelier  scene  than  the  full  eye 

Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on,  —  when  high 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes  he  climbs 

O'er  crags  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep. 
And  knows  that  sense  of  danger  which  sublimes 

The  breathless  moment,  —  when  his  ilaring  Btf:p 
Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 
The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear. 

Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom, 
And  clings  to  the  grei:n  turf  with  desperate 
force. 

As  the  heart  clings  to  life  ;  and  when  resume 
The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course. 

There  lingers  a  deep  feeling,  —  like  the  moan 

Of  woarie<l  ocean  when  the  storm  is  gone. 

In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view 
Oeiyin  and  earth  and  heaven  burst  before  him  ; 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  summer's  sky  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him,  — 


The  city  bright  Ixdow  ;  and  far  away, 
Sjiarkling  in  golden   light,   his  own   romantic 
Ixiy. 

Tall  sjiire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  Uitllemr^nt, 
And  l>anners  lloating  in  the  sunny  air  ; 

And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waUii-s  bent, 
Oreen  isle,  and  cin.ling  shore,  are  blendc<I  there 

In  wild  r<sility.     When  life  Is  old. 

And  many  a  S';ene  forgot,  the  h'airt  will  hold 

Its  memory  of  this  ;  nor  lives  there  one 

Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  ljoyhoo<r« 
.lays 

Of  liapjiiness  were  pass<:d  Ix;neath  tliat  sun. 
That  in  his  manhood's  jirime  can  calmly  gaze 

Uprin  that  Ijay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand. 

Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  lamL 

flTZMjUhliSti  llALLhCK. 


LAKE  LEMAN. 


Cl-KAIi,  placid  Lenian  !  thy  contrast<;d  hike. 
With  the  wihl  woHd  1  dwelt  in,  Ls  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  Htillnes,s,  to  for.«»ke 
Earth's  troubled  wat<:rs  for  a  purer  sjiring. 
This  ijuiet  s-uil  Ls  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  inc  from  distrat.'tion  ;  once  I  loved 
Tom  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  Wift  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sisti^r's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stem  delights  should  e'er  liave  l«en 
HI)  move'l. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  Ijetwcen 
Thy  margin  and   the  mountaiiLs,   dusk,  yet 

clear, 
Mcllowral  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  si.en, 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  apjxiar 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the 

shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  car 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chiqjB  the  grasshopper  one  goo'l-night  carol 

more  : 

He  is  an  evening  reveler,  wlio  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fdl  ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whLs[)er  on  the  hill. 
But  that  is  fancy;  for  the  stiriight  dews 
All  silently  their  t«ars  of  love  instill, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  sjiirit  of  her  hues. 


^ 


e- 


634 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


-n 


STOKM  AT  NIGHT  ON   LAKE  LEMAN. 


TiiK  sky  is  cliaugcd  ! —  and  such  a  chaiigo  ! 

0  liight, 
Aiul  storm,  and   darkness,   ye  are  wondrous 

strong, 
Yet  lovely  iu  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  11  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  erags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  !     Xot  iVom  one  lone 

eloud. 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  I 

And    this   is  iu    the  night: — umst  glorious 

night  ! 
Thou  Wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  shaivr  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,  — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea. 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  't  is  black,  —  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  uiountaiu- 

mirth,  • 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's 

birth. 

Lord  Byron. 


THE  DESERTED  \1LLAGE. 

SwEEi'  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring 

swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  i>aid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed. 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  w  hen  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  1  loitei-eil  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  luunble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ! 
How  often  have  1  paused  on  every  charm. 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cidtivated  farm. 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topiied  the  neighboring 

hill. 
The   hawthorn  -  bush,    with   seats  beneath  the 

shade. 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 
How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
Wlien  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  )>lay. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free. 
Led  up  their  siKirts  l>eneath  the  spreading  tree. 
While  many  a  pastime  cireled  in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round  ; 


And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired  ; 
The  dancing  jiair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 
While  secret  laughter  tittere'd  round  the  place  ; 
The  liashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  re- 

pixne,  — 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like 

these. 
With  sweet  succession,  t«ught  e'en  toil  to  please  ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed. 
These  were  thy  charms,  —  but  all  these  charms 

are  fled  ! 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  siKirts  are  fled,  and  all  tliy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  ; 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  tlie  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  gnaixls  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapiwing  flies. 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  vuin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  moldering  wall. 
And,   trembling,   shrinking  from   the  spoiler's 

hand. 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  loixls  may  flourish,  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
Hut  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  Kiiglaml's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  mainfaiucd  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  Labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
.T\ist  gave  what  life  i'e(iuired,  but  gave  no  more  : 
His  best  comiianions,  innocence  and  health ; 
Ami  his  liest  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered  ;  trade's  unfeeling  ti-aiu 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  luunlets  rose, 
rnwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
.■\nd  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
Ami  every  jwng  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  houi-s  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom. 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room. 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful 

scene. 
Lived   in   each   look,    and   bris;htene<l   all    tic 


green,  — 


U- 


-^ 


a- 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


635 


-a 


^ 


These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kiuder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's 
close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young  ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering 

wind. 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind,  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  sliade. 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  bu.sy  steps  the  grass-gi-own  foot-way  ti'ead. 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitaiy  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring  ; 
iShe,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread. 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  ; 
.She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 
The  sad  historian  of  the  [lensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where   once  the  garden 
smiled, 
.\nd  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild  ; 
There,   where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  dis- 
close, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year  ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his 

place  ; 
Unskillful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast. 
The  mined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away  ; 
Wejjt  o'er  liis  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how   fields 

were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to 

glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  wo«  ; 


Careless  their  merits  or  their  faidts  to  scan, 
His  pit}'  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
Ancl  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all  ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries. 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  ofl'spring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed. 
The  reverend  diampion  stood.     At  his  control. 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul  ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 
At  church,  with  meek  and  unaH'ected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway. 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scolf,  remainefl  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed. 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  dis- 
tressed ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  clifl',  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stem  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  eveiy  truant  knew  ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned  ; 
Vet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  times  and  tides  presage. 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge  ; 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still. 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering 

sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 


^ 


[fi- 


636 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


•-& 


& 


And  still  tliey  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
Tlmt  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

Uut  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Wliere  numy  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot.  — 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Whore  once  the  sign-jiost  caught  the  passing  eye. 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspired. 
Where  graybeanl  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired. 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  pro- 
found, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendoi-s  of  that  festive  place,  — 
The  whitewashed  wall ;  the  nicely  sanded  floor  ; 
The  varnisheil  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 
The  chest,  conti'ived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawere  by  day  ; 
Tlio  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use  ;        • 
The  twelve  good  rules ;  the  royal  g-ame  of  goose ; 
The  hearth,  e.xccpt  when  winter  dulled  the  day. 
With  a.speu  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay  ; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

As  some  fair  female  unadorned  and  plain, 
SocuiX!  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign. 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes. 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  —  for  charms  ai'e 

frail,  — 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail. 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless. 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  ; 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed. 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed. 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise. 
Its  visbxs  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 
AVhile,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land. 
The  inournhil  jieasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 
.\nd  wliile  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save. 
The  country  blooms,  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah  !  where  shall  poverty  reside. 
To  'scape  the  pre.ssure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
I  f  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed 
He  drives  his  Hock  to  (liek  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide. 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  —  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  jiamper  luxuiy  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Kxtorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glittei's  in  brocade. 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 
display. 


There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  w  ay. 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight 
reign. 

Here,  richly  decked,  adudts  the  gorgi'ous  train  ; 

Tiunultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  bla/ing  scpiare. 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  I 

Sure  these  denote  one  univei'sal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts?  —  Ah,  turn  tliiiu' 
eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  \-illage  plenty  blest. 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest  ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  jieejjs  beneath  the  thorn  ; 

Now  lost  to  all :  her  friemls,  her  virtue  fU>d, 

Near  lier  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 

And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  tlie 
shower. 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour. 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town. 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brow'n. 
Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest 
train. 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led. 
At  proml  men's  ilooi's  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 
All,  no  !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  tlie  convex  world  intrudes  between. 
Through  torrid  tracks  with  fainting  stejis  they  go. 
Where  wild  Altanui  murnnirs  to  their  woe. 
Far  difl'erent  there  from  all  that  charmed  be- 
fore. 
The  various  teiToi-s  of  that  horrid  shore,  — 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  eling  ; 
Those  poisonous    fields   with    rank   luxuriance 

crowned. 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathere  death  around  ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  luey, 
.And  savage  men  more  muixlerous  still  than  they  ; 
Wliile  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies. 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  ditt'erent  these  from  every  former  scene. 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green. 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good   Heaven  !   what  sorrows  gloomed  that 
parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away  : 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their 

last, 
.\nd  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 


-i 


fl- 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


637 


ra 


For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  th'e  distant  deeij, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe 
But  for  himself  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears. 
The  fonil  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  channs, 
Anil  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woe.s. 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  plcjisure  rose  ; 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 

tear. 
And  clas]ied  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear  : 
Whilst  her  fond  liusband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

OLIVER  COLDSMITH. 


VILLAGE  IN  IRELA.VD, 


fr.- 


The  town  of  Pa-ssage 

Is  both  large  and  spacious. 

And  situated 

Upon  the  say. 
'T  is  nate  and  dacent, 
And  ([uite  adjacent 
To  (;ome  from  Cork 

On  a  summer's  day ; 
There  you  may  slip  in 
To  take  a  di])ping 
Foment  the  shipping 

That  at  anchor  ride, 
Or  in  a  wherry 
Cross  o'er  the  ferry 
To  Carrigaloe, 

On  the  other  side. 

Mud  cabins  swarm  in 
This  place  so  charming, 
With  .sailors'  gaiments 

Hung  out  to  diy  ; 
And  each  abode  Ls 
Snug  and  commodiou.s. 
With  pigs  melodious 

In  their  straw-built  sty. 
'T  is  there  the  turf  is. 
And  lots  of  murphies, 
Dead  sprats  and  herrings. 

And  oyster-shells  ; 
Nor  any  lack,  0, 
Of  good  tobac<;o  — 
Though  what  is  smuggled 

By  far  excels. 


There  are  ships  from  Cadiz, 
And  from  liarbadoes. 
Hut  the  leading  trade  is 

In  whi.sky  punch ; 
And  you  may  go  in 
Where  one  Mary  IJowen 
Keeps  a  nate  hotel. 

For  a  quiet  lunch. 
Hut  land  or  deck  on. 
You  may  safely  reckon, 
Whatsoever  country 

You  come  hitlier  from, 
On  an  invitation 
To  a  jollification 
With  a  parish  priest 

That 's  called  "Father  Tom." 

Of  ships  there 's  one  fixt 
For  Imlging  itonvicts, 
A  iloating  "stone  jug" 

Of  amazing  bulk. 
The  liakc  and  salmon. 
Playing  at  liagammon, 
Swim  for  divarsion 

AriHind  this  hulk; 
There  Saxon  jailors 
Keej)  brave  repailors, 
Who  soon  with  sailors 

Must  anchor  weigh 
From  the  Emerald  Island, 
Ne'er  to  see  dry  land, 
Until  they  spy  land 

In  sweet  Bofny  Bay. 

FRANCIS  .Mamony  (Father  proih"). 


THE  ISLANT), 

FROM   "THE  nCCCANEER." 

TllK  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore. 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 
No  .sound  but  ocean's  roar, 
Save  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird   makes  her 

home. 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest. 

And  on  the  glas,sy,  heaving  sea 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 
Sits  swinging  silently. 
How  beautiful  !  no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvei-y  waves  go  noiseless  u])  the  beach. 

And  inland  I'ests  the  green,  warm  dell  ; 
The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side  ; 


i 


[& 


638 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


-a 


From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 
Kings  cheerful,  far  ami  wide, 
Mingling  its  soviml  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell,  nor  pastoral  bleat, 

In  former  days  within  the  vale  ; 
I"lapi«ed  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet  ; 
Curees  were  on  the  gale  ; 
Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men ; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace. 

Now  slowly  fall  uiion  the  ear  ; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 
SuUlued  and  holy  fear  : 
Each  motion  's  gentle  ;  all  is  kindly  done  ;  — 
Come,  listen  how  from  criiue  this  isle  was  won. 

KlCUAKIl    11,    DANA. 

THE  SEA-GROT. 

FROM  "THE  ISLAND." 

Wiin-;  it  was  and  high, 
And  showed  a  self-bocu  Gothic  canopy ; 
The  arch  upreared  by  Nature's  architect, 
The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 
The  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom  hurled. 
When  the  poles  crashed  and  water  was  the  world  ; 
There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  fantasy. 
Fantastic  faces  moped  and  mowed  on  high, 
An<l  then  a  miter  or  a  shrine  would  lix 
The  eye  upon  its  seeuiing  cnieili.x. 
Thus  Nature  played  with  the  stalactites, 
And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 

Lord  Byron. 


t 


BEFORE  AND  AFTER  THE  RAIN. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  moru, 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marehes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens,  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  (lowers. 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  laud  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind,  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  trennilous  skeins  of  rain  ! 

TiiE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
Tlie  sunshine  pours  an  airy  Hood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  liathed  in  blood. 


From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves. 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  liigh, 
A  dormer,  facing  westwanl,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 

.\nd  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck  : 
.•\nd  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 

THOMAS  Bailey  aldrich. 


A  STILL  DAY  IN  AUTtTMN. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  through  the  woodlands  hoary 
In  the  soft  light  of  an  autumnal  day. 

When  Summer  gathers  np  her  robes  of  glory. 
And  like  a  dream  of  beauty  glides  away. 

How  through  each  loved,  familiar  path  she  lin- 
gers, 

Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden  mist. 
Tinting  the  wild  grape  with  her  dewy  fingei-s 

Till  the  cool  emerald  turns  to  amethyst ; 

Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel,  shining 
To  light   the  gloom  of  Autumn's  nioldering 
halls. 
With  hoary  jilumcs  the  clematis  entwining 
Where  o'er  the  rock  her  withered  garland  falls. 

Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands  waning 
Beneath  soft  clouds  along  the  horizon  rolled. 

Till  the  slant  sunbeams  through  their  fringes 
raining 
Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 

The  moist  winds  bivathe  of  crispt'd  leaves  and 
tlowers 

In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland  sown, 
Jlingling  the  freshness  of  autumnal  .showers 

With  spicy  airs  from  cedarn  alleys  blown. 

Beside  the  brook  and  on  the  umbered  meadow. 
Where  yellow  fem-tufts  fleck  the  faded  ground, 

■With  folded  lids  beneath  their  palmy  shadow 
The  gentian  nods,  in  dewy  slumbers  bound. 

Upon  those  soft,  fringed  lids  the  bee  sits  brooding, 
Like  a  fond  lover  loath  to  say  farewell. 

Or  with  shut  wings,  through  .silken  folds  in- 
trading. 
Creeps  near  her  heart  his  drowsy  tale  to  tell. 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hillside  lonely 
Klit  noiselessly  along  from  spray  to  spray, 

Silent  as  a  sweet  wandering  thought  that  only 
Shows  its  bright  wings  and  softly  glides  away. 
Sarah  Helen  whitman. 


i 


p 


DEHCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


639 


u- 


THE  BIRCH  STBEA^ 

At  noon,  witliin  the  <liwty  Uiwn, 
Where  the  wild  river  niiihes  down. 

And  thunders  hoansely  all  day  long, 
I  think  of  thee,  my  hcnnit  utrearn, 
/>ow  singing  in  thy  sunimer  dnsini 

Thine  idle,  sweet,  old,  tran'juil  xong. 

Noithwanl,  Katahdin's  c-liasmed  |/ile 
Looms  through  thy  low,  long,  I'^fy  aisle ; 

Kastward,  Olamon's  suniiiiit  shines  ; 
And  I  ujK>n  thy  grassy  shore. 
The  dreamful,  happy  child  of  yore, 

Worehip  Ixjfore  mine  olden  shrines. 

Again  the  sultrj'  noontide  hush 
Is  sweetly  broken  by  the  thrusli, 

Whose  elcar  Ijell  rings  and  dies  away 
Beside  thy  Panics,  in  coverts  ili-ep. 
Where  noijding  bu'ls  of  orchis  »l%p 

In  dusk,  and  dream  not  it  is  'lay. 

Again  the  wild  cow-lily  floats 
Her  golden-freight'^l,  tcntcl  lxjat» 

In  thy  cool  coves  of  softi^ned  gloom, 
O'eiTiliiwlowtjd  by  the  whispering  reed. 
And  purple  plumes  of  pickerel- weed. 

And  raea<low-sweet  in  tangled  bloom. 

The  8tartle<i  minnows  dart  in  flocks 
Beneath  thy  glimmering  aml)er  ro<;ks. 

If  but  a  zephyr  stirs  the  brake  ; 
The  silent  swallow  swoops,  a  flash 
Of  light,  and  leaves,  with  dainty  plash, 

A  ring  of  ripples  in  her  wake. 

Without,  the  land  is  hot  and  dim  ; 
Tlie  level  fields  in  languor  swim, 

Their  stubble-grasses  brown  as  dust ; 
And  all  along  the  upland  lanes, 
Where  sha'leless  ntym  oppressive  r"igns, 

Dea<l  roses  wear  their  crowns  of  rust. 

Within,  is  neither  blight  nor  death  ; 
The  fierce  sun  wooes  with  ardent  breath, 

But  cannot  win  thy  sylvan  heart. 
Only  the  child  who  loves  thee  long, 
With  faithful  worship  pure  and  strong, 

Can  know  how  dear  and  sweet  thou  art. 

So  loved  I  thee  in  days  gone  by, 

So  love  I  yet,  though  leagues  may  lie 

Between  us,  and  the  years  divide  ; 
A  breath  of  coolness,  dawn,  and  dew, 
A  joy  forever  fresh  and  true. 

Thy  memory  doth  with  me  abide. 

▲1,-NA   BOYKrOM  AVERILU 


A  EU88IAN  ICE-PALACE. 


Lass  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  a'Imir<!<l, 
bivrAUw:  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man, 
Imjorrial  mistres>>  of  the  fur-cla/1  Kuss, 
Thy  most  magnilicent  and  mighty  freak, 
The  wonder  of  the  North.     No  forest  fell 
When  thou  woul'lst  build  ;  no  quarry  sent  it« 

st^jres 
To  enrich  thy  walk  ;  but  thou  di<lst  hew  the 

Ho'.hIs, 
And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 
Silently  as  a  di<taiii  the  (abric  row; ; 
No  sound  of  liammer  or  of  saw  was  there  : 
lee  \i\K)U  ice,  the  well-a<Iju«ti;d  parts 
Were  s')on  eonjoin'wi,  nor  other  <ei(ient  asked 
Tlian  water  int>'i-fiis';d  to  make  them  one, 
Lamjw  gracefully  disjxfsi^l,  and  of  all  hues, 
Illumine<i  every  side  :  a  wat<;ry  light 
Gleami-jl  through  the  clear  transj/arency,   tliat 

s<?eme4 
Another  moon  new  ris'-n,  or  meteor  fallen 
From  heaven  to  earth,    of    laml>ent  flame    se- 
rene. 
So  stood  the  brittle  jirvligy  ;  though  smooth 
And  slipj)ery  the  mat<;iTals,  yet  frost-txjund 
Finn  as  a  rock.      Nor  want<-d  aught  within. 
That  royal  residence  might  well  tx;fit, 
For  grandeur  or  for  us*;.      I><jng  wavy  WTeatha 
Of  flowers,  that  f'aire"!  no  enemy  but  warmth. 
Blushed  on  the  f/anels.      Mirror  wnAi^l  none 
Where  all  was  vitnyjus  ;  but  in  order  due 
Convivial  table  and  comm'xiious  seat 
(What  8e<!me'l  at  least  commo<liouB  seat)  were 

there  ; 
Sofa  and  fX)Uch  and  high-built  throne  august. 
The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all. 
And  all  was  moist  t'j  the  wann  t/juch  ;  a  scene 
or  evanescent  glorj',  onw  a  str'sirn, 
And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stnsim  again. 

William  Co-a-pesl 


THE  OCEAN. 

The  ocean  at  the  bidding  of  the  tnvm 
Forever  changes  with  his  restless  tide  : 
Flung  shoreward  now,  U>  Ix;  TK^MinnA  soon 
With  kingly  i«u.v;s  of  reluctant  pride. 
And  s<;mblan';e  of  return.     Anon  from  home 
He  issues  forth  anew,  high  ridge<l  and  free,  — 
The  gentlest  murmur  of  his  seething  foam 
Like    armies    whis-jxiring    where    great    echoes 

be. 
0,  leave  me  here  uix>n  thi*  beech  to  rove. 
Mute   listener    to   that    sound    fi   grand    and 

lone  ; 


a^ 


640 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


n 


& 


A  glorious  sound,    deep  drawn,   nnd   strongly 

thrown, 
And  reaching  those  on  mountain  heights  ahovo. 
To  British  oars  (as  who  sliall  scorn  to  own  ?) 
A  tutelar  I'oud  voice,  a  savior  tone  of  love. 

CHARLES  TENNYSON. 

THE  BLACKBIRD. 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon  ! 

The  Hlackbird  sings  along  the  sunny  breeze 
His  ancient  song  of  leaves,  anil  summer  boon  ; 

liich  breath  of  haytields  streams  through  whis- 
pering trees  ; 
And  liirds  of  morning  trim  their  bustling  wings. 
And  listen  fondly — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

How  soft  the  lovclight  of  the  west  reposes 
On  this  green  valley's  cheery  solitude, 

On  the  trim  cottage  with  its  screen  of  roses. 
On  the  gray  belfry  with  its  ivy  hood. 

And  nmrmuring  mill-race,  and  the  wheel  that 
llings 

I  ts  bubbling  freshness— while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

The  very  dial  on  the  village  church 

Seems  as  't  were  dreaming  in  a  dozy  rest ; 

The  scribbled  benches  underneath  the  porch 
Bask  in  the  kindly  welcome  of  the  west ; 

But  the  broad  easements  of  the  old  Three  Kings 

Blaze  like  a  furnace  —  while  the  Blackbinl  sings. 

And  there  beneath  the  immemorial  elm 
Three  rosy  revelers  round  a  table  sit, 

And  through  gray  clouds  give  laws  imto  the  realm, 
Curse  good  andgi'eat,  but  wor.ship  theirown  wit, 

Aiul  roar  of  lights,  and  fairs,  and  junketings. 

Corn,  colts,  and  curs  —  the  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

Before  her  home,  in  her  accustomed  seat. 
The  tidy  grandam  spins  beneath  the  shade 

Of  the  old  honeysuckle,  at  her  feet 

The  dreaming  ]iug  and  purring  tabby  laid  ; 

To  her  low  chair  a  little  maiden  cling.s. 

And  spells  in  silence  —  while  the  lllaiklard  sings. 

Sometimes  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud 

Breathes  o'er  the  handet  with  its  gardens  gi-een, 

While  the  far  fields  with  sunlight  overflowed 
Like  golden  shores  of  Fairyland  are  seen  ; 

.\gain  the  sunshine  on  the  shadow  springs. 

Ami  firesthe  thicket — where  the  Blaekliird  sings. 

The  wui.ds.  the  lawn,  the  peaked  manor-house, 
With  its  peach-covered  wall.s,  and  rookery  loud. 

The   trim,    ipiaint  garden-allevs,  screened  with 
boughs. 
The  lion  headed  gates,  so  grim  and  proud. 


The  mossy  fountain  with  its  murraurings. 

Lie  in  warm  sunshine  —  while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

The  ring  of  silver  voices,  anil  the  sheen 
Of  festal  garments,  —  and  my  lady  streams 

With  her  gay  court  across  the  garden  green  ; 
Some  laugh,  and  dance,  some  whisper  their 
love-dreams  ; 

And  one  calls  for  a  little  page  :  he  strings 

Her  lute  beside  her  —  while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

A  little  while,  —  and  lo  !  the  charm  is  heard  : 
A  youth,  whose  life  has  been  all  summer,  steals 

Forth  from  the  noisy  guests  around  the  l)oard. 
Creeps  by  her  softly,  at  her  footstool  kneels, 

And,  when  she  pauses,  murmurs  tender  things 

Into  her  fond  ear —  while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

The  smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys  curl  up 
higher, 
.\nd  dizzy  things  of  eve  begin  to  float 
Upon  the  light ;  the  breeze  begins  to  tire. 
Half-way  to  .sunset  with  a  drowsy  note 
The  ancient  clock  from  out  the  valley  swings  ; 
The  grandam  nods  —  and  still   the   Blackbird 
sings. 

Far  shouts  and   laughter   from    the   farm-stead 
peal. 

Where  the  great  stack  is  piling  in  the  sun  ; 
Through  narrow  gates  o'erladen  wagons  reel, 

And  barking  curs  into  the  tumult  run  ; 
While  the  inconstant  wind  bears  ofl',  and  brings 
The  merry  tempest  —  and  the  Blackbird  sings. 

On  the  high  wold  the  last  look  of  the  sun 
Burns,  like  a  beacon,  over  dale  and  stream  ; 

The  shouts  have  ceased,  the  laughter  and  the 
fun ; 
Thegrandam  sleeps,  and  peaceful  be  her  dream ; 

Only  a  hammer  on  an  anvil  rings  ; 

The  day  is  dying —  still  the  Blackbii'd  sings. 

Now  the  good  vicar  passes  from  his  gate. 

Serene,  with  long  white  hair  ;  and  in  his  eye 

Burns  the  clear  spirit  that  hath  conquered  Fate, 
And  felt  the  wings  of  immort.ality  ; 

His  heart  is  thronged  with  great  imaginings 

And  tender  mercies— while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Down   by   the   lu-ook  he    bends    his    steps,    ami 
through 
A  lowly  wicket ;  and  at  last  he  stands 
.\wful  beside  tlie  bed  of  one  who  grew 

From  boyhood  with  him,  —  who  with  lifted 
hands 
And  eyes  seems  listening  to  far  welcomings 
.'Vnd  sweeter  music  —  than  the  Blackbird  sings. 


-^-ff 


^- 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


G41 


,-a 


B^- 


Two  golJen  stars,  like  tokens  from  tlie  Idcst, 
Strike  on  his  dim  orbs  lioni  the  setting  sun  ; 

His  sinking  hands  seem  pointing  to  the  west ; 
He  smiles  as  though  he  said,  "Thy  will  be 
done  ! " 

His  eyes  they  see  not  those  ilium  inings  ; 

His  ears  they  hear  not — what  the  Hlackbird  sings. 

FRUUEKICK    TRNNVSON. 


THE  COXnfTRY  LIFE. 

Sweet  eountiy  life,  to  such  unknown 

Whose  lives  are  others',  not  their  own  ; 

But,  serving  courts  and  cities,  be 

Less  happy,  less  enjoying  thee. 

Thou  never  plow'st  the  ocean's  foame 

To  seek  and  bring  rougli  pepper  home  ; 

Nor  to  the  Eastern  Ind  dost  rove 

To  bring  from  thence  the  scorched  clove  ; 

Nor,  with  the  loss  of  thy  loved  rest, 

lii'ing'st  home  the  ingot  from  the  West : 

N'o,  thy  ambitious  ma.ster]>iece 

Flics  no  thought  higher  than  a  fleece  ; 

I M-  to  pay  thy  hinds,  and  cleerc 

.\U  scores,  and  so  to  end  the  yeare  : 

liut  walk'st  about  thine  own  dear  boun<ls. 

Not  envying  others'  larger  grounds  ; 

For  well  thou  know'st,  't  is  not  the  extent 

Of  land  makes  life,  but  sweet  content. 

When  now  the  cock,  the  plowman's  home, 

rails  forth  the  lily-wristed  morne  ; 

Then  to  thy  cornfields  thou  dost  go, 

Which,  though  well  soyl'd,  yet  thou  dost  know 

That  the  best  compost  for  the  lands 

l»  the  wise  master's  feet  and  hands  : 

There  at  the  plow  thou  find'st  thy  tcame. 

With  a  hind  whistling  there  to  them  ; 

.■\iid  cheer' St  them  up,  by  singing  how 

Tlic  kingdom's  portion  is  the  plow; 

'i'his  done,  then  to  the  enameled  meads 

Thou  go'st,  and  as  thy  foot  there  treads. 

Thou  seest  a  present  godlike  power 

Inijirinted  in  each  herbe  and  flower; 

.'Vnd  smell'st  the  breath  of  great-eyed  kine, 

Sweet  as  the  blossoms  of  the  vine  ; 

Here  thou  behold'st  thy  large  sleek  neat 

L'nto  the  dewlaps  up  in  meat ; 

And  as  thou  look'st,  the  wanton  steere, 

The  heifer,  cow,  and  oxe  draw  neare, 

To  make  a  pleasing  pastime  there  : 

These  seen,  thou  go'st  to  view  thy  flocks 

Of  sheep,  safe  from  the  wolf  and  fox, 

And  find'st  their  bellies  there  as  full 

Of  short  sweet  grass,  as  backs  with  wool  ; 

And  leav'st  them,  as  tliey  feed  and  fill, 

A  shepherd  piping  on  a  hill. 

For  sports,  for  pageantrie,  an<l  playes. 

Thou  hast  thy  eves  and  holydayes  ; 


On  which  the  young  men  and  maids  meet 

To  (^■iercise  their  dancing  feet, 

Tripi)ing  the  comely  country  round. 

With  daffodils  and  daisies  crowned. 

Thy  wakes,  thy  quintels,  here  thou  hast. 

Thy  May-poles,  too,  with  garlands  grac't. 

Thy  morris-dance,  thy  Whitsun  ale. 

Thy  shearing-feast,  which  never  faile. 

Thy  harvest  home,  thy  wa.ssail  bowle, 

That  's  tost  up  after  fox  i'  th'  hole. 

Thy  mummeries,  thy  twelf-tide  kings 

And  ([ueenes,  thy  Cliiistnjas  rcvelings, 

Thy  nut-browuc  mirth,  thy  russet  wit, 

Aud  no  man  pays  too  de.are  for  it  : 

To  these  tliou  hast  thy  times  to  goc. 

And  trace  the  hare  i'  th'  treacherous  snow ; 

Thy  witty  wiles  to  draw  an<l  get 

The  larkc  into  the  trammel  net ; 

Thou  hast  thy  eockrood  and  tliy  glado 

To  take  the  precious  pheasant  made ; 

Thy  lime-twigs,  snares,  anil  pitfalls  then 

To  catch  the  [(ilfering  birds,  not  men. 

0  happy  life  !  if  tliat  their  good 

Tlie  husbandmen  but  understood  ; 

Who  all  the  day  them.selves  do  please, 

Anrl  younglings,  with  such  sjiorts  as  these  ; 

And,  lying  down,  have  nought  U>  affright 

Sweet  sleep,  that  makes  more  .sliort  the  night 


CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 


Heap  on  more  wood  I  — the  wind  is  chill  ; 

But,  let  it  whi.stle  .-ls  it  will. 

We  '11  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 

Rach  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 

The  fitt<!St  time  for  festal  cheer  : 

Even,  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 

At  lol  more  deep  tlic  mead  did  drain  ; 

High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew. 

And  fe.i-sted  all  his  pirate  crew; 

Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall. 

Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall. 

They  gorged  upon  the  half-dressed  steer ; 

Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer  ; 

While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 

The  half-gnawed  rib  an<l  marrow-bone. 

Or  listened  all,  in  grim  delight, 

While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joys  of  fight. 

Then  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie, 

Wliile  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly ; 

Anil,  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile. 

They  make  such  barlarous  mirth  the  while, 

i\n  liest  might  to  the  mind  reeall 

The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  ha'l  rolled 


& 


a- 


642 


DESCRIPTIVE  PUEMS. 


-^ 


B- 


And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 

With  all  his  hospitable  train. 

Domestic  and  religious  rite 

Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night : 

On  Christinas  eve  the  bells  were  rung  ; 

On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung  ; 

That  only  night,  in  all  the  year, 

Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 

The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 

The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green  ; 

Forth  to  the  wood  did  men-y-nien  go, 

To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 

Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 

To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all  ; 

Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside. 

And  Ceremony  doffed  her  pride. 

The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes. 

That  night  might  \-illage  partner  choose  ; 

The  lord,  underogating,  share 

The  vulgar  game  of  "  post  and  pair." 

All  liailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight, 

And  genend  voice,  the  happy  night 

That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 

Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  weU-dried  logs  supplied, 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 
The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face. 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  gi'ace, 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 
By  old  blue-coated  serving-man  ; 
Then  the  grim  boar's-head  frowned  on  high, 
Crested  with  hays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-g.arbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when,  and  where  the  monster  fell ; 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls. 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked  ;  hard  by 
Plum-pon-idge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie  ; 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce. 
At  such  higli-tide,  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in, 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song. 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
"Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery ; 
White  skirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made  : 
But,  0,  what  maskers  richly  dight 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'T  was  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale  ; 
'T  was  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 


A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 

The  poor  man's  heart  through  lialf  the  year. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS. 

Befell  that  in  that  season  on  a  day 
In  Southwark  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wall  nine-and-twenty  in  a  compaguie. 

There  also  was  a  Nun,  a  Prioiess, 
That  in  her  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy : 
Her  greatest  oath  was  but  by  Saint  Eloy  ; 
And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglantine. 
Full  well  she  sange*  the  service  divine, 
Entuned  in  her  nose  full  swetely  ; 
And  French  she  spake  full  faire  and  fetisly,+ 
After  the  school  of  Stratford  atte  Bow, 
For  French  of  Paris  was  to  her  unknow. 
At  mete  was  she  well  ytaught  witliall  ; 
She  let  no  morsel  from  her  lippes  fall. 
Nor  wet  her  fingers  in  her  sauce  deep : 
Well  could  she  cany  a  morsel,  and  well  keep. 
That  no  drop  never  fell  upon  her  lireast. 
In  courtesie  was  set  full  much  her  lest.  } 

And  certainly  she  was  of  great  disport. 
And  full  pleasant,  and  amiable  of  port. 
And  took  much  pains  to  imitate  the  air 
Of  court,  and  hold  a  stately  manner. 
And  to  be  thoughten  worthy  reverence. 

But  for  to  speaken  of  her  conscience. 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  piteous. 
She  wolde  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  mouse 
Caught  in  a  trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bled  ; 
Some  small  hounds  had  she  that  she  fed 
With  roasted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wasted  bread. 
But  sore  she  wept  if  one  of  them  were  dead, 
Or  if  men  smote  it  mth  a  yerde§  smart  : 
She  was  all  conscience  and  tender  heart. 

Full  seemely  her  wimple  pinched  was ; 
Her  nose  was  straight ;  her  eyes  were  grey  as  glass. 
Her  mouth  full  small,  and  thereto  soft  and  red  ; 
But  certainly  slie  had  a  fair  forehead. 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  broad  I  trow, 
For  certainly  she  was  not  undergrown. 

Full  handsome  was  her  cloak,  as  I  was  'ware 
Of  sm.all  coral  about  her  atm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  bedes,  gauded  all  with  green  ; 
And  thereon  hung  a  broach  of  gold  full  sheue. 
On  which  was  first  ywritten  a  crowned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  vindt  omnia. 

Another  NuN  also  with  her  had  she. 
That  was  her  chaplain,  and  of  Priestes  three. 

•  Although  the  spelling  of  Chaucer  is  here  much  modernized,  in 
this  and  other  instances  a  superfluous  e  is  retained,  because  the 
rhythm  requires  that  it  should  be  pronounced. 

I  Neatly.  I  Pleasure  §  Staff. 


-^ 


[0- 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


643 


a 


A  good  man  there  was  of  religion, 
Tliat  was  a  poor  Pabsoxe  of  a  town  ; 
But  rich  he  was  in  holy  thought  and  work, 
He  was  also  a  learned  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Christe's  gospel  truely  would  preach. 
His  parishens  devoutly  would  he  teach, 
Beiiigne  he  was  and  wondrous  diligent, 
And  in  adversity  full  patient : 
And  such  he  was  yproved  often  times  ; 
Full  loth  were  he  to  cursen  for  his  tithes, 
liut  rather  would  he  given,  out  of  doubt, 
Ciito  his  poor  parishioners  about, 
Of  hLs  offering,  and  eke  of  his  substance  ; 
He  could  in  little  thing  have  sufiisunce. 
Wide  was  hLs  parish,  and  houses  far  asunder. 
But  he  nor  felt  nor  thought  of  rain  or  thunder. 
In  sickness  and  in  mischief  to  visit 
The  farthest  in  his  parish,  much  and  oft, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staff. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  gave, 
That  first  he  wi'ought,  and  afterward  he  taught. 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caught, 
And  this  figure  he  added  j'et  thereto, 
That  if  gold  rust,  what  sholde  iron  do  ? 
And  if  a  priest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  tnist, 
\o  wonder  if  a  common  man  do  rust ; 
Well  ought  a  priest  ensample  for  to  give. 
By  his  cleannesse,  how  his  sheep  should  live. 

He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hire. 
Or  left  his  sheep  bewildered  in  the  mire. 
And  ran  unto  London,  unto  Saint  Paul's, 
To  seeken  him  a  chanterie  for  souls. 
Or  ^rith  a  brotlierhood  to  be  withold  ; 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kept  well  his  fold, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  miscarry. 
He  was  a  shepherd  and  no  mercenarie, 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  virtuous. 
He  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispiteous, 
Xor  of  his  speech  dangerous  nor  high, 
But  in  his  teaching  discrete  and  benigne. 
To  draw  his  folk  to  heaven,  with  fairness, 
By  good  ensample,  was  hLs  business  : 
But  if  were  any  person  obstinate. 
Whether  he  were  of  high  or  low  estate, 
Him  would  he  reprove  sharply  for  the  nones, 
A  better  priest  I  trow  that  nowhere  is. 
He  waited  after  neither  pomp  ne  reverence. 
Nor  raaked  him  no  spiced  conscience. 
But  Christe's  lore  and  his  Apostles  twelve 
He  taught,  but  first  he  followed  it  himselve. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer. 


ON  SOME  SKULLS 


Ix  silent,  barren  synod  met 

Within  these  roofless  walls,  where  yet 


The  severed  arch  and  cari'ed  fret 

Cling  to  the  ruin. 
The  brethren's  skulls  mourn,  dewy  wet. 

Their  creed's  undoing. 

The  mitered  ones  of  Nice  and  Trent 
Were  not  so  tongue-tied  ;  no,  they  went 
Hot  to  their  councils,  .scarce  content 

With  orthodoxy ; 
But  ye,  poor  tonguelcss  things,  were  meant 

To  speak  by  ])roxy. 

Your  chronicles  no  more  exist, 
1  For  Knox,  the  revolutionist, 
I  Destroyed  the  work  of  every  fist 

That  scrawled  black  -letter  ; 
Well  1  I  'ni  a  crauiologist, 

\ui.  may  do  better. 

This  skull-cap  wore  the  cowl  from  sloth 
Or  discontent,  perhaps  from  Ixith  ; 
And  yet  one  day,  against  his  oath. 

He  tried  esca|)ing  ; 
For  men,  though  idle,  may  be  loath 

To  live  on  gaping. 

This  crawled  through  life  in  feebleness. 

Boasting  he  never  knew  excess. 

Cursing  those  crimes  he  scarce  could  guess, 

Or  felt  but  faintly. 
With  prayers  that  Heaven  would  cease  to  ble 

Men  so  unsaintly. 

Here  's  a  true  churchman,  —  he  'd  affect 
Much  charity,  and  ne'er  neglect 
To  pray  for  mercy  on  the  elect. 

But  thought  no  evil 
In  sending  heathen,  Turk,  and  sect. 

All  to  the  devil. 

Poor  skull,  thy  fingers  set  ablaze. 
With  silver  saint  in  golden  rays, 
The  holy  missal  ;  thou  didst  craze 

Mid  beard  and  spangle, 
WliOe  others  passed  their  idler  days 

In  coil  and  wrangle. 

Long  time  this  sconce  a  helmet  wore. 
But  sickness  smites  the  conscience  sore  ; 
He  broke  his  sword  and  hither  bore 

His  gear  and  plunder. 
Took  to  the  cowl,  then  raved  and  .swore 

Xt  his  great  blunder  ! 

This  lily-colored  skull,  with  all 

The  teeth  complete,  so  white  and  small, 

Belonged  to  one  whose  early  pall 

A  lover  shaded  : 
He  died  ere  superstitious  gall 

His  breast  invaded. 


^ 


&-: 


644 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


Ha  !  Here  is  iiiulivulgeil  crime  ! 
Dcspiiir  forbade  his  soul  to  climb 
Beyotul  this  world,  this  mortal  time 

( If  fevered  sadness, 
Until  their  monkish  i«viitomime 

I>azzled  his  madness. 

A  younger  brother  this  ;  a  man 

Aspiring  as  a  Tartar  Khan, 

But,  curbed  and  baffled,  he  begun 

The  trade  of  frightening. 
It  smacked  of  power,  — aiui  here  he  ran 

To  deal  Heaven's  lightning. 

This  idiot  skull  belonged  to  one, 
A  buried  miser's  only  son, 
Who,  penitent  ere  he  'd  begun 

To  taste  of  pleasure. 
And  hoping  Heaven's  dread  wrath  to  shun, 

Gave  Hell  his  treasure. 

There  is  the  forehead  of  an  ape, 

A  robber's  mark  ;  and  here  the  nape. 

That  bone  —  fie  on  't !  — just  beare  the  shape 

Of  carnal  pission  ; 
0,  he  was  one  for  theft  and  rape 

In  monkish  fashion. 

This  was  the  porter  ;  he  could  sing, 
Or  dance,  or  play,  or  anything  ; 
Aud  what  the  friars  bade  him  bring. 

They  ne'er  were  balked  of ; 
JIatters  not  worth  remembering. 

And  seldom  talked  of. 

Kuough,  —  why  need  I  fuither  pore  ? 
This  corner  holds  at  least  a  score, 
And  yonder  twice  as  many  more. 

Of  reverend  brothers  ; 
'T  is  the  same  story  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

They  're  like  the  others. 

ANONYMOUS. 


CLEOPATRA. 

FROM  ••  ANTONV  AND  CLEOPATRA." 

Enob.\rbus.   The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  bur- 
nished throne. 
Burned  on  the  water  :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold  ; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The  w  inds  were  lovesick  with  them  ;  the  oars 

were  silver, 
Which  to  the  time  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 
The  ^\■atcr,  which  they  beat,  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.    For  Iier  own  pereon, 
It  beggared  all  description  :  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  (cloth-of-gold  of  tissue). 


O'erpicturing  that  Venus,  whei-e  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature  ;  on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  divers-colored  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cliceks  which  they  did  cool, 
Anil  what  they  undid,  did. 

Aor.ii'PA.  0,  rare  for  Antony  '. 

Eno.    Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereids, 
So  nuvny  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes. 
And  made  their  bi'uds  adornings  :  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers  ;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  tliose  Hower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
X  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her  ;  and  Antony, 
Kiitlironed  in  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone. 
Whistling  to  the  air  ;  which,  but  for  vacancy. 
Had  gone  to  gazo  on  Cleopatra  too. 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agr.  Rare  Egyptian  ! 

Eno.    Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  lier. 
Invited  her  to  supper  :  she  replied, 
1 1  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest ; 
Which  she  entreated  :  our  courteous  Antony, 
Wliom  ne'er  the  woiil  of  "No"  woman  heard 

speak. 
Being  bartered  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast  ; 
And,  for  his  ordinary,  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agr.  Koyal  wench  I 

MeCjENAS,   Now  Antony  mustleave  hcrutterly. 

Eno.    Never  ;  he  will  not : 
Ago  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety  ;  other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies.     For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her  ;  that  the  holy  priests 
Bless  her  wh?n  she  is  riggish. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 

New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 

Cry  down  the  past ;  not  only  we,  that  prate 

Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the  people  well, 

-Vnd  loathed  to  see  them  overtaxed  ;  but  she 

Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame. 

The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 

Oodiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl  who  ruled 

In  Coventry  :  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 

Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothere  brought 

Their    children,   clamoring,    "If   we   jiay,    we 

starve  ! " 
She  soughtherlord,  and  foundhim,  where  bestrode 
.\bout  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone. 


--& 


a- 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


645 


-a 


& 


His  beard  a  foot  before  }iim,  and  his  liair 
A  yard  beliiiid.     She  tohl  him  of  their  tears, 
And  prayed  him,   "If  they  pay  tliis  tax,   they 

starve." 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  lialf  amazed, 
"  You  would  not  let  your  Kttle  linger  ache 
For  such  as  these?"    •"But  I  would  die,"  said 

she. 
He  laughed,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul  : 
Tlien  rdliped  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 
"(),  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  I"     "Alas!"  she  said, 
"  Hut  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 
And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 
H('  answered,  "Ride you  naked  through  the  town, 
And  I  repeal  it "  ;  and  nodding,  as  in  scorn. 
He  parted,  with  gi'eat  strides  among  his  dogs. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind. 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow. 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour. 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth. 
And  hade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition  ;  hut  that  she  would  loose 
The  people  :  therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well, 
Kroni  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street. 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing  ;  but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut  andwindow barred. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasped  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  lingered,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half  dipt  in  cloud  :  anon  she  shook  her  head. 
And  showered  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee  ; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste  ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reached 
The  gateway ;  there  she  found  her  jKUfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazoned  with  annoiial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity  : 
The  deep  air  listened  round  her  as  .she  rode. 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
Th(!  little  wide-mouthed  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  :  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame  :  her  palfrey's  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  through  her  pulses  :  the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes  ;  and  overliead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared  :  but  .she 
Not  less  through  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flowered  elder-thicket  from  the  lieM 
Gleam  through  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity  : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth. 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come. 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear. 
Peeped  —  but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will. 
Were  shriveled  into  darkness  in  his  head. 
And  drofijt  before  him.    So  the  Powers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancelled  a  sense  misused  ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  passed  :  and  all  at  once. 


With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  sliumeless 

noon 
Was  clashed  and  hammered  from  a  hundred  towers, 
One  after  one  :  but  even  then  slie  gained 
Her  bower ;  whence  reissuing,  robed  and  crowned, 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away. 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 

ALI-RIiO  TENNYSON. 


PEACE  IN  ACADIE. 


VANGELI.NE." 


l.N  the  Acadian  land,  ou  the  shores  of  the  Baain 

of  Mina.s, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  villag*^  of  Graud- 

Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.   Vastmeadowsstretched 

to  the  eastward. 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  j)a8ture  to  flocks 

without  numl>er. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised 

with  labor  incessant. 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides  ;  but  at  stated  sea- 
sons th(!  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will 

o'er  the  meadows. 
West  and   south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and 

orchards  and  conifiehis 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain  ;  and 

away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on 

the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the 

mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their 

station  descended. 
There,  in  the  miilst  of  its  farms,   reposed  the 

Acadian  village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of 

oak  and  of  chestnut, 
Such  as  the  pea.sants  of  Xoimandy  built  in  the 

reign  of  the  Henries. 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows  ; 

and  gables  projecting 
Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded 

the  doorway. 
There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  sunmier,  when 

brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes 

on  the  chimneys. 
Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and 

in  kirtles 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spin- 
ning the  golden 
Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shut- 
tles \vithin  doors 


-^ 


a^ 


-^ 


646 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


Mingled  their  somul  witli  Ihe  wliir  of  the  wheels 

and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest, 

and  the  cliildren 
Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended 

to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them  ;  and  up  rose 

mati'ons  and  maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affec- 
tionate welcome. 
Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and 

serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevaUed.     Anon 

from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs 

of  the  village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  in- 
cense ascending. 
Rose  from  a  Imndred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace 

and  contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian 

farmers,  — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.     Alike 

were  they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  t\Tant,  and  envy,  the 

vice  of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars 

to  their  windows  ; 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the 

hearts  of  the  owners  ; 
There  the  richest  were  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived 

in  abundance. 
Somewhat  apart  from  tlie  \'illage,  and  nearer 

the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict  Bellefontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of 

Grand-Pre, 
Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres  ;  and  with  him,  direct- 
ing his  household, 
Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  ])ride 

of  the  village. 
Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of 

seventy  winters ; 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered 

with  snow-flakes  ; 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks 

as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 
Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen 

summers. 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  I»'rry  that  grows  on 

the  thorn  by  the  wayside. 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the 

brown  shade  of  her  tresses  ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that 

feed  in  the  meadows, 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers 

at  noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,   ah  '.  fair  in  sooth 

was  the  maiden. 


Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the 

bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest 

with  his  hy.ssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings 

upon  them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet 

of  beads  and  her  missal. 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  blue, 

and  the  ear-rings. 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since, 

as  an  heirloom. 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long 

generations. 
But  a  celestial  brightness,  a  more  ethereal  beauty. 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when, 

after  confession, 
Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  bene- 
diction upon  her. 
When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing 

of  e.Yquisite  music. 

LONGFELLOW. 


EVANGELINE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 


BEAUTiFfL  was  the  night.     Behind  the  black 

wall  of  tlie  forest. 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon. 

On  the  river 
Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremu- 
lous gleam  of  the  moonlight. 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened 

and  devious  spirit. 
Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers 

of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their 

prayers  and  confessions 
l^nto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a  silent 

Carthusian. 
Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with 

shadows  and  night-dews. 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.     The  calm  and 

the  magical  moonlight 
Seemed  to  inundate  her  sold  with  indefinable 

longings, 
As,  through  the  garden  gate,  and  beneath  the 

shade  of  the  oak-trees. 
Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the 

measureless  prairie. 
Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silveiy  haze  upon  it,  and 

fire-flies 
Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  in- 
finite numbers. 
Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in 

the  heavens. 


^Q~- 


--& 


[&- 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


647 


-a 


t&^ 


Shone  on  tne  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to 

marvel  and  worship, 
Save  wlien  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls 

of  that  temple. 
As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them, 

"  Upharsin." 
And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars 

and  the  fire-flies. 
Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  "0  Gabriel !  O 

my  beloved  ! 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  be- 
hold thee  ! 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does 

not  reach  me  ? 
Ah  !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to 

the  prairie  ! 
Ah  !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the 

woodlands  around  me  ! 
Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from 

labor, 
Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me 

in  thy  slumbers. 
When   shall  these   eyes  behold,  these  arms   be 

folded  about  thee  ?  " 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whip- 

poorwill  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  woods  ;  and  anon,  through 

the  neighboiing  thickets. 
Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped 

into  silence. 
"Patience  !"  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular 

caverns  of  darkness  ; 
And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  responded, 

"To-morrow  ! " 

HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 


PEG  OF  LIMAVADDY. 

Riding  from  C'oleraine 

(Famed  for  lovely  Kitty) 
Came  a  Cockney  bound 

Unto  Derry  city  ; 
Weary  was  his  soul. 

Shivering  and  sad  he 
Bumped  along  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Mountains  stretched  around. 

Gloomy  was  their  tinting. 
And  the  horse's  hoofs 

Made  a  dismal  dinting  ; 
Wind  upon  the  heath 

Howling  was  and  piping. 
On  the  heath  and  bog, 

Black  with  many  a  snipe  in  ; 
Mid  the  bogs  of  black. 

Silver  pools  were  flashing, 


Crows  upon  their  sides 

Picking  were  and  splashing. 
Cockney  on  the  car 

Closer  folds  his  plaidy. 
Grumbling  at  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 
Through  the  crashing  woods 

Autumn  brawled  and  blustered. 
Tossing  round  about 

Leaves  the  hue  of  mustard  ; 
Yonder  lay  Lough  Foyle, 

Which  a  storm  was  whipping, 
Coveiing  with  mist 

Lake  and  shores  and  shipping. 
Up  and  down  the  hill 

(Nothing  could  be  bolder) 
Horse  went  with  a  raw 

Bleeding  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Where  are  horses  changed  ? " 

Said  I  to  the  laddy 
Driving  on  the  box. 

"Sir,  at  Limavaddy." 

Limavaddy  inn  's 

But  a  humble  baithouse, 
Where  you  may  procure 

Wliisky  and  potatoes ; 
Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

Who  to  his  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking, 
With  a  wary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 
To  the  chimney-nook 

Having  found  admittance. 
There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Wliicli  of  blazing  turf  is. 
Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  muriihies)  ; 
And  the  cradled  babe. 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it. 
Singing  it  a  song 

As  she  twists  the  worsted  ! 

Up  and  down  the  stair 

Two  more  young  ones  patter 
(Twins  were  never  seen 

Dirtier  nor  fatter) ; 
Both  have  mottled  legs, 

Both  have  snubby  noses. 
Both  have —     Here  the  host 

Kindly  interposes  : 
"Sure  you  must  be  froze 

With  the  sleet  and  hail,  sir  ; 


-^ 


\£r: 


648 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


-a 


t.- 


So  will  you  have  some  punch, 
Or  will  you  have  some  ale,  sir  ? " 

Presently  a  maid 

Enters  with  the  liquor 
(Half  a  pint  of  ale 

Frothing  in  a  beaker). 
Gads  !  I  did  n't  know 

What  my  beatiiif,'  heart  meant ; 
Hebe's  self  I  thought 

Entered  the  apartment. 
As  she  came  she  smiled, 

And  the  smile  bewitching, 
On  my  word  and  honor. 

Lighted  all  the  kitchen  ! 

With  a  courtesy  neat 

Greeting  the  new-comer, 
Lovely,  smiling  Peg 

Ofi'ers  me  the  rummer  ; 
But  my  trembling  hand 

Up  the  beaker  tilted. 
And  the  glass  of  ale 

Eveiy  drop  I  sjiilt  it,  — 
Spilt  it  every  drop 

(Dames  who  read  my  volumes. 
Pardon  such  a  word) 

On  my  what-d'ye-call-ems ! 
Witnessing  the  sight 

Of  that  dire  disa.ster, 
Out  began  to  laugh 

Missis,  maid,  and  master  ; 
Such  a  merry  peal, 

'Specially  Miss  Peg's  was, 
(.As  tile  glass  of  ale  " 

Triekling  down  my  legs  was,) 
That  the  joyful  sound 

Of  that  mingling  laughter 
Echoed  in  my  ears 

Many  a  long  day  after. 

Such  a  silver  peal  I 

In  the  meadows  listening. 
You  who  've  heard  the  bells 

Kinging  to  a  christening  ; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Caradori  pretty. 
Smiling  like  an  angel. 

Singing  "  Giovinetti"  ; 
Fancy  Peggy's  laugh, 

Sweet  and  clear  and  (cheerful. 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half  a  pint  of  beer  full ! 

See  her  as  she  moves  ! 

Scarce  the  gi'ound  she  touches  ; 
Airy  as  a  fay. 

Graceful  as  a  duchess  ; 


Bare  her  rounded  arm, 

Bare  her  little  leg  is  ; 
Vestris  never  showed 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's  ; 
Braided  is  her  hair. 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 
Slim  her  little  waist. 

Comfortably  bodiced. 

This  1  do  declare, 

Happy  is  the  laddy 
Who  the  heart  can  share 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy  ; 
Married  if  she  were. 

Blest  would  be  the  daddy 
Of  the  children  fair 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Beauty  is  not  rare 

In  the  laud  of  Paddy  ; 
Fair  beyond  compare 

Is  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
And  till  I  expire. 

Or  till  I  grow  mad,  I 
Will  sing  unto  my  lyre 

Peg  of  Limavaddy  ! 


[  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


THE  LEPER. 

"  Room  for  the  leper  !  Koom  ! "  And  as  he  came 
The  cry  passed  on,  —  "Room  for  the  lejier  ! 
Room  ! " 

....   And  aside  they  stood. 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood,  — all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way,  —  and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow. 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow. 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down. 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !  unclean  !  " 

....  Day  was  breaking 
When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.     The  incense-lamp 
Burned  with  a  straggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
Swelled  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof. 
Like  an  articulate  wail,  and  there,  alone. 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Sti'Uggling  with  weakness,  and  bowed  down  his 

head 
Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb. 
And  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 


-3 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


649 


-a 


y^- 


Hid  iu  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still, 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom  :  — 

' '  Depart  !  depart,  0  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God, 
For  he  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod. 

And  to  the  desert  wild 
From  all  thou  lov'st  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  his  pcojjle  may  be  free. 

' '  Depart !  and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more  ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er  ; 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 
Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way  ;  and  tly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

"Wet  not  thy  burning  Up 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide  ; 
iS'or  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide. 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink. 
By  desert  well,  or  river's  grassy  brink. 

"And  pass  not  thou  between 
The  weary  traveler  and  the  cooling  breeze. 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 

Where  human  tracks  are  seen  ; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain. 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn  or  yellow  grain. 

"  And  now  depart !  and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men. 
Selected  thee  to  feel  his  chastening  rod. 
Depart !  0  leper  !  and  forget  not  God  ! " 

And  he  went  foith  —  alone  !  not  one  of  all 
Tlie  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibers  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  .speak 
I'oiiifort  unto  him.     Yea,  he  went  his  way, 
Sii  k  and  heart-broken  and  alone,  —  to  die  ! 
[•'ill'  (I (id  had  cursed  the  leper  ! 

It  was  noon, 
And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
1 1  ot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips. 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blest,  —  to  die  ! 
Footstepsapproached,  and  with  no  strength  to  flee. 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip. 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !  unclean  !  "   and  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth  shrouding  up  his  face. 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  stranger  came,  and,  be-nding  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name. 


—  "  Helon  ! "  —  the  voice  was  like  the  master- 
tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument,  —  most  strangely  sweet ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke. 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
"  Helon  !  arise  !  "  and  he  forgot  his  curse. 
And  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

Love  and  awe 
Miiiglcil  in  the  regard  of  Helen's  eye 
As  he  beheld  the  stranger.     He  was  not 
In  coStly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 
The  symbol  of  a  piincely  lineage  wore  ; 
No  followers  at  liis  back,  nor  in  his  hand 
Buckler  or  sword  or  spear,  —  yet  in  his  mien 
('ommand  sat  throned  serene,  and  if  he  smiled, 
A  kingly  condescension  graced  his  lips 
The  lion  would  have  crouched  to  in  his  lair. 
His  garb  was  simple,  and  his  sandals  worn  ; 
His  stature  modeled  with  a  perfect  grace  ; 
His  countenance,  the  impress  of  a  God, 
Touched  with  the  open  innocence  of  a  child  ; 
His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 
In  the  serenest  noon  ;  his  hair  unshorn 
Fell  to  his  shoulders  ;  and  his  curling  beard 
The  fullness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 
He  looked  on  Hijlon  earnestly  awhile. 
As  if  his  heart  was  moved,  and,  stooi>ing  downi, 
He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand 
And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  "  Be  clean  !  " 
And  lo  !  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 
( 'oursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins, 
And  his  diy  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 
The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 
His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  <lown 
Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet,  ami  worsliiped  him. 

NATHANIEI.  I'ARKER  WILLIS. 


THE  SETTLER. 

His  echoing  ax  the  settler  swung 

Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And,  rushing,  thundering,  down  w'cre  flung 

The  Titans  of  the  wood  ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  eagle,  a.s  he  dashed 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crashed 
With  its  supporting  bough, 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flashed 

On  the  wolfs  haunt  below. 

Eude  was  the  garb  and  strong  the  frame 
Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil  ; 

To  form  that  garb  the  wildwood  game 
Contributed  their  spoil ; 

The  soul  that  warmed  that  frame  disdained 

The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare  that  reigned 
Where  men  their  crowds  collect  ; 


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650 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


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©— 


Tile  simple  fur,  untrimmed,  unstaiued, 
This  forest-tamer  decked. 

The  paths  which  wound  mid  gorgeous  trees, 

The   stream  whose   bright   lips  kissed   theii- 
flowers, 
The  winds  that  swelled  their  harmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  bowers, 
The  temple  vast,  the  green  arcade. 
The  nestling  vale,  the  grassy  glade. 

Dark  cave,  and  swampy  lair  ; 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic  made      * 

His  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 

His  roof  adorned  a  pleasant  spot, 

Mid  the  black  logs  green  glowed  the  grain, 
And  herbs  and  jilants  the  woods  knew  not 

Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
The  smoke-wreath  curling  o'er  the  dell, 
The  low,  the  bleat,  the  tinkling  bell. 

All  made  a  landscape  strange, 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 

The  violet  sprung  at  spring's  first  tinge. 

The  rose  of  summer  spread  its  glow, 
The  maize  hung  out  its  autumn  fringe, 

Rude  winter  brought  his  snow  ; 
And  still  the  lone  one  labored  there. 
His  shout  and  whistle  broke  the  air. 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  garden-spade,  or  drove  his  share 

Along  the  hillock's  side. 

He  marked  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaring  and  crackling  on  its  path. 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneath  its  greedy  wrath  ; 
He  marked  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot. 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot, 

.\nd  darkening  thick  the  day 
With  streaming  bough  and  severed  root, 

Hurled  whizzing  on  its  way. 

His  gaunt  hound  yelled,  his  rifle  flashed, 

The  grim  bear  hushed  his  savage  growl  ; 
In  blood  and  foam  the  panther  gnashed 

His  fangs,  with  dying  howl  ; 
The  fleet  deer  ceased  its  flying  bound. 
Its  snarling  wolf-foe  bit  the  ground, 

And,  with  its  moaning  cry, 
The  beaver  sank  beneath  the  wound 

Its  pond-built  Venice  by. 

Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race, 

■\\lien  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry. 
Who  thronged  in  conflict's  deadliest  place. 

To  fight,  —  to  bleed,  —  to  die  ! 


Who  cumbered  Bunker's  height  of  red. 
By  hope  through  weary  years  were  led. 

And  witnessed  York  town's  sun 
Blaze  on  a  nation's  banner  spread, 

A  nation's  freedom  won. 

Alfred  B.  Street. 


DIVINA  COMMEDIA. 

Oft  have  I  seen,  at  some  cathedral  door, 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat. 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er ; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  1  enter  here  from  day  to  day. 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate. 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray. 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

How  strange  the  sculptures   that   adorn   these 
towers  ! 
This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded  sleeves 
Birds  build  their  nests  ;  while  canopied  with 
leaves 
Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bowers. 
And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flowers  ! 
But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled  eaves 
Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  living 

thieves. 
And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers ! 
Ah !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What  tenderness,  what  tears,   what  hate  of 
wrong, 
WTiat  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain. 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  medifeval  miracle  of  song  ! 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  long  aisles,  0  poet  saturnine  ! 
And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace  with 

thine. 
The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  perfume ; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 
For  thee  to  pass  ;  the  votive  tapers  .shine  ; 
Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves  of  pine 
The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear- arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crvpts  below  ; 

And  then  a  voice  celestial,  that  begins 

With  the  pathetic  words,  ' '  Although  your  sins 
As  scarlet  he,"  and  ends  with  "as  the  snow." 


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DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


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I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  wimlows  blaze 
With  forms  of  saints  and  holy  men  who  died, 
Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified  ; 
And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  displays 

Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  roundelays, 
With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied  ; 
And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 
No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her  words  of 
praise. 

And  tlien  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen  choirs 
Sing  the  old  Latin  hjTuns  of  peace  and  love. 
And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 

Ami  tlie  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 

O'er  all  the  house-tops  and  through  heaven 

above 
Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host  ' 

0  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty ! 
0  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor  shines 
Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be  ! 

The  voices  of  the  city  aud  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Eepeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy! 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the  heights, 
Through  all  the  nations,  and  a  sound  is  heard. 
As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout. 

Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  piroselytes, 
In  their  own  language  hear  thy  wondrous  word. 
And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 

Henry  wadswokih  Longfellow. 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees. 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air  ; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper,  in  his  hour  of  ea,se. 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills, 
O'er  the  dun  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

.Sent  down  tlie  air  a  gi-eeting  to  the  mills 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
Tlie  hills  seemed  further  and  the  stream  sang 
low. 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  with  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  mth  every  martial  hue. 

Now  stood  like  some  sad,  beaten  host  of  old. 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 


On  somber  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight  ; 
The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  niati-'s  i  ..in- 
plaint  ; 
And,  like  a  .star  .slow  drowning  in  the  light, 
The  village  church  vane  seemed  to  pale  aud 
faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hillside  crew,  — 
Crew  thrice,  —and  all  was  stiller  than  before  ; 

Silent,  till  some  rephing  warden  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's  tall  rarest, 
Made  garrulous  trouble  rouiiil  her  uiiHedgtii 
young  ; 

And  ivhere  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest. 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung; 

Where  sang  the  noisy  martens  of  the  eves. 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near,  — 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes. 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year  ; 

Wliere  every  bird  that  waked  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet   slunibi-r  from   its  wings  at 
mom. 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east ;  — 
AH  now  was  sunless,  empty,  aud  forloni. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble,  piped  the  quail  : 
And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreary 
gloom  ; 

Alone,  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale. 
Made  echo  in  the  distance  to  the  cottage-loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers  : 
The  spiders  moved  their  thin  shrouds  night  bv 
night. 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 
Sailed  .slowly  by,  —  passed   noiseless  out  of 
sight. 

Amid  all  this  —  in  this  most  dre.ary  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there. 
Firing  the  floor  with  its  inverted  torch,  — 

Amid  all  this,  the  center  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,   with   monotonous 
tread, 

Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  njii-n 
Sat  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow.     He  haii  walked  with 
her, 
Oft  sujiped,    and  broke  with  her  the  ashen 
crust. 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  tlie  stir 
Of  his  thick  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 


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DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


'H3i 


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While  yet  liei-  cheek  was  briglit  with  summer 
bloom, 

Her  country  summoned  and  she  gave  her  all ; 
And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume,  — 

lie-gave  the  sword  to  rust  upon  the  wall. 

Re-gave  the  sword,  but  not  the  hand  that  drew 
And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow ; 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 
Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on. 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous 
tune. 

At  last  the  thread  Wiis  snapped,  —  her  head  was 
bowed  ; 
Lift'  droiiped  the  distaff  through  her  hands 
serene  ; 
And    loving    neighbors    smoothed    her    careful 
shroud, 
While  death  and  winter  closed   the  autumn 
scene. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


MR.  SIMMS. 


FROM  ■■BOLE  POUJIS.^" 

Who  did  not  know  that  office  Jaun  of  pale  Po- 
mona green. 

With  its  drab  and  yellow  lining,  and  picked-out 
black  between, 

Which  down  the  csplimade  did  go  at  the  ninth 
hour  of  the  day  ? 

Wo  ne'er  shall  see  it  thus  again  —  Alas  !  and 
well-a-day  ! 

With  its  bright  brass  patent  axles,  and  its  little 

hogmaned  tatts. 
And  its  ever  jetty  harness,  which  was  always 

made  by  Watts  ; 
The  harness  black  and  silver,  and  the  ponies  of 

dark  gray,  — 
And  shall  we  never  see  it  more  ?  —  Alas  !  and 

well-a-day ! 

With  its  very  tidy  coachman  with  a  very  old  gray 
beard,  "        ' 

And  its  pair  of  neat  olad  .Sayces  on  whom  no  spot 
appeared, 

Not  sitting  lazily  behind,  but  i-unning  all  the  way 

By  Mr.  Simms's  little  coach  —  Alas  !  and  well- 
a-day  ! 


And  when  he  reached  the  counting-house,  he  got 

out  at  tile  door. 
And  entering  the  office  made  just  three  bows  and 

no  more. 
Then  passing  through  the  clerks  he  smiled,  a 

sweet  smile  and  a  gay. 
And  kindly  spoke  the  younger  ones  —  Alas  !  and 

well-a-day  ! 

And  all  did  love  to  see  him,  with  his  jacket  rather 

long. 
It  was  the  way  they  wore  them  when  good  Jlr. 

Simms  was  young  ; 
With  his  nankeen  breeches  buckled  by  two  guUl 

buckles  alway, 
And  his  china  tight  silk  stockings,  pink  and  shiny 

—  AYell-a-day ! 

With  his  little  frill,  like  crisped  snow,  his  waist- 
coat spotless  white, 

His  cravat  very  narrow,  and  a  very  little  tight. 

And  a  blue  broach  where,  in  diamond  sparks,  a 
ship  at  anchor  lay. 

The  gift  of  Mr.  Crittenden  —  Alas  !  and  well-a- 
day! 

Then  from  the  press  where  it  abode  he  took  the 

ledger  stout. 
And  gazed  upon  it  reverently,  withinsidc  and 

without ; 
Then  placed  lus  pencUs,  laibbers,  pens,  and  knives 

in  due  array. 
And  Mr.   Simms  was  readj^  for  the  business  of 

the  day. 

And  ever  to  the  junior  clerks  his  counsel  it  was 

wise,  — 
That  they  shall  loop  their  I's,  and  cross  their  t's, 

and  dot  their  i's. 
And  honor  Messrs.  Sheringham,  Leith,  Badgery, 

and  Hay, 
Whom  he  had  served  for  fortv'  years — Alas  I  and 

well-a-day ! 

And  a  very  pleasant  running  hand  good  Mr. 
Simms  did  write, 

His  upstrokes  were  like  gossamer,  his  down- 
strokes  black  as  night ; 

And  his  lines,  all  clear  and  sparkling,  like  a 
rivulet  in  May, 

Meandered  o'er  the  folios  —  .'\.las !  and  well-a- 
day  I 

And  daily,  in  a  silver  di.sh,  as  bright  as  bright 

could  be. 
At  one  o'clock  his  titfin  came,  —  two  sandwiches 
1         or  three. 


p 


DESCRIPTIVE  I'UEMS. 


653 


-a 


It  ni'vi'i-  ouino  a  miimlo  soon,  nor  a  minute  did 

So   puncliuil  wero  good  Jlr.  Siuims's   iieople  — 
\\\-ll-a-day! 


And  in  tile  mango  season  still  a  daily  basket  came, 
Willi  tVuit  as  green  as  emeralds,  or  ruddier  than 
llame. 


In  bright  hUie  coats  and  waistcoats  which  were 
sjiarkling  as  the  day, 

And  curly  liair  and  white  kid  gloves,  — a  lover- 
like  anav  ! 


And  at  t'hinsiira  they  walked  about,  and   then 

tliey  went   to  tea 
With  the  aticient  merchant  Van  der  Zank,  and 
lly  Mr.  Simms  the  sort  had  been  imported  from  j  the  widow  Van  der  Zee; 

lioinbay.  They  were  old  friends  of  Mr.  Simms,  and  parting 


Vr-- 


Ami  sown  and  grown  beneath  his  eye  —  Alas! 
and  well-a-day ! 

And  whin  his  tillin  it  was  done,  he  took  a  pint 

!"■'■'•'«■ 

(•r  will-i'oidiil  soda-water,  —  but  it  was  not 
coolc.l  with    ire, — 

And  a  little  ginger  essence  (O.xly's),  Mr.  Simms 
did  .say 

It  roiiiforted  his  rheumatiz  —  Alas!  and  well-a- 
day  ! 

Then  of  a  Sumlay  alter  prayers,  wdiile  waiting  in 

the  ponh. 
His  talk  was  of  tlie  bishop,  and  the  vestry,  and 

the  church  ; 
A?id  two  or  three  select  young  men  would  dine 

with  him  that  day 
To  ta.ste  his  old  Madeira,  and  his  curry  called 

Malay. 

For  famous  was  the  table  that  good  Mr.  Simms 

did  keep. 
With  his  liome-fed  ducks,  his  Madras  fowls,  and 

his  grain-fed  Patua  .sheep  ; 
And  tlie  fruits  from  his  own  garden  and  the  dried 

lish  from  the  Bay 
Sent  up  liy  bold  Branch  Pilot  Stout  — Alas  !  and 

well-a-day  ! 

And  he  was  full  of  anecdote,  and  s]iiced  his  prime 
pale  ale 

With  many  a  cheerful  bit  of  talk  and  many  a 
curious  tale. 

How  Dc.vter  ate  his  buttons  oil',  and  in  a  one- 
horse  shay 

My  Lord  C'ornwallis  drove  about  —  Alas  I  and 
well-a-day  ! 

Anil  every  Doorga  Poojah  would  good  Mr.  Simius 

explore 
Tile  famous  river  Hoogleyas  high  as  Barrackpore ; 
And  visit  the  menagerie,  and  in  his  pleasant  way 
Declare  that  "  all  the  bears  were  bores  "  —  Alas ! 

and  well-a-day  ! 

Then,  if  the  weather  it  was  fine,  toChinsurahe'd  go 
AVith  his  nieces  three  in  a  pinnace,  and  a  smart 
youTig  man  or  so 


he  would  say, 
"  Perchance  we  ne'er  may  meet  again  !  "  —  Alas  ! 
and  wcll-a-day  ! 

At  length  the  hour  did  come  for  him  wliicli  surely 
comes  for  all, 

From  the  beggar  in  Ids  hovel  to  the  monarch  in 
his  hall ; 

And  when  it  came  to  Mr.  Simms  he  gently  jias.sed 
away 

As  falling  into  plea.sant  sleep  —  .'Uas  !  and  well- 
a-day  ! 

And  on  his  face  there  lingered  still  a  sweet  smile 

and  a  liland, 
His  Bilile  lying  by  his  side,  and  some  roses  in 

his  hand  ; 
His  spectacles  still  marked  the  place  where  he 

had  read  that  day 
The  words  of  faith  and  hope  which  cheered  his 

spirit  on  his  way. 

And  many  were  the  wccjiing  friends  who  followed 

him  iie.xt  lught. 
In   many  mourinng  coaclies  found  by  Solitude 

and  Kytc  ; 
And  many  a  circle  still  laments  the  good,  tlu' 

kind,   the  gay, 
Tlie  hospitable  Mr.  Simms  —  Alas!  and  wcll-a- 

dav ! 


THE  WAKE  OF  TIM  O'HARA. 

Til  the  wakeof  O'llara 

(  anie  comiianie  ;  — 

All  St.  Patrick's  Alley 

Was  there  to  see. 

With  the  friends  and  kinsmen 

Of  the  family. 
On  the  old  deal  table  Tim  lay,  in  white, 
And  at  his  pillow  the  burning  light ; 
While  pale  as  himself,  with  the  tear  on  her  cheek. 
The  mother  received  us,  —  too  full  to  speak. 
But  she  heajied  the  fire,  and  with  never  a  word 
Set  tlie  black  bottle  upon  the  board. 
While  the  company  gathered,  one  and  all 


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654 


DESCJUi'TIVE  POEMS. 


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& 


Men  and  women,  bij;  and  siniiU,  — 
Not  one  in  the  alley  l>ut  felt  a  liUl 
To  the  wake  of  Tim  D'Haiii. 

At  the  taee  of  O'Hara, 

All  white  with  sleep, 

Not  one  of  the  women 

But  took  a  l>eep. 

And  the  wives  new  wedded 

Beg!»n  to  wiH>p. 
The  mothei's  elusteivtl  aivnnd  aKint, 
And  prsiiswl  the  Uueu  and  laying  out, 
Kov  white  as  snow  was  his  winding-sheet. 
And  all  looked  peaceful,  and  clean,  and  sweet. 
The  old  wives,  praising  the  blessevl  dead, 
Clusterwl  thick  ivuntl  the  old  pivss-lied, 
AVheiv  O'Haw's  widow,  tattviwl  and  torn, 
Held  to  her  Kisom  the  Iwhe  new-lvrn. 
And  stareil  all  ivund  her,  with  eyes  forlorn, 
At  the  wake  of  'Km  O'Uara. 

For  the  heart  of  O'Hara 

Was  true  as  gvild. 

And  the  life  of  O'Hara 

Was  bright  and  Kild, 

And  his  smile  was  pivcio\is 

To  young  and  old. 
Gay  as  a  guinea,  wet  or  dry. 
With  a  siniling  month  imd  a  twinkling  eye, 
Had  ever  im  answer  for  chatf  or  fun  ; 
Would  tight  like  a  lion  with  any  one. 
Kot  a  neighlxir  of  any  trade 
But  knew  some  joke  that  the  lx>y  had  made  ! 
Not  a  neighlvr,  dull  or  hright. 
But  mindeil  something,  frolic  or  tight. 
And  whispered  it  round  the  tiiv  that  night, 
.\t  the  wake  of  Tim  O'Hara  ! 

"To  God  lie  glory,  in  death  and  life  ! 
He  's  taken  O'Hara  from  tivuble  and  strife," 
Siiid  one-tyed  Biddy,  the  apple-wife. 
"God  bless  old  hvlaud  '.  "  sjud  .Mistress  Hart, 
Mother  to  Mike  of  the  donkey -cart  ; 
"God  bless  old  Irt-land  till  all  I*  done  ! 
She  never  made  wake  for  a  better  son  ! " 
And  all  joined  chorus,  and  each  one  sjud 
Something  kind  of  the  boy  that  was  dead. 
The  bottle  went  i-ound  from  lip  to  lip. 
And  the  weepiug  widow,  for  fellowship, 
TiHik  the  glass  of  old  Biddy,  and  had  a  sip, 
At  the  wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

Then  we  drank  to  O'Hara  with  drains  to  tlie 

brim. 
While  the  face  of  O'Hara  looked  on  so  grim, 
In  the  cori>se-light  shining  yellow  and  dim. 
The  drink  went  ivund  agjiin  and  agsiin  ; 
The  talk  grew  lovider  at  every  drain  ; 


Louder  the  tongues  of  tlie  women  grew  ; 
The  tongues  of  the  Imys  wei-e  loosing  too ! 
But  the  widow  her  weary  eyelids  elos«i, 
And,  soothe^l  by  the  divp  of  drink,  she  dozed  ; 
The  mother  laightened,  imd  laughed  to  hesu- 
Of  O'Hara's  tight  with  the  Grenadier, 
And  the  hearts  of  us  all  took  In-tter  chet»r 
At  tlie  wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

Though  the  face  of  O'Hara  looked  on  so  wan, 
In  tlie  chimney-corner  the  row  U'gan  ; 
Liune  Tony  was  in  it,  the  oysternian. 
For  a  dirty  low  thief  from  the  north  came  near 
And  whistled  "  Boyne  Water  "  in  his  oar, 
And  Tony,  with  never  a  woul  of  grace. 
Hit  out  his  fist  in  the  blackguaixl's  face. 
Then  all  the  women  scroamed  out  for  fright ; 
The  men  that  weiv  drunkest  l>eg!m  to  fight ; 
Over  the  chaii-s  and  tables  they  tliivw ; 
The  corjvse-light  tumbled,  the  tivublc  givw; 
The  new-Knu  joinnl  in  the  huUaltdoo, 
At  the  wake  oi  Tim  O'Hara, 

"Be  still!     Be  silent! 

Ye  do  a  sin  ! 

Shame  lie  his  jxirtioa 

Who  daivs  begin  ! " 

'T  was  Father  O'Connor 

Just  enteretl  in  ; 
And  all  hwkiH.1  sliamcd,  and  the  row  was  done  ; 
Sorry  and  sheepish  looked  every  one  : 
But  the  priest  just  smihxl  quite  easy  and  free  ; 
"  Would  you  wake  the  poor  lioy  from  his  sleep!" 

stud  he. 
And  he  said  a  prayer  with  a  shining  face. 
Till  a  kind  of  a  brightness  filled  the  place  ; 
The  women  lit  up  the  dim  cHir|>se-light ; 
The  men  wero  ipiieter  at  the  sight  : 
And  the  iH>ace  of  the  Loi\l  fell  on  all  that  night 
At  the  wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

ROI'ERT  EVCHANAN. 


A  GENTLEMAK  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

"  Leisure  is  s^Mie  ....  fine  old  Leisure."  —  George  EHOT, 

Hk  livetl  in  "Farmer  George's"  day, 
When  men  were  lesss  inclined  to  say 
That  "Time  is  Gold,"  and  overlay 

With  toil  their  pleasure  ; 
He  held  some  hmd,  and  dwelt  theivon,  — 
Where,  I  foi-g»>t,  —  the  house  is  gone  ; 
His  Christian  name,  t  think,  was  John, — 

His  surname.  Leisure. 

Reynolds  has  painteil  him,  —  a  face 
Fillet!  with  a  fine,  old-fashioned  gi-ace, 
Fi«sh-color«d,  frank,  without  a  trace 
Of  care  to  shade  it ; 


-^ 


p 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


655 


-a 


The  eyes  are  blue,  the  hair  is  drest 
111  pliiincBt  way,  • —  one  hand  ia  jirest 
Deep  in  a  flapped  canary  vest, 
With  buds  brocaded. 

J  Ik  wears  a  brown  old  Brunswick  coat. 
With  silver  buttons,  —  round  his  throat 
A  soft  cravat ;  in  all  you  uot<; 

A  bygone  fashion,  — 
A  strangeness  which  to  us  who  shine 
In  sliajjely  liats,  whose  coats  combine 
All  harmonies  of  hue  and  line, 

lns]iire9  compassion. 

He  lived  so  long  ago,  you  sec  ; 
Men  were  untraveled  then,  but  we. 
Like  Ariel,  [lOst  by  land  and  sea. 

With  careless  parting  ; 
He  found  it  luite  enough  for  him 
To  smoke  his  pipe  in  "gardens  trim," 
And  watch,  about  the  fish-tank's  brim, 

The  swallows  darting. 

He  liked  the  well-wheel's  creaking  tongue, 
He  liked  the  thrush  that  stopped  and  sung. 
He  liked  the  drone  of  flies  among 

His  netted  peaches  ; 
lie  likeil  to  watf'h  the  sunlight  fall 
Athwart  hLs  ivied  orchard  wall. 
Or  pause  to  catch  the  cuckoo's  call 

Beyond  the  beeches. 

His  were  the  times  of  paint  and  patch. 
And  yet  no  Kanelagh  could  match 
The  sober  doves  that  round  his  thatch 

Spread  tails  and  sidled  ; 
He  liked  their  rufliing,  pufled  content,  — 
For  him  their  drowsy  wheelings  meant 
More  than  a  Mall  of  Iwaux  that  bent. 

Or  belles  that  bridled. 

Not  that,  in  truth,  when  life  began 
He  shunned  the  flutter  of  the  fan  ; 
He,  too,  had  maybe  "pinked  his  man" 

In  beauty's  fjuarrel ; 
But  now  his  "  fervent  youth  "  had  flo^vn 
Where  lost  things  go  ;  and  he  was  grown 
As  staid  and  slow-paced  as  his  own 

Old  hunter,  SorreL 

Yet  still  he  loved  the  chase,  and  held 

That  no  composer's  score  excelled 

The  merry  hom,  when  Sweetlip  swelled 

The  jovial  riot ; 
But  most  his  measured  words  of  praise 


I  Caressed  the  angler's  easy  ways,  — 

Hii  idly  meditative  days, 
;  His  rustic  diet. 

Not  that  his  "  meditating  "  rose 
Beyond  a  sunny  summer  doze  ; 
He  never  troubled  his  refiose 

With  fruitless  prj'ing ; 
But  hehl,  as  law  for  high  and  low. 
What  Oorl  conceaU  no  man  can  know, 
And  smiied  away  iiiquiiy  so. 

Without  replying. 

We  read  —  alas,  how  much  we  rea<l ! 
The  jumbled  strifes  of  creed  and  creed. 
With  endless  controversies  feed 

Our  groaning  tables  : 
His  books  —  and  they  suflice^l  him  — were 
Cotton's  "Montaigne,"  "The  Grave"  of  Blair, 
A  "  Walton,"  —  much  the  worse  for  wear,  — 

And  "^Esop's  Fables." 

One  more,  —  the  Bible.  Not  that  he 
Had  searched  its  page  as  deep  as  we  ; 
No  sophistries  could  make  him  see 

Its  slender  credit ; 
It  may  be  that  he  could  not  count 
The  race  of  Kings  to  Jesse's  fount,  — 
He  liked  the  "Sennon  on  the  Mount,"  — 

And  more,  he  read  it. 

Once  he  had  loved,  but  failed  to  wed, 
A  red-checked  bss  who  long  was  dead  ; 
His  ways  were  far  too  slow,  he  said. 

To  rjuite  forget  her  ; 
And  still  when  Time  had  turned  him  gray. 
The  earliest  hawthorn  buds  in  May 
Would  find  his  lingering  feet  astray 

Where  first  he  met  her. 

"  In  Co'lo  Quies"  hea<ls  the  stone     * 
On  Leisure's  grave,  —  now  little  known, 
A  tangle  of  wild-rose  has  grown 

So  thick  across  it : 
The  "  Benefactions  "  still  declare 
He  left  the  clerk  an  ellmw-chair. 
And  "  12  I'ence  yearly  to  prepare 

A  Christmas  Posset." 

Lie  softly,  Leisure  !     Doubtless  you 

With  too  sj-rene  a  conscience  drew 

Your  placid  breath,  and  slumbered  through 

The  gravest  issue  ; 
But  we,  to  whom  our  creed  allows 
Scarce  space  to  wip*;  our  weary  brows. 
Look  down  upon  your  narrow  hou.se. 

Old  friend,  and  miss  you  ! 


J 


cQ- 


GiJO 


/  yt:sciiiPTirE  pokms. 


THK 


.•UlHM.MlSriiKSt 


Mki!  onp,  fiir  wliilor  (liaii  iho  ihivou  snow, 
lMi>l>U'm  rijilil  nnH't  of  iloooiu-y  iloos  vioUl  : 
IK'V  iniu>n  ilyoil  in  jjmin,  ns  lihio.  1  livwo. 
As  IS  tin'  luiivUoU  linil  inUnns  tho  liol.l  : 
An.l  in  h.M-  lum.l.  I'of  sooptov,  she  iloos  \vi,'l,l 
Tw.w   liiivln'n  sin-sivs  ;  with  iiiixions  iViii'  on- 

'twin.Hl, 
W  itli  ilmk  ilistvnst.  ;>n>l  sini  iviH>iit!>noi<  lilloil : 
Ami  sli'inUiist  hi>ti>,  rtinl  shuip  allliotion  joim-il, 
Anil  ftiiy  nitwnliMllod,  sunl  ohitstisotm'nl  \mkiml. 

A  inssot  stolp  was  o'or  hor  sliouKloi's  thivwiv ; 
A  rtissot  kivllo  I'oiiood  tlu>  i\i|>i>iiij;  «ii' ; 
"1"  w;>s  sintplo  nissot,  l«it  il  was  ln>i-  own  ; 
"r  was  hot-  own  oonntiy  Invil  Ihc  Hock  so  fair, 
"r  was  lu'i'  own  lalH>i'  liiil  llio  llooi'o  ii|x>|>niv  ; 
Ami,  siKith  to  say.  lu'v  pmiils,  ninj^'il  atvunvl, 
'riiiMiijsli  pioiis  awo,  iliil  l<'ri\>  it  (vissins!  ini-i- ; 
Kof  llioy  ill  s^l'^'S  womloinn-nl  aK>nml, 
An>l  lliink,  iuivlonl>t,  sln>  Kvn  tlio  givatosl  wi^jht 
on  i;i\>«inl. 

AUvit  tio  tlatti'vy  iliil  oorrnjit  liov  tiutli. 
No  iMiniHUis  titlo  iliil  doKtnoh  hot'  ear  ; 
tiooily,  j^ivvlwoniatt.  _i;\vssi|\,  n'aunt  fotsooth. 
Or  >l;iu\<-,  tin'  solo  additions  sho  diil  hoar  ; 
Vol  tlioso  sht<  ohalloiijrvHl,  thoso  sin-  hold  riijht 

d««r ; 
No  wouUl  ostivin  liiin  aot  as  n\ouj;ht  K'how, 
Who  should  not  honoixsl  old  with  thoso  ivwix' : 
l"ov  novor  titlo  yot  so  in«>n  oonUl  i>i\>vo, 
l>nt  thoiv  was  oko  a  iniml  whioli  did  that  titlo 

lovo. 

Olio  aiioiont  lion  sho  took  doliglit  to  iVwl, 
Tho  |>U>.ldiii};  (wltorn  of  tlu>  hnsy  daino  ; 
Whi.'h.  ovoraud  anon,  iintwlUnl  l>y  uood. 
Into  hor  solnn^l,  iH'jjirt  with  ohiokons,  oamo  ! 
Snoli  favor  vlid  lior  (vist  doivnt nn-nt  olaim  ; 
Ami.  iftCoiiUvt  had  lavishod  on  tho  givnnd 
Krasniont  of  Umid.  slio  would  wlhvt  tho  ssuuo ; 
Kor  woU  slio  know,  and  >inaintly  oould  ex- 

)VUIld, 
What  sin  it  woiv  to  w;tsto  tlio  smallost  ornml>  sho 

found. 

llorKs  too  sho  know,  and  woU  of  oaoli  oonld 

s,H-ak 
rh:it  in  hor  jpuxlon  siiiiH>l  tho  silvory  dow  ; 
Whoiv  no  vain  llowor  disoUvsod  a  jpiuvl^v  stns^k ; 
TMit  liorKs  for  uso.  and  physio,  not  a  tow. 
t>f  jjniy  ivuown,  within  tlnvso  Iwwloi-s  givw : 
Tho  tultinl  Kisil.  iMiii-pivvokinj;  thyiuo. 
Kix'sli  Kinin.  and  mavvsjold  of  oluvrlul  huo  ; 
Tho  lowly  jsill.  that  uowr  daivs  to  oliwh ; 
And  inoiv  1  fain  \wuld  siiijj^  disdainiiij;  how  t\i 

rhvino. 


f&^- 


Yot  ouiihrasy  inny  not  ho  left  uiiaung, 
'I'liat  givoa  dim  oyos  to  waudor  loajjnos  imiuiid  ; 
.And  imnj^nl  fiidish.  hiting  infant's  tonguo  ; 
And  plantain  rilihod,  that  hoals  tho  ivapoi's 

wound  ; 
And  inarjonun  swoot,  in  sliophoixl's  posy  found, 
Anil  lavondor,  wlioso  spikos  of  a/.uiv  Ivlooni 
Shall  bo.  oivwhilo,  in  arid  Imndlos  hound, 
To  lurk  amidst  tJio  laKu's  of  hor  loom, 
.\nd  oiMwn  hor  koivhiofs  oloan  with  inioklo  niro 

porfiimo. 


■niK   .101. l.\    01. 1>    I'KUAlHHSl'K. 

"T  w.\s  a  jolly  old  podaj^iguo,  long  ago, 

'l\ill  and  slondor.  and  sallow  and  dry ; 
I  lis  form  was  hoiit  and  his  gait  was  slow, 
His  long  thin  hair  was  as  wliito  as  snow, 

Unt  a  wondorfiil  twinklo  shono  in  his  oyo  ; 
.\ud  ho  sang  ovory  nighl  as  ho  wont  to  liod, 

"  Lot  us  1h>  happy  down  hoi\'  holow  ; 
Tho  living  should  livo.  though  tliodoad  liodojul," 

Said  tho  jolly  old  prtlagoguo,  long  ago. 

llo  taught  his  soliolai's  tho  rulo  of  tliivo. 

Writing,  and  ivading.  and  liislvuy  too  ; 
llo  took  tho  litllo  Olios  up  on  his  kiioo, 
Kor  a  kind  old  lioart  in  his  bivast  had  ho. 

.\nd  tho  wants  of  tlio  liltlost  oliild  ho  know  ; 
•'  l,»>)iru  whilo  nni  'iv  young,"  ho  oftou  Siiid, 

"Thoro's  muoh  to  oiyoy  down  lioiv  Ih>1ow; 
l.ifo  for  tho  living  and  ivst  for  tho  dt>nd  ! " 

Sjvid  tho  jolly  old  piHlag\>guo,  long  agi>. 

With  tho  stupidost  Inn-s  ho  was  kind  and  oool. 

Siwiking  only  in  goutlost  timos  ; 
Tho  ivd  was  haixlly  known  in  his  siluHil,  — 
Whipping,  to  him,  was  a  KuKirous  rulo. 

And  ttH<  haixl  work  for  his  pixir  old  Kmos  ; 
■■  lWidi>s.  it  is  ivunful,"  ho  somotimos  ssiid  ; 

••■Wo  should  mako  lifo  ploas;>nt  down  lier« 
Kdow. 
Tho  living  not^^  oharity  moiv  than  tho  dojid," 

S;vid  tho  jolly  old  [vdagviguo,  long  agv>. 

llo  liwd  in  tho  houso  hy  tho  hawthorn  lano. 

With  t\>sos  and  wiHvUnno  ovor  tho  door  ; 
His  i\Kuns  won>  ipiiot  and  n«\t  tuid  plain, 
lint  a  spirit  of  comfort  thotv  hold  n'ign. 

And  mado  him  foi-got  ho  wtis  oUl  and  (Hwr  ; 
"  1  uoihI  sv>  littlo."  ho  oltou  s;iid  : 

■■  .\nd  my  frioiids  and  ivlatiws  lioiv  Mow 
Won't  litig!>to  ovor  mo  whon  1  am  doad." 

Siiid  tho  jolly  old  jwdagxiguo,  long  agiv 

Hut  tho  ploasiUitost  timos  that  ho  had,  of  -ill. 
AVoiv  tho  so^'iaWo  hours  ho  usoil  to  j\'\ss. 


a- 


DEHaUll'TIVE  I'OEMB. 


-ni 


057 


With  lii»  cfiair  tij.ix:/)  lw;k  t/)  a  iii:\^\i\/,\ 
Milking  an  iiinxnuioniiiiui  <:all, 

Over  a  j;ifx;  aH<l  friendly  gla«i» : 
'rhi«  wait  till:  fini.fit  )iI«aKur«,  li';  Kaiil, 

Of  till!  many  In;  iimtiA  lien:  \k:\iiv/  ; 
"  Wlio  liiiM  no  i:iiiiii(:H  li-vl  l»<;tl/;r  Ix;  i\'m\," 

Hail!  till;  jolly  oM  \i':i\iiii/ijpii:,  \<>uii,!ig<>. 

'\'hi:u  till!  jolly  ol'l  j«;'lag()({uij'H  wrinkli;<l  fa/;« 

.MclUr'i  all  over  in  (iiinoliiny  oniilBii ; 
IJi;  utirri^l  lii»  ;(la(iit  witli  an  olii-w;li'Xil  gni/a;, 
(yiiw.k\i-A,  anil  Bijijx'il,  anil  jirattltil  nyMM, 

Till  till;  lioijw;  jjTfiw  mi-.ny,  from  cellar  t/<  tili,n. 
"  1  'm  a  (iretty  old  rnan,"  lie  gently  «aid, 

"  I  liave  lingwwl  a  long  while  here  tudow ; 
I'lit  my  heart  in  freoli,  if  my  youth  vt  fled," 

Said  the  jolly  old  iiwlagogue,  long  ago, 

lie  (tniokwl  hi»  pifiu  in  the  lialmy  air 

Kvi.ry  night  when  the  iiun  went  down, 
While  the  w<ft  wind  {Anyi-A  in  hi»  ((ilvery  hair, 
I>eaving  hi»  Umihnut  Wmvvsh  there. 

On  the  jolly  old  \iiAhii<ij:^u:m  yiWy  iM  erown  ; 
And  filling  the  ki»i*eH,  he  Mmiled,  and  wiid, 

"1'  was  a  glorioUD  world,  down  here  liclow  ; 
"  Why  wait  for  hai»i<li)i«K  till  we  are  d*Kul  ? " 

Said  the  jolly  old  j*ikgogue,  long  ago, 

lie  j);it  ;it  hin  door,  one  niidJtiininier  night. 

After  the  nun  lia/l  iiiink  in  the  wiMt, 
And  the  lingering  heam.i  of  golden  light 
Maile  hi»  kindly  old  fai*  look  warm  and  hrighl. 

While   the  wloroun   uiglit  -  wind   whi»jK;riyl, 
"  JJ/;Ht !  " 
<ii:\itiy,  gi.-ntly,  Jie  bowed  hi»  hiaul,  — 

There  were  angel»  wailing  for  him,  1  know; 
He  wan  aiire  of  haii[iini»;<,  living  or  diail,  — 

'I'liiit  jolly  old  |>i:dagogue,  long  ago  ! 


THB  KEI-L8, 

IIkak  the  idwlgi^  with  the  Ixdla,  — 
Silver  tiellx,  — 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  meliylyforetftllji! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle. 

In  the  ley  air  of  night ! 
While  the  ntun  that  ovensjirinkle 
All  the  Insivena  w^rn  to  twinkle 
With  a  eryntalline  delight,  — 
Keejiing  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  Mirt  of  Kiinir;  rhyme. 
To  the  tintinnahillati//n  that  »o  rnuisi'ally  wel!.^ 
From  the  hellst,  V;ll!(,  Ixdlw,  lx;ll!f, 

li.:ll»„  helh,  h<;ll«,  — 

From  the  jinj^ling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  lielk. 


©^- 


ilear  the  mellow  wwlding  l>e!l«, 
Oolden  l«Ui«  I 


a  world  of  hajij/infcftit  their  hamiony  f'/re- 
t/dU ! 
Through  the  l^lmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  inolt<;n-golden  not*a. 

And  all  in  tune. 
What  a  liijuid  ditty  f|i«U 
To  the  turtli^-dove  that  iixUmH,  while  iihe  g|i/at» 
On  the  ni'wn  ! 
0,  from  out  the  Hounding  '^IIji, 
What  a  gijjih  of  euphony  voluininoujily  welU  I 
How  it  Bwelln  ! 
Howitdwellc. 
On  the  Future  I  how  it  t^dla 
^Jf  the  raiiture  that  im|ii:l)> 
To  the  ifwinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  Win,  l,ell»,  Ull),, 
Of  the  l«ll«,  lxdl«,  lx:l|.,,  lx:lU, 
Del  lit,  txdix,  U:\h,    - 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  ehiming  of  the  Ixillii, 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  Ixdiif,  — 
I'jniyj;!!  lx:ll«! 
What  a  tale  of  ti;rror,  now,  their  turl/ulen'ryt<;ll>i! 
In  the  HiJtrtUA  i-nr  of  night 
How  they  H'tr'-Mii  out  their  affright ! 
Tof)  rnueli  homi'uA  Ui  (sixsik, 
They  can  only  nhriek,  ohriek. 
Out  of  tune, 
In  the  elarnoroijK  apfx^iling  t'l  the  merey  of  the 

fire, 
In  a  mail  exixMulation  with  the  diaf  and  frantie 
fire 
f>rfifiing  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  di.-»jxrrat>:  desiire. 
And  a  reftolute  endisjvor, 
Kow  —  now  t/i  i>it,  or  never, 
/5y  the  Hide  of  the  fxile-fn/.e/l  moon. 
O  the  Ixdlf),  Ixdl/,  Ixllx, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  Vdlf) 
Of  d<«<f(air ! 
How  they  elang  and  ela«h  and  r'/ar  I 
What  a  horror  they  outjx^ur 
On  the  Ix/iom  of  the  jifiljiit-iting  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
liy  the  twanging, 
And  the  elanging. 
How  the  danger  el<I«  and  flowii ; 
Yet  the  '«ir  diatinetly  ttll/. 
In  the  jangling. 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  ilanger  stinkK  and  dwello, 
Ijy  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of 
the  Wis,— ' 
Of  the  Ixdift,  — 
Of  the  Ixdls,  Wis,  lx;llx,  Jxdh(, 
fellx,  l*llf),  l«ll)t,  — 
In  the  elamor  ami  the  ekngor  of  thfc  bella  I 


^ 


c>:k^ 


J)N$CliWriVS  i\)AM8. 


-fi 


\U\\V  iho  ^^^lUll!!  of  tin?  U'lls,  •  - 
Uvu  l>o\ls! 
Wliai  ;(  wwW  of  s\<lomn  thoiijjhl  tUoiv  ihvmuhIj' 
>v«HHvls ! 
h\  tl\i>  silouv-o  of  tix'  uijjlx. 
How  wv  sUivx'v  wilU  artVijjht 
.\(  tl\o  iwi'tsmoUvilj'  «u'«\iuv  of  tUinr  Uwo  ! 
Vov  ONi'iy  SviuHvl  (U;»t  ll>«ts 
W>i»  vUo  vust  within  tluMV  tl>i\v<ts 

Is  ;>  glWdl. 
A«vl  tl>o  (Hvixio      c>l>,  tho  {Hvulo  — 
Thov  tlial  >l\voH  \ii>  v«  the  stwplo. 

All  rtlo>v.\ 
An>l  who  totiiivj!,  toUiiij!.  tvilUtvj;, 

In  thivt  murtlvHl  i«o«otoiu\ 
Wl  A  jsl^^'y  '"  '"^^  ix'Uiivi; 

^^n  tllO  1>«1H;«\  hlMlt  !>  stv\>vo,  — 
Thoy  aw  Hoillioi'  man  nor  \\\>i\ia«,  — 
Thoy  ;MV  iwitliov  lM~nt<>  nor  Uuinan,  — 

Tlu\v  i«v  jjl»v>«ls  ; 
And  t)>ovr  kiivj;  \i  is  who  tv>lls  f 
An>i  lu<  ivlls,  ivxlls,  iwlls, 
Kolk       . 
A  i\\\'«i\  l\vn>  the  W>Us  ! 
Aiivl  his  inorry  K^sv^m  swvWs 

With  tUo  |vt»'^>n  of  tUo  \vl\s  ! 
Aiul  l\o  dsnvX'S  au>.l  Uo  >^>lls  ; 
Kivninj;  limo,  timi\  tim<\ 
In  .\  «>r(  of  Ku\>io  vl\,vnu\ 
To  \\\<.'  \«.\\\\  of  tl\o  Wlls,  — 
Of  tl<o  Ivlls  ; 
K<vj>i\>g  tinus  timo.  tuniv. 
In  ;«  sort  of  l\«>\io  rl>yu\<\ 

To  thi'  tliivhhinjt  of  tlio  Mis,  — 
Of  tUo  Mis,  Mis.  Mis,    - 

IV  tlio  soWnnji  of  tlto  Ivlls ; 
K<v\>i>\jj  ti«ni\  timo,  tiwo. 

As  Uo  knolls,  knolls,  kiioUs. 
In  .A  l>:>vvy  l!«i>i>'  vl>,vino. 

To  tUo  tvllins  of  tho  Mis,  - 
i>f  tho  Ivlls.  IvUs,  Ivlls. 

To  tho  toUittj;  of  tho  Mis, 
Of  tho  Mis.  Ivlls.  Mis,  Ivlls.  — 
IV-Us,  Ivlls.  Mis.  — 
To  tho  nuMttinj;  .-(nd  tho  j;i\v»ninjf  of  tl\o  Mis, 


t^5^•«»■>'1\^^•  ,\N  as  o».ii  Ukvx. 


h. 


AVu'ti  »Uvj>  .^iKvtion 
An,l  swwlhvtioti 
I  oStou  th\\<k  v\f 
Thvvso  Sli.-«ul«\  Mis, 


\\  hvvio  s\>mnls  svi  wihl  w\niUl, 
In  tho  (lays  of  ohiUlhiHnl, 
Vliivjt  ivuuvl  inj"  ORuUo 
Thoir  mitjsio  s\vlls, 

On  this  1  (vnvlov 
\Vl\oiv'or  I  wandor, 
Anil  thus  j;ivw  fondor, 

Sw^vt  Cork,  of  th^s  — 
With  Ihy  Ivlls  of  Shanilon, 
That  soniul  s>>  jjr-anvl  on 
Tho  (ilwisanl  wxtors 

i>f  tho  rivor  1  .<v, 

I  'vo  ho:u\l  Ivlls  ohitninj; 
bHtll  n\any  a  olin\o  in. 
Tv^Uiuj!  snhliino  in 

t^lth^^l>-.^l  shril\o. 
Whilo  at  a  glih  K»to 
Ukuss  ton,i5n<>s  W%>«1>1  vihi-sito  ; 
Ihit  all  thoir  ninsio 

t>\vko  nan^jjht  liko  thino, 

Kor  momory.  vlwvUinj; 
t'>n  ivioh  pwn.l  swvllitij; 
tM'  thy  IvllVy.  knoUitig 

Its  IvW  i\otx\s  IW. 
Mailo  tho  Mis  of  i>ha\i.loi» 
Soutul  far  tnvMv  grsuul  on 
Tho  j»Ui;>s;«nt  wators 

Of  tho  rixtn-  l,o«>, 

I  '\\<  lios«\l  Ivlls  Mliitg 
iMvl  Adrian's  Molo  in. 
Thoiv  tlnniiloi-  wUittj; 

W^n  tho  Vatican,  — 
Auvl  ovmlwls  j;loriovvs 
Swinjtinj;  «\M\v>rious 
In  tho  jifirgtMns  tnrrots 

Of  Kottv  Oatno : 

l^tt  tlvy  svMttuls  wvw  swxvtvr 
Thau  tho  (lonto  of  IVttr 
Flinjis  o'or  tlio  IHlvr. 

Toalitij;  Svxhnnnly, 
0.  tho  Ivlls  of  Shan.lon 
tv^utiJ  far  mow  grand  vmi 
Tho  pUvjsant  wsitors 
<     Of  tlio  vivvr  Iav. 

Thow  's  a  Ml  in  >U\svV\v ; 
Whilo  on  towvv  and  kiivsk  O 
In  St,  Sv»\>hia 

Tho  l^lrkn\au  g<^t«. 
And  U»nd  in  air 
l^ills  mou  to  jM-ayor, 
tVnn  tho  t!»\vrins  sumutit 

Of  tsdl  Hunsirets. 


-^ 


a- 


JjJiHOUtl'TJ  l/JC  roHMH. 


'jiA) 


& 


rtu/;)i  miijily  fiUmiUiIii 
I  tniniy  uriiiil  'i;iii  ; 
lirit  tii<!/<; '«  tt(i  tt(it>/i!i/i 

"I'  iff  tti<;  («dla  <(f  HiiMnUm, 
'Ili/il,  w/iiml  w<  ((laicl  0)1 
'I'lic  |il<:(Wil/lt  Wftt/.Tif 
01  ill'!  riv<,-f  l>;<;, 

( i<>ni',/5  Mah'/«/  ll'/tiiipn  j'»'/i;t). 


ciry  nKJjJi, 

P«'/M  "I  KB  (,AV  '/(■  =•(.  AUyfH' 

l'i'/(fi  tti';  Ht,  Ni>;)i»la»  U/WW,  'rtj  tie;  Ws'.i'm'iuil,  ] 

ear,  I 

Wild  fnihiiiii  tiwiM,  I 

I'Vuii/t  Vi  till:  i/it\i;  a  f't)ii<ri;>l  kuRll  ; 
Ao'l  Iwrk  I      at,  it»  ifiuiiii, 

W)i<;;i    )i<;  </j«!<i(i,   at  wicft  <MWM  a))   t)l<!  y'llll/g 

or  tldj  'Ty  to  j;iit,  ifi  yi'fir  l««<  dijijMi-A  yilim, 

H<,  t)««  litH.,  t/«ll»  a)), 

So  matter  tiow  siKiall, 
Ki'/r/i  tin;  uliKfiU*  tx/th  iri»l(l<;  ati'l  »/tJt«l'Ii)  tin; 
wall, 

Willi  l/<rll-i(i<,-t.al  thr</at 

Ji<;8/«yl/'l  t*/  tin:  ll'/t,*:, 

A«(J  join  t)i«  laioirnl  that  a  jirnhU;  fi  \iii/iiii  ix 
VarcjA  tliiix  t/)  l<;av<;  Jii?,  iVuv.'iliX'ihti;  •Vl'i'*:*';, 

Or,  a»  |{|'/i«'  \/iti\  SUy'r 

t*  li<;ar'l  t/(  iU-/;)ari:, 
"  Hhou]il  hiivn  tl)i»  h'rn;  worl'l  for  to  go  t//  tJiat 
tli<!r<;," 


CAKIIA/jS. 

l»  tlr<;  ari'-i'r/it  t//y/ri  of  ({rilj{<;)t, 
In  tli<;  ((uaiiil  ol<)  Kl'^niisili  ';)ty, 
Aa  IIk;  'ivcninj/  v.lia/lci  <\k>j:ikuiM, 
i/ivi  «n'l  lorid  anil  a/,</rtl y  l<l<;n'l/yl, 
I//W  at  tif/K^t  an'l  loii'l  at  \!iiw;H, 
An')  ':tian((in«  Ifkf;  a  (xM'*  t\iymm, 
liinin  tli<-  l-wiitifnl  wild  ';)iini>nt 
Fr'/iii  tli<!  i'liMry  in  the  iimrU'^, 
Of  th<;  ai/»:i(rnt  ti/wn  of  f'nis/'-tt- 

Tli';;i,  v/itli  'Iwrfz  ivtii'ir'ittii  ';lanj{or 
f-'altnly  imnvtt.niiii  tlx.-ir  k-wijiA  itiifi/rr, 
WJi<;n  tb<!  vmiifi\iiiK  t«;lls  li«/l  iiuiM, 
Hlowly  xtnir.U  tin;  >:i'n:ii  •■\iivirti, 
An'l,  fr'rtn  out  Uk;  ail'mt  ))'«j'/<,'n, 

W\\':U'J;  1,11  tlic  fyWM  'loc^t-wlcj. 


HiUmi'i:,  mUwa:  Bv<!ryt»l)';r<!, 
On  till:  '-artd  an'l  in  tin:  air, 
H/iV:  tliat  fooltl'tjM  )i'!r'i  aid  tt/'rcj 
Of  ftoi/ii;  l/ijr(/li';r  )i'/;n<;  r'AniiiiiiK^ 
)'-■/  tl":  .-.tf':t  laoic-.-,  falnl.l-/  I'lii/iinj^, 
Foi  a  M,.,(n.:nt  wok-:  tli-  .-),',.■» 
Of  till:  ao'.'i'.iit  l/'*n  ol  \'.>Hiii'., 

J'.nl  arni'l  tny  l/rok';n  ii|iiinlj<fr« 
Hlill  I  li'ar'l  tli'w:  iiitij/)':  iiinitiurm, 
':■:  )),.•,  loii'l  (,r''';laini'y)  tti<-  (Il({)it 
Ar,  I   ;i'.|.:n  mac:)!'---;  ''f  til'-  nij/.tit ; 
'l;il  !l.-ii  ':liini':?  in  >.-MfM\.  i<,\\U\„u 
Min;^l':'l  v/iHi  '-a/li  wan'lc/in}/  ■/i:i,m, 
Mlf,!'l.-l  wiH,  t|,.-  f'/r"..'..-  t'-llir,j; 


;;cij/':ii, 

"iiy. 


An')  I  t)i'<ij;()it  ))ow  liki!  tti'iw:  cSiUium 
Art;  ill':  icxdV. airy  rliyiiimi, 
A)l  Ilia  rliymi*  an'l  riimnlnWyit, 
ll'iH  iniiiiMU,  an')  :/.ri;/-,  ;ir,'(  'fiuUm, 
Fro/n  tt.'r  ix^Kry   .' 

Hi.nt.Uff/l  'l"wn '■  'ain. 

On  III';  r'»«f«  an') 
Kor  1^  ni({)it  t)i«  'lfo*»y  car 
Hiiiinr  ita  i;iirUiiiin  cannot  )i<»ir, 
A /I')  t'y  ')ay  («';n  j{o  tli'-ir  way;i, 
ll'arin({  tin;  niiiai';  a»  tin:/  |,;i-,i, 
I'lit  i\wiiiiiiK  it  no  ni'<r';,  al.i-;  : 
'I'lian  til';  lioilow  wnn'l  of  li>a;H, 

Y';t  \fri;\inui:i;  a  ?i]i-/;f,UH>i  wi({(it, 

l/Aifinif  at  ic/ni';  Imnil/I';  inn 

In  til';  iiiirri/w  hin-it  'i{  lif';, 

W)ii;n  til';  .|ij«k  an'l  final,  of  ni;;l,t 

Kllllt  out  tl;';  ill''J:/.Vilit  'lin 

Of ')ayli;;)it  an')  in  t/,il  an-)  ^trif';, 

M;iy  )iat':n  witji  a  ';alni  lUMniil 

'I'll  til';  ^nitA'it  rn';l'/(|i'», 

7'ill  1";  li<»ir»,  or')r';arfia  I";  )ii;^n, 

InVtriiiiiiijiUA  'Aitli  tin;  »";i«, 

'\'\iiinv)iU  fliat  I)';  )i;i».  'rli'rriili'y)  lon;<; 

ll'ar»,  aini'l  tin;  cliini';  an')  niiiff)iiil, 

'till:  U:]\.;  i,(  iiix  iiv/ii  •AWniii-  riiinihH, 

An'l  v/ak',-91,  an'l  fin'));  liia  >.liinil/<;r'/iw  <;y<! 

W'rt  witli  tn'/ct  ')«li';ioria  t/ar<!, 

Tlinsi  ilriMif/i  I,  tin  \ry  ii\v)iX  I  lay 
In  iJm;^';,!,  at  t)i«  Kl«.jr.'l';-I;|/;, 
l.iaUiiUin  "*■'*''  *  ""'''J  ')';I<i(t't 
'I'o  til';  i:h'iuii-M  tl/at,  t.hri,iii/h  tin;  ni(())t, 
Itan;^  tln;ir  i^inufiif.  tr/tii  tin;  lJ';Ifry 
or  lliat  'juaint  ol'l  yii:iiii»U  nhy. 

HKUUY  ^Mhi/^-tfiV  til  \JfU',VVAAJf». 


^ 


i      660 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


--n 


THE  PASSING-BELL. 

FROM  "AIRS  OF  PALESTINE." 

Hakk  !  — 't  is  a  conveufs  bell,  —its  midnight 

cliiine  ; 
For  music  nieiisures  even  the  iiuiroh  of  time  : 
O'er  bemling  trees,  that  fringe  the  distant  shore, 
Gray  turrets  rise  ;  the  eye  can  catch  no  more. 
Tlie  boatman,  listening  to  the  tolling  bell, 
SusiK^nds  his  oar  ;  —  a  low  and  solemn  swell. 
From  the  deep  shade  that  round  the  cloister  lies, 
Kulls  through  the  air,  and  on  the  water  dies. 
What  melting  song  wakes  the  cold  ear  of  night  ? 
A  funeral  dirge  that  pale  nuns,  robed  in  white. 
Chant  round  a  sister's  dark  and  narrow  bed. 
To  charm  the  parting  spirit  of  the  dead. 
Triumphant  is  the  spell  !  with  raptured  ear 
The  uncai^ed  spirit,  hovering,  lingers  near  ;  — 
Why  should  she  mount !  why  pant  for  brighter 

"bliss, 
A  lovelier  scene,  a  sweeter  song,  than  this  ? 

John  fierpomt. 


PASSING  AWAY. 


W.\s  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 
That  he  winds,  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and 
clear. 
When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
AndtheMoonandtheFairyarewatchingthedeep, 
She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 
And  he  his  notes  as  sUvery  qnite. 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar. 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  ? 
Hark  !  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play 
Are  set  to  words  ;  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"Passing  away  !  passing  away  ! " 


i 


But  no  ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  Iwach,  so  mellow  and  clear  ; 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell. 
Striking  the  hour,  that  filled  my  ear, 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream  ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  How  of  the  stream  of  time. 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung. 
And  a  phimp  little  giri,  for  a  pendulum,  swung 
(As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 
That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  canary-bird  swing) ; 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bou<iuet, 
.\nd,  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 
"Passing  away  !  passing  away  ! " 

0,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 
(If  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved  round 
slow  ! 


And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold. 
Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo  !  she  had  changed  :  in  a  few  short  hours 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  llowers, 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands,  and 

Hung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fullness  of  grace  and  of  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride  ; 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
"Passing  away  !  passing  away  !  " 

While  1  givzed  at  that  fair  one's  check,  a  shade 

Of  thought  or  care  stole  softly  over. 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made. 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  I'lover. 
The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush  ; 
And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the 
wheels 
That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her. 
Was  a  little  dimmed,  —as  when  Evening  steals 
Upon  Noon's  hot  face.     Yet  one  could  n't 
but  love  her, 
For  she  looked  like  a  motherwhose  first  babe  lay 
Kocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day  ; 
And  she  seemed,  in  the  same  silver  tone,  to  say, 
' '  Passing  away  !  passing  away  ! " 

AVhilo  yet  1  looked,  what  a  change  there  came  ! 
Hereyewasquenched,  and  her  cheek  was  wan  ; 
Stooping  and  staffed  was  her  withered  frame. 
Yet  just  as  busily  swung  she  on  ; 
The  givrland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust  ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnished,  but  on  they  kept. 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shriveled  lips  of  the  toothless  crone 
(Let  me  ne^er  forget  till  my  dying  day 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay), 

"Passing  away  !  passing  away  !  " 

JOH.S    riERPONT. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK. 

fROM  "THE  BIRTHDAV.' 

Bi-T  chief— surpassing  all  —  a  cuckoo  clock  ! 
That  crowning  wonder  !  miracle  of  art ! 
How  have  I  stood  entranced  uncounted  luinutes 
With  held-in  breath,  and  eyes  intently  fixed 
On  that  smaU  magic  door,  that  when  complete 
The  expiring  hour  — the  in-eversible — 
Flew  open  with  a  stiutUng  suddenness 
That,  though  expected,  sent  the  rushing  blood 
In  mantling  flushes  o'er  my  upturned  face  ■ 


ff 


f 


DEtiClilPTI  VE  POEMS. 


6G1 


-a 


Aiul  as  tlie  bird  (that  more  than  mortal  fowl !), 
With  perfect  mimicry  of  natural  tone, 
Note  after  note  exact  Time's  message  told, 
I  low  my  heart's  pulse  kept  time  with  the  charmed 

voice  ! 
Arul  when  it  ceased  made  simultaneous  pause 
A^  the  small  door  clapt  to,  and  all  was  still. 

Caroline  Bowles  (Mrs.  Socthey). 


t& 


OZYMANDIAS   OF  EGYPT. 

I  MET  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said  :  Two  vast  and  trnnkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand, 
ll:dr  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
.\iid  wrinkled  lip  and  .sneer  of  cold  command 
■i'tU  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
\Vliichyetsurvive,stamped  on  the.se  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that 

fed; 
.\nd  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  : 
"  iVIy  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  !  " 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare. 
The  lone  and  level  .sands  stretch  far  away. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  MUMMY  AT  BELZONIS 
EXHIBITION. 

.\nii  thou  hastwalked  about  (how  strange  a  story  !) 
I  n  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

W'licn  the  Memnoniuni  was  in  all  its  glory, 
.Viid  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

'I'linsc  triiiiiles,  palaces,  and  piles  .stupendous, 

I  H'  whirh  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

.S|)eak  !  for  thon  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy ; 
Thou  lia.st  a  tongue,  — come,  letushear  its  tune  ; 
Tliou  'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground, 
mummy  ! 
Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  — 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures. 
But  with   thy  bones  and  flesh   and   limbs  and 
features. 

Tell  us  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphin.x's  fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  C'ephrenes  architect 

Of  eitlier  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer  > 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaj)S  thou  wert  a  Mason,  anil  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade, — 


Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played  ? 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest,  —  if  so,  my  struggles 
Are  vain,  for  iiriestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perhaps  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 
Has  hob-a-uobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass  ; 

Or  dropped  a  halfjienny  in  Homer's  hat  ; 
Or  dolfed  thine  own  to  let  C^ueen  Dido  pass  ; 

Or  held,  by  .Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  a.sk  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled  ; 

For  thou  wert  deiul  and  burieil  and  embalmed 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled  ; 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develop  —  if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have 
seen  — 

How  the  world  looked  when  itwasfreshandyoung. 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it  green  ; 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history's  pages 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  .silent !  incommunicative  elf  ! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  then  keep  thy  vows  ; 
But  prithee  tell  us  something  of  thyself, 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  jiri-son-house  ; 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumbered. 
What  liast  thou  seen,  wliat  strange  adv<-nt>n-es 
immbered  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  V>ox  extended 
We   have,   above  ground,   seen  some  strange 
mutations  ; 
The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended. 

New  worlds  have  risen,  we  have  lost  old  na- 
tions ; 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  lieen  humbled. 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head. 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering 
tread,  — 
O'erthrew  0.siris,  Oi-us,  Apis,  Isis  ; 

.\nd  shook  the  pjTamids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  tlie  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  th(^  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 
The  nature  of  thy  yjrivate  life  unfold  : 

A  heart  has  throbbed  l)eneath  that  leathern  breast. 
And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have  rolled  ; 

Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed 
that  face  ? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 


-3 


& 


Fh 


662 


DESClilPTIVE  POEMS. 


6 


Stiitiio  of  tUish,  -     iiumortid  of  tlio  doiul  ! 

Imin'risliiililn  lyjii^  of  ovftjiosconoe  ! 
I'osiluimims  mini,  —  wlm  ijiiit'st  tliy  niiri'ow  Iwil, 

Ami  slaiuK'st  uiuioeaved  within  our  inusunci' ! 
Tlum  wilt  ln'iiriiotliiiiL;'  till  tlicjinlgmont  moniiiij;, 
Wlhu   the-  j,'iviit  tnimp  .sliiiU  thrill  thw  with  ita 


Why  slunilil  this  worthless  ti'j;inin<ul  (MuUhv, 
ir  its  luulyhii;  jfiK'st  W  lost  Ibii'Vi-r  / 

O,  li'l  us  kooi"  tliu  soul  cujhvlimHl  niul  jiuiw 
111  li\iiij;  vii'tuo,  that  wluin  both  iiiiist  scvoi', 

Although  iMi'rujitiou  luivy  our  tVmuo  oousuiue, 

Tko  iuuiioital  siiirit  in  thy  skios  may  hlooui ! 

llUKACU  SMITH. 


ANSWKU  OK  THK  MUMMY  AT  BELZONI'S 
KXmiUTION. 

Cnii,i>  ol'  ilk'  hui'i-  lUiys  !  thy  words  have  brokmi 
A  sjii'll  that  long  luis  bound  thesy  Inngs  ol'clay. 

For  siiuo  this  smoko-driod  touguo  of  miiio  hath 
siiokon 
Thico  Ihousand  tedious  yoara  have  rolled  away. 

Unswathed  at  length,  1  " staml  at  ease "  belbro  yo. 

List,  then,  O  list,  while  1  untold  my  story. 

Thebes  was  my  birthiilaee,  —an  unrivaled  eity 
With  many  gates,  —  but  here  I  might  deelaiv 

Some  stninge,  plain  truths,  exeept  that  itweivpity 
To  blow  a  poet's  I'abrie  into  air  ; 

0,  I  eould  read  you  quite  a  Theban  leetuni, 

And  give  a  deadly  linish  to  conjecture. 

Hut  then  you  would  not  have  uui  thnw  disoi-edit 
On  gnive  historians,  or  on  him  who  sung 

The  Iliad,       true  it  is  1  never  i-eiul  it. 

But  heaiil  it  ivad,  when  I  was  very  young. 

An  old  liliiid  minstivl  lor  a  trilling  protlt 

lieeited  parts.  —  I  think  the  author  of  it. 

All  that  1  know  about  the  town  of  Homer 
Is  that  they  seareo  would  own  him  in  his  day, 

Weill  glad,  too,  when  he  proudly  turned  a  ronmer. 
Because  by  this  they  saved  their  parish  pay. 

His  townsmen  would  have  liocii  asluxmed  to  tlout 
him. 

Had  they  loreseeii  the  fuss  since  made  about  him. 

One  bhmder  1  can  fairly  set  at  i-est ; 

He  says  that  men  were  once  moit>  big  and  bony 
Than  now,  which  is  u  bouncer  at  the  U>st ; 

1  '11  just  ivfer  you  to  our  friend  Belzoni, 
Near  seven  feet  high  ;  in  truth,  a  lofty  figure. 
Kow  look  at  mo,  and  tell  me,  —  am  1  bigger  ? 

Not  half  the  size,  but  then  I  'in  sadly  dwindled. 
Three  thousand  years  with  that  enilwlmingglue 


Have  made  a  serious  dill'erence,  and  have  swindled 

My  face  of  all  its  beauty  ;  theiti  were  lew 
Kgyplian  youths  moi'ogay,  —  behold  the  sequel  I 
Nay,  smilo  not ;  you  ajul  1  may  soon  bo  eipial. 

For  this  lean  hand  did  ono  day  Iniil  the  lance 
With  mortal  aim  j  this  light,  fantastic  toe 

Threaded  the  my.stic  mazes  of  tlic  dance  ; 

Tlushcaithastlirublicilat  talesof  love  and  woe  ; 

These  shreds  of  raven  liair  once  set  the  fashion  ; 

This  withered  foiin  ill^pilvd  the  tender  passien. 

In  vain;  the  skillful  hand  ami  feelings  warm. 
The  fool  that  ligured  in  the  liright  ipiadrillo, 

The  palm  of  genius  and  the  manly  form, 

All  bowed  at  once  to  Uealh's  mysterious  will, 

Who  sealed  nu)  up  where  mummies  sound  are 
sleeping, 

In  cereclolh  and  in  tolerable  keeping  ; 

Where  cows  and  monkeys  si|uat  in  rich  brocade, 

And  well-dressed  crocodiles  in  painted  cases, 
Kats,  Imts,  alul  owls,  and  cats  in  niasquerade. 

With  scarlet  flounces,  and  with  varnished  faces ; 
Then  birds,  brutes,  reptiles,  lish,  all  crammed 

together. 
With   ladies   that   might    pass    for  well-tanned 
leather ; 

Where  Ramescs  and  Sabacon  lie  down. 
And  splendid  rsammis  in  his  hide  of  crust, 

Princes  and  heroes,  —  men  of  high  renown. 
Who  in  their  day  kicked  np  a  mighty  dust. 

Theirswarthy  mummies  kicked  updust  ill  number, 

When  huge  Uelzoni  came  to  scare  their  slunihcr. 

Who  'd  think  these  rusty  liams  of  mine  were  seated 
At  IMdo's  table,  when  the  wondrous  tale 

Of  ".luno's  hatred"  was  so  well  repeated  ( 
.\nd  ever  and  anon  the  Queen  turned  ^wle. 

Meanwhile  the  brilliant  gaslights  hung  above  her 

Threw  a  wild  glare  upon  her  shipwrecked  lover. 

Ay,  gaslights  I    Mock  ine  not,  —  we  men  of  yore 
Were  vei-sed  in  all  the  knowlcdgi<  yon  can  men- 
tion ; 

Who  hath  not  heanl  of  Egypt's  ^x'erless  lore, 
Her  patient  toil,  aeuteuess  of  invention  ! 

Survey  the  proofs, — the  pynunids  are  thriving. 

Old  Memuon  still  looksyonng,  and  1  'm  surviving. 

A  land  in  arts  and  sciences  pivlilic. 

Of  blocks  gigiintic  building  up  her  fame ! 

Crowded  with  signs  and  Icttci-s  liieroglyphic. 
Temples  and  obelisks  her  skill  proclaim  ! 

Yet,  though  her  art  and  toil  unearthly  seem. 

Those  blocks  wei*  brought  on  railixmds  and  by 
steam  ! 


-ff 


a- 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


6G3 


,*-a 


How,  when,  and  why  our  ipeo|ile  came  to  rear 
The  pyramid  of  Cheops  — niiglity  pile  !  — 

Tliis,  and  tlie  other  secrets,  thou  shalt  hear; 
1  will  uufuld,  if  thou  wilt  stay  awhile. 

The  history  of  the  Sphinx,  and  who  began  it. 

Our  mystic  works,  and  monsters  made  of  granite. 

We'll,  then,  in  gi'ievous  times,  when  King  Ce- 
phrenes, 
liut  ah  I  — What's  this?  the  shades  of  bards 
and  kings 
Press  on  inylips  their  fingers!   What  they  mean  is, 

I  am  not  to  reveal  these  hidden  tilings. 
Mortal,  farewell !   Till  .Seience'  self  unbind  them, 
Men  nm.st  e'en  take  these  secrets  as  they  find  them. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  ALABASTER  SARCOPH- 
AGUS 

LAlIiLV  OK['USITl;D  IN  THE  liRITISIl   MUSKUM. 

TiKiu  alabaster  relic  !  wliile  I  hold 

My  hand  upon  thy  sculptured  margin  thrown, 
Let  me  recall  the  scenes  thou  couldst  unfold, 
Mightst  thou  relate  the   changes   thou   ha.st 
known, 
For  thou  wert  [jrimitive  in  thy  formation. 
Launched  from  the  Almighty's  liand  at  the  Crea- 
tion. 

Yes,  —  thou  wert  present  when  the  stars  and  skies 
And  worlds  unnumbereil  rolled  into  theirplaces ; 

When  God  from  Chaos  bade  the  spheres  arise, 
And  fixed  the  blazing  sun  ujxjn  its  Itasis, 

And  with  his  finger  on  the  bounds  of  sjrace 

Marked  out  each  2<Ianet'8  everlasting  race. 

How  many  thousand  ages  from  tliy  birth 

Thou  slejit'st  in  darkness,  it  were  vain  to  ask, 

Till  Egypt's  sons  upheaved  thee  from  the  earth, 
Anrl  year  by  year  pursued  their  patient  task  ; 

Till  thou  wert  carved  and  decorated  thas, 

Worthy  to  be  a  king's  sarcophagus. 

What  time  Elijah  to  the  skies  ascended, 
Or  David  reigned  in  holy  Palestine, 

.Some  ancient  Theban  monarch  wa.s  extended 
Ueneath  the  liil  of  this  emblazoned  shrine. 

And  to  that  subterranean  palace  borne 

\VT)ich  toiling  ages  in  the  rock  liad  worn. 

Thebes  from  her  hundred  portals  filled  the  plain 
To  .see  the  car  on  which  thou  wert  upheld  : 

What  funeral  pomps  extended  in  thy  train. 
What    banners   waved,    what   miglity   music 
swelled, 


fB^- 


1  As  armies,  jmests,  and  crowds  Ixjwailed  in  chorus 
Their  King,  — their  God,  —  their  .Serapi.s,  —  their 
Orus! 

Thus  to  thy  second  quarry  did  they  trust 
Thee  and  the  Lord  of  all  the  nations  round. 

firim  King  of  Silence  !     Monarch  of  the  Dust ! 
Embalmed,     anointed,     jeweled,     sceptered, 
crowned. 

Here  did  he  lie  in  state,  cold,  stitf,  and  stark, 

A  li.-uthern  I'haraoh  grinning  in  the  dark. 

1'hus  ages  rolled,  but  their  dissolving  breath 
Could  only  blacken  that  imprisoned  thing 
j  M'hich  wore  a  ghastly  royalty  in  death, 
As  if  it  struggled  still  to  Ix;  a  king  ; 
And  each  revolving  century,  like  the  last. 
Just  dropped  its  dust  upon  thy  lid  —  and  passed. 

The  Persian  connueror  o'er  Egy))t  poured 
His  devastating  host,  — a  motley  crew ; 

Thestecl-clad  horseman,  —  the  iKirbarian  horde,  — 
JIusic  an<l  men  of  every  sound  and  hue,  — 

Priests,     archers,     eunuchs,     concubines,     and 
brutes,  — 

Gongs,  trumpets,  cymbals,  dulcimers,  and  lutes. 

Then  did  the  fierce  Cambyses  tear  away 

The  ponderous  rock  that  si-aled  the  sacred  tomb ; 

Then  diil  the  slowly  pcnetmting  ray 

Kcdeem  thee  from  long  c<iituries  of  gloom, 

And  lowered  torches  Hashed  against  thy  side 

As  Asia's  king  thy  blazoned  trophies  eyed. 

Plucked  from  his  grave,  with  sacrilegious  taunt. 
The  features  of  the  royal  corpse  they  si.anned ; — 

Dashing  the  diadem  from  his  t<ni]ile  gaunt. 
They  tore  the  scepter  from  his  graspless  haml. 

And  on  those  fields  where  once  his  will  was  law, 

J^eft  him  for  winds  to  waste  and  beasts  to  gnaw. 

Some  pious  Thebans,  when  the  storm  was  past, 
Unclosed  the  sepulchei'  with  cunning  skill. 

And  nature,  aiiiing  their  devotion,  cast 
Over  its  entrance  a  concealing  rill. 

Then  thy  third  darkness  came,  and  thoudidst  sleep 

Twenty-three  centuries  in  silence  deep. 

Hut  he  from  whom  nor  pyramid  nor  .Sjihinx 
Can  hide  its  secrecies,  Ui-lzoni,  came  ; 

From  the  tomb'smouth  unloosed  the  granite  links. 
Gave  thee  again  to  light  and  life  and  fame. 

And  brought  thee  from  the  sands  and  desert  forth 

To  charm  the  pallid  children  of  the  Xorth. 

Thou  art  in  London,  which,  when  thou  wert  new, 
Was,  what  Thebes  is,  a  wihieniess  an 


!  waste,  T 

— ^ 


©-^ 


ll(>4 


iihi^vjtumyii  jMUMif. 


-ct 


Whow  sax-Hj!**  IwMsts  w»«v  sav»j;:«>  <«>'«  )>«rsu<\  — 

Nv>\v,  't  is  tho  WKi'M's  mt>ti\>i>»>\is      Uio  l>i>;l> 
l^Hwn  ixf  arms,  l<MV»i>\|;.  !>i'ts,  aiivl  lv\,\u>v, 

IU'\\\  wl\>Mx>  I  l\o\vl  u>\'  hiiovl,  't  is  stit«>)5»'  to  Ihiuk 
W'lud  oUiov  Uiuivls  |x>»vhmnv  ('iwx^Usl  u>itu>; 

Otlu'i's  liavo  tUsv<  stvHHl  KviivU-  l\v  l>iii>k, 
Auvl  vai«\v  vsvmn^l  tl>o  invM-stliiiiij;;  U»«>, 

Kin^ifs,  ssj^vs  oUiot's,  tl>al  txuohwl  lliis  stvvno.  lik# 

\Vlu>>v  aw  y<>  u»\v  ?  — WUo>v  all  u>«st  sl>i>>'lly  K< ! 

All  is  luntatiivu  ;  -  l><<  within  this  stv>i\o 
Was  mivv  ilio  jjw-Jtti^st  \ui>\«uvh  i>l'tlu>  hour; 

His  Knuvs  aiv  \l«st,  Uis  vwy  <\»»up  ««km»\vu, 
t<v\  U^vu  t\\>\ii  liiin  tl><>  vauity  of  \h>\voi'; 

8wk  not  tl>o  l\tuue's  iwrHi>tiou  t<>  ivi\t>\vl, 

l»ut  l>uiUl  a  lastinjc  luausivm  lor  tliy  sovil. 


Ani>uow.  nnwilwl.  tliotiiilot  sismils ilisiUajtul, 
l\avU  silvi>v  vaso  iu  u\_vslio  oi\loi  laivl. 
l-Hi'st,  ivKhI  i\i  whitts  tl>o  uymivU  iutoiit  adow'si. 
With  l>«wl  hkawi'whI.  tl»t>  >^>s«u>tio  jHrtwi's, 
A  l\«>v<>Hly  im!^J^>  i»  tho  jjlass  »(>|hs>\'s. 
To  that  slu>  K>mls,  to  that  hov  ovis*  slio  >•<>»»«  ; 
'rin>  iufpcior  \vji<\stoss,  at  hov  altar's  siilo, 
'IVuihliuj;  Ivgius  tho  s)>oii\l  rit>-s  of  juivlo, 
r»u«>»K-i\sl  li^isuivs  v>(H'  al  oinv,  aiivl  how 
Tho  various  oll'oriujrs  of  tho  worhl  ai>|H\'>r  ; 
VV«\i  o;u'U  s\io  iiioi'lv  oiiUs  wilh  ouvious  toil. 


Ami  d«H'k»  tho  g»xW«»  with  tho  j{Uttorl>»)j  suhJI, 
This  oaskot  India's  };lowii>j?  g«'i»s  unlooks. 
Ami  all  AitiWa  Ui'<>«th<>s  tVxo  yv«\ilor  K>\. 
Tho  tortoiso  how  ai\il  olo\>hai>l  uuito, 
Tra«sforu»sltoooniKs,ihos(Hvkli'ilaiultho\vhiIv 
How  lihvs  of  nius  o\to\nl  thoir  shioiiij;  i\>\\s, 
IMIl's,  iHWiloi's.  (viloluvs,  IvihUs.  UiUols  >h»\\, 
Now  a\\l\ll  K'avity  |>uts  ou  all  its  arms  ; 
Tho  fair  otioh  <i\omout  ris<vs  in  hor  oharms, 
l!<>l«ii's  hor  smilos,  awakons  ovory  j;r<»as 
Ami  lulls  I'orlh  all  tho  womloi-s  of  hor  faoo  ; 
So<>s  hy  ilo^'Wtw  a  |>uwr  hlosh  «ris\\ 
Ami  kivnor  U^nhtiiinjrs  .(uiokou  iu  hor  oyiw, 
Tho  l>«sy  syl(>hs  suii\nn\il  thoir  vlarlius  oar<\ 
Thwo  sot  tho  hoad.  auvl  thiwo  lUvido  tho  hair, 
So>«o  foUl  tho  .sliH'Vo,  «  hilo  ot  hors  ulait  t  ho  ,i!^>w  u  i 
Au>l  IWlty  's  )»t(isvHl  Vol'  lal>o\'s  uoi  hor  owu. 


riiK  rKl>(>l  K'KS  cvrK, 

rSOM  "(UK  WMKrUK'S   fMX," 

Xutti'  Amvi.voi's,  ,«t'i»,i;t'i»)*, 

\.A\vs  as  whito  as  vlrivou  suow ; 

t\vnr«s  IJaok  as  o'or  was  oww  ; 

tSlovos  as  swoot  as  damask  iwwvs  ; 

Masks  for  faoo.s  and  f^>r  i\>vs<>s  ; 

l>Uj;h>  hraoolot.  \uvklaoo-au>l>(>v, 

IVvftimo  for  a  lady's  ohaiuK-v  ; 

Ooldv'U  >i«oifs  auil  stomaohors, 

Kor  \uy  lads  tv<  j«ivo  thoir  divira  ; 

ritis  ami  iMking-stUks  of  stivl, 

What  maids  lack  fi\'m  hoad  to  ho<-l  ; 
tVi\>o,  huy  of  u\o,  I'oiuo ;  oo»u>  huy,  oomo  huy  ; 
Ihvv,  lads,  or  ols«>  vour  la,s,sos  orv  ;  iviuo  li\iY , 


^ 


-^ 


IIJ^- 


^ 


'MI-.MS   01-    SI-.\'JIMI-,\'l    ANIJ    RI-.MJ/;iIO\, 


k^ 


^ 


©-*- 


■a 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


^- 


THE  TRTTE  GROWTH. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  liulk,  (loth  make  man  better  be  ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hnndred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear  : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night,  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  jiroportions  we  just  beautiej  see, 
And  in  shoi't  measures  life  may  ]icrfect  be. 

BliN  JONSON. 

HONOR. 

Say,  what  is  Honor  ?     'Tis  the  finest  sense 
I  )i  jiisliix  which  the  human  mind  ean  frame. 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim. 
And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offense 
Suffered  or  done. 


MY  MINDE  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS. 

Mv  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is  ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  finde 
As  faiTC  exceeds  all  earthly  blisse 

That  God  or  nature  hath  assignde  ; 
Though  much  I  want  that  most  would  hav( 
Yet  still  my  minde  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live  ;  this  is  my  stay,  — 
I  seek  no  more  thau  may  suffice. 

I  jiresse  to  beare  no  haiightie  sway  ; 
Look,  wliat  I  lack  my  mind  supplies. 

Loe,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 

(Jontcnt  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

I  see  how  plentie  surfets  oft, 

And  ha.stie  clymbers  soonest  fall ; 

I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 

These  get  with  toile,  and  keepe  with  feare  ; 

Such  cares  mv  mind  could  never  beare. 


Xo  princely  poini)e  nor  welthie  store. 

No  force  to  win  the  victorie, 
No  wylie  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  winne  a  lover's  eye,  — 
To  none  of  these  I  yeeld  as  thrall ; 
For  wliy,  my  mind  despLseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave  ; 

I  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poore,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  ])Oor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give  ; 
They  lacko,  I  lend  ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  losse, 
I  grudge  not  at  another's  gaine  ; 

No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  tosse  ; 
I  hrooke  that  is  another's  bani'. 

1  feare  no  foe,  nor  fawne  on  frieml  ; 

1  lothe  not  life,  nor  dicad  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  blis.se  ; 

1  weigh  not  Cresus'  wealth  a  straw  ; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is  ; 

I  feare  not  fortune's  fatal  law  : 
My  mind  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beautic  bright,  or  force  of  lovi-. 

I  wish  but  wlint  I  hav(^  at  will  ; 

I  wander  not  to  secke  fur  more  ; 
I  like  the  plaine,  I  clime  no  hill  ; 

In  greatest  stormes  I  sitte  on  shore. 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toile  in  vaine 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  againe. 

I  kisse  not  where  I  wish  to  kill  ; 

I  feigne  not  love  where  most  I  hate  ; 
I  breake  no  sleepe  to  winne  my  will ; 

I  wayte  not  at  the  mightic's  gate. 
I  scorne  no  poore,  I  feare  no  rich  ; 
I  feele  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

Tlie  court  ne  cart  I  like  ne  loath.  — 
Extreames  are  counted  worst  of  nil  ; 

The  golden  meane  betwixt  tliein  both 
Doth  surest  sit,  and  feares  no  fall  ; 


-^ 


a-: 


66G 


POEMS  OF  SEXTIMENT  AXD  EEFLECTIOX. 


-^ 


k 


This  is  my  t-hoyce  ;  for  why,  I  fiude 
No  wealth  is  like  &  *nuet  luinde. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  jwrfeot  ease  ; 

My  conscience  clei-e  my  chiefe  defense  ; 
I  never  seeke  by  bril>es  to  please, 

Nor  hv  desert  to  give  otl'ense. 
Thus  do"  I  live.  thus\vill  I  die  ; 
Would  all  did  so  jis  well  as  1  ! 

SIK  EDWARD  DYER. 


OF  MYSELF. 

This  only  gitint  me,  that  my  means  may  lie 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  have, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  hut  good  alone  ; 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known  : 

Kmuor  can  ofw  the  grave. 
Acquaintance  1  wovUd  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice,  of  friends. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light. 
And  sleep,  as  undisturbed  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  pilace  ;  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  gaixlen  jxiinted  o'er 
■With  Nature'shand,  not  Art's;  and  pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus  Avould  I  double  my  life's  fading  space  ; 
For  he  that  runs  it  well  twice  runs  his  race. 

.\ud  in  this  true  delight. 
These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
1  would  not  fear,  nor  wish,  my  fate  ; 

But  Iwldly  say  each  night. 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  lieams  display. 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them  ;  I  have  lived  to-day. 

.\KR.\H.\M  COWLEY. 


BEAUTY. 

'T  IS  much  immortal  beauty  to  admire. 
But  more  immortal  beauty  to  withstand  ; 
The  perfect  soul  can  overcome  desire. 
If  beauty  with  divine  delight  be  scanned. 
For  what  is  beauty  but  the  blooming  child 
Of  fair  Olpnpus,  that  in  night  must  end. 
And  be  forever  from  that  bliss  exiled. 
If  admiration  stand  too  much  its  friend  ? 
The  wiud  may  be  enamored  of  a  flower. 
The  ocean  of  the  green  juid  laughing  shore, 
The  silver  lightning  of  a  lofty  tower,  — 
Bnt  must  not  with  too  near  a  love  adore  ; 
Or  flower  and  margin  and  cloud-capped  tower 
Love  and  delight  sh.nll  with  delight  devour  ! 

LORD  EDWARD  THURLOW. 


THOUGHT. 

THoraur  is  deeper  than  all  sjwech. 
Feeling  deefwr  than  all  thought ; 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

AVhat  unto  themselves  was  taught 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils  ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen  ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known  ; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet ; 
"We  are  colunms  left  alone 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stai^  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  ajwrt,  though  seeming  near. 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie  ; 
.•\U  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  compsmy 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought. 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  tavight. 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led 

AVhich  they  never  drew  from  eiuth. 

We,  like  pirted  drops  of  rain. 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  alisorbed  ngjiin. 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


THE  IDLE  SIXGEE. 


•  PARADISE." 


Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  ipiick-coming  deatli  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  jvist  years. 
Nor  for  my  \voi\ls  shall  ye  foi^t  your  tears. 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  awearj-  of  your  mirth. 
From  full  heart.s  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
.\nd,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth. 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  jiasses  by, 


^ 


f 


POEMS  OF  HENTIMKSr  AND   REFLECTION. 


667 


fi 


M;uli'   I  111-   iiior.;   iiiiinlful    tliat   the   sweet  days 
•      .lie,— 
Ijciueiiilier  Tiic  a  little  tlii'ii,  I  ]iray, 
Till-  idle  siiigir  1)1'  all  c-niiity  day. 

Till-  hciivy  IkiuIjIc,  tint  liewilderiiig  care 

'I'lial    wiigli.s    us   down   who   live  and  earn  our 

hiead, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear  ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  reniemberkl, 
I'.ccause  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
<  Ir  long  time  take  tlieir  memory  (juite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreaiiii-r  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time. 
Why  slic;uld  1  strive  to  set  the  erooked  straight  ? 
Let  it  sufhee  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Heats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
'I'ldling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
'r<i  lliose  who  ill  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  ))y  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  Northern  king 
At  rhristiiias-tidesuch  wondrous  tilings  didshow, 
'I'liat  through  one  window  men  Itcheld  the  spring. 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow. 
And  througb  a  third  the  fruited  vines  arow. 
While  still  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
l'i[ied  the  drear  wind  of  that  Deec'inber  day. 

So  with  tills  Kartlily  I'aradi.se  it  is 

If  ye  do  read  aright,  and  jiardon  me 

Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 

.Miilmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea. 

Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be  ; 

Whose  ravening  monsters  miglity  men  shall  slay. 

Not  the  poor  singer  of  the  enijity  day. 


y-- 


THE  INNER  VISION. 

'.ST  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifti-d  i-yes 
I  paee  the  ground,  if  path  there  be  or  none. 
Idle  a  fair  region  round  the  traveler  lies 
hl('h  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon  ; 
eased  rather  with  some  .soft  ideal  scene, 
le  work  of  fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

lui'ditation,  slipping  in  between 

e  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 
Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
t  us  break  otf  all  commerce  with  the  M  use  : 
itli  Thoughtand  Lovecompanionsof  ourway,  — 
hate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse,  — 

e  mind's  internal  Heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

William  wordswoktii. 


THE  POET'S  REWARD. 


Thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown. 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond  ; 
The  traveler  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence', 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 

JOH.V  GRKKNLEAF  WHnTllI 


IMAGINATION. 


Theseus.    More  strange  than  true :    I   never 
may  believe 
These  antiiiue  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  ln'ains, 
.Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact  : 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold,  — 
That  is,  the  madman  ;  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt ; 
The  poet's  eye.  In  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 

heaven  ; 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  fonns  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  ]ien 
Turns  them  to  sha]ie.s,  and  gives  to  airy  nothiii;,' 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 


CONTENTMENT. 

1  WEIGH  not  fortune's  frown  or  smile 
1  joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys  ; 

I  seek  not  state,  I  reck  not  style  ; 
I  am  not  fond  of  fancy's  toys  : 

I  rest  so  pleased  with  what  I  have, 

I  wish  no  more,  no  more  1  crave. 

I  f|uake  not  at  the  thunder's  crack  ; 

1  tremble  not  at  news  of  war  ; 
I  swound  not  at  the  news  of  wrack  ; 

I  shrink  not  at  a  blazing  star  ; 
I  fear  not  loss,  I  hojie  not  gain, 
I  envy  none,  I  none  disdain. 

I  see  ambition  never  pleased  ; 

I  see  some  Tantals  starved  in  store 


--S 


£1-: 


GC8 


rOEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-a 


I  H(^ii  golil's  dropsy  si'Ulom  eased  ; 

1  si'ii  I'VcMi  Midas  yu|iii  I'or  moro  ; 
1  iicillic'V  WiUit  nor  y<'t  ulicmiid,  — 
Kii(iii{,di  's  a  IVast,  coiilcMit  is  LTowiu'd. 

1  rri,t<i,  not  lii,H.l-,liiii  wla'i-f  1  liatf  ; 

I  lattii  mil  uii  lliii  f(ii»il  (.ill  slmw)  ; 
1  prize,  1  praiso  ii  nieaii  ustatts  — 

N  fit  her  ton  lofty  nor  too  low  ; 
'I'liis,  this  Im  all  my  choicu,  my  cheer,  — 
A  mind  cnntiiil,  a  conseiouee  idear. 

JOSnUA  SYLVESTH 


Sweet  are  the  thouf^lits  that  savor  of  content  ; 

The  iiuiel  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown  ; 
Sweet  are  the  niyhts  in  careless  sliunlier  spent,  — 

The  poor  estate  scorns  Kortime's  angry  frown  : 
Sucdi  sweet  contt^nt,  su(di  minds,  such  sleep,  such 

bliss, 
Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oil  do  nnss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbors  (piiet  rest. 
Till'  cottage  that  atlbrds  no  pride  or  care, 

The  mean,  that  'grees  with  country  nuisie  best, 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth's  and  music's  faro. 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss  j 

A  mind  content  botli  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

Kom  KT  GRUQNH. 


IN   PKLSON. 

Heat  on,  proud  billows  ;  Boreas,  blow  ; 

,Swell,  curlfeil  waves,  high  as  Jove's  roof; 
Your  incivility  doth  show 

That  innocence  is  tempest  proof  ; 
'I'honghsurlyNereus  frown, my  thoughts  arc  calm; 
Then  strike,"  Allliclion,  lor  thy  wouiidsarc  l«dm. 


That  which  the  world  nuscalls  a  jail 

A  (aivate  closet  is  to  me  ; 
Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail. 

And  innocence  my  liberty  : 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude  together  met. 
Make  me  no  prisoner,  hut  an  anchoret. 


I,  wliilst  1  wisht  to  be  retired, 

Into  this  private  room  was  turned  ; 

As  if  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 
The  salamander  should  be  burned  ; 

Orliki^  those  sophists,  that  would  drown  a  fish, 
1  am  constrained  to  sull'er  what  I  wish. 


e- 


The  eyiiic  loves  his  poverty  ; 

The  i)eli<-an  her  wilderness  ; 
And  't  is  the  Indian's  pride  to  ho 

Naki'd  on  frozen  Caucasus  ; 
Contentment  cannot  smart  ;  stoics  we  soe 
Make  torments  easier  to  their  apathy. 

These  manacles  \ipon  my  arm 

1  as  my  nnstress'  favors  wear; 
.\nd  lor  to  keep  my  ankles  warm 

I  have  some  iron  shackles  there  : 
These  walls  arc  but  my  garrison:  this  cell, 
Which  men  c^dl  juil,  .loth  prove  my  citadel. 

I  'ni  in  the  cabinet  lockt  uji, 

Like  some  high-prized  margarite. 

Or,  like  the  Great  Mogid  or  Toiie, 
.\m  cloistered  up  from  public  sight : 

lietircdness  is  n  piece  of  majesty. 

And  thus,  proud  sidtan,  I  'm  as  groat  ns  thee. 

Sir  ROCP.k    LTSTRANGB. 


CLEON   AND   I. 

Clkon  hath  a  million  acres,  ne'er  a  one  have  I  ; 
Cleon  dwelleth  in  a  palace,  in  a  cottage  I  ; 
Cleon  hath  n  dozen  fortunes,  not  a  penny  1  ; 
Yet  the  poorer  of  the  tw'ain  is  Cleon,  and  not  1. 

Cleon,  true,  possosaeth  acres,  but  the  landscape  I ; 

Half  tlio  eharins  to  me  it  yieldeth  money  can- 
not buy. 

Cloon  harbors  shitli  and  dullness,  freshening 
vigor  I  ; 

He  in  velvet,  I  in  fustian,  richer  man  am  I. 

Cleon  is  a  shive  to  grandeur,  free  as  thought  am  1  ; 
Cleon  fees  a  scoiv  of  doetore,  need  of  none  have  I  ; 
Wealth-surroundod,  eare-onvironed,  Cleon  fears 

to  di.' ; 
Oealh  may  come,  he'll  lind  me  ready,  —  happier 

man  am  I. 

Cloon  sees  no  charms  in  nature,  in  a  daisy  I  ; 
Cleon  hears  no  anthems  ringing  in  the  sea  and  sky  ; 
Naturi^  sings  to  me  forever,  earnest  listener  1  ; 
State  for  state,  with  all  attendants,  who  wmdd 
change  i     Not  I. 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  hci-e  bebw. 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

'T  is  not  with  mc  exactly  so  ; 
lint  't  is  so  in  the  song. 


^ 


[&-- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


669 


-a 


y-.- 


Mil  «'ants  are  many  and,  if  told, 

Willi  Id  muatcr  many  a  score  ; 
And  wiTi!  eauli  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 

I  still  should  long  for  more. 

Wlial.  lirst  I  want  is  daily  broad  — 

And  canvas-backs  —  and  wine  — 
Anil  all  the  realms  of  nature  s|)read 

I'efore  me,  when  I  dine. 
Four  courses  scarcely  can  [irovide 

My  appetite  to  (|uell  ; 
With  lour  clioice  cooks  from  France  beside, 

To  dress  my  dinner  well. 

What  ne.\t  1  want,  at  princely  cost. 

Is  elegant  attire  : 
Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost. 

And  silks  for  summer's  lire, 
And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  15ru.ssels  lace 

My  bosom's  front  to  deck,  — 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  gi-ace. 

And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

I  want  (who  does  not  want  ?)  a  wife,  — 

Alfcctionato  and  fair  ; 
To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life. 

And  all  its  joys  to  share. 
(.)f  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will. 

Of  lirm,  yet  placid  mind,  — 
Willi  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still 

Willi  .sentiment  relined. 

And  as  Time's  car  incessant  runs. 

And  Fortune  fills  my  store, 
I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons 

From  eight  to  lialf  a  score. 
I  want  (alas  !  can  mortal  dare 

Such  bliss  on  earth  to  crave  ') 
That  all  the  girls  bo  chaste  and  lair, 

Tlic  boys  all  wise  and  brave. 

I  want  a  warm  ami  faithful  friend, 

To  I'hcer  the  adverse  hour  ; 
Who  ne'er  to  flatter  will  descend. 

Nor  liond  the  knee  to  power,  — 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I  'm  wrong. 

My  inmost  soul  to  .see  ; 
And  tliat  my  friondshiyi  prove  as  strong 

I'l.r  liini  as  liis  for  me. 

I  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place, 

The  ensigns  of  command  ; 
Charged  by  the  Peojile's  unbought  grace 

To  rule  my  nativi^  land. 
Nor  crown  nor  scepter  would  I  a.sk 

But  from  my  country's  will, 
By  day,  by  niglit,  to  jily  the  tasl; 

Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 


I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

To  fi.llow  me  behind, 
And  to  be  thought  in  future  days 

The  friend  of  human  kind. 
That  after  ages,  as  they  rise. 

Exulting  may  proclaim 
In  choral  union  to  the  skies 

Their  blessings  on  my  name. 

These  are  the  Wants  of  mortal  Man,  — 

I  cannot  w.ant  them  long. 
For  life  itself  is  lait  a  sjian. 

And  earthly  bli.ss  —  a  song. 
My  last  great  Want  —  absorbing  all  — 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod. 
And  .summoneil  to  mv  linal  call. 

The  Mrrc)/  i,f  in;i  <!,«l, 

John  Quincy  Adam 


CONTENTMENT. 

••  M.1II  wants  but  little  here  below." 

l.riTi.f,  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few  ; 

I  only  wi.sli  a  hut  of  .stone, 
(A  r.cr II  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own  ; 
Anil  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one. 
In  yiindcr  street  tliat  fronts  the  sun. 

I'lain  food  is  ([uitc  enough  for  me  ; 

Tliree  courses  are  as  good  as  ton  ;  — 
If  nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  tlirce.  Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice  ;  — 
My  chtiici'.  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gnld  or  land  ;  — 

(live  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Siimc  good  bank-stock,  — .some  note  of  li.and. 

Or  trilling  railroad  sh.arc,  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  lillh-  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  1  know. 

And  titles  are  but  emjity  n.ames  ; 
I  would,  prrhdpK,  be  Plenipo,  — 

But  only  near  St.  .lames  ; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  (ill  our  Cubi'inator's  chair. 

.Towels  are  liawbles  ;  't  is  a  sin 

'l"o  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 
Some,  not,  so  Inrr/r,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl  or  so. 
Will  do  for  mo  ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 


-^ 


[P^ 


670 


POEMS  OF  S£N1'IMENT  AND  BEFLECTION. 


-^ 


My  tlame  should  di'ess  in  olieap  attii-e  ; 

(Good  heavy  silks  an'  never  dear ;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  1  might  desiro 

Some  shawls  of  true  t'ashinere,  — 
Some  marrowy  erafies  of  I'hina  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

1  would  not  have  the  hoi'sc  1  drive 

So  last  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  ; 
An  etisy  gait  —  two,  forty-live  — 
Suits  me  ;  1  do  not  eare  ;  — 
IVrhajw,  for  just  a  siiKj/e  afiurt. 
Some  seeouds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pietures,  1  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  tluve  or  four  — 
1  love  so  mueh  their  style  and  tone  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A  landscape  —  forejn'ouud  golden  dirt  — 
The  sunsliiue  painted  with  a  snuirt.) 

Of  Kioks  hut  few,  —  some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  luiund  for  weal' ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  tloor  ;  — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam. 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as  these, 

Which  othere  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please. 

And  seltish  churls  deride  ; 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess. 
Two  meei-schauuis,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  1  will  not  learn, 

Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool  ; 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn. 

But  all  must  Ix'  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  donhle  share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Tluis  humble  let  me  live  and  die. 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch  ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  vt  in-h,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 

OLlVtK  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


CONTENTATION. 


u 


Hkaven',  what  an  age  is  this.!  what  race 
Of  giants  are  sprung  up,  that  dare 

Thus  fly  in  the  Almighty's  face. 
And  with  his  providence  make  war  ! 


1  can  go  nowhere  but  1  meet 

With  malcontents  and  mutineei's, 

.Vs  if  in  life  was  nothing  sweet. 

And  we  must  blessings  reap  in  teai-s. 

0  senseless  man !  that  murmurs  still 
For  happiness,  and  does  not  know, 

Even  though  he  might  enjoy  his  will, 
What  he  would  have  to  make  him  so. 

Is  it  true  li.ippine.f.'i  to  l* 

By  niulisifvuing  Fortune  placed 

In  the  most  cniiucut  degree. 

Where  few  arrive,  and  none  stand  fast! 

Titles  and  wealth  are  Fortune's  toils. 
Wherewith  the  vain  themselves  insnare: 

The  great  are  proud  of  borrowed  spoils, 
The  miser's  plenty  breeds  his  care. 

The  one  supinely  yawns  at  rei.'st, 

The  other  eternally  doth  toil  ; 
Each  of  them  e<iually  a  beast, 

A  pampered  hoi-se,  or  laboring  moil  : 

The  titulado  's  oft  disgraced 
By  public  hate  or  private  frown, 

And  he  whose  hand  the  creature  raised 
Has  yet  a  foot  to  kick  him  down. 

The  drudge  who  would  all  get,  all  save. 
Like  a  brute  beast,  both  feeds  and  lies ; 

Pvone  to  the  earth,  he  digs  his  grave. 
And  in  the  very  labor  dies. 

E.xeess  of  ill-got,  ill-kept  pelf 

r)oes  only  death  and  dang>-r  breed  ; 

Whilst  one  rich  worldling  starves  himself 
With  what  would  thousand  othere  feed. 

By  which  we  see  that  wealth  and  power, 
Although  they  make  men  rich  aud  great. 

The  sweets  of  life  do  often  sour, 
And  gull  ambition  with  a  cheat. 

Nor  is  he  happier  than  these. 

Who,  in  a  moderate  estate. 
Where  he  might  safely  live  at  ease. 

Has  lusts  that  are  immoderate. 

For  he,  by  those  desires  misled. 

Quits  his  own  vino's  securing  shade. 

To  expose  his  naked,  empty  head 
To  all  the  storms  man's  j>eace  invade. 

Nor  is  he  happy  who  is  trim. 
Tricked  up  in  favors  of  the  fair, 

Mirroi-s,  with  every  breath  made  dim, 
Binls,  caught  in  every  wanton  sun 


-*-S 


a- 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


071 


■a 


Woman,  man's  greatest  woe  or  bliss, 
Dues  oftener  far  than  serve,  enslave. 

And  with  the  magic  of  a  kiss 

Destroys  whom  she  was  made  to  save. 

0  fruitful  grief,  the  world's  disease  ! 

And  vainer  man,  to  make  it  so, 
Wlio  gives  liLs  mLseries  increase 

by  cultivating  his  own  woe  ! 

'I'heie  are  no  ills  but  what  we  make 

By  giving  shapes  and  names  to  things,  — 

Which  is  the  dangerous  mistake 
That  causes  all  our  sufferings. 

We  call  that  sickness  which  is  health. 
That  jiersecution  which  is  grace. 

That  poverty  which  is  true  wealth. 
And  that  dishonor  which  is  praise. 

Alas  !  our  time  is  here  so  short 

That  in  what  state  soe'er  't  is  spent. 

Of  joy  or  woe,  does  not  import. 
Provided  it  be  innocent. 

But  we  may  make  it  pleasant  too, 
If  we  will  take  our  measures  right, 

And  not  what  Heaven  has  done  undo 
By  an  unruly  appetite. 

The  world  is  full  of  beaten  roads. 

But  yet  so  slippery  withal, 
That  where  one  walks  secure  't  is  odds 

A  hundred  and  a  hundred  fall. 

Untrodden  paths  are  then  the  best, 
Where  the  frer^uented  are  unsure  ; 

And  he  comes  soonest  to  hLs  rest 

Whose  journey  has  been  most  secure. 

It  is  content  alone  that  makes 
Our  pilgrimage  a  pleasure  here  ; 

And  who  buys  soiTOW  cheapest  takes 
An  ill  commodity  too  dear. 

;  COTTO.N. 


&-- 


TO  DAVIE  SILLAE, 

A  BROTHER  POET. 

It  's  hardly  in  a  body's  pow'r 

To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour, 

To  see  how  things  are  shar'd  ; 
How  best  o'  duels  are  whUes  in  want, 
^^^lile  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rank, 

And  ken  na  how  to  wair't : 
But,  Davie,  lad,  ne'er  fash  your  head 

Tho'  we  hae  little  gear. 
We  're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread 

As  lang  's  we  're  hale  and  fier  : 


"  Mair  spier  na,  nor  fear  na," 
Auld  age  ne'er  mind  a  feg. 

The  last  o't,  the  waret  o't. 
Is  only  for  to  beg. 

What  tho',  like  commoners  of  air. 
We  wander  out,  we  know  not  where, 

But  either  house  or  hall  ? 
Yet  nature's  clianns,  the  hills  and  woods. 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods. 

Are  free  alike  to  all. 
In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground. 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear. 
With  honest  joy  our  liearts  will  bound 
To  see  the  coming  year  : 

On  braes  when  we  please,  then, 

We  '11  sit  an'  sowth  a  tune  ; 
Sjaie  rhyme  till 't,  we  '11  time  till 't, 
And  sing  when  we  ha«  done. 

It 's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank  ; 

It's  no  in  wealth  like  Loii'on  Viank, 

To  purcha.se  peace  and  rest ; 
It 's  no  in  mankin  inuckle  mair  : 
It 's  no  in  books  ;  it 's  no  in  lear, 

To  make  us  truly  blest : 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  center  in  the  breast. 
We  may  be  wise,  or  lich,  or  great. 
But  never  can  l>e  blest : 
Nae  treasures  nor  pleasures 

Could  make  us  happy  lang  ; 
The  heart  ay  's  the  part  ay 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

Then  let  us  cheerfu'  acquiesce, 
Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less 

By  pining  at  our  state  ; 
And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 
I ,  here  wha  sit,  hae  mid  wi'  .some, 

An  's  thankfu'  for  them  yet. 
They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth  ; 

They  let  us  ken  ourscl  : 
They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth, 
The  real  guid  and  ill. 
Tho'  losses  and  crosses 

Be  lessons  right  severe. 
There  's  wit  there,  ye  '11  get  there 
Ye  '11  find  nae  other  where. 

R'JUriRT  BURNS. 


LIFE  I    I  KNOW  NOT  WHAT  THOU  ART. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 


-^ 


a- 


072 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-a 


liifo  !  \vt>  'vo  IxH'U  long  togoUioi- 
ThnnigU  nloixsaiit  ami  tlavugh  oloudy  woatlior, 
"r  is  hiuil  to  i«ut  wlum  fiieiuls  nixi  doar,  — 
I\nluii>s  "t  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  toai- ; 
—  Tliou  steal  away,  givo  little  warning, 

Choiwo  tliino  own  timo  ; 
Shy  not   C!ood  Niglit,  —  Imt    in   sonu'  biiglitor 
I'limo 

Uid  uie  I'lOod  Morning. 

ANNH  LivnriA  Uakuaoliv 


ON  HIS  OWN  BUNDNKSS. 

1X>  CVRIACK  SKINNBK. 

Cyriack,    this  three    yoai-s"   day,    those    oyos, 
though  cl«\r, 
To  ontwa\xl  view,  of  hleniish  or  ol'  spot, 
IVuvft  of  light,  their  seeing  havo  forgvt ; 
Nor  to  their  iillo  orhs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  thivnghout  the  year, 
Or  man  or  woman,  yet  I  ai'gue  not 
Ag!>iust  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  Iwlo  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope  ;  but  still  boar  up  and  steer 
Right  onwanl.     What  supports  nie,  dost  thou 

ask ; 
The  conseieuce,  friend,  to  have  lost  them  over- 
plied 
In  Liberty's  defense,  my  noble  task, 
Of  whii'h  all  Kuivpo  rings  fivni  side  to  side. 
This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the  world's 

vain  mask. 
Content,  though  blind,  had  1  no  better  guide. 


To  miss  one  favor  whioli  their  ueighlwi-s  fuid  ;> 
Yet  far  was  he  fi\>ni  Stoio  pride  removed  ; 
He  felt  humaiu^ly,  and  ho  warmly  lovuil. 
1  marked  his  action,  when  his  infant  died, 
.\nd  his  old  neighlwv  for  otVense  was  tried  ; 
The   still    teai-s,    stealing   down   that    furrowed 

eheek, 
Spoke  pity  plainer  than  the  tongue  enn  speak. 
If  pride  weiv  his,  'twas  not  their  vulgar  pride 
Who  in  their  base  contempt  the  givat  deride  ; 
Nor  pride  in  leaniiug,  though  my  clerk  agit'cd. 
If  fate  sliouhl  call  hin>,  Ashfoixl  might  succeed  ; 
Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knov 
None  his  superior,  and  his  eipials  few  ;  — 
But  if  that  spirit  in  his  sold  had  place, 
It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace  ; 
A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained 
In  stui-dy  Iwys  to  virtuous  laboi-s  trained  : 
Tride  in  the  power  that  gnaixls  his  comitry's 

coast. 
And  all  that  Englishmen  ciyoy  and  boast ; 
I'ride  in  a  life  that  slander's  tongue  defied,  — 
In  fact,  a  noble  passion  misnamed  pride. 

Ci:oKc.i^  Crabrr. 


& 


THE  PEASANT. 


«V  NOBLE  peasant,  Isaac  Ashfonl,  died. 

Noble  he  was,  coutenniing  all  things  n>ean, 

llis  truth  unnuestioncd  and  his  soul  seitMU'. 

0(  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afiiud  ; 

.\t  no  msm's  .juestion  Isaac  looked  dismayed  ; 

Shauu'  knew  him  not,  he  divaded  no  disgrac;< ; 

Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face  ; 

Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  sonl  approved. 

Cheerful  he  seemed,  and  g<-utleuess  he  loved  ; 

To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  ix'signed. 

And  with  the  firmest  lia.l  the  fondest  mind  ; 

AVei-o  othci-s  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on. 

And  gjive  allowance  where  he  ncded  mine ; 

Good  he  ivfuse.l  with  futuiv  ill  to  buy. 

Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  ivtleetion's  sigh  ; 

A  friend  to  virtue,  his  nncloudeil  bivast 

No  envy  stung,  iui  jealousy  distivssed  ; 

(Bane  of  the  jHior  !  it  wounds  tlwir  w<aker  mind 


THE  HAFFY  MAN. 


Hk  is  the  happy  man  whose  life  even  imw 
Shows  souunvhat  of  that  hajipier  life  to  come  : 
^Vho,  doomed  to  an  oliscni-e  but  tninnuil  state, 
Is  pleased  with  it,  and,  wei-e  he  fi-ee  to  choose. 
\Vould  make  his  fate  his  choice  ;  whom  peace, 

the  fruit 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith, 
IVpare  for  happiness  ;  K'speak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  mu.st 
Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  homo. 
The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  busy  seaivh 
Of  objects,  more  illustrious  in  her  view  ; 
And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she. 
Though  umre  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  world. 
She  scorns  his  pleasui-es,  forshe  knows  them  not ; 
He  seeks  not  hei-s,  for  he  has  jiroved  them  vain. 
He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  sunuuer  biixis 
Bui-suing  gilded  flies  ;  and  such  he  deems 
Her  honoi's,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 
Theivfoi-e  in  eontemi>lalion  is  his  blis-s, 
^Yhose  power  is  such  that  whom  she  lifts  from 

earth 
She  makes  familiar  with  a  heaven  unseen. 
And  shows  hin>  glories  yet  to  Ih>  i-evealed. 
Not  slothfid  he,  though  seeming  unemployed. 
And  censured  oft  iis  useless.     Stillest  streams 
Oft  water  l'ain<st  meadows,  and  the  biiil 
That  llutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 

WlLI.lASl   COWPBK. 


^^ 


e- 


J'OKMS  OF  HKSTIMEM  AND  llEt'LECTlOX. 


fJTi 


■a 


& 


THE  PROBLEM. 

1  I.IKK  a  (.hiircli  ;  I  like  a  cowl  ; 

I  )i)Vi;  a  i)r<)i>h''t  of  tin;  Boul  ; 
.\ij<l  oij  my  lii:art  moiiastii;  aisles 

Kali  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles  ; 
Vet  not  for  all  his  faitli  can  sec 
Woulil  1  that  cowlwl  chureliinan  be. 
Wliv  sliould  llie  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  f 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  .Jove  young  Phidias  brought ; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delj.hie  oracle  : 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 
Tlic  burdens  of  the  IJilJe  oH  ; 
'I'he  litanies  of  nations  came, 
Like  the  volcano's  Ujngne  of  flame, 
l']i  from  the  burning  core  below,  — 
Tlje  canticles  of  love  and  woe. 
The  hand  that  rounded  I'eter's  dome. 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Itome, 
Wrouglit  iu  a  sad  sincerity  ; 
Miniself  from  God  he  could  not  free  ; 

II  •  builded  better  than  he  knew  ;  — 
'i'lie  conscious  stone  to  Iwauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast  ; 
f)r  how  the  fisli  outbuilt  her  shell, 
I'ainting  witli  moin  each  annual  cell  ? 
Or  how  the  sacred  ](ine-trcc  a<lds 
To  her  oM  leaves  new  inyria<ls  ? 
.Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles. 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Karth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  ujion  her  zone  ; 
And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  liils. 
To  gaze  ujion  the  Pyramids  ; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  fricmls,  with  kindred  eye  ; 
I'or,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere, 
Thi:se  wonders  rose  to  upjKjr  air  ; 
Ati<l  Nature  gbadly  gave  them  piaffe, 
Adojited  them  into  her  race. 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

The.se  temples  grew  as  glows  the  grass  ; 
Art  might  oljey,  but  not  surpass, 
'i'he  passive  Mast<;r  lent  his  liand 
To  the  vast  Soul  tliat  o'er  him  phinned  ; 
And  the  same  power  that  rcarc<l  the  shrine 
liestrodc  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Kver  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  witli  one  flame  the  countless  host. 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs. 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 


The  word  unto  the  prophet  sjKjken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken  ; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  Ujld, 
In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  u[Kjn  the  morning  winil. 
Still  whis|K;rs  Ut  the  willing  niiiuL 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise,  — 
The  I>f)ok  itself  l*fore  me  lies,  — 
Old  Cliri/sonlimi,  lj<;st  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  Iwth  in  his  line, 
The  younger  (Joldf/n.  h'qm  or  mines, 
Tayloi',  tlie  Shakesis^arc  of  divines. 
His  wonls  are  music  in  njy  ear, 
1  see  his  cowled  jwrtrait  dear  ; 
And  yet,  for  all  hLs  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  Ix-. 

KALl'Jl  W'AI.L.0  HUERSON. 


UAPPIMESS. 


0  H.M"r'iNE>>s  '.  our  lacing's  end  and  aim  ! 
Good,  Pleasure,    Ea»(;,    Content !    whatc'er   thy 

name  : 
That  s<jmething  still  which  promjits  the  eternal 

sigh. 
For  which  wc  Wir  to  live  or  <lare  Xfi  die. 
Which  still  so  jiear  us,  yet  l«yond  us  lies, 
O'erlooked,  seen  double,  by  the  fool,  and  wis<!. 
Plant  of  celestial  seed  I  if  dro]>|<ed  lj<;low. 
Say,  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  deign'st  to  glow  f 
Fair  0{;<:ning  to  some  court's  propitious  shine, 
Or  deeji  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming  mine  ? 
i  Twined  with  the  wreaths  Parnassian  laurels  yield, 
Oi-  reai»l  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  ? 
Where  grows?  —  where  grows  it  not?     If  vain 

our  toil. 
We  ought  \fi  blame  the  culture,  not  the  soil  : 
Fixed  to  no  sjjot  is  happiness  sincere  ; 
'T  is  nowhere  to  l>c  founil,  or  everywhere  : 
'T  is  never  to  Ix;  l<ought,  but  always  free. 
And,  fled  from  monarchs,  St.  John !  dwells  with 

thee. 
.(\sk  of  the  learned  the  way  ?     The  learnd  are 

blind  ; 
This  biibi  to  serve,  and  that  to  shun,  mankind  ; 
Some  pla£;e  the  bliss  in  action,  some  in  caw;, 
Thosi;  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment  these : 
Some,  sunk  to  Ixjasts,  find  pleasure  end  in  pain  ; 
Some,  swelled  to  gods,  confess  even  virtue  vain  ; 
Or,  indolent,  to  each  extreme  they  fall,  — 
To  trust  in  everything,  or  doubt  of  all. 

Who  thus  define  it,  say  they  more  or  less 
Thau  this,  that  liappincss  is  happiness ! 


-ff 


[&-- 


674 


I'OKMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-■^ 


Take  Nature's  path,  aiul  mad  Opinion's  leave 
All  states  can  reach  it,  anil  all  heads  conceive  ; 
Obvious  her  goods,  in  no  extreme  tliey  dwell ; 
There  ueedsbutthinkingright,  and  meaningwell 
And,  mourn  oxir  various  portions  as  we  please. 
Equal  is  common  sense  and  common  ease. 

POPK. 


L 


A  HAPPY  LITE. 

How  happy  is  he  horn  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will  ; 

AVliose  armor  is  liis  honest  thought. 
And  simple  trath  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are  ; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath  ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise. 
Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood 

How  deejiest  wounds  arii  given  by  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

AVho  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed  ; 

\\Tiose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
Jlore  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend, 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 

With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend,  — 

This  man  is  freed  from  serWle  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall  ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 
And,  having  nothing,  yet  hatli  all. 

SIK   llENKV  WOTTUN. 


THE  HERMIT. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
Wlien  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  naught butthenightingale'ssongin  thegrove, 
'T  was  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
AVhilehisharprungsymiphonious,  ahermitbegiin  ; 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war. 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man  : 

"  Ah !  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and  woe, 
AMiy,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 
For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthrall. 


But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay,  — 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  theo  to 

mourn  ! 
0,  soothehim  whose  pleasureslikethinepassaway ; 
Full  ipuekly  they  pass, — but  they  never  return. 

"Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 
The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  crescent  dis- 
plays ; 
But  lately  I  marked  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor  again  ! 
liut  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew  ? 
Ah,  fool !  to  e.\ult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

"  'T  is  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more. 
Imourn, — but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  notfor  you ; 
For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to  restore. 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragi'ance,   and   glittering 

with  dew. 
Xor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  1  mourn,  — 
Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save  ; 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  molderingurn  ? 
0,  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ? 

"'Twas  thus,  by  theglare  of  false  science  betrayed. 
That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  blind. 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  onward  to 

shade, 
Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
'O  pity,  great  Father  of  light,'  then  I  cried, 
'Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from 

thee  ! 
I.o,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride  ; 
From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst 

free.' 

' '  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away  ; 
No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 
So  breaks  on  the  traveler,  faint  and  astray, 
The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 
See  truth,  love,  and  mercy  in  triumph  descending. 
And  nature  all  glowing  in  F.den's  first  bloom  ! 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are 

blending. 
And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 
James  beattie. 


THE   RETIREMENT. 

Farewell,  thou  Inisy  world,  and  may 
We  never  meet  again  ; 
Here  I  can  eat  and  sleep  and  pray. 
And  do  more  good  in  one  short  day 
Than  he  who  Ids  whole  age  outwears 
Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatei's. 
Where  naught  but  vanity  and  vice  appears. 


-^ 


e-^- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


^rQ 


G75 


te^- 


Good  God  !  how  sweet  are  all  things  here  ! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear  ! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie  ! 
Lord  !  what  good  hours  do  we  keep  ! 
How  quietly  we  sleep  ! 

What  peace,  what  unanimity  ! 
How  innocent  from  the  lewd  fashion 
Is  ail  our  business,  all  our  recreation  ! 

O,  how  hapjjy  here  's  our  leisure  ! 
0,  how  innocent  our  pleasure  ! 
0  ye  valleys  !  0  ye  mountains  ! 
0  ye  groves  and  crystal  fountains  ! 
How  1  love,  at  liberty, 
By  turns  to  come  and  visit  ye  ! 

Dear  solitude,  the  soul's  best  friend, 

That  man  acquainted  with  himself  dost  make. 

And  all  his  Maker's  wonders  to  intend. 

With  thee  I  here  converse  at  will. 

And  would  be  glad  to  do  so  still. 

For  it  is  thou  alone  that  keep'st  the  soul  awake. 

How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone. 
To  read  and  meditate  and  write. 

By  none  offended,  and  offending  none  ! 
To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleep  at  one's  own  ease  ; 
And,  pleasinga  man's  self,  none  other  to  disple;ise. 

0  my  beloved  nymph,  fair  Dove, 
Princess  of  rivers,  how  I  love 

Upon  thy  flowery  banks  to  lie, 
And  view  thy  silver  stream, 
Wlien  gilded  by  a  summer's  beam  ! 
And  in  it  all  thy  wanton  fiy 
Playing  at  liberty, 
And  witli  my  angle  upon  them 
The  all  of  treachery 

1  ever  learned,  industriously  to  try  ! 

Such  streams  Rome's  yellow  Tiber  cannot  show, 
The  Iberian  Tagus,  or  Ligurian  Po  ; 
Tlie  Maese,  the  Danube,  and  the  Rhine, 
Ale  puddle-water,  all,  compared  with  thine  ; 
And  Loire's  pure  streams  yet  too  polluted  are 
With  thine,  much  purer,  to  compare  ; 
The  rapid  Garonne  and  the  winding  Seine 
Are  both  too  mean, 

BelovM  Dove,  with  thee 

To  vie  priority  ; 
Nay,  Tame  and  Isis,  when  conjoined,  submit. 
And  lay  their  trophies  at  thy  silver  feet. 

0  my  beloved  rocks,  that  rise 
To  awe  the  earth  and  brave  the  skies  ! 
From  some  aspiring  mountain's  crown 
How  dearlv  do  I  love, 


Giddy  with  pleasure,  to  look  down, 
And  from  the  vales  to  view  the  noble  heights 
above  ! 
0  my  beloved  caves  !  from  dog-star's  heat, 
And  all  anxieties,  my  safe  retreat  ; 
AV'hat  safety,  privacy,  what  true  delight, 
In  the  artifudal  night 
Your  gloomy  entrails  make. 
Have  I  taken,  do  I  take  ! 
How  oft,  when  grief  has  made  me  fly, 
To  hide  me  from  society 
E'en  of  my  dearest  friends,  have  I, 

In  your  recesses'  friendly  shade, 
All  my  sorrows  open  laid. 
And   my    most   secret   woes   intrusted   to  your 
privacy  ! 

Lord  !  would  men  let  me  alone, 
What  an  over-happy  one 

Should  1  think  myself  to  be,  — 
Jlight  1  in  this  desert  place 
(Whicli*most  men  in  discourae  disgrace) 

Live  but  undisturbed  and  free  ! 
Here  in  this  despLseil  recess. 

Would  1,  mauger  winter's  cold 
And  the  summer's  worst  e-xcess, 
Try  to  live  out  to  sixty  full  years  old  ; 
And,  all  the  while, 

Without  an  envious  eye 
On  any  thriving  under  Fortune's  smile, 
Contented  live,  and  then  contented  die. 

CHARLES  Cotton. 


SUPPOSED     TO 
FERNANDF.Z. 


I  AM  monarch  of  all  1  survey,  — 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute  ; 

From  the  center  all  round  to  the  sea, 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  an<l  the  brute. 

0  Solitude  !  where  are  tlx'  channs 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach  ; 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  spe:-ch,  — 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  ])lain 

My  form  with  indifl'erpnc('  see  ; 
Tliey  are  so  unacquainted  with  man. 

Their  tameness  Is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love, 
Di^^nely  "oestowed  ujion  man  I 


-^ 


0- 


676 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-^ 


^ 


0,  liad  I  the  wings  of  a  dove. 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  ! 

My  sorrows  I  then  might  sissuage 
In  tlie  ways  of  religion  and  truth, — 

Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age. 
And  lie  idieered  l>y  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Religion  I  what  treasure  untold 

Kesides  in  that  heavenly  wonl  !  — 
Mole  lireeioiis  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  atlbixl ; 
But  the  sound  of  the  ehuirh-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard'. 
Never  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell. 

Or  smiled  when  a  Sablmth  appeared. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial,  endearing  report 

Of  a  laud  I  shall  visit  no  more  ! 
My  friends,  — do  they  now  and  tljj'U  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  .' 
0,  lell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind  ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-wingfed  arrows  of  light. 
AVlii  11  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  lie  there  ; 
But,  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest. 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There 's  mercy  in  every  place. 

And  mercy  —  encouraging  thought !  — 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace. 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

William  Cowper. 


THE  GOOD  GREAT  MAN. 

How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  and  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains ! 
It  seems  a  story  from  the  world  of  spirits 
When  any  man  obtains  that  whicdi  he  merits. 
Or  any  merits  that  which  he  obtains. 

For  shame,  my  friend  !  renounce  this  idle  strain ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  a  good  great  man  obtain  ? 
Wealth,  title,  dignity,  a  golden  chain. 
Or  heap  of  coi-ses  which  his  swoiti  hath  slain  ? 
Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  means,  but  ends. 


Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends,  — 
The  great  good  man  ?    Three  treasures,  — love, 
and  light. 
And  calm  thoughts,  eiiuable  as  infant's  breath ; 
And  three  fast  friends,  more  sure  than  day  or 
night,  — 
Himself,  bis  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

SAMVtL  T.\VLOK  COLEKIDCE. 


EXAMPLE. 

We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand, 

And  dream  we  ne'er  shall  see  them  more  ; 
But  for  a  thousand  yeai-s 
Their  fruit  appeal's. 
In  weeds  that  luar  the  land. 
Or  healthful  store. 

The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say,  — 
Into  -still  air  they  seem  to  fleet, 
We  count  them  ever  past ; 
But  they  shall  last,  — 
In  the  dread  judgment  they 
And  we  shall  meet. 

I  charge  thee  by  the  years  gone  by, 

For  the  love's  sake  of  brethren  dear. 
Keep  thou  the  one  true  way. 
In  work  and  play. 
Lest  in  that  world  their  cry 
Of  woe  thou  hear. 

John  keble. 


PERFECTION. 

from  "king  JOHN." 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 
'  To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 
1  Unto  the  niinbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to 
Is  wasteful,  and  ridiculous  excess. 


REPTJTATION. 


Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls  : 

Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  tnish  ;  'tis  something, 

nothing  ; 
'T  was  mine,    "t  is  his,   and  has  lieen   slave   to 

thousands ; 
But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name 
Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him. 
And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 


-S 


a-^- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  UEFLECTIUN. 


Gil 


-a 


FROM  "MERCHANT  OF  VENICE." 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained,  — 

It  droppetli  as  tbe  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blessed,  — 

It  blessetli  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 

'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest  ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  liLs  crown  ; 

His  scepter  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  : 

Ijut  mercy  is  above  this  sceptered  sway,  — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself ; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  sliow  likest  God's, 

AVhen  mercy  seasons  justice. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


Weei'  ye  no  more,  sad  fountains  ! 

What  need  you  flow  so  fast  ? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 
Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste. 
But  my  sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping. 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleejiing. 

Sleep  is  a  reconciling,  — 

A  rest  that  peace  begets  ; 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 
Wlien  fair  at  even  he  sets  ? 
Rest  you  then,  rest,  .sad  eyes,  — 
Melt  not  in  weeping. 
While  she  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softlv  lies 
Sleeping. 

John  Dowland. 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 

Come,  Sleep,  and  witli  thy  sweet  deceiving 
Lock  me  in  delight  awhile  : 
Let  some  pleasing  dreams  beguile 
All  my  fancies,  that  from  thence 
I  may  feel  an  influence, 

All  my  powers  of  care  bei-enviug  ! 

Though  but  a  shadow,  but  a  sliding. 

Let  me  know  some  little  joy  ! 

We  that  suffer  long  annoy 

Are  contented  with  a  thought. 

Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought : 
0,  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding  ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


THE  BROTHERS. 

Slcmber,  Sleep,  —  they  were  two  brothers,  ser- 
vants to  the  gods  above  ; 

Kind  Prometheus  lured  them  downwards,  ever 
tilled  with  earthly  love  ; 

But  what  gods  could  bear  so  lightly,  pressed  too 
hard  on  men  beneath  ; 

Slumber  did  liis  brother's  duty,  —  Sleep  was 
deepened  into  Deatli. 

From  the  German  of  GOETHE. 


Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep,  — 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visits  pays 
Where  fortune  smiles  :  the  wretched  he  forsakes. 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  by  a  tear. 

Edward  Vounc. 


Come,  Sleep,  0  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release. 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low. 
With  shield  of  proof  .sliield  me  from  out  the  prease  * 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw  ; 
0,  make  me  in  those  civil  wars  to  cease  : 
I  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 
Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed  ; 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Aleve  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


"He  giveth  his  beloved  steep. "  —  Psalm  CJCxvi.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar. 
Among  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is. 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this,  — 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  "  ? 

\\niat  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved,  — 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep,  — 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse,  — 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  \ 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 


-^ 


& 


tJ7S 


H>£MS  OF  &i:JXTmeA'T  AND  MFtHOrjON. 


■Ql 


What  ilo  w<>  givu  tv>  yur  Wlovetl  • 

A  Uufe  vlust  t\>  W«X\i«0\\ 
Aud  hitter  vuemwies,  tt>  tuake 
Tht>  whi.xle  esu'th  W»st<\l  Jw  ow  SB»ke, 
••  He  giveth  Ais  MovW  slwiv" 

'■  jvltf  p  si^ft,  Mv^'evl ! "  w<?  s^xwethues  say, 

Ihit  have  uo  tuue  to  eha»-u>  away 

Ss*vl  ih-eauis  that  thivv(j;h  the  eyeluls  cteep  ; 

t>\u  uever  lUxleful  divaiu  ajjiiw 

SQjall  bivak  the  hai'{'y  dvimbev  whea 

••  He  giveth  Ais  WlovM  sleejv" 

O  i;\-«th,  si>  full  of  ihvavy  uoisi? .' 
0  lueu.  with  waiUuj;  lu  your  voiee  : 
O  vlelvM  j;oW  the  waile>-s  heaj' ' 
0  st»ife>  O  cui-se>  that  o'er  it  fall 
U<.\1  strikes  a  sileuw  thix>«^h  you  ail. 
Ami  "  siveth  his  MovW  sietfiv" 

His  dews  Uroj>  mutely  iw  the  hill. 

His  clouU  alx>ve  it  saileth  still, 

'f  hoHjch  on  its  slv>t>e  u>e»  sv>w  auvl  ivaj> ; 

More  sotlly  thaii  the  view  is  shevt. 

Or  eloud  is  tlvvttevl  oveiheavl. 

■'  He  giveth  his  l>elovts.l  slee^v" 

For  we,  wy  heart,  that  ej'St  vUil  j;\< 
Mwt  like  a  tiii?il  ehiUl  at  a  show. 
That  se^s  th>vuj;h  teal's  the  luuuuwJrs  le«{s 
WouUl  MOW  its  wearieil  vision  elois«v 
WouUl  ehiMUke  ow  his  love  jvik>s* 
Who  "j^iveth  his  Mov\l  sleefv" 

KVIJ  VBSTH  B-VKSSTT  BROWNINC. 


'  lu  ci'avUe  of  the  vuUe  i»ui>erioHs  s«»-gts 

.-Vuvl  iu  the  visitrttiim  W'  the  wiuils, 
j  Who  take  the  vutfisui  hillows  hy  the  to)s 

CMrliuj;  theirmoiistivus  heails,  ami  hau^iuj;  thew 
I  With  vleafeiiiug  ekuxoi^  iu  the  sli|>}>evy  eloukls. 

That,  » ith  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes  * 
;  t"»ust  thou,  0  j>aitial  slet>p  !  ^ive  thy  wiH<se 
I  'l\>  the  wet  st>a-lH>y  in  an  hour  so  ruile  ; 
'  Autl  iu  the  ealwest  and  u\iwt  stillest  ui^j-ht. 

With  all  avi^iwtees  and  uunius  to  Ihi<U, 
!  IVuy  it  to  a  kiu^i;  ?    Then,  haj>}>y  low,  lie  down  ; 
I  Vneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  or\nvn, 

SROM  ■•  FIRST  PART  O*  HBNRV  IV." 

Gi.isxiH>\vKK.   She  liids  y<>u  on  the  wanton 
rushes  lay  you  dowix, 
\ud  rest  your  gentle  hts-id  «i>ou  her  laj\ 
Vud  she  will  siuj;  the  sojig  that  pleaseth  you, 
Aud  vni  your  eyelids  eivw  n  the  go<l  of  sl«>e\>, 
t^haruiii\$t  your  MvhhI  with  )>h\-«sins  heaviuess; 
Makinjt  sueh  diffetvm-*  betwixt  wake  sind  s1<h>i> 
As  is  the  ditfeivuee  l>etwixt  day  and  ui^ht. 
The  hour  befoiv  the  heavenly -haruesse^l  team 
Begins  his  gv>lden  pi\)jn>?«s  iu  the  east. 

I  IfRWV  "CVMSBUNS." 

Weariness 
>.\in  snojv  n{>OM  the  flint,  when  restive  sloth 
Kinds  the  down  v>illow  luutl, 

I  KROM  "  Sl-VCBETH," 

'  Maeb«<th  di.vs  TOU(\ler  sleejx  —  the  iuuocent  slee)\ 
Sleejv  that  knits  up  the  ravelevl  sleav*  of  care. 
The  d«ith  of  ej>oh  day's  life,  si.u'e  labor's  bath. 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  jivat  nature's  se<.\md  eourse, 

1  Chief  uourisher  iu  life's  feast. 


y- 


KROSi  "  SE\X>NP  PART  OK  USNRY  IV, " 

Kise  Ukxky,    Mow  many  thousand  of  n\y 

^wnvst  s«bje<-ts 
Aro  at  this  hour  asleep  I — 0  sleep  ;  0  gentle 

sleep  ' 
Xature's  soft  nuriv,  how  have  1  ft-ighted  thet?. 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down, 
-Vud  steep  my  senses  iu  forgetfuluess  ' 
Why  rather,  slee{\  liest  thou  iu  suKxky  cribs, 
Vi\ia  uneasy  pallets  stretehing  thee, 
Aud  husheil  with   biiaziug  night>tties  to  th,v 

slumber. 
Than  in  the  i>ei-fttme\l  chambei-s  of  the  great, 
Vuder  the  iiurojues  of  I'ostlj-  state. 
Aud  Inl  W  with  sounds  of  swe«?test  mehxly  ? 
0  thou  dull  gotl !  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile. 
In  Uvithsoiue  be\ls,  and  le«v'st  the  kingly  coueh 
A  watoh-eas»«  or  a  common  'larum-liell ' 
Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  gidvly  mast 
Seal  up  the  shii>-Ki\'s  eyes.  «md  iwk  his  brains 


We  ar«  sueh  stutf 
As  dreiuus  ai'e  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  i\Hinde<.l  with  a  sWjv 


SHAKKSrSAKB. 


HYMN  yo  NIQHT. 

Yks!  bear  them  to  their  resit ; 
The  rosy  balie,  tire\l  with  the  glare  of  day. 
The  i^^attler,  fallen  »sle<-p  t'eu  in  his  play  ; 

Clstsp  them  to  thy  si>ft  Inv.sst. 
0  night  ! 
Bless  them  in  drvjuns  with  a  deep,  hnshevl  delight. 

Yet  must  they  wake  again. 
Wake  soon  to  all  the  bittevneiss  of  life. 
The  i>ang  of  soriwv,  the  temptation  strife. 

Aye  to  th*  <.Hxiisi'ieuoe  pain  ^ 
0  night ' 
Canst  thou  not  take  with  them  a  longer  flight  ■ 


^ 


fe 


POEMB  Otr  HENTIMKNT  AND  UEl!'LE(n'l<jN. 


otT^ 


Til*  laijit  'jf  »ijj,  ils  ■i'/as/s'j  u«:ju.c«  'rf  w<a, 

'J'o  wiio*  «tiw;j«J,  hoiitit,  Jiap|>iej'  li*%lit  '< 

<"><!, '.'r*  t!,">'j  .')/>*  '>f«rtheia  up 
'J  ■  ,'  lioiB  ttii  phiOfit  di" 

/.  ■;  tiwy  sleep,  t«>  Hiu, 

•rap, 

'I'Ji*  <;up  cif  wratli,  for  lieaj-U  in  faith  <^.-utnU: ' 

To  Jlirn,  for  tjieic  who  shrjrt 
A  W>;  all  h/Jy  ou  his  wotJi<jj'»  kjit*, 
AuJ  Jjou/  Utat  houj  lo  ';r'>SK-<;rowii«5'i  CaJ vary, 
J 11  al)  <>uj'  wrjow  »<;jA, 
0  ijiijht  : 
TJjtat  on  our  S'>ul6  wight  dawn  limYKUi  Khixyiii/ 
Ji^t. 

'  love  djviue 

Jj'  ■  ;  -lUUX'Jfbil  twj.";' 

Aj  '>UiiU  i  ■■•""-,    i«&  ill;   i>/j.v;iic, 

0  ni^t  I 
Ofl  th*itt  a  hrolter's  ^ia«<;  of  Co-i'g  own  Ixiuir' 
I'sjs  lui^t, 

Jyet  thwfl  hum'jrtd  wake 
Aajoijj^  the  deathiess  flowere  of  Paradise, 
Where  au;{i-l  wmij^s  of  wehxijae  with  surprise 

This  tl-  •  ay  breals, 


lit  aX  the  oj^u  <ja»euieut  'j'^^Uu^  juu, 
Aud  jouud  thy  lowly  tjed, 

ri:-  ■  ■  '  ■■'■ 

i'y..  .  head, 

1-.'  •   -le  of  raiij, 

'J-h-y  ••.■,■,.  , 

While  the  white  euitaius,  waviu;^  Vj  and  : 

•  'louie  ajid  go, 


■.h  1  k.eej/, 


On  the  fjajT'A  : 


'  h  J  kt>ep. 


ai*:'J  to  utter. 


And  \^i  • 


kiudied  souls  iovite. 


Aj:j' 
Th., 
Aju-- 


There  <ain  oowe  xio  sorrow  ;  '>j;- 

The  brow  fjall  >.!ivK  ;-v  shade,  the  eye  no  tears,  '-"  ' 

Forever  y  Haven's  eternal  years  Al 

In  one  •■ .  ■■v^v 

Kor  sin  nor  aj^e  nor  pain  theii'  ehej-uh  Ijtau- 

UJifht.  ■ 

Would  we  <jould  sleep  as  they,  j^ 

So  stainless  and  so  'aijiij,  —  at  rest  with  Thfee,  — 
And  only  wake  in  inijuoi'lality  '. 

liear  us  with  them  away, 
0  nJ^t  : 
To  that  ethereal,  holier,  buyiAer  hei^t. 

OEOt.QE  W.  BtTHV.V 


Th' 
J'e. 
Al  .• 
'J'h.- 


'A  pain. 


u-rth  diu  ; 


■V^'A'KUXSa. 

Sjlkei',  love,  sleep  '. 

The  dusty  day  is  done. 

IjO  '.  from  alar-  the  freshening  breezes  sweep 

Wide  over  groves  of  Wm, 

I><.>wu  fi-om  the  towering  jjalm, 


feet 


J;.  .■ 
Aii' 
TL. 


vjrt  of  way 
•is  no  sin- 


[fi- 


680 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-fh 


U^ 


As  tears  were  in  the  sky  : 

More  heavily  the  sliadows  fall, 

Like  the  black  foldings  of  a  pall, 

Where  juts  the  rough  beam  from  the  -n-all ; 

The  candles  flare 

With  fresher  gusts  of  air  ; 

The  beetle's  drone 

Turns  to  a  dirge-like,  solitary  moan  ; 

Night  deepens,  and  I  sit,  in  cheerless  doubt,  alone. 

EMILY  C.  JUDSON. 


TO  lANTHE,  SLEEPING. 


How  wonderful  is  Death  ! 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
Wlien,  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world  : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful  ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchers 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow, 
That  lovely  outline  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  mai-ble,  perish  ? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ? 
Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme. 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize  ? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chase  th  into  darkness  ? 
AVQl  lanthe  wake  again. 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy. 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life,  and  rapture  from  her  smile  ? 

Yes  !  she  will  wake  again. 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless. 
And  silent  those  sweet  lips. 
Once  breathing  eloquence 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage, 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  cont^ueror. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath, 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed  : 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  prid», 


Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 

A  gentle  start  convulsed  lanthe's  frame  : 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed  ; 
Moveless  awhile  the  dark  blue  orbs  remained. 
She  looked  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch. 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speechless  love. 
And  the  bright-beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY, 


SLEEPLESSNESS. 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring  ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields, white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ; 
I  've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless  ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees. 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee.  Sleep,  by  any  stealth  : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away  : 
Without  thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  ! 


THE  DREAM. 

OuK  life  is  twofold  ;  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 

1  Death  and  existence  :  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 

!  And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality. 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath. 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts. 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils, 
They  do  di\'ide  our  being  ;  they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time. 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity  ; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past,  —  they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future  ;  they  have  power,  — 
The  tyi'anny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not,  —  what  they 

^vill, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that 's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanished  shadows.  —  Ai-e  they  so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?     What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ?  —  The  mind  eon  make 
Substances,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beiugj  brighter  than  have  been,  and  gir« 


-^ 


e^- 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


681 


■^ 


A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
1  woulJ  recall  a  vision  which  I  dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep,  —  for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  yeai's. 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 

Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hUl, 

Green  and  of  a  mild  declivity,  the  last 

As  't  were  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such. 

Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base. 

But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 

Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 

Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 

Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ;  the  hill 

Was  crowned  with  a  peculiar  diadem 

Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed. 

Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 

These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 

Gazing,  —  the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 

Fair  as  herself,  —  but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful  ; 

And  both  were  young,  —  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge. 

The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood  ; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 

Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 

Thi're  was  but  one  belovfed  face  on  earth, 

Aud  that  was  shining  on  him  ;  he  had  looked 

Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away  ; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers  ; 

She  was  his  voice  ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her. 

But  trembled  on  her  words  ;  she  was  his  sight. 

For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers. 

Which  colored  all  his  objects  ;  —  he  had  ceased 

To  live  within  himself  :  she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts. 

Which  terminated  all ;  upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow. 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously,  — his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 

Even  as  a  brother,  —  but  no  more  ;  't  was  much. 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him  ; 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 

Of  .1  tinn-lionore*!  race      It  was  a  name 

W'liirh  I'liiiM'd  liim,  and  yet  pleased  him  not, — 

and  why  ' 
Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved 
Another  ;  even  noiu  she  loved  another, 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood. 
Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  exjiectancy,  and  flew. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 


^- 


Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisaned  ; 

Within  an  auticfue  oratory  stood 

The  boy  of  whom  I  spake  ;  —  he  was  alone. 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  ;  anon 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of ;  then  he  leaned 

Ilis  bowed  head  on    his  hands  and   shook,    as 

't  were 
With  a  convulsion,  —  then  arose  again. 
And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  i[uiet ;  as  he  paused. 
The  lady  of  his  love  re-entered  there  ; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved  ;  she  knew  — 
For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge  —  that  his 

heart 
Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  lie  was  wretidied,  but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  aud  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand  ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  uimtterable  thouglits 
Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came  ; 
He  dropped  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 
Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu. 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles  ;  he  passed 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way  ; 
And  ne'er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold  nuirc 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  m-anhood  ;  in  the  wilils 
(If  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home. 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams ;  he  was  gilt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects  ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer  ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all  ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  .sultriness. 
Couched  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruined  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  reared  them  ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fastened  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man, 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb,  did  watch  the  while. 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumbered  around  : 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful. 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
WTio  did  not  love  her  better  :  in  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his,  —  her  native  home. 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy. 


-^ 


ts-^- 


682 


POKMS  OF  SJiNTLMENT  AND  JiKFLECriON. 


--Q^ 


DiiujjlittM-s  niul  sous  of  lionuty,  —  l)Ut  beliold  I 
I' poll  hci'  I'lH'o  tlu'iv  was  tho  tint  ol'gviol', 
Tho  settlcil  shadow  of  an  inwaiil  stril'o, 
Ami  an  uni|iiii't  di'oopinj;  of  the  oyo, 
As  it'  its  liii  woiv  chuijtiHl  with  umsIuhI  teare. 
Wliat  oonld  horsiiol'  bo  ?— sho  had  all  slii'  loved, 
Ami  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
(.>r  ill-repressed  ulllietiou,  her  pmv  tlioughts. 
What  eoiild  her  grief  be? — slie  had  loved  him 

not. 
Nor  given  liim  eause  to  <leem  himself  beloved, 
Xor  eoiild  he  be  a  part  of  that  whieh  preyed 
Vpon  her  mind  —  a  specter  of  the  past. 

A  ehangi>  eame  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  wanderer  was  retnrneil.  —  1  saw  him  stand 

Uefore  an  altnr  —  with  a  gentle  bride  ; 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  whieh  made 

The  starlight  of  his  boyhood ;  —  ns  he  stood 

Kven  at  the  iiltnr,  o'or  his  brow  there  eame 

The  selfsame  aspeet  and  the  ipiivering  shook 

That  in  the  antiipie  oratory  sliook 

His  Viosom  in  its  solitude  ;  and  then  — 

As  in  that  hour  —  a  moment  o'er  his  faee 

Tho  tjiblet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  tmoed,  —  ami  then  it  faded  as  it  eame, 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  ho  spoke 

Tho  littiug  vows,  but  hoard  not  liis  own  woixls. 

Ami  all  things  reeled  aiwiiul   him  ;   ho  eould 

see 
Not  that  whieh  was,  nor  tiiat  whii'h  should  have 

iH'en,  — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  nccnstomod  Indl, 
And  the  remombei-ed  ehambei^s,  ami  the  place, 
Tho  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertiuning  to  tJnvt  place  and  hour. 
And  hor  who  was  his  destiny,  eamo  bnek 
And  thrust  themselves  betweenhim  and  the  light ; 
What  business  had  they  there  at  sueh  a  time  ■ 

A  change  came  o'er  tho  spirit  of  my  drean\. 
Tho  Indy  of  his  love  ;  —  0,  she  was  ehangeil. 
As  by  the  sickness  of  tho  soul  !  her  niimi 
Had  wandeird  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes. 
They  had  not  their  own  luster,  but  the  look 
Whii'h  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  nueon  of  a  fantastic  ivalm  ;  hor  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  ilisjointed  things. 
And  forms  im)>aliiiible  and  unpereeived 
Of  othei's'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy  ;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madne.ss,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  n  fearful  gift  ; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth, 
AVhich  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 


A  change  eame  o'er  tho  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wamleit'r  was  alone  as  herotofou'. 
The  beings  whieh  surrounded  him  wore  gone, 
t)r  wei-e  at  war  with  him  ;  ho  was  a  nuirk 
For  blight  and  desolation,  compassed  round 
With  hatreil  and  contention  ;  pain  was  mixed 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  Idm,  until. 
Like  to  the  Tontic  monarch  of  old  days, 
lie  fed  on  poi.sons,  and  they  had  no  power, 
ISut  wei-o  a  kind  of  nutriment  ;  he  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 
.'Vnd  nnulo  him  friends  of  mountains  ;  with  the 

stars 
And  the  ipiiek  Spirit  of  the  universe 
He  held  his  dialogues  j  ami  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  nnigie  of  their  mysteries  ; 
To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  opened  wide, 
.\nd  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revealed 
.\  marvel  and  a  secret.  —  lie  it  so. 

My  dream  was  past ;  it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  oixler,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  ci'eatui'es  shouhl  be  thus  traced  out 

.Mmost  like  a  i-eality,  —  tho  one 

To  end  in  madness  —  both  in  misery. 

LOKU  BVRON. 


CHASTITY. 

Thk  morning  pearls 

l>ropt  in  the  lilv's  spotless  Ixisoin 

Are  less  chastely  cold, 

Kre  the  meridian  sun 

Has  kis.sed  them  into  heat. 

WILL  CUAMUUkLAVNB. 


Wori.D  Wisdom  for  hei'self  ho  wooed. 

And  wake  tho  foolish  from  his  dream, 
She  must  bo  glad  as  well  as  good, 

.\ud  must  not  only  be  but  seem. 
Beauty  and  joy  an'  heiN  by  right ; 

.'\nd,  knowing  this,  1  wonder  less 
That  she  's  so  scorned,  when  falsely  diglit 

In  misery  and  ugliness. 
What 's  that  which  Heaven  to  man  endeai-s, 

.\nd  that  which  eyes  no  .sooner  see 
Than  the  heart  says,  with  floods  of  teai-s, 

".Ml !  that's  tho  thing  which  1  would  be"? 
Not  childhood,  full  of  tears  ami  fret; 

Not  youth,  impatient  to  di-^own 
Those  visions  high  which  to  forget 

Wero  woi^o  than  never  to  have  known,  — 
Not  these  ;  but  souls  found  here  ami  their, 

Oa.ses  in  our  waste  of  sin. 


& 


-S 


f 


POEMS  OF  HKNTIMKNT  ASIJ  UKFLIiC'l'lON. 


i;83 


■a 


W)ji!(i  i;yi!ryUiiii^  Ix  wi^ll  ;ii«<l  I'aii, 

AimI  'j')il  ic-Hiila  his  iliacijiliin!, 
WJujso  »wi!<;t  »iil>ilu;tl  of  tl)i;  wojI/1 

Till!  wo)l<lliii({  w;ar'«(  can  \ivjtfff\v/M  ; 
And  ii'Ji':ij|i!,  agiiij)*t  il  liuilwl, 

lJio|j»  witti  ii  tdokeii  Mtiug  and  ili>ja. 
'J'lujy  liv<!  lyy  law,  not  lik<;  l,)i<;  lool, 

lint  )ik<;  tin;  ImiiI  wIid  Cnwly  liingn 
III  siri' t/'^il,  Ik/ii<I«  of  rliyiii':  .ui'l  ml';, 

Ami  (iiids  ill  tfii:ni  not  l)Oiiil«  but  win;{is. 


Koii  wl/y,  who  writes  Bach  libitorics  a«  tlwiw! 
iJoUi  oftiiii  t)iin({  till!  ii.'iKlnr'ii  hi«ilt  sii<:h  i::k*:, 
Aa  whi!ii  tli<;y  nit  and  S"*  wluit  In;  ilotli  noU;, 
Willi  fare  his  lujart,  Bay  th<!y,  thi«  l^ook  lliat  wiot"; 


Uli  that  many  IjokeH  ri;'ly», 
<,'iinnyinf{";  hIwII  Ik;  I«, 
Wy»i;/lonn!  i«  S'^omj  eaiijjht; 
In  ni/iny  ieui;)*  it  in  wij^ht ; 
lint  nloiith,  tliat  no  Ixjki;  lK;iight, 
For  VV.UVIM  tiikelh  no  thought; 
ilia  thiyfUs  conuilh  l«hynde. 

Amowvmous. 


[g-.- 


liKitnu),  till}  Fairy  cri<;'l, 

I'.ilmyia'rt  luini;'!  jiala/wii  I  — 

IJeliold  wliuii;  gianileur  frowncl  I 
lielioM  when:  i)l<;a»ciiij  «inil<-^l ! 

What  now  jeniaina  I  —  tin;  memory 
Of  wnwIeKunesK  and  nhami;,  — 
What  in  immoital  theie  ? 
N'olhiiig,  —it  Ktaiiilii  Ut  tcdl 
A  inelan';hoIy  talc,  Uj  give 
An  awful  warning  :  soon 

Ohlivion  will  Ht<;al  silently 
The  remnant  of  it«  fame. 
lHonarelia  and  wnijueroin  the-re 

Prouil  over  jirostrati;  millions  ti'^l,  — 

The  eailh'iijjikes  of  tlie  human  iiii:<! ; 

Like  them,  forgotten  when  the  riii;i 
That  nwrks  their  shoek  is  jxist. 
IJesido  the  eUirnal  Nile 
The  (lyramidx  liave  ri»«;n. 

Nile  shall  (dii-sue  his  ehangehrtis  way  ; 
Thoss  pyramids  iihall  iail  ; 

yi;a,  not  a  stone  shall  st;»i)d  tii  tell 
Tlie  Bjjot  v/iutri-xm  they  (stood  ; 


Their  very  sit^;  sliall  U;  lorgottwi, 
An  hi  llu;ir  huihl<:r's  naim; ! 

There  's  not  one  atom  of  yon  uuHh 

IJut  onw  was  living  man  ; 
No)'  the  minutest  droji  of  lain, 
Tliat  langeth  in  its  thinnest  eWini, 
lint  (lowi;il  in  human  veins  ; 
And  from  llix;  huining  (ilaina 
Wheii-  l,yhi;in  nioii;>ti:is  yell, 
From  the  most  gl</<(iny  glenji 
Of  'iiwnland's  sunless  elime, 
To  where  tlji;  golden  lieMs 
Of  fertile  Knghilid  s|)ie;i/l 
Tlii;!!  harvi-st  t<i  the  iJay, 
Thou  eaiist  not  find  one  s|>ot 
When;*/!!  no  eity  stoi^l. 

How  strange  in  hunwn  |)iide  ! 
I  ti;ll  thi;!!  that  thosi;  living  tilings. 
To  whom  the  fragile  hhi/le  of  grass, 
Tliat  springeth  in  the  nioiii 
And  jjerishes  ere  infiii, 
Is  an  unl<ouiidi,<l  world,  -- 
I  ti;ll  thi;<:  tlial  lliosi;  viewless  Ixjings, 
Winrn-  mansion  i*  the  smallest  jjartiele 
Of  the  iin|Ki»sivc  atniimjihere, 
Think,  f<«l,  and  live,  like  man  ; 
Tluit  their  alfeeti/jiis  and  antipatlii/js, 
1/ike  his,  produee  the  L-iws 
Killing  their  moral  sUrle  ; 
And  the  miniiUfst  throh 
That  Ihroijgh  their  frame  i|i(fus<;s 
The  sliglit/!st,  faint/;st  motion, 
Is  lix<;'l  and  indLS|K;nsahli; 
A,s  the  niajiwtie  laws 
Tlwt  rule  yon  rolling  ort/s. 

I-I.K/;/  Iiy:»SHB  HUKU.IiV, 


EKVIVAI. 

How  fresh,  0  J/ird,  hov/  swei;!  and  elean 

Aril  thy  returns  ;  even  lun  the  flowera  in  spring  ; 

'J'o  whieh,  Ixjsides  theii  own  demean, 
Tlu!  latis-icist  frosts  tiihut';*  'A  plea«ure  bring. 

Oi  i<;f  melts  away 

I,iki!  SHOW  in  Jlay, 
Aj)  if  tliere  were  no  soiih  <X)ld  thing. 

Who  would  have  thou;;ht  my  »hrivel<;'l  h/«trt 
Could  have  ni-jiV'tivA  gre<;nness  ?     It  was  gone 

Quif!  underground  ;  as  flowers  dejjart 
To  M!':  their  mother  root,  when  they  have  blown  ; 

Where  tlxjy  together 

All  the  hard  weather, 
Dead  Uj  the  world,  keep  hoose  unknown. 


-3 


lil: 


684 


IVJiMH  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  JiJ':FlEvriON. 


tt] 


AikI  now  in  iigo  I  luitl  ii^'iiin  ; 
Allor  so  nmnv  ilciitlis  1  Uvo  luul  writo  ; 
1  on>v  ni.Mv  Miu'll  lli,-  .l.nv  iind  lain, 
Aii.l  ivlisli  MTsniK  :   O  "iv  only  UfiUt. 
U  ,'aiu...l  1.,. 
riial   I  Mill  li.< 
On  wlu.ui  lliv  l,Mi.|u'sts  Ml  nil  niKlitl 


YU880UF. 

A  STKANdKU  I'liiuo  ouo  night  to  Y\is,soiit"s  trnl, 
Siiyinj;,  "  IVlioUl  ono  oiitou.st  ami  in  divml, 
A^'iiinst  wIkwo  lit'i'  tlu>  Ivow  of  juiwoi'  is  bent, 
Willi  llios.  iiml  Imtli  not  wluMo  to  lay  his  hoiiil  ; 
1  ronii-  lo  111.'.'  I'or  sh.'U,<r  im.l  foi-  I'o'inl, 
To  Vussoiir.  oiilUM   tluouol,  „11  ,„„•  i,il„.s   ''riu. 

loHKi.'" 

"'niistoiit  is  mint","  said  Ynssoiil',  ■•luit  uonioiv 

'I'lviin  it  is  (uhI's  ;  oouio  in,  anil  \v  ii(  pi'iu'i- ; 

Kivi'lv  shalt  thon  iwrliiko  of  all  niv  sloiv 

As  1  ot  His  who  huihh.th  ovoithi'so 

(Hir  Iculs  liis  jjlorioiis  mot' ol'  iiifjht  iiml  ilay, 

An.l  at  whoso  .toor  nou.'  ovi'i-  yrl  liciuxl  Nay," 

^o  Vnssoiif  oiitinlaimHl  his  guost  that  nij;ht, 
Anil,  wukinj;  hin\  oiv  day,  said  :  •'  lloi-<'  is  gold, 
My  sw  it'tt'st  hoi'so  is  saddlod  lor  thy  llight, 
Oi'|wit  hi't'oro  tho  piyinj;  day  gixnv  holil." 
As  ono  lamp  lights  aiiolhi'i,  nor  givws  loss, 
S(.i  uohlonoss  onkindloth  nohlonoss. 

That  inwai\l  light  tho  stmngi'i's  I'aotunndogiainl, 
Whiohshiiu'sl'i-oni  allsoll'-oomiuost ;  knooling  low, 
111'  I'owod  his  hiu'lirad  njioii  Yvissoufs  hand, 
Sohhing  ;  "0  Shi'ik,  1  oaniiol  limvo  thoo  so  ; 
1  will  ii'|>av  thi'o  ;  all  this  thon  hast  dono 
Int..  thai  'll.rahini  w  ho  slrw  thy  son!" 

"  Tako  thiii'o  thi.gold,"  said  YnssonI',  "t'oi'  with 

thoo 
Into  tho  dosovt,  nmor  to  ivtnrn. 
My  ono  hlaok  Ihonght  shall  ridi>  away  fivni  mo ; 
Kii'st-hoin,  foe  whom  hy  day  and  night  I  yoarn, 
llaliinoi'd  and  just  an'  all  of  (!od's  dtn'ivos  ; 
Thon  art  avi'ng<'il,  n\y  lii'st-lvrn,  sloop  in  (lonoo !" 
.U^n^s  Ki'ssui.i.  l.owmx. 


VANITY. 


y- 


TuK  SUM  I'onu's  np  and  llu'  sun  g\it's  down. 

And  day  and  night  aiv  tho  same  as  ono  ; 

Tho  yoai  glows  givon,  and  thoyoar  givws  brown, 

And  what  is  it  all,  whon  all  is  done  I 

11  rains  of  sonilvr  or  shining  sand. 

Gliding  into  and  out  of  tho  hand. 


And  men  go  down  in  ships  to  tho  noiu. 
And  a  hmiilii.il  shi|>s  art.  tho  samo  as  ono  ; 
And  buikwanl  and  forward  blows  tho  biiiojo, 
And  whul  is  it  till,  whon  all  is  donu  ( 
A  tido  « ith  noYor  a  ahoro  in  aight 
tii'lting  stoadily  on  lo  tho  night. 

Till.  Il-.lur  di.'pp.lh  his  ml  ill  tho.-tivam. 
And  a  liiinilri..l  stii'Miiis  aii.  iht'  saiiio  as  ono  ; 
Anil  tho  niaidoii  dioamoth  hor  lovo  lit  dioani, 
And  what  is  it  all,  whon  all  is  dono  ( 
Tho  ml  ..r  I  ho  lishor  tho  bunion  broaks, 
And  nl«:i\  tho  dioaining  tho  divanior  wakos. 


MAHIVIOUD. 

TllKlilt  oanio  a  man,  making  his  hasly  moan 
lioi'oro  tho  Siiltaii  Mahnioiid  on  his  liiiouo. 
And  orying  out,  "  My  sorrow  is  iiis  right. 
And  1  'ii'ill  soo  tho  Si'illiitl,  and  to-iiighl." 
"  Sorrow,"  sahl  Mahmoiid,  "is  a  rovoioiid  thing: 
1  ri'oognizo  its  right,  as  king  with  king  ; 
Spoak  on,"     "A  lionil  has  got  into  my  hon.so," 
Kxolaiiiiod  tho  sHiriiig  man,  '•  and  tortinos  us,  — 
0\w  of  thiuo  otlioors  ;  ho  ooiiios,  tho  abhonvd. 
And  tako,s  possossion  of  my  lionso,  my  board. 
My  bod  ;  —  1  havo  two  danghtora  and  a  w  ih', 
;\iid  tho  wild  villain  oomos  and  makos  nio  imid 

wiih  lllo." 
"Is  ho   Ihon.    now  ("  said  Mahmoud.      "No; 

ho  loft 
'IMio  honso  whon  1  diil,  of  my  wits  bon.ft, 
And  laugliod  mo  down  tho  stit'ot.  booau.so  1  vowoil 
I'd  bring  tho  priiuo  himsolf  to  lay  him  in  his 

shniiid. 
1  'm  mad  with  want,  1  'm  ma.l  with  misorv. 
And,  O  llum  Siilian  Mahmoud.  (loil  olios  out  for 

thoo!" 

Tho  Sultan  oomfortod  tho  man,  and  said, 
"  Do  homo,  and  1  will  sond  thoo  wino  and  broad  " 
(I'or  ho  was  poor^  "  and  othor  ooinforts.     l5o  ; 
And  should  tho  wrotoh  return,  lot  Sultan  Mah- 
moud know." 

In  throo  days' timo,  with  liagganl  oyos  and  beaiti, 

And  shakon  voioo,  tho  suitor  n'appoarod. 

And  said,  "  llo  's  oomo."      Mahmoud  said  not  « 

wonl, 
l>ut  n>so  and  took  four  slavos,  oaoh  with  a  sword. 
And  wont  with  tho  voxod  man.     Thov  roaoh  tho 

plaoo. 
And  hoar  a  voioo,  and  soo  a  woman's  faoo, 
That  to  tho  window  tluttorod  in  alfright  : 
"  (Join,"  .said  Mahmoud,  "  and  put  out  tho  light ; 
Uul  toll  tho  fomaloa  tirst  to  loavo  tho  niom 
And  whon  thodrunkanl  follows  thorn. 


,  wo  oonio. "     L 


tlMWfjfjh. 

W/tfK.ljJ%    H'jVK    At    C<M>-,WI>/», 
'■A^<m.laU  elm.  Mi  hun^r.^lh  ,mr.  Llu,d.^,„.  „Mh  /,/,  f„u^lM,  ,^, 

Wh,,  vM.  an  annual  ring,  ^dl.  ,W  f/)^^,  ^„„  ,;,,  J„^,^,„,  ,.„,„ 


r 


I'OEMS  OF  SEXTIMLXT  AMJ  REfLECTIOS. 


685       \ 


The  man  went  iu.     There  van  a  cry,  and  hark  ! 
A  talje  falls,  tlie  window  i»  /struck  "Jark  ; 
Forth  rush  the  breatblbss  women  ;  and  behind 
With  curses  cornes  the  fiend  in  desperate  mind. 
In  vain  :  the  saUjrs  soon  cut  short  the  strife, 
And  choj)  the  shrieking  wretch,  and  drink  his 
blooily  life. 

"Xow  li/jhl  the  light,"  the  Sultan  cried  aloud  ; 
'T  was  done  :  he  took  it  in  his  hand  and  Ijowed 
Over  the  coi7>s(;,  and  !ooke<l  uj«n  the  isux  ; 
Then  tumcl  and  kneit,  and  Pj  the  throne  of  gia/,e 
Put  up  a  prayer,  and  from  his  lijis  then,-  crept 
Sf^me  gentle  words  of  pleasure,  and  he  wept. 

In  reverent  silence  the  beholders  wait, 
ITien  bring  him  at  his  call  both  wine  and  meat  ; 
And  when  he  ha<l  refreshed  his  noble  heart, 
He  Wle  his  host  lie  blest,  and  rose  up  t/j  dejart. 

The  man  amazed,  all  mildness  now  and  tears. 
Fell  at  the  Sultan's  feet  with  many  prayers. 
And  >xigge<l  him  to  vouchsafe  to  tell  his  slave 
The  reason  first  of  tbat  command  he  gave 
Alwut  the  light ;  th<m,  when  he  saw  the  lace. 
Why  he  knelt  down  ;  and  la.stly,  how  it  was 
That  fare  so  poor  as  his  detained  him  in  the  place. 

'ITie  .Sultan  said,  with  a  V^nignant  eye, 
".Since  first  I  saw  thee  come,  and  heard  thy  en', 
I  could  not  rid  me  of  a  dread,  tliat  one 
By  whom  such  daring  villanies  were  done, 
Must  be  some  lord  of  mine,  —  ay,  e'en  perhaps 

a*OT. 
For  this  I  had  the  light  put  out :  but  when 
I  saw  the  face,  and  found  a  stranger  slain, 
f  knelt  and  thanked  the  sovereign  Arbiter, 
Whose  work  1  ha/1  performed  through  jjain  and 

fear  ; 
And  then  I  rose  and  was  refreshed  with  fooil. 
The  first  time  since  thy  voice  had  marred  my 

solitude." 


ABRAM  ANT)  ZnSBl. 

Abeam  and  Ziniri  own':<i  a  field  together, — 
A  level  field  hid  in  a  happy  vale  ; 
They  plowed  it  with  one  plow,  and  in  the  spring 
S'jwed,  walking  side  by  side,  the  fruitful  seeil. 
In  harvest,  when  the  glad  earth  smileilwith  grain. 
Each  carried  to  his  home  one  half  the  sheaves, 
Anfi  stored  them  with  much  labor  in  his  Ijams, 
Xow,  Abram  had  a  wife  and  seven  sons. 
But  Zimri  dwelt  alone  within  his  house. 


tL 


One  night,  before  the  sheaves  were 
As  Zimri  lay  upon  his  lonely  be<i 


in. 


And  counteti  in  his  mind  his  little  gains, 
He  thought  uj^'jn  his  brother  Abrams  lot, 
;\nd  sai'l,  "  I  dwell  alone  within  my  hous^ 
liut  Abram  hath  a  wife  and  seven  sous. 
And  yet  we  share  the  harvest  sheaves  alike. 
He  surely  needeth  more  for  life  than  I  ; 
I  will  arise,  and  gird  myself,  and  go 
Down  to  the  field,  and  add  to  his  from  mine." 

So  he  arose,  and  girded  up  his  loins, 

And  went  out  softly  to  the  level  field  ; 

The  moon  shone  out  from  dusky  Ijars  of  clou'ls. 

The  trees  stoo<i  bla/.k  against  the  cold  bUie  sky. 

The  blanches  wavisd  and  whisjjcred  in  the  winiL 

i>i  Zimri,  guide<J  by  the  shifting  light. 

Went  dowTi  the  mountain  j/atli,  and  found  the 

fiel.l. 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generotis  third. 
And  Ijore  them  gla'lly  to  his  brother's  heap, 
And  then  went  t;a<;k  t/j  sleep  and  happy  dreams. 

Xow,  that  same  ii-,-  lay  in  Wl, 

Thinking  ujion  hi  life. 

He  thought  u[)on  .  /      ri's  lot, 

And  saii  "  He  dwells  v,Uuui  jiis  house  alone, 
He  goeth  forth  to  toil  with  few  to  help. 
He  goeth  home  at  night  Uj  a  cold  house. 
And  hath  few  other  frieuils  but  me  and  mine  " 
fFor  these  two  tilled  the  liappy  vale  alone), 
"While   I,  whom   Heaven    hath  ver)'  greatly 

blessed, 
Dwell  liappy  with  my  wife  and  seven  sons. 
Who  aid  me  in  my  toil  and  make  it  light. 
And  yet  we  sliare  the  harvest  sheaves  alike. 
This  surely  is  not  pleasing  unto  G<A  : 
I  will  arise,  and  gird  myself,  and  go 
Out  to  the  field,  and  l/orrow  from  my  store. 
And  a<ld  unto  my  brother  Zimri's  pile." 

.So  he  arose  and  ginled  up  his  loins. 
And  went  down  s<jftly  to  the  level  field  ; 
Tlie  moon  shone  out  from  silver  bars  of  clouds. 
The  trees  stoo'l  blank  against  the  starry  sky. 
The  dark  lea  ves  wave<l  and  whij!j>cre<l  in  the  breeze. 
So  Abram,  guidcl  by  the  doubtful  light, 
Pajised  down  the  mountain  jjath  and  found  the 

fiebl. 
Took  from  his  store  of  .sheaves  a  generous  third. 
And  a<lded  them  unto  his  brother's  heap  ; 
Then  be  went  back  to  sleep  and  happy  'ireama. 

.So  the  ne.xt  morning  with  the  early  sun 
The  brothers  rose,  and  went  out  to  their  toil ; 
And  when  they  came  to  see  the  heavy  sheave. 
Each  wondered  in  his  heart  t'l  find  his  heap. 
Though  lie  had  given  a  third,  was  still  the  same. 

Xow,  the  next  night  went  Zimri  to  the  fieM, 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  share. 


.^3 


«i^ 


J*^Ut.V^^  <\F  AtiSriMXSr  U,Yi>  KKrUti^TiUX. 


---a 


.\»vi  (4m«\)  <)M4ft  v^  ttv$  Wv^Wr  AlvdNmNi  Vmi)^    )  *^TKv^t  tk»$.i  sw^i  ilMl  wiMr  wy  Kii^  iji>  till  t)t# 


VV^^,\  '^^^  '.hV  V  >i>^«v*. 


»»«*«■  v\t"  tjM>«  v-^m 


Ttw*  A^»5*  v'www  vV,***  Sk>A^>  tViw  Uis  Kvmnms, 


.•.H«.  »»yj  tiSaMK«\i  «lwir  i^xl  i* 


HJk.tUitVVU>(. 


A*vi  six'  >l>.>isfei«~s  &fj;v  v»W  Wi  U»  c«\»*»i\^    t\ 

\V5\"«J  >KVi!«.  A- 


VVVWYW   SaOYvl   \ttttS«    <VUVAi» 

KSv-«t\Kl,»  V>t»X»\tX  TSViWH, 


Ai^H-  Rks  AlxMKV  ^>»*>  feis  Milv  hhty*s*  !^ 
A'   '  '  l\is  i\vj»v 


hiN»vi, 


"  A". .■  ■*  ■.•.•.•■,■,;■  oi-.e  ? "  $iMvi  AKm,    " >v»j\  u\»»  a\" 
K.  ■  AK>«  $)y>)k*  »HMw  lv»»\ 

l^  .«ivl  s*iil.  "  I  \v»v  ?k«<v.  «h<«, 

W; -^  ,..„  .^;,jt<  K«Y««  )ki$  )MV.»iMKt««,'' 

>i  -f^s  !t>rK  *»^  wro*^  SUM  v»tt*sJK\V    T»«  »*st  tt^t 

^^  V .  a^  wiuiv-  Ot*  >    nvvM  xf  tlw  <«v^Att  Jt>    ''  >■■*»**  s^SttK^  WW^  *  S'<*»  ■vw>k*«injt  l^(> 

■^Z      '       ^         *   T^  A»\l  sWkicinJ  «>«»>  t»utt1^$  »lh,>iu  low  v^"  Owl  Wl 

Siw  ;<a^«$«v)  «lw  l«»xy«»»  —  «»   -^*^^  ^^  '  *^  Av«»i«'*  «««t*  W  *tt  tk*  ws«  ! 


iMka*  H\'ST- 


..  ,v    ,\^j,-,  .V  svtJwvi  Mowjvsss  v5>,i  «l««  V.>»*iY 


A   >"5SA.lJll   OV   liVK 


.-vjtk  !tN»if«.  K>s«  »aki.l  «1(*  l««a- 


Tst. 

I 


U,  \  j^^^itt. 


C3-, 


A*.?  sK*  sps»vv  is  sh.>«  i«s  s^>l»^ ; 

r>8S«  ;feoil  Skit,  tV>  *»S»  W^KJWiSfc, 

Is  o«r  \)<!««i«K\t  «**,i  OJT  «*y  ; 
B«»  tv»  an."*,  rt«l  Hack  tvv4»>,'>nv>w 


rl 


r 


fo^m  oif  HK-TitiMKUt  AMh  uHrhK/nr, 


J^r«w  •/  /• 


Vv.- 


■j>irji  sv/Ss.*?, 


I.«i  w,  'i^A,  '^  v^  sau?  iwi^ 


•  .^  sait  i«sa.  : 


-.aj-,  iriair  nj^-; 


^ 


vt  tiuui  •tHava:^^  •*:  "Afjs.  ',*f^ 


a- 


688 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


^-a 


& 


What  thougli  not  bid  to  knightly  halls  ? 

Those  liiUls  liavp  missed  u  eouitly  guest ; 
That  mansion  is  not  privilegod, 

Which  is  not  open  to  the  best. 

Give  honor  due  when  custom  asks, 
Nor  wrangle  for  this  lesser  claim  ; 

1 1  is  not  to  he  destitute, 
To  have  the  thing  without  the  name. 

Thou  dost  thou  come  of  gentle  blood, 
IMsgracc  not  thy  good  company  ; 

If  lowly  born,  so  lieav  thyself 

That  gentle  blood  may  come  of  thoo. 

Strive  not  with  pain  to  scale  the  height 
Of  some  fair  garden's  petty  wall. 

But  climb  the  open  mountain  side. 
Whose  sumndt  rises  over  all. 

E.  s.  H. 


CORONATION. 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 

Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 
Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 

Tlu'  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned  then, 
A  beggar  went,  and  laughed,  "This  brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand  ; 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"Poor  man,  what  wouldst  tho\i  have  of  me!" 
The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying, 

Keplied,  like  one  in  dream,  "  Of  thee. 
Nothing.     I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  oil"  the  crown,  and  threw  it  by. 

"  0  man  !  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 
"  A  greater  king  than  I." 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then. 
Went  king  and  beggar  haml  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "  Shall  I  know  when 
Refore  Itis  throne  I  stand ! " 

The  beggar  laughed.  Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

Tlie  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 
"  This  is  his  presence  now." 


At  the  king's  gate  the  crafty  noon 

Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 
Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 

The  guai-ds  waked  ono  by  one. 

"  Ho  here  !     Ho  there  !     Has  no  man  seen 
The  king  ? "     The  cry  ran  to  and  fro ; 

Beggar  and  king,  they  laughed,  1  ween. 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray  ; 

The  king  came  not.    They  called  him  ilcad ; 
And  made  his  cltK'st  son  one  day 

Slave  in  his  liitlicr's  stciid. 

HRLKN   lU'NT. 


THE  DISGUISED  MAIDEN. 

FKOM  "rHn.ASTER." 

1  voi'NP  him  sitting  by  a  fountain-side. 
Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
.\nd  i>aid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 
.•\  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself. 
Of  many  several  (lowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
llelighted  me  :  but  ever  when  he  turned 
His  tender  eyes  upon  them  he  would  weep. 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  them  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  asked  him  all  his  story. 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died. 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields. 
Which  gave  him  roots  ;  and  of  the  crystal  springs. 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses  ;  and  the  sun, 
Wliichstill,  he  thankcdhim,  yielded  hinihislight. 
Then  took  he  up  his  garland,  and  did  show 
What  every  llower,  as  country  people  hold. 
Did  signify  ;  and  how  all,  ordered  thus. 
Expressed  his  grief  ;  and  to  my  thoughts  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wished  ;  so  thatmetliought  1  could 
Have  studied  it.     1  gladly  entertained  him, 
Who  was  as  glad  to  follow. 

BEAl'MO.NT  AND  FLUTCHtK. 


'T  IS  a  little  thing 
To  give  a  cup  of  water  ;  yet  its  draught 
Of  cool  refreshment,  drained  by  fevered  lips, 
May  give  a  shock  of  jdeasure  to  the  frame 
More  exquisite  than  when  nectarean  juice 
Kenews  the  life  of  joy  in  happier  hours. 
It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 
Of  common  comfort  which  by  daily  use 


-^ 


a-- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


689 


,-a 


«-.- 


Has  almost  lost  its  sense,  yet  on  the  ear 
Of  him  who  thought  to  die  unmoiinicJ  't  will  fall 
Like  choicest  music,  fill  the  glazing  eye 
With  gentle  tears,  relax  the  knotted  hand 
To  know  the  honds  of  fellowship  again  ; 
And  shed  on  tlie  dei)arting  soul  a  sense 
More  jjrecious  than  the  henison  of  friends 
About  the  honored  death -bed  of  the  rich 
To  hini  who  else  w«re  lonely,  that  another 
Of  the  great  family  is  near  and  feels. 

SIR  THOMA-S  Nuu.N  TALl'QURO. 


FIRST  LOVE. 

FROM  "  DON  JUA.N." 

'T  IS  sweet  to  hear, 
At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep, 

The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier. 

By  distance  mellowed,  o'er  the  waters  sweep  ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear  ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 

From  leaf  to  leaf  ;  't  is  sweet  to  view  on  high 

The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

'T  is  sweet  to  hoar  the  watch  dog's  honest  bark 
Bay  ileop-mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near 
liome  ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  be  awakened  by  the  lark. 

Or  hdled  by  falling  waters  ;  sweet  the  hum 

Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  Inrds, 

The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  gra[)e3 
In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth. 

Purple  and  gushing  :  sweet  are  our  escapes 
From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 

Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps  ; 
Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  (irst-bom's  birth  ; 

Sweet  is  revenge,  —  especially  to  women. 

Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

'T  is  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels. 
By  blood  or  ink  ;  't  is  sweet  to  put  an  end 

Tostrife;  't  is  sometimessweettoh.aveouniuarrels. 
Particularly  with  a  tiresome  friend  ; 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  larrels  ; 
Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 

Against  the  world  ;  and  dear  the  school-boy  spot 

We  ne'er  forget,  thougli  there  we  are  forgot. 

But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  all. 
Is  first  and  jiassionate  love,  — it  stands  alone. 

Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  fall  ; 

The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  plucked,  — all 's 
known,  — 


And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 

Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown. 
No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 
Fire  which  Prometheus  filched  for  us  from  heaven. 

LORU  BVKOA 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST  ;   OR,   THE  POWER  OF 

MUSIC. 


'T  WAS  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
liy  Philip's  warlike  son  : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne  : 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around. 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  niyjtles  bound 
(So  should  ilesert  in  arms  be  crowned) ; 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  si.le. 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  hap[)y,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  Init  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


HnppD,  hiippii,  h-npjnj  pair  I 
N'nie  Imt  llw  brave, 
None  but  the  fjravc, 
Nmic  but  the  bravn  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre  ; 
The  trembling  notes  a.scend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  .Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  almve 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  foi-m  belied  the  goil  : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode. 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  (iressed, 
Ami  while  he  sought  her  snowj'  breast ; 
Then  roumi  her  slender  waUt  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign 

of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity !  they  shout  around  ; 
A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarcli  hears, 
Assum((S  the  god, 
AlTects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


-S 


[&: 


690 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


n 


With  ravished  cars 
The  nwnarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician 
sung, 
Of  Bacchus  —  ever  fair  and  ever  young  : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ; 
Sound  the  trumpets  ;  beat  the  drums  : 
Flushed  with  a  pm'plo  grace 
Ho  shows  his  lionest  face  : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath.     He  comes  !  he 
comes  ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  yoimg. 

Drinking  joys  did  fii-st  oniain  ; 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasuj'e. 

Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  ; 

Kicli  the  treasure. 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  ; 

liich  the  treasure. 

Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed    with    the    sound    the    king    grew 
vain  ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'ei'  again  ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he 
slew  the  slain. 
Tlic  master  saw  the  madness  rise  ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  eartli  deticd, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse. 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius,  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate. 

And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below  ; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


Hcvolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  varients  turns  of  chance  below  ; 

And,  nme  and  t/icn,  a  sigh  he  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree  ; 
'T  was  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move. 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Honor,  but  an  empty  bubljle  ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying  : 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  0,  think  it  worth  enjoying  ! 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause  ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
(iazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  (he  fair 
Jl'ho  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  tcint  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  lovider  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head  ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead. 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge  !  revenge  !  Timotheus  cries. 
See  the  furies  arise  ! 
See  tlie  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  ! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  areGrcrian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain. 
Inglorious  on  the  jilain  : 


-^ 


r 


I'UEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


691 


-a 


t&^- 


Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiaut  crew. 
Behold  liow  tliey  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  tlie  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods  ! 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy  ; 
And  thekingseizedaflam  beau  withzealto  destroy : 

Thais  led  the  waj'. 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy  ! 


And  the  kitig  seizeda  Jiavibcaictcithyjul  todestroy ; 

Thais  led  live  way, 

To  light  him  Co  his  pre;/, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  aiwt/wr  Troy  I 

Thus,  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
WhUe  organs  yet  w'ere  mute  ; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
I  nven tress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With    nature's   mother-wit,  and   arts   unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  jdeld  the  piize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies. 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

GKAN'D    CHORUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from,  her  scared  store. 
Enlarged  the  former  'narrow  bounds, 
And  added  lemjth  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  nature's  m/jther-vjit,  and  arts  unknovm 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crovm  ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 

She  drew  an  angel  dozen. 

John  dr^tjen. 


INVOCATION. 

FROM   "THE  DAVIDEIS." 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre  ! 
And  tell  thy  silent  master's  humble  tale 
In  sounds  that  may  prevail  ; 
Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire  : 
Though  so  exalted  slie. 


And  I  so  lowly  be, 

Tell  her,  such  different  notes  make  all  thy  har- 
mony. 

Hark  ]  how  the  strings  awake  : 

And,  though  the  moving  hand  ajjproach  not  near. 

Themselves  with  awful  fear 

A  kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 

Now  all  thy  forces  try  ; 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply  ; 

Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquests  of  her  eye. 

Weak  Lyre  !  thy  virtue  sure 

Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 

To  cure,  but  not  to  wound. 

And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak,  too,  wilt  thou  prove 

.My  passion  to  remove  ; 

I'liysic  to  other  ills,  thou  'rt  nourishment  to  love. 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre  ! 
For  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble  tale 
In  sounds  that  will  jirevail. 
Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire  ; 
.VU  tliy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 
iiid  thy  strings  silent  lie. 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre,  and  let  thy  master 
die. 

AijRAHAM  Cowley. 


FROM  "TWELFTH  NIGHT." 

DtTKE.    If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on; 
Give  me  excess  of  it,  that,  surfeiting, 
The  apperite  may  sicken,  and  .so  die. 
That  strain  again  —  it  had  a  dying  fall : 
0,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south. 
That  breathes  upon  a  liank  of  violets, 
Stealing,  and  giving  odor. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell. 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell ; 
And  feeling  hearts  —  touch  them  but  rightly  — 

pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 

from  "merchant  op  venice." 

LoKESzo.    How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps 
upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night. 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica  :  look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 


[fi- 


692 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


--a 


& 


Is  tliick  iiiluii.1  with  piitiiies  of  bright  gold  : 
There's  not  the  smnllest  orb  wliich   thou  be- 

holii'st, 
But  in  liis  motion  lilio  iiu  iingel  sings, 
Still  iiuiring  to  tin'  young-eyed  eherubins  ; 
Such  liannony  is  in  immortal  souls  : 
13ut  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  deeny 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  wc  cannot  hear  it. 

JkssICA.     1  am  never  merry  when  1  hear  sweet 

nuisic. 
Lou.    The  rea.son  is  your  sjiirits  are  attentive. 

Therefore  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  C'rpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and 

Hoods ; 
Since  naught  so  stoekish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage. 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  tliat  hath  no  music  in  himself. 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds. 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  striitagems,  and  spoils  ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  d\dl  a-i  niglit, 
And  his  atl'ections  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

SHAKESPUAKU. 


Jli'sic,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory,  — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  iinicken. 

luise-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
.\re  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

rERCY  BVSSHB  SMELLBV. 


WllKliK  music  dwells 
Lingering,  and  wandering  on,  as  loth  to  die. 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 


Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast, 
To  soften  rocks,  or  bend  a  knotted  oak. 

CONGKBVn. 


THE  PASSIONS. 

AN  ODE  TO    MUSIC. 

AViiEN  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young. 
While  yet  in  eai-ly  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft.  to  hear  her  shell, 
Tlironged  aronuil  her  magic  cell, — 


E.xuUing,  Irombling,  rnginj^,  faintin;;,  — 
I'ossessed  beyond  the  muse's  painting  ; 
By  turns  lliey  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 
Till  oni'e,  't  is  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
Fi'om  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sonnd  ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  (lor  madness  ruh'd  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid. 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Ne.\t  Anger  rushed  ;  his  eyes,  on  tiro. 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings  : 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 

And  swept  with  huriicd  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 

Low,  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  beguiled,  — 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air  ; 
'T  was  sad  by  lits,  by  starts  't  was  wild. 

But  thou,  0  Hope,  with  nyes  so  fair,  — 

What  was  thy  delightful  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  I 
Still  wouUl  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 
She  calli'd  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song  ; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,   and  waved  her 

golden  hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung—  but,  with  a  frown, 

Kevenge  impatient  rose  ; 
He  threw  his  blood-stained   sword   in  thuiuUr 
down  ; 
And,  with  a  withering  look. 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
.■\nd  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe  ! 
And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat  ; 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  be- 
tween, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applicii, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  tinaltercd  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  burst- 
ing from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  .Tealousy,  to  naughtwere  ti.xed,  — 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ; 


-ff 


a- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


G9 


^ 


Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed  ; 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  —  now,  raving, 
calli-d  on  Hate. 

Willi  eyes  ujiraised,  as  one  inspired. 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired  ; 
And  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat. 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet. 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive 
soul  : 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
P<ulilpling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ; 
Through  ghulesand  glooms  tlie  mingled  meas- 
ure stole  ; 
Or  o'er  some  haunteil  stream,  with  fond  delay. 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing. 
In  hollow  muiTQurs  died  away. 

Hut  0,  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue. 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung. 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
likw  an   inspiring   air,   that  dale   and   thicket 
rung,  — 
The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known  I 
The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  tlieir  chaste-eyeil 
queen, 
.Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  .seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 
lirown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear  ; 
And  S]ioit  leapt  uji,   and  seized  his  beechen 
siK-ai-. 

I,.ast  came  .Joy's  ecstatic  trial  : 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing. 

First  to  the  lively. pipe  his  hand  addre.st  ; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk-awakening  viol, 
Whosesweet  entrancing  voice  beloved  thebcst ; 

They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain, 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids, 
Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades. 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing. 

While,  as  his  Hying  fingers  kis.sed  the  strings. 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round  ; 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound ; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play. 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay. 

Shook  thou.sand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

0  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid. 
Friend  of  jileasure,  wisdom's  aid  ! 
Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 
You  hamed  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  0  nymph  endeared. 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 


Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art  ? 
Arise,  a.s  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime  ! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age. 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page  ; 
'T  is  said  —  and  I  believe  the  tale  — 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age,  — 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found,  — 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound. 
0,  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease  ; 
Kcvive  the  just  designs  of  Greece  ! 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state,  — 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sous  relate  ! 

wiM.iAH  Collins. 


t&-- 


THE  OLD   VILLAGE  CHOIR. 

I  HAVE  fancied  sometimes  the  Bethel-l«nt  beam 
That  trembled  to  earth  in  the  Patriarch's  dream 
Was  a  ladder  of  song  in  that  wilderness  rest 
From  the  pillow  of  stone  U>  the  blue  of  the  West, 
And  the  angels  descending  to  dwell  with  us  here 
"  Old  Hundred  "  and  "  Corinth  "  and  "  China  " 
and  "  Mear." 

All  the  hearts  are  not  dead,  nor  under  the  sod. 
That  those  breaths  can  blow  ojwn  to  Heaven  and 

floil  ! 
Ah,  ".Silver  Street"  leads  by  a  bright  shining 

nad,— 
0,  not  to  the  hymns  that  in  harmony  flowed. 
But  the  sweet  human  psalms  of  the  old-fashioned 

choir. 
To  the  girl  that  sang  alto,  the  girl  that  sang  air. 
"  Let  us  sing  to  God's  prai.se  !  "  the  minister  .said  ; 
All  the  psalm-books   at  once  fluttered  open  at 

"  York," 
Sunned  their  long  dotted  wings  in  the  words  that 

he  read. 
While  the  leader  leaped  into  the  tune  ju.st  ahead. 
And  politely  picked  up  the  keynote  with  a  fork  ; 
And  the  vicious  old  viol  went  growling  along 
At  the  heels  of  the  girls,  in  the  rear  of  the  song. 

0,  I  need  not  a  wing  ;  —  bid  no  genii  come 
With  a  wonderful  web  from  Arabi.an  loom. 
To  bear  me  .igain  up  the  river  of  Time, 
When  the  world  was  in  rhythm  and  life  was  its 

rhyme. 
And  the  stream  of  the  years  flowed  so  noiseless 

and  narrow 
That  across  it  there  floated  the  song  of  a  sparrow  ; 
For  a  sprig  of  green  caraway  carries  me  there, 
To  the  old  village  church  and  the  old  village  choir. 


-^ 


fi- 


tUU 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMEXT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-a 


Where  dear  of  tJio  lloor  my  feet  slowly  swvuig, 
Aud  UuuhI  the  sweet  jmlso  of  the  praise  as  tliey 

suug, 
Till  the  glory  aslant  from  tlie  iiltOTnoon  sun 
Seenieil  the  raftei's  of  gold  in  God's  temple  begun. 

You  maysmile  at  the  nasals  of  old  Deacon  Bix>wu, 
^\'ho  followed  by  seont  till  he  itm  the  tune  down  ; 
And  dear  Sister  Given,  with  more  gvioitness  thsui 

grace, 
Ixose  and  fell  on  the  tunos  as  slio  stood  in  hor 

place. 
And  where  ' '  Coivnation  "  exultantly  flows. 
Tried  to  reach  the  high  notes  on  the  tijis  of  her 

toes. 
To  the  land  of  the  leal  they  have  gone  with  tlioir 

song, 
Where  the  choir  and  the  cJiorus  together  belong. 
0,  bo  lifted,  ye  Gates  I  Let  me  hear  themngiiin,  — 
Blessed  song,  blessed  singei«,  forever  !     Amen. 

liU.NJ.\Ml.N  1-.  T.\Vl.OK. 


& 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687. 

From  harmony,  fivm  heavenly  harmony. 
This  univei'siil  frame  Ivgan  ; 
When  Natin-e  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay. 
And  could  not  heave  hor  head. 
The  tuneful  voice  was  lieanl  from  high, 

.Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  ! 
Then  cold  luui  hot,  and  moist  and  dry, 
In  oi\ler  to  tlieir  stations  leap. 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  hiinnony,  fivm  heavenly  hiu-mony. 
This  uuivci-sul  fniuui  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony. 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran. 
The  diapason  closing  fnll  in  man. 

What  i«i.ssion  cannot  Music  raise  luid  iiuell  i 
When  .Tnlwl  struck  the  chonled  shell. 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 

.■\nd.  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell. 
To  womhip  that  celcstinl  so\ind. 
Less  than  II  God  tlu-v  thought  theivcould  not  dwell 
Within  the  liollow  of  that  shell. 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  mssion  cannot  Music  raise  and  ipiell  ! 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Fxcites  ns  to  arms. 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

.\nd  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  lieat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries,  Hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge,  't  is  too  lato  to  retreat ! 


The  soft  complaining  lluto 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers. 
Whose  dirge  is  whispeu>d  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  preclaim 
Their  jealous  jmngs,  and  desjwration, 
Fnry,  fiiiutic  indignation, 
DeptJi  iif  jmius,  aud  height  of  jiassion 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

Hut  0,  what  art  can  teach. 
What  hnman  voice  can  reach. 

The  S)\cred  organ's  praise  ! 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love. 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  nu'ud  the  choii-s  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race  ; 
And  ta'ces  uprooted  loft  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre  ; 
Hut  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher  ; 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given. 
All  angil  heanl,  and  straight  appeared 

Mistaking  earth  for  Iieaven. 

GltAND  CHOKtJS. 

Asfiiym  the  potver  o/saci-ed  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move. 
And  muntj  the  ijiviit  Creators  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above  ; 
So,  irhcn  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  parieant  sliall  derour. 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  Music  sh<tll  untune  the  sly. 

John  Drvdbn. 


rKOM  "NIGHT  THOOOHTS." 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man  ! 
How  jmssing  wonder  Ho  who  made  him  such  ! 
Who  centered  in  our  make  such  strange  extrcuu's. 
From  ditl'crcut  mitures  marvelously  mixed. 
Connection  cxiiuisite  of  distant  worlds  ! 
Uistiuguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  l>oity  ! 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied,  and  al>sorpt  1 
Though  sullied  and  dishonoreil,  still  divine  ! 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  nl>soluto  ! 
An  heir  of  glory  !  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 
Helpless  immortal  !  insect  infinite  ! 
A  worm  !  a  god  !  —  1  tremble  at  myself. 
And  in  myself  am  lost.     At  home  a  stranger. 
Thought  wandei-s  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
.Viul  wondering  at  her  own.      How  re<a,son  reels 


-ff 


1 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  UEFLECTION. 


C9," 


^r^ 


0,  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man  ! 
Triumpliantlyilistiesseil !  Wliat  joy !  wliatdrea<l ! 
Alternately  tran«i)orted  and  alaniicd  ! 
Wliat  can  preserve  my  life  ?  or  what  destroy  ? 
An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave ; 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 

EDWAKD  Young. 


MAN  —  WOMAN. 

Man's  home  it  everyvyhere.     On  ocean's  flooiJ, 
Where  the  strong  ship  with  storm-defying  tether 
Doth  link  in  stonny  brotlierliood 
Earth's  utmost  zones  togetlier, 
Where'er  the  red  gold  glows,  the  spice-trccs  wave, 
Where  the  rich  diamond  ripens,  mid  the  llame 
Of  vcrtic  suns  tliat  ope  the  stranger's  grave. 
He  with  bronzed  cheek  and  daring  step  doth 
rove  ; 
Hi',  with  sliort  pang  and  slight. 
Doth  turn  him  from  the  checkered  light 
Of  the  fair  moon  through  his  own  forests  dancing. 
Where  music,  joy,  and  love 

Were  his  young  liouis  entrancing  ; 
And  where  ambition's  thunder-clairn 
Points  out  his  lot. 
Or  fitful  wealth  allures  to  roam, 
There  doth  he  make  his  Iiome, 
Repining  not. 

II  is  not  thus  with  Woman.     The  far  halls, 

Though  ruinous  and  lone. 
Where   first  her  plea.sed  ear  drank  a  nursing- 
mother's  tone  ; 
The  home  witli  humble  walls, 
Where  breathed  a  parent's  prayer  around  her 
bed; 
The  valley  where,  with  playmates  true. 
She  culled  the  strawberry,  bright  witli  dew  ; 
The  bower  where  I-ove  her  timid  footsteps  led ; 
The  hcarthsbme  where  her  children  grew  ; 
The  damp  soil  where  she  cast 
The  flower-seeds  of  her  hope,  and  saw  them  bide 
the  blast,  — 
Affection  with  imfading  tint  recalls, 
Lingering  round  the  ivied  walls. 
Where  every  rose  hath  in  its  cup  a  hee. 

Making  fi-esh  honey  of  remembered  things,  — 
Each  rose  without  a  thoni,  each  bee  bereft  of  stings. 

LVDIA   II.   SlCOURNF.y. 


43-^- 


WOMAN. 

TllEl'.K  in  tliK  fane  a  beauteous  creature  stands. 
The  first  best  work  of  the  Creator's  lianils. 
Whose  slender  limbs  inadequately  bear 
A  full-orbed  bosom  and  a  weight  of  care  : 


Whose  teeth  like  pearls,  whose  lips  like  cherries, 

show. 
And  fawn-like  eyes  still  tremble  as  they  glow. 

From  the  Sanskrit  of  CaLIDASA,  by  Wllj><.».N. 


MAN— WOMAN. 

FROM   '■  DO.V  ;l'A.N"."' 

"  Man's  love  Ls  of  man's  life  a  thing  aj>aH  ; 

'T  Ls  woman's  whole  existence.    .Man  may  range 
The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart, 

.Sword,  gown,  gain,  gloiy,  offer  in  exchange 
I'ride,  fame,  ambition,  to  till  up  hi.s  heart. 

And  few  there  are  whom  these  cannot  estrange: 
Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one, — 
'i'o  love  again,  and  be  again  umlone." 

LORD  BYRON. 


Dow.N',  down,  Ellen,  my  little  one, 

Climbing  so  tendeily  up  to  my  knee  ; 

Why  should  you  ad<l  to  the  thoughts  that  are 

taunting  me, 
Dreams  of  your  mother's  aims  clinging  to  me  ( 

Cease,  cease,  Ellen,  my  little  one, 

Warbling  so  fairily  close  to  my  ear  ; 

Why  should  you  choose.  Of  all  songs  that  are 

haunting  me. 
This  that  I  made  for  your  mother  to  hear  ? 

Hush,  hush,  Ellen,  my  little  one. 

Wailing  so  wearily  under  the  stars  ; 

Why  should  I  think  of  her  tears,  that   might 

light  to  me 
Love  that  had  made  life,  and  sorrow  tliat  mars  ? 

Sleep,  sleep,  Ellen,  my  little  one ! 

Is  she  not  like  her  whenever  she  stirs  ? 

Has  .she  not  eyes  that  will  soon  \k  as  bright  to  me. 

Lips  that  will  some  day  be  honeyed  like  hers  ? 

Yes,  yes,  Ellen,  my  little  one. 

Though  her  white  bosom  is  stilled  in  the  grave, 

Something  more  white  than  her  Ixjsom  is  spared 

to  me,  — 
Something  to  cling  to  and  something  to  crave. 

Love,  love,  Ellen   my  little  one  1 

Love  indestructible,  love  undefded. 

Love  throughalldeepsofherspiritlies bared  to  me. 

Oft  as  I  look  on  the  face  of  her  chill. 

ARTHLK   J     .MCSliV. 


»-tf 


FOJlMS  of  SMNTIMEXT  AS1>  HJit'lKCTIOy. 


■a 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 

Thk  wind  blew  wiilo  the  caseiumit,  and  within — 
It  was  the  loveliest  inctiu-e  !  —  a  sweet  child 
Lay  iu  its  mother's  aims,  and  drew  its  life, 
In  luuisf.i,  IVoni  the  fountain,  —  the  white  round 
I'ai't  sluidfil  by  U>ose  Hvsses,  soft  and  dark, 
t'oiu-i-aliuj;,  hut  still  showing,  the  fair  i-twhn 
l>f  so  inuih  i-aptuiv,  as  givt^u  sluulowing  tives 
With  Iwauty  sliroud  the  brooklet.     The  red  lips 
Wero  jwrted,  and  the  eheek  ujion  the  breast 
Lay  elose,  and,  like  the  yonng  leaf  of  the  tlower, 
Woro  the  siuue  eolor,  rieh  and  warm  and  fr«sli :  — 
And  such  aloue  aiv  Inwutiful.     Its  eye, 
A  full  blue  gem,  most  e.v^nisitely  set, 
LvH'ked  aivhly  on  its  world,  —  the  little  iuij), 
.\s  if  it  knew  even  then  that  sueh  a  wreath 
Weiv  not  for  all  ;  and  with  its  playful  hands 
It  drew  aside  the  rol>e  that  hid  its  realm. 
And  peepeil  and  laughed  aloud,  and  so  it  laid 
Its  head  upon  the  shrine  of  sueh  pure  joys. 
And,  laughing,  ,-Jept.    And  whiU'  it  slept,  the  tears 
0{  the  sweet  mother  fell  u[Hin  its  eheek,  — 
'I'eais  sueh  as  fall  from  April  skies,  and  bring 
The  sunlight  at^er.     They  wei>e  tetirs  of  joy  ; 
.■\nd  the  true  heart  of  that  young  mother  then 
(5  row  lighter,  and  site  sting  uneonseiously 
The  silliest  Iwllad-song  that  ever  yet 
SuUlued  the  nursery's  voiees,  and  brought  sleep 
To  fold  her  sablnith  wings  above  its  eoueh. 

William  Uiluokb  Siuua 


6- 


lU'r  Fortune,  like  some  othera  of  her  se.x, 
Oetiglits  in  taiitaliaiug  and  tormenting. 

One  day  we  feed  upon  their  smiles,  -  the  next 
Is  sjient  in  sw«iriiig,  sorrowing,  and  reiienting. 

Eve  never  walketl  in  Varadise  tnoro  puro 
Than  on  that  morn  when  Satan  played  the  devil 

With  her  and  all  her  race.     A  lovesiek  wooer 
Ne'er  asked  a  kinder  maiden,  or  more  eivil. 

Than  (.'leopatra  was  to  Antony 

The  day  slie  left  him  on  the  Ionian  st>a. 

The  seriH'ut  —  loveliest  in  his  eoihSd  ring, 

With  eye  that  eharnis,  imd  Iwiuty  that  outvies 

The  tints  of  the  iiiinlvw  —  Ix-ai-s  upon  his  sting 
The  deadliest  venom.     Ero  the  dolphin  dies 

Its  hues  are  brightest.     Like  an  infaul's  breath 

Ai-e  tropic  winds  lieforo  the  voice  of  deiith 

Is  heanl  ujx>n  the  waters,  summoning 

Tlie  midnight  eartlxjuake  from  its  sleep  of  years 

To  do  its  task  of  woe.     The  clouds  that  fling 
The  lightning  brighten  ere  tha  Ixdt  apiH^ara  ; 


The  jiantinga  of  the  warrior's  heart  are  pvoud 
Upon  that  Iwltle-inorn  whose  night-dews  wet  his 

shroud  ; 
The  sun  is  loveliest  as  he  sinks  to  rest  ; 

The  leaves  of  autumn  smile  when  fading  fast  ; 
The  swan's  last  song  is  sweetest. 

FlT2-GREliNB  IIALIUCK. 


ENID'S  SONO. 

FROU  "  lOYlS  Ot'  THH  KING." 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the 

proud  ; 
'I'urn  thy  wild  wheel  through  sunshine,  storm, 

and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or 
frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down  ; 
Onr  hoaixl  is  little,  but  our  hearts  aro  great. 

Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands  ; 
Fivwii  and  we  smile,  the  lonls  of  our  own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

'l^lrn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  clowd  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  tlu'e  wc  neither  love  nor  hate. 
ALFKUU  Tbsnvson. 


THE  QIFfS  OF  OOD. 

When  Ood  at  tirst  made  man. 
Having  a  gla.sa  of  blessings  standing  by. 
Let  us  (.said  lle^  pour  on  him  all  we  can  : 
Let  the  worlds  riches,  which  disperstNd  lie, 

Contract  into  a  sjmn. 

So  strength  tirst  made  a  way  ; 
Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honor,  pleasure: 
When  almost  all  was  out,  tied  made  a  stay, 
Peroeiving  that,  alone,  of  all  his  ti-easuif, 

IJest  in  the  bottivm  lay. 

For  il  I  should  (said  he) 
liestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  civatui'e, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  in(\ 
Atid  ivst  iu  Natuiv,  not  the  GihI  of  Naturo  ; 

So  kith  .should  losei-s  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rost. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  rostlcssness  : 
Lot  him  lie  rich  and  weary,  that,  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  bi-east. 

ObOKC.S  lib 


--& 


[fl-^- 


I'OEMH  (Jb'  HENTIMENT  AND  REFLECriON. 


697 


■a 


h 


THIi  LEriHK  "  »," 

'T  WA«  wIjisjiiTrd  iiilieriveii,  iuni  uuitti-rwl  in  holl, 
Ami  cclio  i;!iuf,'lit  liiiiitly  tlie  sound  as  il  fell  ; 
i)n  the  confines  of  earth  't  was  permitted  to  rest, 
And  thedeptlisoftheoeeaiiitspreseiiceeonfessed  ; 
'T  was  si;en  in  the  lightning,  and  heard  in  the 

tliunrlcr  ; 
'T  will    he   found    in   the   spheres,   when   riven 

asunder ; 
'T  was  given  to  man  with  his  earlii'sl  lireath. 
Assists  at  hLs  birth,  and  attends  him  in  death  ; 
Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  lionor,  and  liealth. 
Is  the  propof  hishouse,  and  the  end  of  hiswealtli. 

1 1  begins  every  hope,  every  wish  it  must  bound, 
And    though    unassuming,    with    monarehs   is 

erownc-d. 
In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  't  is  hoarded  with  care, 
iiut  is  sure  to  he  lost  in  Ids  prodigal  heir. 
Without  it  tlie  soldier  and  sailor  may  roam. 
But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  exjjels  it  from  home  ! 
In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be 

found. 
Nor  e'er  in  tlie  wliirlwind  of  passion  be  drowned. 
1 1  softens  the  heart  ;  and,  though  deaf  to  the  ear, 
It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 
Iiut  in  shade  let  it  rest,  like  a  delicate  flower,  — 
0,  breathe  on  it  softly  ;  it  dies  in  an  hour. 

CATUARINU  I-ANSliAWn. 


FATHER  LAND  AND  MOTHER  TONGUE. 

Ol'H  Father  Land  !  and  wouhlst  thou  know 

Why  we  should  call  it  Father  Land  ? 
It  is  that  Adam  here  telow 

Was  made  of  earth  by  Nature's  hand  ; 
An<i  lie,  our  father  made  of  earth, 

J  lath  peopled  eaith  on  every  band  ; 
And  we,  in  memory  of  his  bii-th. 

Do  call  our  country  Father  Land. 

At  first,  in  F.den's  bowers,  they  say. 

No  sound  of  speech  had  Adam  <aught. 
But  whistled  like  a  bird  all  day,  — 

And  maybe  't  was  for  want  of  thought : 
But  Nature,  with  I'esistless  laws. 

Hade  Adam  soon  surpass  the  birds  ; 
She  gave  him  lovely  Eve  because 

If  be  'd  a  wife  they  must  Itave  vjordt. 

And  so  the  native  land,  I  liold. 
By  male  descent  is  proudly  mine  ; 

The  language,  as  the  tale  hath  told, 
Was  given  in  the  female  line. 


And  thus  we  .see  on  either  liand 

We  name  our  blessings  whence  they  've  s])rui/g 
Wc  call  our  countiy  Father  Land, 

We  call  our  language  Mother  Tongue. 

Samuel  lover. 


SMALL  BEGINNINGS. 

A   TRAVKI.RR    through    a   dusty    road   strewe<l 

a<;orns  on  the  lea  ; 
And  one  took  root  and  s|>routwl  uj),  and  grew 

into  a  tree.  ' 

Love  sought  its  sha<Je,  at  evening  time,  to  breath<- 
I  its  early  vows  ; 

And  age  was  plea.sed,  in  heats  of  noon,  \a>  bask 
I  txjncatli  its  boughs  ; 

I  The  ilormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs,  the  birds 
sweet  music  Ijore  ; 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  jihice,  a  blessing  evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way  amid  the  gra.ss 

and  fern, 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well,  where  weary 

men  might  turn  ; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  caie  a  labile  at 

the  brink  ; 
lie  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did,  but  judgi^i 

that  toil  might  drink. 
He  jjassi^d  again,  and  lo  !  the  well,  by  summers 

never  diied. 
Had  cooled  U-n  thousand  parching  tongues,  and 

saved  a  life  Ijeside. 

A  dreamer  dro[)p<^d  a  random  thought  ;  't  was 
old,  and  yet  't  was  new  ; 

A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain,  but  strong  in  being 
ti'ue. 

It  shone  ujxm  a  genial  mind,  and  lo  1  its  light 
bei'ame 

A  lam]»  of  life,  a  beacon  ray,  a  monitory  flame. 

The  thought  was  small ;  its  issue  great  ;  a  watch- 
fire  on  the  hill, 

It  slieiLs  its  radiance  far  adowii,  and  clieers  the 
valley  still ! 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd  tliat  thronged 

the  daily  mart. 
Let  fall  a  wonl  of  Hope  and  I>ove,   unstmiied, 

from  the  heart  ; 
A  whLsper  on  the  tumult  thrown,  — a  transitory 

breath, — 
It  raised  a  brother   from  the  dust  ;  it  saicd  a 

soul  from  death. 
0  germ  !  O  fount  !  0  word  of  love  1  0  thought, 

at  random  cast  ! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first,  Init  miglitv  at  tho 

la>,t. 


-^ 


f 


698 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-^ 


THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 

A  CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, 

A  gleam  of  ninison  tinurd  its  braided  snow  ; 
Long  had  I  wat-  In d  tin   L':l'iry  moving  on 

O'er  the  still  radiam c  ul  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated  slow  ! 

Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest  ; 
While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow 

Wafted  the  traveler  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul ! 

To  wlio.M-  whitr  Krbe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given. 
And  liy  till-  liiTiitli  u^  mercy  made  to  roll 

Right  onwards  t"  the  golden  gates  of  heaven. 
Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

John  Wilson. 


INSIGNIFICANT  EXISTENCE. 

There  are  a  number  of  us  creep 
Into  this  world,  to  eat  and  sleeji  ; 
And  know  no  reason  why  we  're  bom, 
But  only  to  consume  the  corn, 
Devour  the  cattle,  fowl,  and  fish. 
And  leave  behind  an  empty  dish. 
The  crows  and  ravens  do  the  same, 
Unlucky  birds  of  hateful  name  ; 
Ravens  or  crows  might  fill  their  place. 
And  swallow  corn  and  carcasses, 
Then  if  their  tombstone,  when  they  die. 
Be  n't  taught  to  flatter  and  to  lie. 
There 's  nothing  better  will  be  said 
Than  that  ' '  they  've  eat  up  all  their  bread. 
Drunk  up  their  drink,  and  gone  to  bed." 
ISAAC  Watts. 


t 


LIVING  WATERS. 

There  are  some  hearts  like  wells,  green-mossed 
and  deep 

As  ever  Summer  saw  ; 
And  cool  their  water  is,  —  yea,  cool  and  sweet  ; — 

But  you  must  come  to  draw. 
They  lioard  not,  yet  they  rest  in  calm  content, 

And  not  unsought  will  give  ; 
They  can  be  quiet  with  their  wealth  unspent, 

So  self-contained  they  live. 

And  there  are  some  like  springs,  that  bubbling 
burst 

To  follow  dusty  ways. 
And  run  with  offered  cup  to  quench  his  thii-st 

Where  the  tired  traveler  strays  ; 
That  never  ask  the  meadows  if  they  want 

What  is  their  joy  to  give  ;  — 
Unasked,  their  lives  to  other  life  they  grant. 

So  self-bestowed  they  live  I 


And  One  is  like  the  ocean,  deep  and  wide. 

Wherein  all  waters  fall  ; 
That  girdles  the  broad  earth,  and  draws  the  tide, 

Feeding  and  bearing  all  ; 
That  broods  the  mists,  that  sends   the  clouds 
abroad. 

That  takes,  again  to  give  ;  — 
Even  the  great  and  loving  heart  of  God, 

Whereby  all  love  doth  live. 

Carolin-e  spencer. 


FREEDOM  IN  DRESS. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed,  — 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed. 

Though  art 's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

AH  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free,  — 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 
Ben  jonson. 


A  SWEET  DISORDER  IN  THE  DRESS. 

A  .SWEET  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness  : 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 

Into  a  fine  distraction  ; 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 

Inthralls  the  crimson  stomacher  ; 

A  cwS  neglectful,  and  thereby 

Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly  ; 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat ; 

A  careless  shoestring,  in  whose  tie 

I  see  a  wild  civility,  — 

Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 

Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


CONTRADICTION. 


Ye  powers  who  rule  the  tongue,  if  such  there 
are, 
And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care. 
Preserve  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate, 
A  duel  in  the  fonn  of  a  debate. 
The  clash  of  arguments  and  jar  of  words. 
Worse  than  the  mortal  brunt  of  rival  swords, 


-4? 


[&-^ 


I'UEMS   UF  SEM'IMENl'  AND  REFLECTION. 


699 


-a 


DeoiJe  no  question  with  tlieir  tedious  length, 
For  <ii}iiosition  gives  opinion  strength, 
]-ii\-i'rt  t)ie  champions  prodigal  of  breath, 
And  put  the  peaceably  disposed  to  death. 
0,  thwart  me  not.  Sir  Sopli,  at  every  turn, 
Nor  carp  at  every  flaw  you  may  discern  ! 
Though  syllogisms  hang  not  on  my  tongue, 
I  am  not  surely  always  in  the  wrong  ; 
'  r  is  hard  if  all  is  false  that  I  advance, 
A  fool  must  now  and  then  be  right  by  chance. 
Xot  that  all  freedom  of  dissent  I  blame  ; 
No,  — there  I  grant  the  privilege  I  claim. 
A  disputable  point  is  no  man's  ground  ; 
Rove  where  you  please,  't  is  common  all  around. 
Discourse  may  want  an  animated  No, 
To  brush  the  surface,  and  to  make  it  flow  ; 
But  still  remember,  if  you  mean  to  please. 
To  press  your  point  with  modesty  and  ease. 
The  mark  at  which  my  juster  aim  I  take, 
Is  contradiction  for  its  own  dear  sake. 
Set  your  opinion  at  wliatever  pitch, 
Knots  and  impediments  make  something  hitcli ; 
Adopt  his  own,  't  is  equally  in  vain. 
Your  thread  of  argument  is  snapped  again. 
The  wrangler,  rather  than  accord  with  you, 
Will  judge  himself  deceived,  and  prove  it  too. 
Vociferated  logic  kills  me  ([uitc  ; 
A  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right. 
I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair, 
Fi.x  on  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare. 
Ami,  when  I  hope  his  blunders  are  all  out, 
Keply  discreetly,  —  "  To  be  sure  —  no  doubt  !  " 
William  Cowper. 


Oaths  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife, — 
Some  men  have  surely  then  a  peaceful  life. 
Whatever  subject  occupy  discourse. 
The  feats  of  Vestris,  or  the  naval  force, 
Asseveration  blustering  in  your  face 
Makes  contradiction  such  a  hopeless  case  : 
I  n  every  tale  they  tell,  or  false  or  true. 
Well  known,  or  such  as  no  man  ever  knew. 
They  fix  attention,  heedless  of  your  pain. 
With  oaths  like  rivets  forced  into  the  brain  ; 
And  even  when  sober  truth  prev.iils  throughout, 
They  swear  it,  till  aflSrmance  breeds  a  doubt. 
.\  Persian,  humble  servant  of  the  Sun, 
Who,  though  devout,  yet  bigotry  had  none, 
[fearing  a  lawyer,  grave  in  his  address. 
With  adjurations  every  word  impress, 
.Supposed  the  man  a  bishop ,  or,  at  least, 
God's  name  so  much  upon  his  lips,  a  priest ; 
Bowed  at  the  close  with  all  his  graceful  airs, 
.•\nd  begged  an  interest  in  his  frequent  prayers. 


What  's  fame? —  afancied  lifeinothers'  breath, 
A  thing  beyond  us,  e'en  before  our  death. 
.Just  what  you  hear,  you  have  ;  aud  what's  un- 
known 
The  same  (my  lord)  if  Tully's,  or  your  own. 
All  that  we  feel  of  it  begins  and  ends 
In  the  small  circle  of  om-  foes  or  friends  ; 
To  all  beside,  as  much  an  empty  shade 
A  Eugene  living  as  a  Caesar  dead  ; 
Alike  or  when  or  where  they  shone  or  shine. 
Or  on  the  Rubicon,  or  on  the  Rhine. 
A  wit  's  a  feather,  and  a  chief  a  rod  ; 
An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 
Fame  but  from  death  a  villain's  name  can  save. 
As  justice  tears  his  body  from  the  grave  ; 
When  what  to  oblivion  better  were  resigned 
Is  hung  on  high,  to  poison  half  mankind. 
All  fame  is  foreign,  but  of  true  desert  ; 
Plays  round  the  head,  but  comes  not  to  the  heart : 
One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  huzzas  ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus  exiled  feels 
Than  Ciesar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels. 

ALEXA.NDER  POPE, 


FAME. 

Hkr  house  is  all  of  Echo  made 
Where  never  dies  the  sound  ; 

Anil  as  her  brows  the  clouds  invade. 
Her  feet  do  strike  the  ground. 


PERSEVERANCE. 

In  facile  natures  fancies  quickly  grow. 
But  surli  .piick  fancies  have  but  little  root. 
Soon  tlh   niiivi  MIS  llowers  and  dies,  but  slow 
The  tri'r  whosi'  l)lo.ssoms  shall  mature  to  fruit. 
Grace  is  a  moment's  happy  feeling.  Power 
A  life's  slow  growth  ;  and  we  for  many  an  hour 
Must  strain  and  toil,  and  wait  and  wcej),  if  we 
The  perfect  fruit  of  all  we  arc  would  see. 


CONSTANCY. 


^- 


One  eve  of  beauty,  when  the  sun 
Was  on  the  streams  of  Guadalquiver, 

To  gold  converting,  one  by  one, 
The  ri]iplcs  of  the  mighty  river. 


^ 


r-' 


00 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-^ 


Beside  me  on  the  bunk  was  seated 

A  Seville  girl,  with  auburn  hair, 
And  eyes  that  niiglit  the  world  have  cheated,  - 

A  wild,  bright,  wicked,  diamond  pair  ! 

She  stooped,  and  wrote  upon  the  sand, 

Just  as  the  loving  sun  was  going, 
AVith  such  a  soft,  small,  shining  haud, 

I  could  liave  sworn  't  was  silver  flowing. 
Her  words  were  three,  and  not  one  more, 

What  could  Diana's  motto  be  ? 
The  siren  wrote  upon  the  shore,  — - 

"  Death,  not  inconstancy  I " 

And  then  her  two  large  languid  eyes 

So  turned  on  mine,  that,  devil  take  me  ! 
I  set  the  air  on  fire  with  sighs. 

And  was  the  fool  she  chose  to  make  me  ! 
Saint  Francis  woidd  have  been  deceived 

With  such  an  eye  and  such  a  hand  ; 
But  one  week  more,  and  I  believed 

As  much  the  woman  as  the  sand. 

Anonymous. 


mnynLiTY. 

To  me  men  are  for  what  they  are,  — 

They  wear  no  masks  with  me. 

I  never  sickened  at  the  jar 

Of  ai-tuned  flattery  ; 

I  never  mourned  aflection  lent 

In  folly  or  in  blindness  ; 

The  kindness  that  on  me  is  spent 

Is  pure,  unasking  kindness. 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes. 


GREATNESS. 


FROM  THE  "ESSAY  ON  I 


u 


Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 
Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  difference  made. 
One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in  brocade  ; 
The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  parson  gowned. 
The  friar  liooded,  and  the  monarch  crowned. 
"  What  dift"er  more  (you  cry)  than  crown   and 

cowl  ? " 
I  '11  tell  you,  friend  :  a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 
You  '11  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts  the  monk, 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be  drunk, 
Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow  ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 

Stuck  o'er  with  titles,  and  hung  round  with 
strings. 
That  thou  mayst  be  by  kings,  or  whores  of  kings ; 
Boast  the  pure  blood  of  an  illustrious  race. 


In  quiet  flow  from  Lucrece  to  Lucrece  ; 

But  by  your  fathers'  worth  if  yours  you  rate, 

fount  me  those  only  who  were  good  and  great. 

Go  !  if  your  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 

Has  crept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  the 

flood. 
Go  !  and  pretend  your  family  is  young. 
Nor  own  your  fathere  have  been  fools  so  long. 
Wliat  cm  ennoble  sots,  or  slaves,  or  cowards  ? 
Alas  !  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards. 
Look  next  on  greatness  ;  say  where  greatness 

lies? 
"  Where,  but  among  the  heroes  and  the  wise  ?  " 
Heroes  are  much  the  same,  the  point 's  agreed. 
From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede  ; 
The  whole  strange  purpose  of  their  lives,  to  find 
Or  make  an  enemy  of  all  mankind  ! 
Not  one  looks  backward,  onward  still  he  goes. 
Yet  ne'er  looks  forw'ard  farther  than  his  nose. 
No  less  alike  the  politic  and  wise  ; 
All  sly,  slow  things,  with  circumspective  eyes  : 
Men  in  their  loose,  unguarded  hours  they  take. 
Not  that  themselves  are  wise,  but  others  weak. 
But   grant   that  those  can   conquer,   these  can 

cheat ; 
'T  is  phrase  absurd  to  call  a  villain  great : 
Who  wickedly  is  wise,  or  madly  brave, 
Is  but  the  more  a  fool,  the  more  a  knave. 
Who  noble  ends  by  noble  means  obtains. 
Or,  failing,  smiles  in  exile  or  in  chains, 
Like  good  Aurelius  let  him  reign,  or  bleed 
Like  Socrates,  that  man  is  great  indeed. 

ALE.XAiS'DER  POPE. 


OPPORTTTNITY. 

FROM   •■JULll.-S  CESAR." 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune  ; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  miseries. 
On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat  ; 
And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves. 
Or  lose  oiu-  ventures^ 

SHAKESPEARE. 


REASON  Airo  INSTINCT. 

FROM  THE  ■'  ESSAY  ON  MAN." 

Whether  with  reason  or  with  instinct  blest. 
Know,  all  enjoy  that  power  which  suits  them  best ; 
To  bliss  alike  by  that  direction  tend, 
And  find  the  means  proportioned  to  their  end. 
Say,  where  full  instinct  is  the  unerring  guide, 
^\^lat  pope  or  council  can  they  need  beside 
Eea-son,  however  able,  cool  at  best, 


li 


e- 


POEMS   UF  SENTIMENT  AND  UEFLECTWN. 


701 


rfl] 


Cares  luit  for  si'rvire,  or  but  si-rves  when  prest, 
Stays  till  we  call,  aud  theu  uot  often  near  ; 
But  honest  instinct  comes  a  volunteer, 
Sure  never  to  o'ershoot,  but  just  to  hit  ; 
While  still  too  wide  or  short  is  human  wit, 
Sure  by  quick  nature  happiness  to  gain, 
Which  heavier  reason  labors  at  in  vain. 
This  too  serves  always,  reason  never  long  ; 
(Jno  must  go  right,  the  other  may  go  wrong. 
See  then  the  acting  and  comparing  powers 
I  )ne  in  theu'  nature,  which  are  two  in  ours  ; 
.Viul  reason  raise  o'er  instinct  as  you  can, 
111  this  't  is  God  directs,  in  that  't  is  man. 

Who  taught  the  nations  of  the  field  and  wood 
To  shun  their  poison  aud  to  choose  their  food  ? 
Prescient,  the  tides  or  tempests  to  withstand, 
Build  on  the  wave,  or  arch  beneath  the  sand  ? 
Who  made  the  spider  parallels  design. 
Sure  as  l)e  Molvre,  without  rule  or  line  ? 
Who  bid  the  stork,  Columbus-like,  explore 
Heavens  not  his  own,  and  worlds  unknown  before? 
Who  calls  the  council,  states  the  certain  day. 
Who  forms  the  phalanx,  and  who  points  the  way  ? 
Ale-\ander  pope. 


y-- 


THE  BROOKLET. 

Sweet  brooklet,  ever  gliding. 
Now  high  the  mountains  riding. 
The  lone  vale  now  dividing, 

Whither  away  ?  — 
"  With  pilgrim  course  I  How, 
Or  in  summer's  scorching  glow. 
Or  o'er  moonless  wastes  of  snow, 

Nor  stop,  nor  stay  : 
For  0,  by  high  behest. 
To  a  bright  abode  of  rest 
In  my  parent  Ocean's  breast, 

I  hasten  away  !  " 

Many  a  dark  morass, 
Many  a  craggy  mass, 
Thy  feoble  force  must  pass  ; 

Yet,  yet  delay  !  — 
' '  Though  the  marsh  be  dire  and  deep. 
Though  the  crag  be  stern  and  steep. 
On,  on  my  course  must  sweep  ; 

I  may  not  stay  : 
For  0,  be  it  east  or  west. 
To  a  home  of  glorious  rest 
In  the  bright  sea's  boundless  breast, 

I  hasten  away  !  " 

The  warbling  bowers  beside  thee, 
The  laughing  flowers  that  hide  thee, 
AVith  soft  accord  they  cliide  thee,  — 
Sweet  Ijrooklct,  stay  ! 


"  I  taste  of  the  fragrant  flowers, 
I  respond  to  the  warbling  bowers. 
And  sweetly  they  charm  the  hours 

Of  my  winding  way  ; 
But  ceaseless  still  in  quest 
Of  that  everlasting  rest 
In  my  parent's  boumlless  breast, 

1  hasten  away  !  " 

Knowest  thou  that  dread  abyss  ? 

Is  it  a  scene  of  bliss  ? 

0,  rather  cling  to  this,  — 

Sweet  brooklet,  stay  ! 
"  0,  who  shall  fitly  tell 
What  wonders  there  may  dwell ! 
That  world  of  mystery  well 

May  strike  dismay  : 
But  I  know  't  is  my  parent's  breast ; 
There  held  I  must  needs  be  blest. 
And  with  joy  to  that  promised  rest 

1  hasten  away  !  " 

SIR  Robert  Grant. 


THE  SEASIDE  WELL. 


One  day  I  wandered  where  the  salt  sea-tide 

Backward  had  drawn  its  wave. 
And  found  a  spring  as  sweet  as  e'er  hillside 

To  wild-flowers  gave. 
Freshly  it  sparkled  in  the  sun's  bright  look. 

And  mid  its  pebbles  strayed. 
As  if  it  thought  to  join  a  happy  brook 

In  some  green  glade. 

But  soon  the  heavy  sea's  resistless  swell 

Came  rolling  in  once  more, 
Spreading  its  bitter  o'er  the  clear  sweet  well 

And  pebbled  shore. 
Like  a  fair  star  thick  buried  in  a  cloud, 

Or  life  in  the  grave's  gloom, 
The  well,  enwrapped  in  a  deep  watery  shroud, 

Sunk  to  its  tomb. 

As  one  who  by  the  beach  roams  far  and  wide. 

Remnant  of  wreck  to  save. 
Again  I  wandered  when  the  salt  sea-tide 

Withdrew  its  wave ; 
And  there,  unchanged,  no  taint  in  all  its  sweet, 

No  anger  in  its  tone, 
Still  as  it  thought  some  hajipy  brook  to  meet. 

The  spring  flowed  on. 

While  waves  of  bitterness  rolled  o'er  its  head. 

Its  heart  had  folded  deep 
Within  itself,  and  quiet  fancies  led. 

As  in  a  sleep  ; 


-i 


C&- 


ro2 


POEMS  OF  SEXriMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-^ 


IS- 


rill.  « lull  till'  ooftui  loostxi  his  limivv  cliaiii, 

And  giivo  it  liu'k  to  iltiy, 
L'lUiiily  it  tui'iii'd  to  its  own  lil'o  ugsiiii 

And  gi'Utlo  way. 

lliippy,  1  thought,  tliut  wliich  can  draw  its  life 

Uoep  I'l-oni  tho  lu'tlu'V  spiiiigs, 
SalV   ueath  the  juvssiiro,  tmiuiiiil  mid  the  stiilo, 

ttl'sHiliioe  things. 
SulV  —  for  tho  souives  of  thu  uothcr  springs 

Up  ill  tho  fai-  hills  lie  ; 
(."aim  —  for  the  lifo  its  power  luid  IVoshnoss  brings 

Down  from  the  sky. 

So,  should  temptations  tliivaten.  and  should  sin 

l\oll  in  it.i  whelmiiij;  tlood, 
.Make  stivng  the  fountain  of  thy  grace  within 

My  soul,  0  God  ! 
If   bitter  scorn,   and   looks,   once  kind,   grown 
strange. 
With  crushing  chilliicss  fall, 
IVom  secivt  wells  let  .sweetness  rise,  nor  change 
my  heart  to  gall  ! 

^\'hcn  sore  thv  hand  doth  pross,  and  waves  of 
thine 

Altlict  me  like  a  sea,  — 
Peep  calling  deep,  —  infuse  from  souive  diviiio 

Thy  peace  in  me  ! 
And  when  death's  tide,  as  with  a  brimful  cup. 

Over  my  soul  dotli  pour, 
U't  hope  survive,  — a  well  that  spriiigeth  up 

Forevermoro  ! 

Above  my  head  the  waves  may  come  and  go, 

Uong  brood  the  deluge  diro, 
lUit  life  lies  hidden  in  tho  depths  below 

Till  waves  ivtire,  — 
Till  death,  that  reigns  with  overflowing  tlood, 

At  length  withdraw  its  sway, 
.\nd  life  rise  sparkling  in  the  sight  of  God 

And  endless  day. 

.WONVMOl'S. 


FROM  THE  "  PROLOGUE  TO  THE  SATIRES." 

CrESEi>  Ih)  the  verse,  how  well  soo'er  it  tlow. 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe. 
Give  virtue  scandal,  innocence  a  fear. 
Or  from  the  soft-eyed  virgin  steal  a  tear  ! 
Hut  he  who  hurts  a  harmless  neighbor's  peace 
Insults  fiUlen  worth,  or  beauty  in  distivss, 
Who  loves  a  lie,  lame  slander  helps  about. 
Who  writes  a  libel,  or  who  copies  out  ; 
TliJit  fop  whose  pride  all'ects  a  patron's  uaine. 


Yet  alisont  wounds  an  autJior's  honest  fame  ; 
Who  can  your  merit  seltishly  approve. 
And  show  the  sense  of  it  without  the  lovo  ; 
Who  has  tho  vanity  to  call  you  friend. 
Yet  wants  the  honor,  injuivd,  to  defend  ; 
Who  tells  whate'cr  you  think,  whatc'er  you  say, 
And,  it  he  lie  not,  must  at  least  betray  ; 
Wno  to  the  l>ean  and  silver  Ih'U  can  swear, 
And  sees  at  Canons  what  was  never  there  ; 
Who  i-oads  but  with  a  lust  to  misapply. 
Make  satiro  a  lampoon,  and  liction  lie  ; 
A  lasli  like  mine  no  honest  man  shall  dirad, 
Hut  all  such  babbling  blockheads  in  his  stead. 


PROFUSION. 


Ar  Timon's  villa  let  us  [uiss  a  day. 
Where  all  cry  out,    "■SVlmt    sums  are  thrown 

away ! " 
So  proud,  so  grand  ;  of  that  stujiendous  air. 
Soft  and  agreeable  come  never  tliciv. 
tireatncss,  with  Timon,  ilwells  in  such  a  draught 
.\s  brings  all  lirobdignaj;  Iwforc  your  thought. 
To  compass  this,  his  building  is  a  town, 
Mis  pond  an  ocean,  his  ixirtenv  a  down  : 
Who  but  must  laugh,  the  master  when  he  sees, 
.-\  Jinny  insect,  shivering  at  a  bivc/,e  ! 
Lo,  what  huge  lieajis  of  littleness  around  ! 
'I'he  whole,  a  labored  ipiarry  above  ground. 
Two  Cupids  sijuirt  before  ;  a  lake  behind 
Improves  the  keenness  of  tlie  northern  wind. 
His  gaiilens  iie.\t  your  admiration  call. 
On  every  side  you  look,  behold  tlio  wall ! 
Xo  pleasing  intricacies  interveno. 
No  artful  wildness  to  perplex  the  scene  ; 
I !  rove  nods  at  grove,  each  alley  has  a  brothor, 
.\nd  half  tho  platform  just  ivliects  the  other. 
The  sulfcring  eye  inverted  nature  sees, 
Tives  cut  to  statues,  statues  thick  as  trees  ; 
With  hero  a  fountain,  never  to  bo  played  ; 
.\nd  theiv  a  summer-house,  that  knows  no  shade  : 
Here  Amphitrite  sails  through  myrtle  bowers  ; 
riiero  gladiators  light,  or  die  in  llowera  ; 
I'liwatcred  see  the  drooping  sea-horse  mourn, 
.Viid  swallows  most  in  Nilus'  dusty  nru. 

My  lord  advances  with  majestic  mien, 
Smit  with  the  mighty  jileasuiv,  to  be  seen  ; 
Hut  soft  —  by  ivgular  appixiach  —  not  yet  — 
First  through  the  length  of  yon  hot  terrace  sweat  ; 
.Viid  wlicn  np  ten  steep  slopes  you  've  draggeti 

your  thighs, 
.lust  at  his  study  iloor  ho  '11  bless  your  oyos. 

His  study  !  with  what  authors  is  it  stort>iI  • 
In  Iwoks,  not  authore,  curious  is  my  lonl  ; 


-^ 


a^- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


703 


--a 


^ 


'I'o  all  their  dated  backs  he  turns  you  round  ; 
'i'hesc  Aldus  printed,  those  Du  Sueil  has  Ixjurid  ! 
Lo,  some  are  vellum,  and  the  rest  aa  good 
For  all  his  loniship  knows,  but  they  are  wood. 
For  Locke  or  Milton  't  is  in  vain  to  look. 
These  shelves  admit  not  any  modern  tiook. 

And  now  the  chapel's  silver  Ijell  you  hear, 
That  summons  you  to  all  the  pride  of  prayer  : 
Uglit  ([uirks  of  music,  broken  and  uneven, 
.\fake  the  soul  dance  upon  a  jig  to  heaven. 
On  painted  ceilings  you  devoutly  stare. 
Where  sprawl  tin;  saints  (jf  Verrio  oi'  Laguerre, 
Or  ^'ilded  clouds  in  fair  expansion  lie, 
Anil  liring  all  ]>aradise  before  your  eye. 
To  rest  the  cushion  and  soft  dean  invite, 
Who  never  mentions  hell  to  cars  |)olite. 

But  liark  !  the  chiming  clocks  to  dinner  call  ; 
A  hundred  footsteps  scrape  the  marble  hall  : 
The  rich  buffet  well-colored  ser])ents  grai.'c. 
And  gaping  Tritons  spew  to  wash  your  face. 
1.1  tliis  a  dinner  ?  this  a  genial  room  ! 
I'io,  't  is  a  temple,  and  a  hei/atoml). 
A  solemn  sacrifice,  performed  in  slate, 
■^'ou  drink  by  measure,  and  to  miimtea  eat. 
!Jo  ipiick  retires  each  (lying  course,  you  'd  swear 
Sancho's  dread  cloctor  and  his  wand  were  there. 
Between  each  act  the  trembling  salvers  ring, 
From  soup  to  sweet  wine,  and  God  bless  the  king. 
In  jdenty  starving,  tantalized  in  state. 
And  coniplaisantly  hclpi'il  to  all  I  hate, 
Treated,  carci.sed,  and  tired,  1  take  my  leave. 
Hick  of  his  civil  pride  from  morn  to  eve  ; 
1  curse  such  lavish  cost,  and  little  .skill. 
And  swear  no  day  was  ever  passed  so  ill. 

ALH.^A.NOea  I'OPE. 


HUMANITY. 


I  wori,D  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  line 

sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  woim. 
An  inadvertent  st^'p  nuiy  crusli  the  snail 
Tliat  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path  ; 
lint  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned, 
Will  tread  asirle,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  tlie  sight. 
And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 
A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 
Sacred  lo  neatness  and  repose,  the  alcove, 
Tlie  chamber,  or  refei-tory,  may  die  : 
A  necessary  act  incius  no  blame. 
Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds. 
And  guiltless  of  offense,  they  range  the  air. 


Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field  : 
There  they  are  privileged  ;  and  he  that  hunts 
Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 
iJislurlw  the  economy  of  Nature's  realm. 
Who,  when  she  formed,  designed  them  an  abode. 
The  sum  is  this  :  If  man's  convenience,  health, 
Or  safety  interfere,  his  riglils  and  claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 
Else  they  are  all  —  the  meaiu'st  things  that  are  — 
Ah  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life. 
As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first. 
Who  in  his  sovereign  wisdom  made  tliem  alL 
Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.  „,.,, , , .,,  .-..wr..  „ 


OF  Cl'.UKLTY  TO  ANIMALS 


Sir.v.MK  upon  thee,  savage  monarch-man,  proud 

monopolist  of  reason  ; 
.Shame  upon  crl^■ltion's  lord,  thefierce  ensanguined 

despot  : 
What,  man  !  are  there  not  enough,  hunger  and 

diseases  and  fatigue,  — 
And  yet  must  thy  goad  or  thy  thong  add  another 

sorrow  to  exLstence  ? 
What  I  art  thou  not  content  thy  sin  hath  dragf^ed 

down  suffering  and  death 
On  the  poor  ilumb  servants  of  thy  comfort,  and 

yi;t  nmst  thou  rac;k  them  with  tliy  spite  ? 
The  [irodigal  heir  of  creation  hath  gambled  away 

his  all,  - 
.Shall  he  add  torment  to  the  bon<lagc  that  is  galling 

his  forfeit  serfs  '! 
The  leader  in  nature's  pican  himself  hath  mailed 

her  psaltery, — 
•Shall  he  multiply  the  din  of  discord  by  over- 
straining all  the  strings  ? 
The  rebel  hath  fortified  his  stronghold,  shutting 

in  hLs  vassals  with  him,  — 
Shall  he  aggi-avate  the  woes  of  the  liesiege  1  by 

oppression  from  within  ? 
Thou  twice-defonned  image  of  thy  .Maker,  lliou 

hateful  representative  of  I>ove, 
For  very  shame  be  merciful,   be  kiml  unto  tlic 

i:reat>ires  thou  hast  ruined  ! 
Farthand  her  million  tribes  are  cursed  for  thy  ..'ki', 
Farth  and  her  million  tribes  still  writlie  Ix-ncath 

thy  ci-uelty  : 
l.iveth  there  but  one  among  the  million  that  shall 

not  bear  witness  against  thee, 
.\  pensioner  of  land  or  air  or  sea  that  hath  not 

wheieof  it  will  af;cU8e  thee  ? 
From  the  elephant  toiling  at  a  launch,   to  th« 

shrew-mouse  in  the  harvest-field, 
F'rom  the  whale  which  the  harpooner  hath  stricken, 

to  the  minnow  canght  upon  a  pin, 


& 


a- 


704 


POEMS  OF  SE^frIMEyT  AND  REFLECTION. 


■a 


43- 


From  the  albatross  wciuied  in  its  flight,  to  the 

wren  in  hov  covered  nest, 
From  the  death-moth  and  hue-winged  dnigon-tly, 

to  the  hidy-lui\i  and  the  gnat. 
The  verdii't  of  all  things  is  unanimous,  ruuling 

their  master  eruel  : 
The  dog,  tliy  humble  friend,  thy  trusting,  honest 

friend  ; 
The  ass,  thine  uncomplaining  slave,   drudging 

from  morn  to  even  ; 
The  lamb,  and  the  timorous  hare,  and  the  laboring 

ox  at  plow  ; 
The  speckled  trout  Imsking  in  the  shallow,  and 

the  partriilge  gleaming  in  the  stubble, 
And   the   stag  at    luiy,   and    the   worm   in   thy 

path,    ami    the   wild    binl    pining   in    cap- 
tivity. 
And  all  things  that  minister  alike  to  thy  life  and 

thy  comfort  and  thy  piide, 
Testify  with  one  sad  voice  that  man  is  a  cruel 

master. 

Verily,   they  are  all  thine  :    freely   mayst   thou 

serve  thee  of  them  all : 
They  are  thine  by  gift  for  thy  needs,  to  be  used 

in  all  gratitude  and  kindness  ; 
Gratitude  to  their  tnxl  and  thine,  —their  Father 

and  thy  Father, 
Kindness  to  them  who  toil  for  thee,  and  help  thee 

with  their  all  : 
For  meat,  but  not  by  wantonness  of  slaying ;  for 

burden,  but  with  limits  of  hnmnnity  ; 
For  luxury,  but  not  through  torture ;  for  diiiught, 

but  according  to  the  strength  : 
For  a  dog  cannot  ph'ad  his  own  right,  nor  render 

a  reason  for  exemption. 
Nor  give  a  soft  answer  unto  wrath,  to  turn  aside 

the  undeserved  lash  ; 
The  galled  ox  cannot  complain,  nor  supplicate  n 

moment's  ivspite  ; 
The  spent  hoi-se  hideth  his  distre-ss,  till  he  panteth 

out  his  spirit  at  the  goal  ; 
Also,  in  the  winter  of  life,  when  worn  by  constant 

toil. 
If  ingratitude  forget  his  services,  he  cannot  bring 

them  to  remembrance  : 
liehold,  he  is  faint  with  hunger  :  the  big  tear 

standeth  in  his  eye  ; 
His  skin  is  sore  with  stripes,  and  he  tottereth 

beneath  his  bunlen  ; 
His  limbs  are  stitT  with  age,  his  sinews  have  lost 

their  vigor. 
And  pain   is  stamped  upon  his   face,  while  he 

wrestleth  uneiiually  with  toil  ; 
Yet  once  more  mutely  and  meekly  endureth  he 

the  crushing  blow  ; 
That  struggle  hath  cracked  his  heart-strings,  — 
the  generous  brute  is  dead  ! 


Liveth  there  no  advocate  for  him  !  no  judge  to 

avenge  his  wrongs  ! 
No  voice  tliat  shall  l)e  heard  in  his  defense  ?  no 

sentence  to  be  passed  on  his  oppressor  ? 
Yea,  the  sad  eye  of  the  tortured  pleadeth  jmtheti- 

cally  for  him  ; 
Yea,  all  the  justice  in  heaven  is  roused  in  indig- 
nation at  Ids  woes  ; 
Yea,  all  the  pity  \ipon  earth  shall  cull  down  a 

cui'so  upon  the  cruel  ; 
Yea,  the  burning  malice  of  the  wicked  is  their 

own  exceeding  punishment. 
Tlie  Angel  of  Mercy  stoppeth  not  to  comfort,  but 

passeth  by  on  the  other  side. 
And  hath  no  tear  to  shed,  when  a  cruel  man  is 

damued. 

MAKTI.S  FARllCHAR  TUPl'EK. 


PLEA   FOR  THE   ANIMALS. 

FROM  "THE  SEASONS," 

Exs.vSGl'lXEn  n\an 
Is  now  become  the  lion  of  the  plain, 
And  worse.    The  wolf,  who  from  the  nightly  fold 
Fierce  drags  the  bleating  prey,  ne'er  drunk  her 

milk. 
Nor  wore  her  warming  fleece ;  nor  has  the  steer, 
At  whose  strong  chest  the  deadly  tiger  hangs. 
E'er  plowed  for  liim.     They  too  are  tempered 

high, 
With  hunger  stung  and  wild  necessity ; 
Nor  lodges  pity  in  their  shaggy  breast. 
Hut  man,  whom  Nature  formed  of  nulder  clay, 
With  every  kind  emotion  in  his  heart. 
And  taught  alone  to  weep,  —  while  from  her  lap 
Slie  poui-s  ten  thousand  delicacies,  herlw. 
And  fruits  as  numerous  as  the  drops  of  rain 
Or  beams  that  gave  them  birth,  —  shall  he,  fair 

form  ! 
Who  weai-s  sweet  smiles,  and  looks  erect  on  la-avcu. 
E'er  stoop  to  mingle  with  tlie  prowling  herd, 
.\nd  dip  his  tongue  in  gore  ?     The  beast  of  prey, 
Blood-stained,   deserves  to   bleed  ;   but  you,  ye 

flocks. 
What  have  ye  done  ?  ye  peaceful  people,  what. 
To  merit  death  ?  you  who  have  given  us  milk 
In  luscious  sti-eams,  and  lent  us  yoin-  own  coat 
Against  the  winter's  cold  /     And  the  plain  ox, 
Tliat  harmless,  honest,  guileless  animal. 
In  what  has  he  ofl'ended  ?  he  whose  toil. 
Patient  and  ever-ready,  clothes  the  land 
With  all  the  pomp  of  harvest,  —  shall  he  bleed, 
Auil  struggling  groan  beneath  the  cruel  hand, 
j  Even  of  the  clown  he  feeds  ?  and  that,  jHuhaps, 
To  swell  the  riot  of  the  autumnal  feast, 
!  Won  bv  his  lalw  » 


-^ 


[fl- 


I'UEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  ANU  liEELECTION. 


705 


-a 


^- 


FROM  '"CONVURSATION." 

TilK  point  of  lioiior  has  been  deemed  of  use, 
'I'o  teach  good  iiiaiiuers,  and  to  curb  abuse  ; 
Admit  it  true,  tlie  coiiscMjuencc  is  dear, 
•  hir  polished  majiners  are  a  mask  we  wear, 
Anil,  at  tile  bottom,  barlrarous  still  and  rude, 
W'c  are  restrained,  indeed,  but  not  subdued. 
'I'Ik^  very  remedy,  liowevcr  sure, 
Springs  from  tlie  mischief  it  intends  to  cure. 
And  savage  in  its  jirinciple  apjjcais, 
Tried,  as  it  should  be,  by  the  fruit  it  bivirs. 
'T  is  hard,  indeed,  if  nolliing  will  defend 
Mankind  from  ijuarnds  but  tli<;ir  fatal  end  ; 
That  now  and  then  a  hero  must  decease, 
That  the  surviving  world  may  live  in  peace. 
I'erhaps  at  last  close  scrutiny  may  show 
'I'lic  i)ractice  dastardly  and  mean  and  low  ; 
'I'liat  men  engage  in  it  compelled  by  foi'ce, 
And  fear,  not  courage,  is  its  projier  source ; 
'I'be  fuiir  of  tyrant  custom,  and  the  fear 
I  ;cst  fops  should  censure  us,  and  foolsshouldsneer; 
At  least,  to  trample  on  our  Maker's  laws, 
Anil  hazard  life  for  any  or  no  cause. 
To  rush  into  a  fixed  eternal  state 
<  )nt  of  the  very  llanies  of  rage  and  liate, 
I  »r  send  another  shivering  to  the  bar 
Witli  all  the  guilt  of  such  unnatural  war, 
Wliatover  Use  may  urge,  or  Honor  jilead, 
I  Ml  Reason's  verdict  is  a  madman's  deed. 
Am  I  to  set  my  life  upon  a  tlirow 
I'li-cause  a  bear  is  rude  and  surly  ?     No, — 
A  moral,  sensible,  and  well-bred  man 
Will  not  affront  nie  ;  and  no  other  can. 
Were  I  empowered  to  regulate  the  lists. 
They  should  encounter  with  well-loaded  fists  ; 
A  Trojan  combat  would  be  something  new. 
Let  Dares  beat  EnteUus  black  and  blue  : 
'I'hen  each  might  show,  to  his  admiring  friends, 
In  honorable  bum])S  his  rich  amends, 
.'\nd  cany,  in  contusions  of  his  skull, 
A  satisfictiiry  rcn-ipt  in  full. 

Wil.LIAM  COWPER. 


Gold  !  gold  !  gold  !  gold  ! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  (■old, 
Molten,  gi'aven,  hammered  and  rulh'i]  ; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold  ; 
Hoariled,  bartered,  bought,  and  sold. 
Stolen,  borrowed,  siiuandcrcd,  doled  : 
Sjiunied  by  the  young,  but  hugged  by  the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  cliurchyard  mold  ; 
Price  of  many  a  crime  untold  : 


Gold  !  gold  I  gold  !  gold  I 
Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary,  — 
To  save,  to  ruin,  to  curse,  to  bless,  — 
As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 
Now  stamped  with  the  image  of  good  (Jueen  Bch 

And  now  of  a  Bloody  Mary. 


LAW. 


1j.\%vs,  a.s  W(i  read  in  ancient  sage.s. 
Have  been  like  cobwebs  in  all  ages. 
Cobwebs  for  little  flies  are  spread, 
And  laws  for  little  folks  are  made  ; 
But  if  an  insect  of  renown. 
Hornet  or  beetle,  wasp  or  drone. 
Be  caught  in  ipiest  of  sport  or  plunder. 
The  llinisy  fetter  flies  in  sunder. 

jAin^S   UliATT 


THE  RULING   PASSION. 


RAL  ESSAYS." 


In  this  one  passion  man  can  strength  enjoy. 
As  fits  give  vigor  just  when  tliey  destroy. 
Time,  that  on  all  things  lays  his  lenient  hand, 
Yet  tames  not  this  ;  it  sticks  to  our  last  sand. 
(;onsist<Mit  in  our  follies  and  our  sins, 
Here  lioncst  Nature  ends  as  she  begins. 

Old  politicians  chew  on  wisdom  jiast, 
And  totter  on  in  business  to  the  last ; 
As  weak,  as  earnest ;  and  as  giavely  out. 
As  sober  Laiiesborow  dancing  in  the  gout. 

Behold  a  reverend  sire,  whom  want  of  grace 
Has  made  the  father  of  a  nameless  race, 
.Shoved  from  the  wall  jjerhajis,  or  rud(dy  pressed 
By  his  own  son,  that  passes  by  unblessed  : 
Still  to  his  wench  he  crawls  on  knocking  knees, 
And  envies  every  spaiTow  that  he  sees. 

A  salmon's  belly,  Hclluo,  was  thy  fate. 
The  doctor,  called,  declares  all  help  too  late. 
"  Mercy  ! "  cries  Hidluo,  "  mercy  on  my  soul  ! 
Is  there  no  hope?  —  Alas  !  —  then  bring  the  jowl." 

The  frugal  crone,  whom  praying  priests  attend, 
Still  tries  to  save  the  hallowed  taper's  end. 
Collects  her  breath,  as  ebbing  life  retires, 
For  one  puff  more,  and  in  that  jiufl'  expires. 

"  Odious !  in  woolen  !  't  would  a  saint  provoke," 
Were  the  last  words  that  poor  Narcissa  spoke ; 
"  No,  let  a  channing  chintz  and  Bmssels  lace 
Wrap  my  cold  limbs,  and  shade  my  lifeless  face  : 
One  would  not,   sure,  be  frightful  wlion  one  '» 

dead,  — 
And —  Betty  —  give  this  cheek  a  little  red." 

The  courtier  smooth,  who  forty  years  had  shincd 
An  humble  servant  to  all  human-kind, 


-S 


\Q- 


70(1 


PUIiMS  OF  SJiA'TlMJCS'T  AND  UKFI.KCriON. 


-Hi 


.111, I   liriuighl.  mil  tliin,  wlum  hoiuvo  liin  lonsuo 

i-.ml.l  Mir. 
•'II      wlu'ui  1 'ill  (jiilii)?-    I  mmlil  Hdi'vii  YOU,  Hii-y" 

•■  I  ^,'iv..  mill  I  ili'vi.so  "  (iiUI  Kiu'lio  Ni'iiil. 
Anil  sij;lii'ih  '•  my  liiiiil.i  ami  tomiiiioiila  In  N«l." 
Vmir  iiiimi'.v,  nil''  "  M.V  moiii'V,  nir  !  wliiil,  nil  1 
W'liy  il'  riii\i.sl"(llii'iiwi'iin  "Igivoil  rmil," 
'riir'nmiior.  Mi  '  •• 'I'll,' lu.iiii.r  !  lioKl,"  IhmtIoiI, 
••  N,.|  ili.il,        I  niiiiiol    pail  «illi    Hull,"       mill 

lll.a,  MlXAM.l.U    I'OI'II. 

'I'lir,    AlI'l'lldH'M    MISKUlKa, 


Surr.  sliul  till'  ilour,  niHxl  .lolml  liiligiicil  I  .sulil, 
'I'iii  \\Y  I  111'  kiiookw,  my  I  'li>  »ti'k,  I  'm  iloiul. 
Till'  l>oj,'sliir  I'lij^is  I  uiiy,  't.  is  ymut  n  iloulil, 
All  Uoillmii,  or  ruriiiissiis,  in  lot  out. ; 
l''iio  in  I'lU'li  i<yi'.  mill  pii|ioi's  ill  nu'li  limul, 
Tlu'y  nivi',  ivi'ili',  mul  iimililiMi  I'lUiiul  llu'  Imiil. 
W'lial  Willis  I'lui  };uiu'il  mo,  or  wlint  .sliiiilmoiiiiluiln/ 
rii..\   |iiiMvo  iiiv  tliii'Uols,  tliioiifjli  my  guit.  t.liov 

Kliil.', 
liy  liuiil,  liy  wiili-r,  llioy  ii'iiinv  llio  i'liiivf;ii, 
Tiiry.slol.  III.-  I'hariol,  iiii.l  lli.y  l.oiiul  llio  Imi'go. 
No  i.liii'o  is  .smT.1.1,  iiol  111.'  .■Iiiiivli  is  I'lvi', 
Kvi'ii  Siiiiiliiy  sliiiios  no  .'^iililmlli-iliiy  (o  iin' : 
Tlii'ii  iVoiii  llio  Mill!  wiillvsloiili  111!' inmiolrliynn', 
llii|'liy  lo  oiiti'li  mo,  just  iil  iliimoi-tiiiio. 

Is  llioro  II  imi'soii  uiiioli  lio-iiiiisoil  in  lioov, 
.•\  iiiiiiiilliii  iiiiotoss,  II  vliyminj;  jh'oi', 
A  oli'ik.  I'oi'oiloomoil  liis  I'litlior's  soul  to  cross, 
Willi  pons  II  stmn^ii,  wlion  lio  slionlil  oiifjitiss  f 
Is  llioi-o,  wlio.  looUoil  IVoni  ink  iiinl  pii|ii'V,  si'viiwls 
Willi.lospoialoolmmmlroiuiil  liisam'koiio.hviills/ 
All  llv  liiTwit'iimn.  mul  in  liiiiiililo  stiiiin 
.\ppl\    11.  1110,  I.,  k.'op  llioiu  iiiM.I  or  viiiii 

A  .liroililoninm  I  oillior  wiiy  1  'ni  spoil, 

II  loos,  llioywvito,      il'IVioiiils,  tlioy  vomlmoiloiul, 

Soizoil  Hiul  tioil  ilown  to  jmlj;o,  liow  wii-toliod  I  1 

Wlio  omi't  bo  siloiit,  ami  wlio  will  not  lio  ; 

To  liingli  woiv  want  of  j;ooilnoss  anil  orgriioo, 

Ami  to  1.0  j;nivo  oxoooils  all  power  of  I'aoo. 

I  sit  vvitli  sail  oivility,  I  ivail 

Willi  lioiiost  anj,'iii.sli  anil  an  aoliing  liomi  ; 

Anil  iliop  al  last,  luit  in  niuvillinj;  oai's, 

Tliis.siiviiij;oouiisiil,  '"Koo|iyoiivpioooiiinoy<'ai'»." 

"Ninoyoiu's  T'oriosliowho,  liijjliinOnu'y  l.ivno, 
Lnlloil  l.y  .soft  iopliyisUuMiij?li  tlio  l.roUoii  i>ano, 
Uliynios  oio lio wiikos,  mill  \irintslioron''l'oi'monils, 
lMiU>;oil  liy  Imnxoi',  ami  loipiost  of  IViomls.  - 
"Tlio  piooo,  yon  think,  is  inoori'oot  ?  why,  lakf  it, 
I 'mall  snUmission  ;  what  you 'illiavo  it,  niako  it," 

Tluoo  tilings  anothoi''s  nuulost  wislio.s  honinl, 
My  IVioiHl»hi\i,  ami  a  proloj;no,  ami  ton  ponml. 

I'illioloonsoinls  tonio;  "You  know  liisOraoo, 
1  want  II  patron  ;  ask  liini  fov  a  ]ilnoo, " 
U_4_ . 


IMtholoon  liliolloil  ino  •    "  lint  horn's  a  lottor 
Inrnrnis  yon,  sir,  't  waswiioii  lio  know  no  luMlor. 
l>aro  yiai  rornso  liini  1     I'mi  iiivili-i  1..  iliii.,. 
Ho '11  wrilo  iijtiiirHiil,  or  In    U  tiun  iliviiio." 
lUi'SS  mo  I  a  paokol.  -     "  'T  is  n  HtriingiT  alios, 
.•\  virgin  tiagoily,  an  orjiliaii  niii,so. " 
II'  1  ilisliko  il,  "  Knrios,  iloalli,  ami  ra^o  I" 
If  I  approvo,  "Ciiminoinl  il  to  tlio  stii);o." 
Tlioroi,!  Iiank  my  slurs)  mv  w  holo  oomminsion  omls, 
Tho  pliiyors  Mii'il  I  aro,  ln.Kil\,  no  rri.'iiils. 
Kiroil  Ihal  Ilio   liimso  ivjo.'l    him,  •• '.S.loalli,  1  'II 


Willi 


Ami  shaiiio  Hio  loi.ls,        Vi.iu    iiil.i, 

l.inlot." 
I.iiilol,  iliilliiiKiiol  will  Hunk  your  pi  i.v  I'M.  iiiu.li: 
"  Not,  sir,  it' you  roviso  il,  ami  rolouoh," 
All  my  (loiiiurs  hut  ilonhlo  his  altaoks  ; 
At  last  ho  whi.spoi's,  "  Ho  ;  ami  wo  (^o  snaoks." 
tllail  ol'a  i|Uiirrol,  straiKht  1  I'hip  tlio  iloor. 
Sir,  lot  mo  soo  your  works  ami  yon  no  imiii>. 

Who   shmiios   a    siril.l.lor  ?    I.ioak   oiio   ool.w.b 

throiiKli. 
lio  .spins  tho  slifjht,  soU'-ploasin^;  throiul  luiow  ; 
IVslniy  his  llli  or  sophistry,  in  vain, 
Tho  I'lvaturo's  at  his  ilirty  work  a>!aiii, 
Thronoil  in  tho  ooiitor  of  his  thin  ilosijjus, 
I'roml  of  a  vast  .'Xloiit  of  tliinsy  linos  I 

(If  all  mail  .ivaluios,  if  Ilio  loarii,"!  aiv  right, 
U  is  tho  .-.lavor  kills,  ami  m.l  Ilio  l.ilo. 
A  fool  i|iiilo  aiif^ry  is  (piilio  inuoi'ont, 
Alas!  't  is  ton  timos  worso  whon  thoy  ii'pont, 

duo  iloilioalos  in  high  horoio  piiiso, 
.Villi  riilionlos  lioyoml  a  liiimlroil  I'oos  ; 
(hio  from  all  t'.ruh  Slii'ot  will  my  fmm.  ilofoml, 
Ami,  iiioiv  ahiisivo,  oiills  liim.solf  my  I'rIomI, 
This  |.riiils  my  l.i'llfrs,  that  oxpoot-s  a  hrilio, 
Anil  olliors  mar  alonil,  '"Siihsorilio,  snhsoriho." 

Thoiii  aro,  who  to  my  poison  (iiiy  I.hoir  ooiirt  ; 
I  oongh  liko  7/ii/'<iir,  anil,  though  loan,  luii  short  -, 
./m«iii/i'.v  gii'at  son  ono  slioiihlor  hiiil  too  high. 
Snoh  Oi'iil'.i  noso,  ami  "Sir  I  yon  liavo  nn  oyo,"  - 
tlo  on,  ohliging  oivaturos,  niako  mo  soo 
All  that  ili.sgraooil  my  holtors  mot  in  mo. 
Say  for  my  oomfort,  Imigiiisliing  in  hoil, 
",'liist  .so  "immortal  .l/i"'o  liohl  his  lioml  "  : 
.\ml  whon  I  llio,  ho  siiixi  you  lot  mo  know 
(iroat  //iiiiii^i' ilioil  tliivo  thoii.saml  yoars  ago. 

Why  dill  1  writo  I  what  sin  to  mo  nnknown 
IHppoil  nio  in  ink,  —  my  imiviits',  or  my  ow  ii  f 
,\s  yol  a  oliihl,  nor  yot  a  I'ool  to  fanio, 
I  lispi'il  in  luimhor.s,  for  tho  nunihoi's  oiinio. 
I  loft  no  oalling  for  this  iillo  trinU, 
No  ilnty  Imiko,  no  falhor  ilisohovoil. 
Tho  inuso  hill  .sorvoil  to  oii.so sonio  fi'ioml,  not  wifo, 
To  liolp  llio  tJirougli  tJiis  long  ilisonso,  my  lifo. 

A1.BXANHB 


--& 


[fi- 


I'UKMH  OF  HKNTIMliNT  AND  UKb'LEOTWN. 


70 


^ 


^ 


QUACK  MKDICINEH. 

IJiri  now  our  llnm-kn  iin;  giitiiiiiitcru,  ttiid  lliey 
,,l,,y 
WiUj  ciai't  ami  Hkill  to  luiii  mid  Ijclniy  ; 
Witli  MioiiHlroUH  pi'oiiiiw;  Uiijy  ilclmli:  tli«  iniriil, 
And  llirivi;  on  all  Uiat  l-ortuiim  liuinun-kind. 

Void  ol'all  lionor,  avaiicioiiN,  iuhIi, 
'I'Ikj  daiiiig Irilii; i;oin|ioiinil tlii:if  lioanlinl traHli,  — 
'i'inctuii:  or  Hyni)i,  lotion,  drop  or  |iill  ; 
All  tonipt  tin;  Hii-lt  to  trust  tin;  lyin;^  Mil  ; 
And  twr'iity  nanii:n  of  i.-ol)l)lcr«  tunnel  to  w|uireii 
Aid  till:  liold  lanKUiif}!!  ol'  tlii;»i;  MuhIiIimh  liiirH. 
'i'lii.'ri!  an;  aiiion;{  llii;ni  tliOHi;  who  cannot  read, 
And  ynt  tlii;y '11  Ijiiy  a  |iati;lit,  and  kii(;(;i'i;i|  ; 
Will  ilari;  to  iiroiiiiw;  dyiii^  hiiHVicim  aid, 
For  who,  wli(;i)  dcail,  i;an  tlirraitcn  or  iiphraid  ? 
With  i;rui;l  avariiM'  ulill  tlii;y  ri;(;oiiiini:nd 
Mori;drau((litH,  niorcHyrup,  to  the  joiiriii'y'K  fiid. 
"  I  U:k\  it  not."      "Thi;n  taki;  it  i-vi-ry  hour." 
"  It  rnaki:H  nii;  worm;."     "  Why,  thi-n   it  »liown 

itH  powi;r." 
"  I  fcar  to  dii;."     "  Li;l  not  your  npiritH  Hink, 
You  'ri;  alwayHnalVj  wliih;  you  l)i;lii;v<;  and  drink." 

ilow  Htrangi;  to  add,  in  tliiH  ni;farioUH  triuh-. 
That  riii;n  of  partH  aro  dup(;H  hy  diiiic:i;H  inadi;  : 
That   creutuiX'M  naturu  niuaiil,  nhould  <:h;aii  oiir 

Htri;ct» 
Have  purchiiHcd  landH  and  mansions,  jiarkH  and 

H(;at»  : 
Wri;t<;hnH  with  coiiHi;ii;n(;i!  ho  olitiiw;,  tlii'y  li;avi; 
'rhi;ir  untaiiifht  non»  thi'ir  |)ari;nt»  to  d<;i:i;ivi; ; 
And  when  thi'y 'n;  laid  ii(ion  thi;irdyin;<  l«;d. 
No  Ihoiij^hl  of  iiiiirdor  i;onii;K  into  llii;ir  heinl  ; 

And  tlinii  in  ni.iny  a  pa)M;r  llirouf^h  tin;  y';ai', 
Must  i:iiri;H  and  i;aM(;»,  oatliB  and  proof»,  appear; 
Mi;nHnati;ln;dl'roin({iavi;HaMlhi;y  wi;ri;dro[ipiii((in, 
'rin;ir   lunf{t)   (;ou>;ln;d    up,    tln-ir  bom'H   pif;ri,i;d 

throufjli  tliidr  »kin  ; 
Tlii'ir  liver  all  oni;  HcirrliiiH,  and  tin;  franio 
I'oiwincd  with  evilit  which  tln;y  dan;  not  nann;  ; 
Men  who  Kjieiit  all  upon  phyniciaiiH'  fecH, 
Who  never  Hiejit,  nor  had  a  nionient'H  eaw;, 
An;  now  as  roachcH  Hoiind,  and  all  an  hriitk  an  hecH. 

Ti'ouhled  with  Honielhin{{  in  your  hile  or  lilood. 
You  think  your  doctor  doeo  you  little  good  ; 
And,  grown  inipaliciit,  you  reijuiie  in  hu«t<; 
Tin-  nervous  conlial,  nor  di.slike  the  taitte  ; 
It  comforts,   liealH,  and  utrengtlienH  ;  nay,  yon 

think 
11  makes  you  bettxT  every  time  you  drink  ; 
Who  tipples  lirandy  will  «oine  comfort  feel, 
iiut  will  he  U)  the  medicine  Kct  liin  K<;al  ? 

No  claHH  CHcapCH  them  —  from  the  poor  muii'it 

i«'y 


The  noHtrum  takes  no  trilling  part  away  ; 

8ee  !  tlioite  si|iiare  patent  hottlen  from  the  shop 

Now  decoration  to  tin;  eujilioard'H  loji  ; 

And  there  a  favorite  hoani  you  '11  fiinl  within, 

Companions  meet  t  the  julep  and  the  gin. 

Hupixjsi!  the  ciute  HurpasHcs  liunian  Hkill, 
Therv  coiiiCH  u  (|uiu:k  to  flallc-r  wvakneHs  still  ; 
What  greater  evil  can  a  llatt(;i';r  do. 
Than  fioin  himself  to  take  the  siiHerer's  view  / 
To    turn    from    sucied    thoughtH    his   reahoning 

jiowers, 
And  rol)  a  Hinner  of  his  dying  hours  ? 
Vet  this  they  dan;,  ami,  craving  to  the  last, 
III  hojic's  Ktroiig  lionduge  hold  their  victim  fast  : 
l''or  soul  or  iKidy  no  coiicei'ii  have  they, 
All  their  inijuiry,  "(Jan  the  patient  pay  'I 
And   will  he  swallow  draughts   until  his  dying 

day  f " 
Olwerve  what  ills  t<j  nervous  fitmahs  Ilow, 
When  the  heart  lliitters  and  the  pulse  is  low  ; 
l(  oini-  iridiicwi  these  conlial  sips  to  try, 
All  feel  the  eime,  and  few  the  danger  Hy  ; 
Tor,   while  ohluined,  of  drams  they 'vi:  all   IIib 

force. 
And  when  denied,  then  ilrainHure  the  rco  iice. 

Who  would  not  lend  a  Byni|iallii/,iiig  sigh, 
To  hear  yon  infant's  pity-moving  cry  I 
Then  the  good  niirH«(wlio,  hail  she  home  a  hiiiin, 
lla/l  sought  the  cauw;  that  made  her  hahe  coin- 

phiin) 
Has  all  her  ell'orts,  loving  soul  !  ajiplied 
To  set  the  cry,  and  not  the  cause,  aside  ; 
Kin;  gave  her  powerful  sweet  without  remorse^ 
'/•/«;  Hlri:/d,iy  mrdml,  -  -  sin;  had  tried  its  force, 
Hejieating  oft ;  the  infant,  freed  from  pain, 
Rejected  food,  but  t'lok  the  dosi'  again, 
Sinking  to  sleep,  while  she  her  joy  ex[ireHsed, 
That  her  dear  charge  could  Bweetly  take  his  rest. 
Soon  may  she  sjiare  her  cordial  ;  not  a  doubt 
KemainH  hut  ijuickly  he  will  rest  without. 

What  then  our  liopcs  'I  —  perhaps  there  may 

by  law 
r<e  method  found  these  iiests  to  curb  and  awe  ; 
Yet,  in  this  land  of  fjeeiloin,  law  is  slack 
Witli  any  being  to  cominence  attack  ; 
Then  let  lis  trust  to  w:ience,  —  th{;re  an;  those 
Who  can  t  heir  falsehoodsand  theirfraudsdisclose. 
All  their  vile  trash  detect,  and  theii'  low  tricks 

expose. 
Perhaps  tlnir  numbers  may  in  time  confound 
Their  arts, — aB  HcorpionB  give  themsidves   the 

wound  ; 
Kor  wln-n  these  eurcrs  dwell  in  every  jjacc. 
While  of  the  cured  we  not  a  man  can  trace, 
Htrong  truth  may  then  the  public  mind  persu/Kle, 
And  sjjoil  the  fruitH  of  thin  nefarious  trade 


1^ 


[fi-*- 


708 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


n 


fr- 


SLEBPLESS  DREAMS. 

CiiKT  iu  dark  growths,  yet  glimmering  with  one 
stivr, 

0  nit;ht  desirous  as  the  night  of  youth  ! 

Why  should  my  heart  within  thy  si)oll,  forsooth, 
Now  beat,  as  the  bride's  tinger-inilses  are 
ii\iirkt'ned  within  the  girdling  golden  bar  ? 

What  wings  are  t  hese  that  fan  my  pillow  smooth? 

And  why  does  Sleep,  waved  back  by  Joy  and 
Hul'h, 
Tread  soflly  round  and  gaze  at  nie  IVoiu  far  ? 

Nay,  night  deepdeaved  !    Ami  would  Love  feign 
iu  thee 
Some  shadowy  jialpitaliug  grove  that  bears 
Rest  for  man's  eyes  and  music  for  his  oars  ? 
0  lonely  night !  art  thou  not  known  to  me, 
A  thii'ket  hung  with  masks  of  moekory 

A\id  watered  with  the  wasteful  warmth  of  tears  ? 

DANTE  GAUKIEL  KOSSETTI. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA. 

TiiK  eunning  hand  that  carved  this  face, 

A  little  helmeted  Minerva,  — 
The  band,  1  say,  ere  Phidias  wrought, 

Had  lost  its  subtile  skill  and  fervor. 

^\'lla  was  ho  ?     Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion  ? 

reichance  he  -shaped  this  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passion. 

But  ho  is  dust ;  we  may  not  know 

Ills  happy  or  unhappy  story  : 
Nameless,  aud  dead  these  thousand  years. 

His  work  uutlivi's  bini,  -  there  's  his  glory 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city  ; 
'I'lie  thousand  summers  came  and  went. 

With  neither  haste  nor  hate  nor  pity. 

The  years  wiped  ont  the  man,  but  left 

The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 
Till  some  Viseonti  dng  it  up,  — 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom  ! 

O  lliiiuan  brother  !  see  how  Time 

Vour  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded. 

See  how  yonr  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  bo  rewarded  ! 

Who  wonld  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  jiassion  also, 

To  have  his  carveu  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so  ! 

Thomas  Bau-ev  .\ldrich. 


SILLY  FAIIl. 

When  Lesbia  first  I  saw  so  heavenly  fair. 
With  eyes  so  bright,  and  with  that  awful  air, 
1  thought  my  heart  which  durst  so  high  aspire 
As  bold  as  his  who  snatched  celestial  lire. 
But  soon  as  e'er  the  beauteous  idiot  spoke 
Forth  from  her  coral  li]is  such  imnsense  brokSj 
Like  balm  the  trickling  nonsense  healed  my 

wound, 
And  what  her  eyes  t  II  tbi  ailed  her  tongue  unbound. 
William  Concrevb. 


THE  TOOTHACHE. 

My  curse  upon  thy  venomed  stang 
That  slioots  my  tortured  gums  alaiig  ; 
An'  through  my  lugs  gies  mony  a  twang, 

vVi'  gnawing  vengeance  ! 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang. 

Like  racking  engines. 

AVhen  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
IJheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes. 
Our  neighbor's  sympathy  may  ease  ue, 

Wi'  pitying  moan  ; 
Bvit  thee,  —  tlum  hell  o'  a'  diseases. 

Aye  mocks  our  groan. 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle  ; 
1  throw  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  mickle. 
As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle 

To  see  me  loup  ; 
"While,  raving  mad,  1  wish  a  heckle 

Were  in  their  doup, 

O'  a'  the  numerous  human  dools, 

111  har'sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools. 

Or  worthy  friends  raked  i'  the  mods, 

(Sad  sight  to  see  ! ) 
The  tricks  o'  knaves  or  fash  o'  fools, 

Thou  bear'st  the  gree. 

Robert  Burns. 


TO  THE   UNOO  OUID. 

My  son.  these  inaxinis  make  n  rule 
And  Iiiiiip  tlR-iu  rtyt-  thcffither: 

The  Kiiriil  Kii;htcoiis  is  .I'fool, 
The  Rii;iil  Wise  anithcr  ; 

The  clcincst  corn  that  e'er  w.is  dight 
May  hae  soine  pyles  o'  caff  in : 

Sae  ne'er  n  fcllow-crenttire  slight 


0  VK  wha  are  sae  guid  yourscT, 

Sac  pious  anil  sac  holy, 
Ye  "ve  nought  to  ilo  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebor's  fauts  and  folly  :  — 


--ff 


a- 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


709 


-a 


^- 


Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Siipiilied  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  lieapet  happer  's  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals. 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door, 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals  ! 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes. 

Would  hc're  projioiie  defenses, 
Theii'  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mLschances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared. 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer  ; 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard. 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave 

That  purity  ye  jjride  in. 
And  (what 's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  Ijetter  art  o'  hidin'. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  tlien  a  wallop. 
What  ragings  nmst  his  veins  convulse, 

Tluit  still  eternal  gallop  : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  leeway. 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces. 
Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names. 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  ; 
A  dear-loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination,  — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug, 

Ye  're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang. 

To  step  aside  is  human. 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moWng  why  they  do  it  ; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  i-ue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us  ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  —  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  —  its  various  bias  : 
Then  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute. 

We  never  can  adjust  it  ; 
What 's  done  we  partly  m.ay  compute. 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted. 

Robert  Burns. 


L'  ALLEGRO. 

Hkxce,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born. 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongst  hoixid  shai)es,  and  shrieks,  and  sights 
unholy  ! 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell. 
Where   brooding  Darkness  spreads   his  jealous 

wing.s. 
And  the  night-raven  sings  ; 
There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-browed  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  ycleped  Kuphrosyne, 
And,  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth  ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth. 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  i\'y-crowned  Bacchus  bore  ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  .sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing,  — 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  — 
There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew. 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity,  — 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles. 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek. 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek,  — 
Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter,  holding  both  liis  sides. 
Come  !  and  trip  it,  as  you  go. 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 
Anil  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymjih,  sweet  Liljerty  ; 
Ami  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee. 
In  unreprove<l  pleasures  free,  — 
To  hear  tlie  lark  begin  his  flight, 
.\nd  singing  startle  the  dull  Night, 
From  his  watcli-tower  in  the  skies. 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow. 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine. 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  ; 
While  the  eoek  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  bam  door, 
Stoutly  strata  his  dames  before  ; 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 


-^ 


a^, 


710 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-•^ 


Oheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  Morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill ; 
Sometime  walldng,  not  unseen, 
By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
I'Litrht  against  the  eastern  gate. 
Whore  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  ilanies,  and  amber  light. 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  plowman,  near  at  hand. 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  canght  new  pleasures. 

Whilst  the  landseape  round  it  measures 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray. 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray,  — 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 

Tlic  lalwring  clouds  do  often  rest,  — 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees. 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 

The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks. 

Where  Corydon  and  Tliyrsis,  met, 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 

Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes. 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses  ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  l)Ower  she  leaves, 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves  ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invito, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid. 

Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade  ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday. 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail ; 

'I'lien  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat : 

How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat,  — 

Siie  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said. 

And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led  ; 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  mom. 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  thrashed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end  ; 

Thou  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 


And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 
And,  crop-full,  out  of  doors  he  flings 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then. 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Wliere  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 

In  weeds  of  peace  high  tiiumphs  hold,  — 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  wliom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

In  salfron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 

And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry. 

With  masque,  and  antique  pageantry,  — 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream  ; 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 

If  .lonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

.^.nd  ever,  against  eating  cares, 

Laji  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse,  — 

Su(-li  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  dra\vii  out, 

Witli  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning  ^ 

Tlie  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

T'n twisting" all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony,  — 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  gohlen  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Sueb  strains  iis  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys. 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  ! 

How  little  you  bestead. 
Or  fiU  the  fixM  mind  with  all  your  toys  ! 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain. 
And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess. 
As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams,  — 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  tram. 


&^- 


^ 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


711 


;-& 


B- 


But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and  holy  ! 

Hail,  divinest  Melancholy  ! 

Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 

To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight. 

And  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view, 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue,  — 

lilack,  but  such  as  in  esteem 

Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem. 

Or  that  starred  Ethiop  ciueen  that  strove 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

The  Sea-Nymjihs,  and  their  powers  offended. 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  ; 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta,  loug  of  yore, 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore,  — 

His  daugliter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove. 

While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a  rolie  of  darkest  gi'ain 

Flowing  with  majestic  train. 

And  sable  stole  of  cyprus-lawn 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  w'ith  the  skies. 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  ; 

There  held  in  holy  passion  still. 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

Witli  a  sad,  leaden,  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast ; 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet,  - 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet. 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  .Jove's  altar  sing  ; 

And  add  to  tliese  retired  Leisure, 

Th:it  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure  : 

But  first  .uiil  i.'hiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne,  — 

The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 

In  lirr  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Siii.iuthing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

Whilr  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak. 

Sweet  bird,  that  shun'st  the  noise  of  folly,  — 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  ehantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song  : 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry,  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 


Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way  ; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

1  liear  the  far-off  curfew  soimd 

Over  some  wide- watered  shore. 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 

Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Siinie  still  removed  place  will  fit. 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  — 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  cliarm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  ; 

Or  let  my  lam])  at  midnight  hour 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower. 

Where  I  may  oft  ovit-watch  the  liear 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 

Th(!  immortal  mind  that  hath  for-sook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook  ; 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  foimd 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground. 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by. 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line. 

Or  the  talc  of  Troy  divine. 

Or  wluit  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  0  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musieus  from  his  bower  ! 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orjihens  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string. 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  hell  grant  what  love  did  seek  ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Canibuscan  bold,  — 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife,  — 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass,  — 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  wliich  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  ! 
And,  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  .sung,  — 
Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung. 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear. 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  car. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 

Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear,  — 

Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 


-_3 


[& 


71: 


I'OEMS  OF  SJiNTIMEXT  AND  BEFLEOTIOy. 


-a 


With  the  Attif  boy  to  hunt. 

But  keirhiefeii  iu  a  coiui'ly  cloud. 

While  rocking  wiuils  are  iiiiung  loud, 

Or  ushci-ed  with  a  shower  still 

When  the  gust  hath  blowu  his  fill. 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 

With  minute  drojis  from  oil"  the  eaves. 

And  when  the  sun  K'gins  to  tliug 

His  tiariug  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 

To  aa-hed  walks  of  twilight  groves. 

And  shadows  iirown,  that  Sylvan  loves. 

Of  piue,  ov  monumental  oak. 

Where  the  rude  ax  with  heaved  stroke 

Whs  never  hearvi  the  Xymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  fivm  their  hallowe^l  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook. 

Where  no  profoner  eye  may  look, 

Hiile  lue  from  day's  gsirish  eye. 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing. 

And  the  waters  murmuring 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep. 

Entice  the  dewy-feathei-ed  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid  ; 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale. 

And  love  the  high  emlx>wed  roof. 

With  antic  pillai^  massy  proof. 

And  storied  windows,  richly  dight. 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 

There  let  the  pealing  oi-gan  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  l>elow. 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear. 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies. 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hcmiitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell. 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew. 
And  everj-  herb  that  sips  the  dew. 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give, 
.■\nd  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


& 


HALLOWED  GR0T7ND. 

Wh.\t  's  halloweil  ground  ?    Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  tixxl 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourgeil  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That  's  hallowed  ground  where,   mourned  and 
I  misseil, 

I  The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed  ;  — 
But  where  's  their  memory's  mansion  ?    Is  't 

Yon  churehyanl's  bowers .' 
No  !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 
A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecr!»te  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound  : 
The  sjKit  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  heaven  ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old  ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mold  ; 

And  will  not  cool. 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  i)ool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'T  is  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 

Or  Genii  t^vine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind,  — 

.\nd  is  he  dead,  whose  gloi-ious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  >  — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  liehind 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is  't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  l 
He  "s  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  niuiiler  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  swoixl  he  draws  :  — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause  ! 

Give  that,  —  and  welcome  War  to  brace 
Her  drums,  and  rend  heaven's  i-eeking  space  ! 
The  colors  plante<l  face  to  face. 

The  chaining  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horee  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 


-4 


©- 


POEMS  OF  HE  Nil  ME  NT  AND  BE  FLECTION. 


713 


-a 


And  pliice  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  !  —  but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal  ! 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above  ! 
Tran.sfcr  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  IVai  e  and  Love. 

Teace,  Love  !  the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  Sfiread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  slirine. 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine. 

Where  they  are  not,  — 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Keligion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
Atid  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 
See  nioldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Helie  the  vaunt. 
That  man  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chant. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man  ! 
Thy  temi)les,  —  creeds  themselves  grow  wan  ! 
But  thei'e  's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban,  — 

Its  space  is  heaven  ! 

Its  roof,  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing. 

The  harmonious  splieres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  morUd  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  arc  not  your  bcdngs  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  oljscuro  ? 
Else  wliy  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love  ! 

Ami  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  tile  doom  of  distant  time  ; 
Tliat  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn. 
And  reasnii  on  bis  mortal  clime 

Imniortid  dawn. 

What 's  hallowed  ground  ?    'T  is  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  !  — 
Peace  !   Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round  ; 
And  your  hii,di -priesthood  shall  make  earth 

j-i/l  Iiallowcd  fjround. 


fy- 


TO  BE  NO  MORE. 

To  lie  no  more  —  sad  cure  ;  for  who  would  lose 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity. 
To  ]ierish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  night, 
Devoid  of  sense  and  motion  ? 


INSCRIPTION  IN  MARBLE  IN  THE  PARISH 
CHURCH  OF  FAVERSHAM. 

Wiioso  him  bethoft 
Inwardly  and  oft. 
How  hard  it  were  to  flit 
From  Ix'd  unto  the  pit, 
From  pit  unto  pain 
That  ne'er  shall  cca.se  again, 
He  would  not  do  one  sin 
All  the  world  to  win. 


INVOCA'nON  TO  RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

O  riKNTLE,  gentle  summer  rain, 

Let  not  the  silver  lily  pine, 
The  drooping  lily  pine  in  vain 

To  feel  that  dewy  touch  of  thine,  — 
To  drink  thy  freshness  once  again, 
0  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain  ! 

In  licat  the  landscape  ipiivering  lies  ; 

Tile  cattle  pant  beneath  the  tree  ; 
Through  parching  air  and  purple  skies 

The  earth  looks  up,  in  vain,  for  thee  ; 
For  thee,  —  for  thee,  it  looks  in  vain, 
0  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain  ! 

Come  thou,  and  brim  the  meadow  streams, 
And  soften  all  the  hills  with  mist, 

0  falling  dew  !  from  burning  dreams 
By  thee  shall  herb  and  flower  be  kissed. 

And  Earth  shall  bless  thee  yet  again, 

0  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain  ! 

William  Cox  bf.nnett. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE. 

I  WENT  to  the  garden  of  love. 
And  saw  what  I  never  had  seen  ; 
A  chapel  was  built  in  the  miilst, 
Where  I  used  to  play  on  the  gieen. 

And  the  gate  of  this  chapel  was  shut. 
And  "thou  shalt  not"  writ  over  the  door  ; 


-S 


r 


714 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REELECTION. 


--a 


So  I  tunioil  to  tlio  jj;iir(U'ii  of  lovo, 
That  so  many  sweot  llowois  l>ore. 

Aiul  1  saw  it  was  liUod  with  graves, 

And  tiMulistoncs  whi-rn  llowors  shoviUl  bo  ; 

And  [iiioats  iu  Mark  fjowns  wimv  walkiiis;  their 

rounds, 
And  hindini;  willi  liiiors  my  joys  and  desires. 


LOVK   AGAINST  LOVE. 

.\s  unto  bhnviiig  roses  summer  dews, 

l)r  morning's  amber  to  the  tree-top  elioii's. 

So  to  my  bosom  are  the  beams  tliat  use 

To  rain  on  me  from  eyes  that  love  inspires. 

Your  love,  —  vouehsale  it,  royal-hearted  Few, 

And  1  will  set  no  common  price  thereon  ; 

O.  1  will  keeii,  as  heaven  his  holy  blue. 

0\-  night  her  diamonds,  that  dear  treasure  won. 

15ut  aught  ol"  inwaixl  faith  must  I  forego, 

Or  mi.ss  one  drop  from  truth's  baptismal  hand. 

Think   poorer  thoughts,   pray  chenper   prayers, 

and  grow 
Less   worthy   trust,    to   meet    your   heart's  dc 

mand,  — 
Farewell  !     Your  wish  I  for  your  sake  deny  : 
Rebel  to  love,  in  trutli  to  love,  am  1. 

DAVrn  A.  Wasson. 


If  WOMEN  COULD  BE  FAIR. 

PROM  UVKU'S  -SONGS  AND  SONNUTS,"  158S. 

li-  Hiimen  could  be  fair  and  never  fond, 
Or  that  their  beauty  might  continue  still, 

1  would  not  marvel  though  they  nmde  men  bond, 
Uy  service  long  to  iiurchase  their  good-will  ; 

Hut  when  1  -see  how  frail  these  erent>n-es  are, 

1  laugh  that  men  forget  themselves  so  far. 

To  murk  what  choice  they  make,  ami  how  they 
change, 
llow,  leaving  \iest,  tlic  worst  they  choose  out 
still, 
.\ud  how,  like  haggards,  wild  about,  they  range. 

Scorning  tlu>  reason  to  follow  after  will  ; 
Who  would  not  shake  sm-h  buzzards  from  the  fist, 
And  let  them  lly,  fair  fools,  what  way  they  list.' 

Yet  for  o\ir  sport  we  fawn  and  Hatter  both, 
To  pass  the  time  when  nothing  else  can  please, 

.\nd  train  them  on  to  yield,  by  subtle  oath, 
The  sweet  content  that  gives  such  humor  ease ; 

And  then  we  say,  when  we  their  follies  try, 

To  play  with  fools,  O,  what  a  fool  was  1  ! 

ANONYMoeS. 


DRINK  TO  ME  ONLY  WITH  THINK  EVK8 


UniNK  to  nie  only  with  thine  eyes, 

.\nd  1  will  ph-dge  with  ndnc  ; 
tir  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup. 

And  1  '11  not  look  for  wine 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  riso 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
Hut  ndght  I  of  .love's  ncct<u'  .sup, 

1  wouhl  not  change  for  thiuo. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wroath, 

Not  so  nuich  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be  ; 
Hot  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  scnt'st  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  1  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  hut  thee  ! 

From  llK  Greek  of  Pnil.OSTKATUS. 
by  Ul.N  JONSOtt 


THE   M.\HOll.\NY  TREE 

CliKlSTMAs  is  here  ; 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
I.itllc  care  we  ; 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without. 
Sheltered  about 
The  niahogany-troe. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
liirds  of  rare  pUimo 
Sang,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night-birds  are  wo  ; 
Here  we  earovisc, 
Singing,  like  them. 
Perched  rouml  the  stoni 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport, 
lioys,  as  we  sit,  — 
Laughter  and  wit 
Fhisliing  so  free. 
Life  is  luit  short,  — 
When  we  arc  gone, 
liCt  them  sing  on. 
Kounil  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  «e  knew, 
Happy  as  this  ; 
Faces  we  miss. 
Pleasant  to  seo. 


-^ 


[& 


rOEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


715 


^ 


Kind  hearts  and  true, 
Gentle  and  ju»t, 
Peace  to  your  dust  I 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
i^urku  at  tlie  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Hapjiy  we  '11  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one  ; 
Pill;  up  the  coals  ; 
Fill  till!  red  bowls, 
Kound  the  old  tree  ! 

Drain  we  the  cup.  — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Ked  Sea, 
Mantle  it  up ; 
Eiiility  it  yet ; 
Let  us  forget, 
Kound  the  old  tree  ! 

Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills. 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  tlie  dawn. 
Blue-devil  sprite  ; 
Leave  us  to-niglit, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


Vr-^ 


THE  ONE  GRAY  HAIR. 

The  wisest  of  thc^  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies. 

And  love  to  hear  them  told  ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one,  — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew  old. 

I  ncvi'r  sat  among 

The  choir  of  wi.sdonj's  -song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I 
As  much  as  any  king,  — 
When  youth  waa  on  the  wing. 
And  (must  it  then  be  told  V)  when  youth  had  quite 
gone  by. 

Alas  !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot. 

When  one  jiert  lady  said,  — 
"O  Landor  !   1  am  quite 
Bewildered  with  affright ; 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now !)  a  white  hair  on  your  head  !  " 


Another,  more  benign. 
Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine. 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  she  hail  found 
That  one,  and  twirled  it  round.  — 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  wa«  so  fair. 

WALTEK  Savage  Landor. 


GROWINO  GRAY. 

"On  A  r.igc  dc  son  cocur."— A    o'Hot'DETOT. 

A  LITTLE  more  toward  the  light. 

Me  'rawerum.     Here  's  one  that  's  white, 

And  one  that  's  turning  ; 
Adieu  to  song  and  "salad  days." 
My  Muse,  let  's  go  at  once  to  .lay's 

And  order  mouniing. 

We  must  refonri  our  rhymes,  my  dear. 
Renounce  the  gay  for  the  severe,  — 

Be  grave,  not  witty  ; 
We  have  no  more  the  right  to  find 
That  Pyrrha's  hair  is  neatly  twined, 

That  Chloe  's  |)rctty. 

V'oung  Love  's  for  us  a  farce  that  's  played  ; 
Light  canzonet  and  serenade 

No  more  may  tempt  us  ; 
Gray  hairs  but  ill  accord  with  dreams  ; 
Fiom  aught  but  sour  didactic  themes 

fJur  years  cxc^mjit  us. 

"A  la  bmine  hr:arc!"     You  fancy  so  ? 
You  think  for  one  white  streak  we  grow 

At  once  satiric  I 
A  fiddlestii'k  !     Each  hair  's  a  string 
To  which  our  graybeard  Muse  shall  sing 

A  younger  lyric. 

Our  heart  's  still  sound.     Shall  "cakes  and  ale 
Grow  rare  to  youth  because  we  rail 

At  sehool-boy  di.shes  ? 
Perish  the  tliought  !     'T  is  ours  to  sing. 
Though  neither  Time  nor  Tide  can  bring 

Belief  with  wishes. 

AUSTIN  DOBSON 


LEAR'S  PRAYER. 

PROM  "KING  LKAR." 

O  Heavens, 
If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old, 
Make  it  your  cause ;  send  down,  and  take  my 
part ! 


e-: 


716 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


^ 


6^ 


GIVE  ME  THE  OLD. 

ro    READ.    AND    OLD    FRIENDS    TO    CONVERSE    WllH, 

Old  wine  to  drink  ! 
j\y,  give  the  slippery  juice 
Tliat  drippeth  from  tlie  grape  thrown  loos( 

Within  the  tun  ; 
I'liu-ked  From  beneath  the  olifl" 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 

And  ripened  'neath  the  blink 
Of  India's  sun  ! 
Peat  whiskey  hot, 
Tempered  with  well-boiled  water  ! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter,  — 

Forgetting  not 
Ciood  stout  old  Engli.sh  porter. 

OUl  wood  to  burn  ! 
Ay,  bring  the  liillside  beech 
From  whore  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 

And  ravens  croak  ; 
The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet ; 
liring  too  a  dump  of  fragrant  peat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern  ; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A  fagot  too,  perhap, 
Whose  l>right  flame,  dancing,  winking, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking  ; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

Old  books  to  read  ! 
Ay,  Viring  those  n.id.-s  of  wit, 
Tiie  brazrn-clasiicd.  tin-  vcUum-writ, 

Tinic-hoiiorcd  tomes  ! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before. 
The  same  my  grand.sire  tlmnibed  o'er. 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore. 
The  well-earned  meed 
Of  Oxford's  domes  ; 
Old  Homer  blind. 
Old  Horace,  rake  Atutcrcon,  by 
Old  TuNy,  Plaulus,  Terence  \w  ; 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  minstrelsie. 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay  ! 
And  Gcrvasc  Markhatns  venerie,  — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holy  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die, 

Old  friends  to  talk  ! 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found  ; 
Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud. 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 

In  mountain  walk  ! 


Bring  Walter  good  : 
AVith  soulful  Fred;  and  learned  Will, 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego  (dearer  still 
For  every  mood). 

Robert  Hinckley  Messenger. 


ATTLD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  auld  acciuaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min'  i 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

CHOKUS. 
Far  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  sxjne. 
We  'II  tak  a  cup  o'  kvndtiess  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hao  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu't  the  gowans  tine  ; 
But  we  'vo  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  diue  ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  liae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  .syne. 

And  here  's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine  ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint-3toup. 

And  surely  I  '11  be  mine  ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kinduess  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


"  Ah  1  bi  la  jeuncsse  savait  —  si  la  vieillcsse  pouvait  1 

Theke  sat  an  old  man  on  a  rock, 

And  unceasing  bewailed  him  of  Fate,  — 
That  concern  where  we  all  must  take  stock, 
Though  our  vote  has  no  hearing  or  weight ; 
And  the  old  man  sang  him  an  old,  old  song, — 
Never  sang  voice  so  clear  and  strong 
That  it  could  drown  the  old  man's  long. 
For  he  sang  the  song  "  Too  late  !  too  late  ! " 

"  When  we  want,  we  have  for  our  pains 

The  promise  that  if  we  but  wait 
Till  the  want  has  burned  out  of  our  brains. 

Every  means  shall  be  present  to  sate  ; 

While  we  send  for  the  napkin  the  soup  geta 


cold, 


-^ 


9 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


717 


-a 


While  the  bonnet  is  trimming  the  face  grows  |  Sown  once  for  food,  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 

old,  Or  golden  coins  squandered,  and  still  to  fay  ? 

Wlien  we  've  matched  our  buttons  the  pat-        Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 


tern  is  sold. 
And  everything  comes  too  late  —  too  late  ! 

"  When  strawberries  seemed  like  red  heavens, 

TeiTapin  stew  a  wild  dream, 
Wlien  my  brain  was  at  sixes  and  sevens. 
If  my  mother  had  '  folks  '  and  ice-cream, 
Then  1  gazed  with  a  lickerisli  hunger 
At  the  restaurant  man  and  fruit-monger  — 
But  0,  how  I  wished  I  were  younger 
When  the  goodies  all  came  in  a  stream  — 
in  a  stream  ! 

"  I  've  a  splendid  blood  horse,  and  —  a  liver 

That  it  jars  into  torture  to  trot  ; 
My  row-boat 's  the  gem  of  the  river,  — 
Gout  makes  every  knuckle  a  knot ! 

I  can  buy  boundless  credits  on   Paris  and 

Rome, 
Fiut  no  palate  for  menun,  no  eyes  for  a  dome — 
Thoxc  belonged  to  the  youth  who  must  tarry 
at  home. 
When  no  home  but  an  attic  he'd  got  — 
he 'd  got ! 

"How  I  longed,  in  that  lonest  of  garrets, 

Wliere  the  tiles  baked  my  brains  all  July, 
For  gi'ound  to  gi-ow  two  pecks  of  can-ots. 
Two  pigs  of  my  own  in  a  sty, 

A  rosebush  — a  little  thatched  cottage  — 
Two  spoons  —  love  —  a  basin  of  pottage  !  — 
Now  in  freestone  I  sit  —  and  my  dotage  — 
With  a  woman's  chair  eni])ty  close  by  — 
close  by  ! 

"  Ah  !  now,  though  I  sit  on  a  rock, 

I  have  shared  one  seat  with  the  great ; 
I  have  sat  —  knowing  naught  of  the  clock  — 
On  love's  high  throne  of  state  ; 

But  the  lips  that  kissed,  and  the  anns  that 

caressed. 
To  a  mnuth  grown   stem  with  delay  were 

IMVSSed. 

And  riivlid   a  breast  that  their  clasp  had 
l.l.-ssed 
Had  they  only  not  come  too  late  —  too 
late  !  " 

FiTZ  Hugh  Ludlow. 


y- 


LOST  DAYS. 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day 

Wliat   were  they,  could    I    see  them  on  tlie 

.street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  bo  eai-s  of  wheat 


Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  throats  of  men  in  hell,  who  thirst  alway  ? 

1  do  not  sec  them  here  ;  but  after  death, 
God  knows,  I  know  the  faces  1  shall  see 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath 
"  I  am  thyself,  — what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ? ' 

"And  I  — and  I  — thy.self  (lo  !  each  one  saith). 
And  thou  thyself,  to  all  eternity." 

Dantf-  gaerill  Rossetti. 


THE  FOOLISH  VIRGLNS. 


The  Queen  looked  up,  and  said, 
"O  maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  sing. 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart,  that  1  may  weep." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  tlie  little  maid  ; 

"  Late,  late,  so  late  !   and  dark  the  night  and 
chill  ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late  !     Ve  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light  had  we  ;  for  that  we  do  rejient ; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late  !     Ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light;   so  late!   and   dark   and   iliiU   the 

night ! 
O,  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late  !     Ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet  ? 
O,  let  us  in,  though  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !     Ye  cannot  enter  now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  i>assionatcly. 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  wei>t  the  sad  Queen. 
.\LFRED  Tennyson. 


I  MADE  a  posie,  while  the  day  ran  by  : 

"  Here  will  I  smell  my  renmant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band." 
But  Time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away. 

And  withered  in  my  hand. 

My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my  heart. 
I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in  gootf  part 
Time's  gentle  admonition 


:i 


\Br- 


718 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-a 


& 


^^'l^o  ilid  so  swoetly  litiatli's  sail  taste  convey, 
Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal  day, 

Yet  sug)uing  the  suspicion. 

Kai-ewell,   dear   llo« ois !    sweetly  yonr  time   ye 

spent  ; 
Kit,  while  ye  livoil,  tor  smell  or  ornament. 

And,  alter  death,  for  euivs, 
1  follow  straight,  withont  eomidaints  or  grief ; 
Since,  if  my  scout  be  good,  1  eare  not  if 

It  be  as  short  as  yours. 

OEOKGS  HEKUBKT. 


UFE. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 
That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
l>i\t,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 
Is  scattered  on  the  gi\iuud  —  to  die  ! 
Yet  on  tlie  uise's  Immble  lied 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  slied, 
.\s  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see,  — 
I5ut  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 
That  trembles  in  the  moon's  jmle  ray  ; 
Its  hold  is  frail,  — its  date  is  brief, 
Kestless,  and  soon  to  pass  away  ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shiwle, 
The  winds  liewail  the  hafless  tree,  — 
Uut  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tam|>a's  desert  strand  ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
All  trace  will  vanish  irom  the  sand  ; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  elVace 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race. 
On  that  loiui  shore  loud  moans  the  sea, 
But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 


"BLESSED  ARE  THEY  THAT  MOTIRN.' 

0,  i>KKM  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep  ; 

The  Power  who  pities  man  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  teai-s  ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  yeai-s. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 


And  grief  may  bide  lut  evening  guest. 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier, 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drojw  like  rain, 

llopi'  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  agsiin. 

>:or  let  the  good  man's  trust  deiwrt. 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny,  — 

Though  with  a  pien^ed  and  bleeding  heart. 
Ami  spurued  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  liod  hath  nuirkeil  each  sorrowing  day 
And  numliered  every  secret  tear, 

And  hea\on's  long  iige  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  idl  his  children  sulfer  here. 

WILLIAM  CULLON  BRVANT. 


THE  DOlTBTINa  HEART. 

Where  are  tlie  swallows  lied  ; 

Frozen  and  doiul 
PerohancB  upon  some  bleak  tmd  stormy  shore. 
0  doubting  heart  I 
Far  over  purple  seas 
They  wait,  in  sunny  ease. 
The  Iwlniy  .southern  breeze 
To  bring  tliem  to  their  northern  homes  once  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die  I 

Prisoned  they  lie 
In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 
O  doubting  heart ! 
They  only  .sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow 
While  winter  winds  shall  blow. 
To  breathe  and  smile  upon  yon  soon  again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 

These  many  days  ; 

Will  dreary  houi-s  never  leave  the  earth  f 

0  doubting  heart ! 

The  stormy  clouds  on  higli 

A'eil  the  same  sunny  sky 

That  soon,  for  sjiring  is  nigh, 

Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hojie  is  dead,  and  light 

Is  quenched  in  night  ; 
What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  desjwir  ! 
0  doubting  heart ! 
The  sky  is  oveixast. 
Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angels'  silver  voices  stir  tlie  air. 


IB  air.  • 

)U   .\SNB   rSOCTEH.  1^ 


f 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


719 


■a 


fe 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE. 

Til  K  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages  ; 
A  day  V>  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth, 

Kre  passion  yet  disordera. 
Steals  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  gi'assy  Vwrders. 

But,  as  till;  careworn  cheek  grows  wan, 

And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 
Ye  stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 

Vf\\y  seem  your  courses  ijuicker  ? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  hhjoni  and  hrcalh, 

And  life  itscll'  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  near  the  Falls  of  Death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid  ? 

It  may  be  strangi-,  —  yet  who  would  change 
Time's  course  to  slower  speeding. 

When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone. 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 

Indemnifying  fleetness  ; 
And  those  of  youth,  a  seeming  length. 

Proportioned  to  their  sweetness. 


THE  VANITY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

False  world,  thou  ly'st  :  thou  canst  not  lend 

The  least  delight  : 
Thy  favors  cannot  gain  a  friend. 

They  are  so  slight : 
Tliy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 

To  please  at  night : 
Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  supjdy'st. 
And  yet  thou  vaunt'st,  and  yet  tliou  vy'st 
With   heaven  :    fonil   eartli,    thou   boasts  ;   false 
worlii,  thou  ly'st. 

Thy  bal)bling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 

f  If  endless  treasure  ; 
Thy  bounty  ofl'ers  easy  sales 

Of  lasting  pleasure  ; 
Thou  ask'.st  tlie  conscience  what  she  ails, 

And  swear'st  to  ea.se  her  ; 
There  's  none  can  want  where  thou  supply' st  ; 
Tliere  's  none  can  jrive  where  thou  deny'st. 
Alas  !  fond  world,  thou  boasts  ;  fabse  world,  thou 
ly'st. 


What  well-advised  ear  regards 

What  earth  can  say  ? 
Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 

Are  painted  clay  : 
Thy  cunning  can  but  pack  the  carda. 

Thou  canst  not  play  : 
Thy  game  at  weakest,  still  thou  vy'st ; 
If  seen,  and  then  revy'd,  deny'st  : 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st  ;   false  world, 
thou  ly'st. 

Thy  tinsel  bosom  seems  a  mint 

Of  new-coined  treasure  ; 
A  paradise,  that  lias  no  stint, 

No  change,  no  measure  ; 
A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in  't. 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure  ; 
Vain  earth  I  that  falsely  thus  cumply'et 
With  man  ;  vain  man  I  that  thou  rely'st 
On  earth  ;   vain  man,   thou  dot'sl  ;  vain  earth, 
thou  ly'st. 

What  mean  dull  souls,  in  this  high  measure. 

To  haberdash 
In  earth's  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treasure 

Is  dross  and  trash  ? 
The  height  of  whose  enchanting  pleasure 

Is  but  a  fia-sh  ? 
Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  supply's! 
Us  moitals  with  ?     Are  these  the  high'st  ? 
Can  these  bring  cordial  jjcace  ?  false  world,  thou 
ly'st. 

FRANCLS  I.JUARLES 


Good  by,  proud  world,  I  'm  going  liome  : 
Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I  'm  not  thine. 
Ixing  thi'ough  thy  weary  crowds  1  roarn  ; 
A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Long  I've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam, 
Hut  now,  proud  world,  I  'm  going  home. 

Good  by  to  Flattery's  fawning  face  ; 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace  ; 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye  ; 

To  supple  Office,  low  and  high  ; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street ; 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet  ; 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come  ; 

Good  by,  proud  world  !  I  'm  going  home. 

I  'm  going  to  my  own  hearth-stone. 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone,  — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land. 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  faiiies  planned  ; 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 


^ 


e- 


720 


POEMS  OF  SJiNTIMJiNT  AND  Rt:FLJi:orJON. 


-a 


43-- 


Ami  vulgor  foot  hnvo  iiovi'V  tivil 

A  spot  that  is  sjd'ivd  to  tliouj{lit  iilid  lunl. 

0,  wlioii  1  iim  salo  in  iiiy  sylvim  homo, 
1  tivrtd  on  tlio  i>viiK>  of  liivtH'o  iiiul  Uomn  ; 
And  whou  1  imi  stivtiliod  liouonth  tlio  |nui)a, 
Whoiti  tJ\t>  ovoiiinj;  stav  so  lioly  sliinos, 
I  linijsh  at  tlio  loiv  and  tho  jivido  ol'  man, 
At  tlio  sopliist  schools,  and  tho  U'ainod  ilan  ; 
l''or  what  ai-o  Ihoy  all,  in  thoic  hij;h  oonooit, 
Whon  man  in  tho  hnsh  with  (lod  may  nuH't  ? 

KAl  r»  WaLOO  l^MliKSON. 


THE  NEVERMORK. 

Look  in  n\y  laoo*  my  namo  is  Might -havo-heon  ; 

I  am  also  oallod  No-nioiv,  Too-lato,  FaivwoU  ; 

t'nto  thino  oar  1  hold  (ho  doad-soa  shoU 
Cast  np  thy  l.ilo's  I'oam-I'ivttcd  foot  Ivtwoou  ; 
Unto  thino  oyos  tho  glass  whoiv  that  is  soon 

Whioh  had  l.ifo's  form  and  Lovo's,  but  hv  n\v 

SIH'U 

Is  now  a  shalvon  shadow  intolorahlo, 
t^f  nltinmto  things  unuttoivd  tho  frail  soroon. 

Mark  mo,  how  slill  1  am  I     lUit  shoidd  thoiv  dart 
Ouo  momont  thivngh  my  sonl  lliosoft  snrpriso 
0(  that  wingi'd  IVaoo  whioh  lulls  tho  Imvith  of 
sighs,  — 
'rhon  shalt  thou  soo  n>o  sniilo,  and  tnru  apart 
Thy  visagti  to  \uino  aiuhusli  at  thy  hoart 
Sleoploss  with  oold  oonimouiomtivo  oyos. 

ixvNiK  c.AiiRiKL  Rosiin-n. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  DEATH, 

WiiAr  is  (loath  ?    'T  is  to  ho  fivo. 
No  moiv  to  lovo  or  hopo  or  foiu', 
'l\)  join  tlio  gntit  oiiuality  ; 

.in,  all  aliko  an-  Immilod  tlioro, 
Tho  mighty  giiivo 
Wrsilvs  lonl  and  slave  ; 
Nor  prido  nor  poverty  daivs  oomo 
Within  that  ivfugodiouso.       tho  tomh. 

Spirit  with  tho  di-ooping  wing 

And  the  ovor-wooping  oyo, 
Thou  of  all  earth's  kings  art  king  : 
Kmpiros  at  thy  footstool  Ho  ; 
beneath  theo  stivwed. 
Their  multitude 
Sink  like  waves  uixiii  the  shoiv  ; 
Storms  shuU  never  muse  Uiem  more. 


What  's  the  gnindenr  of  tho  earth 

To  the  grandeur  ixmnd  thy  thi-ono  f 
liiehes,  glory,  K>auly,  liirtli. 
To  thy  kingdom  all  have  gone, 
liefoiv  thee  stand 
The  wondixms  Imnd,  — 
Uai-ds,  heroes,  sages,  side  hy  side. 
Who  darkeneil  nations  whon  tliey  died. 

Kartli  has  hosts,  hut  thou  eanst  show 

Many  a  million  for  her  one  ; 
Tlutiugli  thy  gates  tlio  mortal  How 
Hath  for  I'ounlless  yeai-s  ivUed  on. 
r.aek  from  tlietomh 
No  slo)!  has  eomo, 
Theiv  lixed  till  the  last  thunder's  sound 
.Shall  hid  thy  prisonei's  he  unhound. 

C11OK0.U  CROI.V. 


iVNOltMNKO    Ul   niK. 

Mv  prime  of  youth  is  hut  a  I'lvst  of  earoa  ; 

My  feast  of  joy  is  hut  a  dish  of  juiin  : 
My  eivp  of  eorn  is  hut  a  field  of  taitvs  ; 

And  all  my  good  is  Imt  vain  hope  of  gain  ; 
Tho  day  is  [lied],  and  yet  1  saw  no  sun  ; 
And  now  1  live,  and  now  my  life  is  dono  ! 

Tlio  spring  is  jmst,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung  ; 

The    fruit    is   dead,    and   yet    the   loaves   aixi 
given  ; 
My  youth  is  ginie,  and  yet  1  am  \>nt  young  ; 

1  saw  the  world,  and  yet  1  was  not  seen  : 
My  thread  is  out,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun  ; 
And  now   1  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 

1  sought  my  death,  and  found  it  in  my  womh  ; 

1  looked  for  life,  and  saw  it  was  a  sliadi'  ; 
1  tn-d  the  earth,  and  know  it  was  my  tomh  ; 

.\nd  now  1  die,  and  now  I  am  hut  made  ; 
The  glass  is  full,  and  now  niv  glass  is  run  ; 
And  now  1  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 

I  loiMoci;  TveiiiioRN. 


EUTHANASIA. 

Itur  souls  that  of  his  own  g«vid  life  |vartake, 
Ho  loves  as  his  own  .self  ;  dear  as  his  eye 
Thoy  are  to  hin>  ;  He  "11  never  them  foi-sake  : 
When  thov  shall  die,  then  Ood  himself  aliall 

die "; 
They  live,  they  live  in  hlest  eternity. 

IIUNKV  MOKB. 


-S 


Ki\lKR60N>.     HuMK    A  V    CONCORD. 

" t/e.'/  atui  cm^, 

IIoi:ou>  on  f  like,  hiUsidi  ami  fiW-arcadf, 
Arf  toitckni  ~jjith  genius" 


f 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


121 


■a 


[&-- 


WRITTEN  -IHE  NIGHT   BEFORE  HIS  EXECUTION. 

E'en  such  is  time  ;  whicli  takes  on  trust 

Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 
And  i«iys  us  but  witli  eartli  and  dust ; 
Which  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days  : 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust. 
My  God  sliall  raise  me  uji,  I  trust. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


THE  SOUL'S  ERRAND. 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest. 

Upon  a  thankless  errand  ! 
Fear  not  to  touch  tlie  best. 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  waiTant  : 
Go,  since  I  needs  niu.st  die. 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood  ; 
Go,  tell  the  church  it  .shows 

Wliat  's  good,  and  doth  no  good. 
If  church  and  court  reply, 
Tlien  give  them  both  the  He. 

Tell  potentates  they  live 

Acting  by  others'  action, 
Not  loved  unless  they  give, 
Not  strong  but  by  a  faction. 
I  f  potentates  reply. 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 
That  nde  affairs  of  state, 
Tlieir  purpose  is  ambition. 
Their  practice  only  hate  ; 
And  if  they  once  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  tlie  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
MTio  in  their  gi'eatcst  cost, 

Seek  nothing  but  commending  : 
And  if  they  make  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion. 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust, 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  di-ist ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply. 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 


Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth. 

Tell  lionor  how  it  alters. 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blastetli. 
Tell  lavor  liow  it  falters  : 
And  as  tliey  shall  ri'ply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  liow  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness  ; 
Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness  : 
And  when  they  do  reply. 
Straight  give  them  botli  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  Imldncss, 
Tell  skill  it  is  pretension, 
Tell  charity  of  coldness. 
Tell  law  it  is  contention  : 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
.So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  nature  of  decay. 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness, 
Tell  ju.st  ice  of  delay  : 
And  if  they  will  I'eply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

Hut  vary  by  esteeming  ; 
Till  schools  they  want  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  seliools  reply. 
Give  arts  and  schools  tlie  lie. 

Tell  faith  it  fled  the  city  ; 

Tell  liow  the  country  erreth  ; 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pity  ; 
Tell,  virtue  least  [irefcrreth  ; 
And  if  they  do  re[)ly. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  tliee,  done  blabbing. 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  st.abbing. 
Yet,  stab  at  thee  who  will. 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 

JOSHL'A  SVLVriSTER. 


LETTERS. 

Evert  day  brings  a  .ship. 
Every  ship  brings  a  word  ; 
Well  for  those  who  have  no  fear, 
Looking  seaward  well  assured 
That  the  word  the  vessel  brings 
Is  the  word  they  wish  to  hear. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


-ff 


[fi-r 


1>U£MS  UF  HEJ^TIUKNT  AND  REFLECTION. 


■a 


BRAHMA. 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

Tliey  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  ag-ain. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near  ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same  ; 
Tlie  vanislied  gods  to  ine  appear  ; 

And  one  to  nie  ai'e  shame  and  fame. 

Tliey  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out  ; 

\\'hen  nie  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings  ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt. 

And  I  tlie  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

Tlie  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
Anil  pine  in  vain  tlie  sacred  Seven  ; 

Hut  thou,  meek  lover  of  tlie  good  ! 
Find  me,  and  turn  thv  back  on  heaven. 


BRAHMA'S  ANSWER. 

O.VCE,  when  the  days  were  ages. 
And  the  old  Earth  was  young, 
The  high  gods  and  the  sages 
From  Nature's  golden  pages 
Her  open  secrets  wrung. 
Each  questioned  each  to  know 
Whence  came  the  Heavens  above,  and  whence 
the  Earth  below. 

Indra,  the  endless  giver 

Of  every  gracious  thing 
The  gods  to  him  deliver. 
Whose  liounty  is  the  river 

Of  whi('h  they  are  the  spring  — 
Indra,  with  an.\ious  heart. 
Ventures  with   Vivochunu  where   Brahma  is  a 
part. 

"  Brahma  !  Supremest  Being  ! 

By  wliom  the  worlds  are  made. 
Where  wo  are  bliiul,  all-seeing. 
Stable,  whore  wi:  are  fleeing. 
Of  Life  and  Death  afraid,  — 
Instruct  us,  for  mankind, 
Wliat   is  the  IkmIv,  Brahma?     0  Brahma!  what 
tlie  minily " 

Hearing  as  though  he  heard  not. 

So  perfect  was  his  rest, 
So  vast  the  soul  that  erred  not, 
So  wise  the  lips  that  .stirred  not  — 

His  hand  u])on  his  breast 


He  laid,  whereat  his  fai'o 
Was  mirrored  in  the  river  that  girt  that  holy 
place. 

Tliey  ipiestioned  each  the  other 

What  Brahma's  answer  meant. 
Said  Vivochunu,  "Brother, 
Through  Brahma  the  great  Mother 
Hath  spoken  her  intent  ; 
Man  ends  as  he  began,  — 
The  shadow  on  the  water  is  all  there  is  of  man  !  " 

"  The  earth  with  woe  is  cumbered. 

And  no  man  understjinds  ; 
They  seo  their  days  are  numbered 
By  one  that  never  slumbered 

Nor  stayed  his  dreadful  hands. 

/  see  with  Brahma's  eyes  — 
The  body  is  the  shadow  that  on  the  water  lies. " 

Thus  Indra,  looking  deeper. 

With  Brahma's  self  possessed, 
So  dry  thine  eyes,  thou  weeper  ! 
And  rise  again,  thou  sleeper  ! 
Tlie  hand  on  Brahma's  breast 
Is  his  divine  assent, 
Covering  the  soul  that  dies  not.     This  is  what 
Brahma  lucant. 


RETRIBUTION. 


'Oipc  deui'  dAc'ovo'l  ftuAoi,  aAf'ovo'i  &i  Aenra. 


Tiiorun  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly, 
Yet  they  grind  exceeding  small ; 

Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting. 
With  exactness  grinds  he  all. 

Henry  Wadsworth  I-ongfeixou 


THE   FUTURE. 


Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of 

fate. 
All  but  tho  page  prescribed,  their  present  state  : 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirit-s 

know  : 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  -skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food. 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
0  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given. 
That  each  mav  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven, 


-^ 


e-- 


rOEMS   OF  SENTIMEST  AND  MEFLECTIOX. 


723 


-a 


Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  [leiish  or  a  sparrow  fall  ; 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  liurleil, 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly  then  ;  with  trembling  pinions 
soar  ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death,  and  God  adore. 
Wliat  future  bliss  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
Hut  gives  that  hojie  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast : 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home, 
Kests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Inilian  !  whcse  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind  ; 
His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk  or  milky  way  ; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  thecloud-topped  hill,  an  humbler  lieaven  ; 
Some  safer  world,  in  depth  of  woods  enil>raced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  wateiy  waste. 
Where  slaves  once  more  theii-  native  land  behold. 
No  liends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold  : 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire. 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire  ; 
IJut  think.s,  admitted  to  tliat  equal  .sky. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

ALHXA.Ni)LR   I'OPE. 


f& 


SEVEN  AGES  OF  MAN. 


All  the  world  's  a  stage. 
And  all  tlie  men  and  women  merely  playei's  : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts. 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first  the  infant. 
Mewling  and  puknig  in  the  nurse's  anns. 
Then  the  whining  .school-boy,  with  his  satchel. 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then  the  lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  misti'ess'  eyebrow.     Then  a  soldier, 
l*'ull  of  strange  oaths,  and  Ijeardcd  like  the  ])ard, 
.Tealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
.Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 
Even  in  the  I'aunon's  mouth.      And  then  tlie  jus- 

ti.'c, 

In  fair  round  belly  wilh  gooil  capon  lined, 
Witli  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  fonnal  cut. 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances  ; 
And  sn  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  .slippered  pantaloon. 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  siiie  ; 
His  youtliful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  liis  big  manly  voice, 
Tuniing  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 


And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion,  — 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


PROCRASTINATION. 


NIGHT  THOUGHTS," 


Be  wise  to-day  ;  't  is  madness  to  defer  ; 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  |)Iead  ; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  ])usheil  out  of  life. 
I'rocrastination  is  the  thief  of  time ; 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled. 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange  ? 
That 't  is  so  frccpient,  this  is  stranger  still. 
Of  man's  miraculous  mistjikes  this  bears 
The  palm,  "That  all  men  are  about  to  live," 
Forever  on  the  brink  of  being  boni. 
All  pay  themselves  the  conijiliment  to  think 
They  one  day  shall  not  drivel  :  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  jiraise  ; 
At  least,  their  own  ;  their  future  selves  ajiplaud  : 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead  ! 
Time  lodged  in  their  own  hiinds  is  folly's  vails ; 
That  lodged  in  Fate's,  to  wisdom  they  consign  ; 
The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  postpone  : 
'T  is  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool. 
And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 
All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  roan. 
And  that  through  everj'  .stage.    When  young,  in- 
deed. 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 
Unanxious  for  ourselves,  and  only  wLsh, 
As  duteous  son.s,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 
At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool  ; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan  ; 
At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay, 
Pushes  his  pnulent  purjiose  to  resolve  ; 
In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought, 
Resolves,  and  re-resolves  ;  then  dies  the  same. 

And  why  ?  Because  bethinks  himselfimmortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves  ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alanning  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden 

dread  ; 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air. 
Soon  close  ;  where  passed  the  shaft,  no  trace  is 

found. 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel. 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death  : 
Y.ven  with  the  tender  tears  which  Nature  sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  we  diop  it  in  their  grave. 


^ 


a- 


rOKMt!  OF  Sl'JXTIMFNr  AND  KKyLECnON. 


Tnv.  lull  siiiki's  ono  :  wo  Uko  im  iioU'dI'  time, 
lUil  I'l-ixn  il.s  loss.     'I\i  givo  it,  tliou,  ;>  tongiU', 
Is  wisii  in  iii:\ii.     As  il'im  !(ii.i;i'l  spoki', 

I  (Vol  llu'  soU'iiiii  soiiinl.      ir  lioiinl  iniglil. 
It  is  tlu'  knoll  of  my  iloiwrtoil  boui-s  ; 
Whoiviiro  tlioy  I  Willi l.ho  yoai's  Ix'yoiul  llio  iKuxl. 

II  is  tlio  sij-nal  lliat  iloinnnils  .losiwtoh  ; 

llmv  niiii'li  is  to  In-  ilono  !  my  liojios  imil  lisvrs 

Siiirl  np  :ilannoil,  :inil  o'or  lil'o's  naniiw  voi'go 

Look  ilown  •  -  on  what  /  x\  I'litlioniloss  nlij'ss  ; 

A  <li\'iul  otoniity  ;  lunv  snivly  mino  I 

Anil  ran  otoniity  bolonj;  to  mo, 

Poor  pon.sionor  on  tlio  bountios  of  an  lioiii- ! 

Timo  tlio  snpvomo  !  —  Timo  is  otoinity  ; 
I'lvgnanl  with  all  otoinity  oan  givo  ; 
rivi;nant  with  all  llial  niakos  airlianjfols  siiiilo. 
Wlio  mni-ilois  timo,  lio  oiushos  in  tlio  liiitli 
A  |>o\vi>i'  ollioival,  only  not  avloroil. 

All  !  liow  iin,)iist  to  Nalnn<  ami  liiinsilt'. 
Is  t.lionj{lillos,s.  tliaiikloss  incoii.sislonl  man  I 
l.iko  oliiUli-oii  Ivilililing  iioiisonso  in  tlioir  sinnt*, 
Wo  ooiisniv  Naliiiv  for  a  si>an  loo  sliort ; 
'riial  siwn  too  short,  wo  tax  as  loilious  loo; 
'I'ovtiiro  invoiilion,  all  oxpoilionis  iiix>. 
To  lash  I  ho  linsjoriii};  moiiionis  into  s|>ooil. 
Ami  whirl  us  i,l">l'V>'  i'i>hhiii>'o  !^  froni  om-solvos. 
Art,  brainloss  Art  I  our  I'lirious  ohariotoor, 
(,1'or  >>alui\<'s  voioo,  unslillod,  would  ivoall,) 
Orivos  hoiuUoiijj  towaixls  tlio  |>ix'<'i|iioo  of  ilwitU ! 
Oo.-illi,  most  our  iliwul ;  >loath,  thus  moiv  iliviul- 

fill  msilo  : 
(1.  what  a  ri.hllo  of  alvsnixlity  ! 
l.oisuiv  is  iKiin  ;  takos  olVonr  ohariot  whoola  : 
llow  hoavily  wo  ilraj;  tho  hwnt  of  lifo  ! 
Ulost  loismv  is  our  oui-so  :  liko  that  of  Cain, 
It.  luakos  us  waiulor  ;  wamlor  oarth  aivuml 
To  lly  that  tyrant.  Thought.     As  Atlas  jsiiwuoit 
Tho  world  liouoath,  wo  j?i\»iii  iH'Uoalh  «u  hour. 
Wo  ory  for  luoivy  to  tho  uoxt  auiusomout  : 
Tho  noxt  ainusomont  luorliFigos  our  liohls  ; 
Slij;ht  inoonvonioiu'o  '.  luisons  liaiiUy  fivwu, 
Ki\uu  hatolnl  Tiuii'  if  prisous  sot  us  fivo. 
Yot  whou  Ooath  kimlly  tomlors  ns  ivliof. 
Wo  call  him  oruol  ;  yoai's  to  momonts  shrink, 
.Vjtivs  to  yoai-s.     Tho  tolosoopo  is  turnoil. 
To  man's  falso  optics  (fl-om  his  folly  falsol 
Timo,  in  advanoo,  Ixdiind  liiiii  liidos  his  wings, 
.\ud  sooms  to  oivoji,  dooivpit  with  his  agt-  ; 
liohold  him  whou  past  by  ;  what  thou  is  soon 
Ibit  his  biwul  pillions,  swiftor  than  tho  winds  1 
And  all  mankind,  iu  contradict  ion  stivng, 
Kuoful,  aghast,  cry  out  ouliis  caivor. 


Y«  lilios  miilo  !  who  noitlior  toil  nor  .>!]iiii, 
(As  sistor-lilios  iiiijtbt)  if  not  .so  wise 
As  Solomon,  moiv  suni|itiious  to  tho  sii»ht  ! 
Yo  dolicato  '  who  nothing  oan  supiunl, 
Yoursolvos  most  iiisuiiiiorlablo  !  for  whom 
Tho  winter  im.so  nuist  blow,  tho  sun  [lut  on 
A  brigblor  beam  in  l.oo;  silky-soft 
l''avoiiins,  bivalho  still  softer,  or  bo  chid  ; 
.\iid  ollior  worlds  .send  odors,  siinco,  and  song, 
And  lobos,  and  notions,  franu"d  in  foivign  looms ! 
()  yo  Loiviizos  of  our  ago  !  who  doom 
0[w  momont  unamnsod  a  niisory 
Not  inado  for  fooblo  mail  !  who  call  aloud 
For  cvory  bawlilo  dri\'ollod  o'or  by  .sonso  : 
I'or  rattles,  and  ooncoits  of  ovory  cast, 
Kor  clniugo  of  follies  and  ivlays  of  joy. 
To  drag  you  jwliont  thiinigh  tho  tedious  length 
Of  a  short  wiiitei's  day,  —  sjiy,  siigi's  I  say. 
Wit's  onu'les  I  say,  divaiuers  of  gay  dreams  ! 
llow  will  you  weather  an  eternal  night, 
Whciv  suchexiiedioiils  fail  > 


TO-MORlunV. 


To-Moi!i;o\v's  action  !  oan  that  hojiry  wisdom, 
Uoriio  down  with  yoai-s,  stilldoat  mioii  to-iuorivw  1 
The  fatal  luislivss  of  the  young,  tlie  la?y. 
Tho  cowaitl  and  tho  fixd,  eomlomnod  to  lose 
An  useless  lifo  iu  waiting  for  to-mori\i\\. 
To  gaze  with  longing  eyes  U|hhi  to-mori\>w. 
Till  inlii'|iosing  death  dostmys  tho  imisiioct. 
Strange  that  this gi'iioral  fraud  fiwu  day  today 
.■Should  till  the  world  with  wivtchos.  uiidelocted  ! 
The  soldier,  laUuiug  through  a  winter's  niaivli, 
Still  sees  to-morix>w  divst  in  rolvs  of  triunndi  ; 
Still  to  the  lover's  long-oxpoctiug  anus 
To-morrow  brings  tho  visionary  bride. 
Uut  thou,  tiw  old  Iti  bear  another  cheat, 
l.oarn  that  the  luvsoiit  lumr  alone  is  man's, 

S.\\Ulil.  JOHNSON. 


OllKlSTM.VS   HYMN. 


I'ROM  TllF  OPF  "ON  Till*  MORNINC. 


HRIST*S  NATIVITV; 


^- 


Y«  well  nrrav»>d  !  w  lilios  of  our  land  ! 


\i>  war  or  Ivittlo's  sound 
Was  lioaixl  the  world  around  : 

The  idle  siwir  and  shield  woiv  high  nplmng  ; 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
riislained  with  hostile  blood  ; 

The  tiunn>et  s|>jiko  not  to  (he  arm^d  throng  : 
-And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  tliov  surolv  knew  their  soverovgn  t.oul  was 
bv. 


^ 


fl- 


I'lJKMH  Oh'  HENTIMKNT  AND  REFLECTION. 


nrj 


-a 


lint  ]iKiu:i:fin\  WiiH  the  iii;<lit, 
Whorciii  tlie  l'riiii;<;  of  IJ^^ht 

IIU  iftigii  of  [«;a<;i!  ujioii  thfi  euilli  Ijigan  : 
Till;  wiri(l«,  willi  wonder  wliUt, 
KiiiooUily  tin;  v,",iU:n  kinw-'l, 

U'lii«|>iTiii«  ni:w  joyn  to  tin;  milil  w.i:hu, 
Wlio  now  li;itli  "jiiiti;  l'oi((ot  to  ravi;, 
Wliili:  liinl«  ol'calin  Hit  Ijiowiiiigoii  tin; cliamitd 

WilVft. 

Tin;  DtaiB,  with  <l<'(;[i  amaze, 
Ht-iinl  fixeil  ill  Hteailfiml  (jaze, 

r>i;niJiii^  oin;  way  tlieir  prerioiiH  ii/(lui;n';c  ; 
Ami  will  not  take  tln;ii-  fliKlit, 
I'or  all  tin;  nioniiiig  li^rlit, 

Or  (.ueil'i'i',  that  ol'tJ'n  wann;<l  them  thence  ; 
lint  in  their  (glimmering  orliH  iliil  ({low, 
I .ntil their LorilhiniBellheHpake, anil  hiiithenigo. 

Anil,  though  the  Hluuly  gloom 
lliiil  given  ilay  her  room. 

The  Hiin  hiniKcIf  withhelil  hit)  wont/;iI  »[K-eil, 
Anil  hill  hix  lie;ul  lor  Hhaine, 
As  hift  iiilerior  flame 

The   new-enlighti'iieil    world   no  nmre  hIioiiIi] 
need  ; 
III-,  Haw  a  greater  Sun  a[i|iear 
Than  hix  liriglit  throne,  or  liumingaxletree, lonlil 
iK.ar. 

Tlie  Nliephenlt  on  the  lawn. 
Or  ere  (he  iioinL  of  ijawn, 

Sat  simjily  ehatting  in  a  rustle  row  ; 
Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  I'an 

WaK  kinilly  eome  to  live  with  them  helow  ; 
riTha|is  lljili'  loves,  or  elw;  their  Hheep, 
WaHdll  th;it  iliil  their  silly  thoughts  so  liusy  keep. 

When  Hueh  nnmic  sweet 

Thi-ir  hearts  anil  ears  iliil  greet. 

As  never  was  hy  mortal  finger  strook, 
llivluely  warlileil  voiee 
Answering  the  sti'ingfcil  noise, 

As  all  tjjeir  souls  in  hlissful  rapture  tfjok  ; 
The  ;iir,  sueli  pleasure  loath  to  lose, 
Willi  tliousanil  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heav- 
enly elose. 

Nature,  that  liearil  siieh  sound, 
lieinalh  the  hollow  round 

or  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region  Ihrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done. 

Ami  Ihat  her  reign  had  here  its  last  I'ullilling  ; 
Slie  knew  sueh  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  hajipier  union. 


"ig. 


ty-^ 


At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  gloh<!  of  cireular  light, 

That  with  long  Ijeanis  the  sliainela<;ed  night 
arrayed  ; 
The  helmed  eheiiibim. 
And  sworded  seraphim, 
Arc  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  ilis- 
played, 
Har|)ing  in  loud  and  sijleinn  ijiiire, 
With  unexjiressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new-born 
heir. 

Sueh  music  un  't  is  said 
IJelore  was  never  made, 

Hut  when  of  old  the  Sons  of  Morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  gieat 
His  constellations  set. 

Anil  the  well-halanced  world  on  liinges  h; 
Anil  east  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  tlie  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel 
keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  erj'stal  spheres. 
Once  l)less  our  human  ears. 

If  ye  have  jstwer  to  touch  our  sens<;s  so  ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  l«iss  of  Heaven's  deep  organ  blow  ; 
And,  with  your  ninefold  harmony. 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  symphony. 


NEW   YEAR'S   EVE. 

Rl.vo  out,  wild  Iwlls,  U,  the  wild  sky, 
The  (lying  cloud,  the  frosty  light  ; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new  ; 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  ; 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 
Ring  out  the  fal.se,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  fend  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  nut  a  slowly  dying  cause 

And  ancient  forms  of  jiarty  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 


-^ 


e-: 


72G 


I'UKMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLEVTIUN. 


-a 


King  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disooso, 
Ring  out  tliu  nnii'owing  lust  of  gold  ; 
King  out  tlie  tllousnud  wars  of  oM, 

King  iu  tbu  thousand  years  of  ponce. 

iiiug  in  tho  vnliaut  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  tho  kindlier  hand  ; 
King  nut  the  darkness  of  tlie  land, 

King  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

ALI'RI-D  T 


& 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 

'T  IS  midnight's  holy  hour,  —  and  silenee  now 

Is  brooding  like  a  gentle  spirit  o'er 

The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark  !   on   the 

winds 
'I'lie   l.rll's  derp  tones  are    swelling,  —  't  is  the 

knell 
Of  the  <lepartcd  year.     No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past  ;  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  nu,'laneholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud  ;  the  air  is  stirred 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh  ;  and  on  yon  eloud 
That  floats  so  still  ami  placidly  through  heaven, 
Tlie  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand,  — 
Yo\ing  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn 

form, 
An.l  Winter  with  its  aged  hnks,  —  and  breathe. 
In  mournful  eadenecs  that  eonie  aliroiid 
Like  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  toueliing  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  tho  dead  year, 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 

'T  is  a  time 
For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep, 
Still  elnuubers  of  the  heart,  a  specter  dim, 
Wliose  tones  are  like  the  wizard's  voice  of  Time 
Ilearil  fiom  tlio  tomb  of  ages,  jioints  its  cold 
And  solemn  linger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  jiassed  away, 
.'\nil  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  spectcu'  lifts 
Tli«  eoliin-lid  of  llopi>  and  .Toy  and  Love, 
And  bending  mournfully  aliove  the  pale. 
Sweet  f(n-ms    that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead 

Ibiwers 
( )'<'r  what  has  p.asspd  to  nothingness. 

Tlie  yt-ar 
Has  goMi',  anil  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.      Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  iu  eai-h  heart.     In  its  swift  course 
It  waved  its  scepter  o'er  the  beautiful. 
And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  tho  strong  man,  and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  tho  Hashing  eye  is  dim. 


It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged 
The  briglit  and  joyous,  and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  strick(^n  ones  is  heard  where  erst  tho  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded. 

It  passed  ,i'er 
Till'    liatlli'-plain    where    sword    and    spear   and 

sliield 
Flashed  iu  the  light  of  midday,  and  the  strength 
Of  sei'rieil  hosts  is  shivered,  anl  the  grass, 
(Ireen  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
Tlie  cruslied  and  inolderiiig  skeleton.     It  came, 
And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve  ; 
Yet  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air 
It  herahled  its  millions  to  their  homo 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Kemorseless  Time  ! 
Fierce   spirit   of  tlic  glass  and  scythe! — wliat 

power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity  ?     On,  still  on. 
lie  presses,  and  forever.     The  iirouil  liird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  niifathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane, 
And  batlie  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at   nightfall,   and  sinks 

down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag,  —  but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
.■\iid  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  liind 
His  rushing  pinions, 

Kevolutions  sweep 
O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  tho  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow  ;  cities  rise  and  sink 
Like  liubbles  on  tho  water  ;  fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  tho  ocean,  and  go  bai;k 
To  tlicir  mysterious  caverns  ;  mountains  rear 
To  heaven 'their  bald  and  blnrkcm-d  dill's,   and 

b,.w 
Their    tall    heads    to    the    jilaiii  ;    new    empires 

rise, 
Cathering  tho  strength  of  hoaiy  eeiiturii'S, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalani'lie. 
Startling  the  nations  ;  and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  Inirning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths. 
And,  like  the  Pleiads,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Sb.iiit    from    th.nr   glorious    spheres,    and    pass 

To  daikl,'  ill  the  trackless  void,  -yet  Time, 
Time  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path 
I  To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 

Cl'ORr.B  D.   rRENTICH. 


-^ 


m 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


727 


ra 


&-- 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

FiT.L  knee-di'i'i)  lifs  the  winter  snow, 
Anil  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low. 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 

Vou  came  to  us  so  readily. 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still  :  he  doth  not  move  ; 

He:  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  tnie-love. 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 

.So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 

Such  jrjy  a.s  you  liave  seen  with  us. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

Hi-  frothed  his  Vjumpers  to  the  brim  ; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
Hut,  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you. 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
P>ut  all  his  merry  ijuips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  lieir  doth  ride  post-liaste. 
But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 

F.very  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 

And  the  New-year,  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes!  over  tlie  snow 
1  beard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
Tlie  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chiqjs  :  the  light  bums  low  : 
T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  uyj  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 


And  waitcth  at  the  door. 
There  '»  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 
And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 
A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Al.rKEO  Tensvsum. 


WHEN  I  DO  COUNT  THE  CLOCK. 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  tinje, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hiileous  night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls  all  silvered  o'er  with  white  ; 
When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 
And  summer's  green  all  girded  uji  in  sheaves, 
ISorne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  Ixjard  ; 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  1  ijuestion  make. 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go. 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  ilo  themselves  forsake. 
And  die  as  fiLSt  as  they  see  others  grow  ; 

And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make 
defense, 

Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  thee 
hence. 


TO  THE  VIRGINS. 

Gatheh  the  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying  ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun. 

The  higher  he  's  a  getting, 
Tlie  sooner  will  his  race  Ix;  nin. 

And  nearer  he  's  to  .setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  ijs  the  first. 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer  ; 

But  being  si>ent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And,  while  yc  may,  go  marry  ; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry. 

RoUIiRT  HiiKRICK. 


TOO  LATE  I  STAYED. 

Too  late  I  stayed,  —  forgive  the  crime  ; 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  : 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time, 

That  only  tread-s  on  flowers  ! 

And  who,  with  clear  account,  remarks 

The  ebbings  of  his  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sjiarks. 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass  '. 


-ff 


e- 


728 


ruKMS  UF  SENTIMENT  AND  REELEVTION. 


-^ 


0,  who  to  sober  Mieiisuremwit 
Time's  Imjipy  swiftness  brings, 

Wlicn  birds  of  ])ariuliso  have  lent 
Tlieir  plumage  to  his  wings  ? 

William  Robert  Spencer. 


GOING  AND  COMING. 

GdiNO  —  the  great  round  Sun, 

Dragging  tlu-  captive  Day 
Over  beliind  tlie  frowning  hill. 

Over  beyond  the  bay,  — 
Dying : 
Coming  —  the  ilusky  Night, 

Silently  stealing  in. 
Wrapping  himself  in  the  soft  warm  couch 

Where  the  golden-haired  Day  hath  been 
Lying. 

Going  —  the  bright,  blilhc  Sjjring  ; 

Hlossoms  !  how  fast  ye  fall, 
Shooting  out  of  your  starry  sky 

Into  the  darkness  all 
mindly  ! 
Coming  —  the  midlow  days  : 

Crimson  and  yellow  leaves  ; 
Languishing  purple  and  amber  fruits 

Kissing  the  bearded  sheaves 
Kindly ! 

Going  —  our  early  friends ; 

Voices  we  loved  are  dumb  ; 
Footsteps  grow  dim  in  the  morning  dew ; 

Fainter  the  echoes  come 

Ringing : 

Coming  to  join  our  march, — 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  pressed,  — 
Gray-haired  veterans  strike  their  tents 

Kor  the  far-otf  purple  West  — 
Singing ! 

Going  —  this  old,  old  life ; 

Beautiful  world,  farewell ! 
Fonst  and  meadow  !  river  and  hill ! 

Ring  ye  a  loving  knell 
O'er  us  ! 
Comings  a  nobler  life  ; 

Coming  —  a  better  land  ; 
Coming  —  a  long,  long,  nightless  day  ; 

Coming  —  the  grand,  gr.and 
Chorus ! 

EDWARD  A.  JENKS. 


& 


Wk  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; 

We  love  ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ! 
Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Wliy  do  wo  live  or  die  ? 


Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 
Alas,  not  I  ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  tilings  that  die  ? 

We  toil  —  through  pain  and  wrong; 

Wo  fight— and  lly  ; 
Wc  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long. 

Stone-dead  we  lie. 
0  Ijfe  !  is  all  thy  song 

"  Endure  and  —  die  "  ? 

Bryan  W.  procti--R  (Barry  Cornwai. 


TWO  PICTURES. 

An  old  farm-house  with  meadows  wide, 
Anil  sweet  with  clover  on  each  side  ; 
K  briglit-cyed  boy,  who  looks  from  out 
Till'  diiiir  with  woodbine  wreathed  about, 
.\nd  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day: 
"  O,  if  1  could  but  fly  away 

From  this  dull  spot,  the  world  to  see, 
How  liajijiv,  lijqipv,  liappv, 

How  happy  I  shoul.l  be  !  " 

Amid  tile  city's  constant  din, 
A  man  who  round  the  world  has  been. 
Who,  mid  the  tumult  and  the  throng. 
Is  thinking,  thinking  all  day  long  ; 
"  O,  could  I  only  tread  once  more 
The  field-path  to  the  fann-bouse  door, 

The  old,  gi'een  meadow  could  I  see. 
How  happy,  happy,  happy. 

How  happy  I  should  be  !  " 

Marian  Douglas. 


"KEEP  MY  MEMORY  ORF.EN."* 

Loiin,  keep  my  memory  green  ! 

Wliatever  intervene. 
How  rough  so'er  life's  voyage  may  prove  to  me, 
I  would  not  lose  remembrance  of  the  good, 
Nor  .shrink  from  thoughts  of  ills  long  since  with- 
stood, — 

Lord,  keep  my  memory  green  ! 

Lord,  keep  my  memory  green,  — 
Tlie  boisterous  and  serene. 
That  which  hath  caused  a  tear  or  forced  a  smile, 

•  Soe   "  The   Haunted    M;in."  a   Chnstmas    Story,   by    Charlfs 


--ff 


e- 


POEMS  UF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-^ 


&-- 


Let  both  tbeir  true  reality  impart. 
Anil  fix  their  record  deeply  in  my  heart,  — 
Lord,  keep  my  memory  gi'een  ! 

Lord,  kee[)  my  memory  gi'een 
Through  life's  couliieting  scene  ! 
But  should  the  hand  of  Time  obliterate 
Aught  from  my  mind,  and  somechaiice  ])age3  blot, 
Let  friends  and  benetits  be  ne'er  forgot,  — 
Lord,  keep  my  memory  green  ! 

Anonymous. 


THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

A  CHILD  sleeps  under  a  rose-bush  fair, 
The  buds  swell  out  in  the  soft  May  air  ; 
Sweetly  it  rests,  and  on  dream-wings  flies 
To  play  witli  the  angels  in  Paradise. 
And  the  years  glide  by. 

A  maiden  stands  by  the  rose-bush  fair. 
The  dewy  blossoms  perfume  the  air  ; 
She  presses  her  hand  to  her  throbbing  breast. 
With  love's  first  wonderful  rapture  blest. 
And  the  years  glide  by. 

A  mother  kneels  by  the  rose-bush  fair, 
.Soft  sighs  the  leaves  in  the  evening  air  ; 
.Sorrowing  thoughts  of  the  past  arise. 
And  tears  of  anguish  beiiim  her  eyes. 
And  the  years  glide  by. 

Naked  and  lone  stands  the  rose-bush  fair. 
Whirled  are  the  leaves  in  the  autumn  air. 
Withered  and  dead  they  fall  to  the  giound, 
And  silently  cover  a  new-made  mound. 
And  the  years  glide  by. 

Fruni  the  Gennan.  by  Wn.LlAM  W.  CALDWELL. 


WHAT  IS  TIME? 

1  .4SKED  an  aged  man,  with  hoary  hairs. 
Wrinkled  and  curved  with  worldly  cares  : 
"  Titue  is  the  warp  of  life,"  said  he  ;   "  O,  tell 
The  young,  the  fair,  the  gay,  to  wea\'e  it  well  ! '' 
I  asked  the  ancient,  venerable  dead. 
Sages  who  wrote,  and  warriors  who  bled  : 
From  the  cold  gi'ave  a  hollow  murmur  flowed, 
"  Time  sowed  the  .seed  we  reap  in  this  abode  !  " 
I  asked  a  dying  sinner,  ere  the  tide 
Of  life  had  left  his  veins :   "Time  !  "  he  replied  ; 
"  I  've  lost  it !  ah,  the  treasure  !  "  and  he  died. 
I  asked  the  golden  sun  and  silver  spheres, 
Those  bright  chronometers  of  days  and  years : 
They  answered,  "Time  is  but  a  meteor  glare," 
And  bade  me  for  eternity  prepare. 
I  asked  the  Seasons,  in  their  annual  round. 


Which  beautify  or  desolate  the  ground  ; 
And  they  replied  (no  oracle  more  wise), 
"  'T  is   Folly's   blank,    and    Wisdom's   highest 

prize  !  " 
I  asked  a  spirit  lost,  —  but  0  the  .shriek 
That  pierced  my  soul  !   I  shudder  while  I  sjieak. 
It  cried,  "A  particle  !  a  speck  !  a  niito 
Of  endless  years,  duration  infinite  !  " 
Of  tilings  inanimate  my  dial  I 
Consulted,  and  it  made  me  this  rcjily,  — 
"  Time  is  the  sea.sou  fair  ofliving  well, 
The  jiath  of  glory  or  the  path  of  hell." 
I  asked  my  liible,  and  methinks  it  said, 
"  Time  is  tlie  present  hour,  the  ]iasl  lias  fled  ; 
Live  !  live  to-day  !  to-morrow  never  yet 
On  any  human  being  rose  or  set." 
I  asked  old  Father  Time  himself  at  last  ; 
But  in  a  moment  he  Hew  swiftly  past  ; 
His  chariot  was  a  cloud,  the  viewless  wind 
His  noiseless  steeds,  which  left  no  trace  behind. 
I  asked  the  mighty  angel  who  .shall  stand 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  .solid  land  : 
"  Mortal  !  "  he  cried,  "  the  mystery  now  is  o'er  ; 
Time  was.  Time  is,  but  Time  sliall  In-  no  more  !  " 


THE  JESTER'S  SERMON. 

The  .Tester  shook  his  hood  and  bells,  and  leaped 
upon  a  chair  ; 

The  pages  lauglied,  the  women  screain(Ml,  and 
tossed  their  scented  hair  ; 

The  falcon  whistled,  staghounds  bayed,  the  lap- 
dog  barked  without, 

The  scullion  droppeil  the  jiitclier  brown,  the 
cook  railed  at  the  lout  ; 

The  steward,  counting  out  his  gold,  let  pouch 
and  money  fall,  — 

And  why  /  because  the  Jester  rose  to  sav  grace 
in  the  hall  ! 

The  page    idayei!   with  the  heron's  plume,   the 

steward  with  his  chain  ; 
Tlie  butler  drummed  upon  the  board,  anil  laughiil 

with  might  and  main  ; 
The  grooms  beat  on  their  metal  cans,  and  loand 

till  they  were  red,  — 
But  still  the  .Tester  shut  his  eyes  and   rolled  his 

witty  head, 
And  when   tliey  grew  a  little  still,  read   half  a 

yard  of  text. 
And,    waving   hand,   struck  on   the  desk,  then 

frowned  like  one  perplexed. 

"Dear  .sinners  all,"  the  fool  began,  "man's  life 

is  but  a  jest, 
A  dream,  a  shadow,  bubble,  air,  a  vapor  at  the 

best. 


^ 


fl- 


730 


POEMii  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


•H3> 


t 


Ilia  tlunisaiul  iiouiuls  of  law  1  liiul  not  a  siiiglo 

oiiiK'O  of  love  ; 
A  blind  man  killcil  the  parson's  cow  in  shooting 

at  the  <lovo  ; 
The  fool  that  eats  till  he  is  siek  must  fast  till  he 

is  well  ; 
The  wooer  who  ean   Hatter  most  will  hear  away 

the  belle. 

"  Let  no  man  halloo  he  is  safe  till  he  is  thixniich 

the  wood  ; 
lie  who  will  not  when  he  may,  must  tarry  when 

he  sliould  ; 
He  who  laughs  at  crooked  men  sliould  need  walk 

very  stmight ; 
l\  he  who  oHce  has  won  a  name  may  lie  abed 

till  eight  ; 
Make  haste  to  puirhase  house  and  land,  Iw  very 

slow  to  wed  ; 
True  eoral  needs  no  jviinter's  brush,  nor  neetl  Iw 

daubed  with  red. 

'•The  friar,  jireaehing,  cursed  the  thii'f  \the  pud- 
ding in  his  sleeva )  : 
To  lish  for  sprats  with  golden  hooks  is  foolish, 

by  your  leave  ; 
To  travel  well,  —  an  ass's  ears,  hog's  mouth,  and 

ostrieh  legs  ; 
He  does  not  earo  a  pin  for  thieves  who  limps 

about  aiul  begs  ; 
lie  always  first  man  at  a  feast  and  last  man  at  a 

fmy ; 
The  short  way  round,  in  spite  of  all,  is  still  the 

longest  way  ; 
When  the  hungry  ounite  lieks  the  knife,  there 's 

not  nuK'h  for  the  elerk  ; 
When  the  pilot,  t\irning  jwle  and  siek,  looks  up 

—  the  storm  grows  dark." 

Then  loud  they  laughed  :  the  fat  eook's  tears  ran 
down  into  the  pan  ; 

The   stewanl   shook,  that  bo  was  forced  to  drop 
the  brimming  ean  ; 

And  then  ag;iin  the  women  screamed,  and  every 
stflghoniul  bayed,  — 

And  why  ?  because  the  motley  fool  so  wise  a  ser- 
mon made, 

GEORGE  Walter  Thorxburv. 


LIFE  AND  ETERNTTT. 

I.IFE  is  the  veil  that  liiiles  eternity. 

Youth  strives  in  vain  to  pierce  it,  but  the  eye 

Of  age  may  catch,  tlirough  chinks  which  Time 

lias  worn. 
Faint  glimpses  of  that  awful  world  beyond 
Which  Death  at  last  reveals.     Thus  life  may  be 


Compared  to  a  tree's  foliage  ;  in  its  prime, 
A  mass  of  dark,  impeneti-able  shade. 
It  veils  the  distant  view  ;  but  day  by  day, 
.\s  autumn's  breath  is  folt,  the  falling  leaves, 
Opening  a  luissage  for  the  doubtful  light, 
Kxhibit  to  the  gazer  nioiv  and  more 
tMthat  which  lies  Ix'yond  —  till  winter  conios, 
.\nd  through  the  skeleton  bninehes  wo  behold 
The  clear,  blue  vault  of  day  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


TllK  soul's  dark  cottage,  l«ittered  and  decayed. 
Lets  in  new  light  tlmnigh  chinks  that  time  has 
made. 

Edmund  Waller. 


THE  THREE   WARNINGS. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  ; 
'T  was  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages. 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  yeiire 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages, 
When  imins  grow  sharp  and  sieknes.s  iiiges, 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appeal's. 
This  great  ati'ection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail. 
He  pleasetl  to  hear  a  modern  talc. 

When  siiorts  went  round,  and  all  were  gay. 
On  neighbor  Dodson's  wedding-day. 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 
And,  looking  grave,  "  Vou  must,"  saj's  he, 
"Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  como  with  nie." 
"  With  you  !  and  ipiit  my  Susan's  side  ! 
With  you  !  "  the  hapless  huslvind  cried  ; 
"  Young  as  I  am,  't  is  monstixius  hard  ! 
IV'sides,  in  truth,  1  'm  not  preimred  : 
My  thoughts  on  other  mattei-s  go  ; 
This  is  my  walding-day,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urged  I  have  not  heaiil, 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger  ; 
So  Death  the  poor  deliiujuent  spared, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Y'et  calling  up  a  serious  look. 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke  — 
"  Neighbor,"  he  said,  "  farewell  !  no  more 
Shall  Death  ilisturb  your  mirthful  hour  ; 
And  further,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name. 
To  give  you  time  for  prejiaration. 
And  fit  you  for  your  future  station. 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have. 
Before  you  're  summoned  to  the  grave  ; 


-4J 


a- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


^r^ 


Willing  for  onco  I  'II  <|iiit  my  prny, 

Anil  grant  ii  kiml  ri'iirictvi', 
!n  hoftcH  yoii  'II  liavo  no  inoro  to  «ay, 
r.iit  when  t  call  again  this  way, 

AVoll  [ilcascil  the  wnrlil  will  leave." 
To  these  eon<litions  both  eonseiitcd, 
And  [mrted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  onr  tale  hefell, 
Ilow  long  he  lived,  how  wine,  how  well, 
I  low  rniindly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  sniolieil  his  iii|)e,  and  stroked  his  horse, 

'I'he  willing  muse  sliall  tidl  : 
He  chad'ercMl,  then  lie  bought  and  sohl. 
Nor  once  ]>erceived  his  growing  ohl. 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  ncai- ; 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  liis  gains,  his  children  few, 

lie  passed  liis  hours  in  jieacc. 
I'.ut  while  lie  viewed  his  wealth  increase. 
While  thus  along  life's  dusty  road 
'I'he  beaten  track  content  he  trod. 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spaies, 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Drought  on  liis  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone  he  sate, 
'I'lie  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate  ■ 

Once  more  befori:  him  stood. 

Half  kill.-d  with  angel  and  sur|inse, 
".So  .soon  returned  !"   Did  Uod.son  cries. 
"  .So  soon,  d'  ye  call  it !  "  Death  rcjilies  ; 
"Surely,  my  friend,  you  're  but  in  jest ! 

Since  I  was  hero  before 
'T  is  six-and-thirty  years  at  least. 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

"So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  rejoined  ; 
"To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind  : 
However,  sec  your  search  be  legal  ; 
And  your  authority,  —  is  't  regal  ' 
F.lse  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand. 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 
I5eside,  you  promised  mc  three  warnings, 
Which  I  h.ave  looked  for  nights  and  mornings 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease 
I  can  recover  damages." 

"  I  know,"  cries  Death,  "  tli.at  at  the  best 
I  si-Moni  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 
I  little  thought  you  'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable  : 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  gi-cat  length  ; 
I  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength  I  " 

"Hold,"  says  the  fai-mcr,  "not  so  fast  I 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 


"  And  no  groat  wonder,"  Death  replies  ; 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes  ; 
And  sure,  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends 
For  legs  and  aims  would  make  amends." 

"  I'erhaps,"  says  Uod.son,  "  so  it  might. 
But  latterly  I  've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  't  is  true  ; 
But  still  there  's  comfort  left  for  you  : 
Each  strives  your  .sadness  to  amuse  ; 
I  warrant  you  hear  all  the;  news." 

"There  's  none,"  cries  he;   "anil  if  thi 
wiM-e, 
I  'm  grown  so  ilcaf,  I  could  not  hear." 

"  jN'ay,  then,"  the  sjK'Ctre  stem  lejoined, 
"These  arc  unjustiliable  yearnings  : 

If  you  are  lame  and  deaf  and  blind. 
You  've  had  your  three  suflicient  warnings  ; 
So  eomc  along,  no  more  we  '11  pait." 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now,  Old  Dodson,  turning  jialc. 
Yields  to  his  fate,  — so  enils  my  tale. 

llhiTKK   t.V.'.cll  TIfRALP 


BUSY,   CURIOUS,   THIRSTY   FLY. 

Bl'.sy,  curiou.s,  thirsty  (ly. 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I  ; 
Freely  wideome  to  my  ciiji, 
Coiildst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up. 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may  ; 
Life  is  short,  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine. 
Hastening  ipiick  to  their  decline  ; 
Thine  's  a  summer,  mine  no  more. 
Though  ntpeated  to  threescore. 
'Direescore  summers,  when  they  're  gone. 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one. 

Vl.sciwr  BOL'K.V: 


An  !  jioor  intoxicated  little  knave. 
Now  senseless,  floating  on  the  fragrant  wave  ; 
Why  not  content  the  cakes  alone  to  munch  ' 
Dearly  thou  pay'st  for  buzzing  round  the  liowl  ; 
l/ost  to  the  world,  thou  busy  sweet-lipped  soul  — 
Thus    Death,   as   well   as   Pleasure,   dwells  with 
runeh. 

Now  let  me  take  thee  out,  and  moralize,  — 
Thus  't  is  with  mortals,  as  it  is  with  /lies. 
Forever  hankering  after  Pleasure's  cup  : 
Though  Fate,  with  all  his  legion.s,  be  at  hand. 
The  beasts  the  draught  of  Circe  can't  withstand, 
But  in  goes  eveiy  nose,  —  they  must,  will  sup. 


-^ 


[& 


731: 


FUEMS   OF  SENTIME^XT  AND  liEFLECTIUN. 


-a 


ILul  are  tile  passions,  as  ii  colt  uiitiinieil  ! 

When   I'l'udence   mounts  their  baeks  to  riile 
them  miia, 
Tlicy  lling,  they  snort,  they  I'oiim,  they  rise  in- 
Ihuned, 
Insisting  on  their  own  sole  will  so  wild. 

riadslnui  !  my  bnz/.ing  friend,  thou  art  not  dead  ; 
The  Fates,  so  kind,   have  not  yet  snapped  thy 

thread  ; 
By   heavens,    thou    mov'st   a   leg,  and    now    its 

brother, 
And  kicking,  lo,  again,  thou  mov'st  another ! 

And  now  thy  little  drunken  eyes  unclose, 
And  now  thou  feelest  for  thy  little  nose, 

And,  finding  it,  thou  rubbest  thy  two  hands, 
Much  as  to  say,  "  I  'ni  glad  1  'ni  here  again." 
And  well  mayst  thou  rejoice,  —  't  is  very  ]ilain, 

Tliat  near  wert  thou  to  Death's  unsocial  lands. 

And  now  thou  rollest  on  thy  back  about, 
Happy  to  fmd  thyself  alive,  no  doubt  ; 

Now  turnest,  — on  the  table  making  rings  ; 
Now  crawling,  forming  a  wet  track  ; 
Now  shaking  the  rich  liquor  from  thy  back  ; 

Now  fluttering  nectar  from  thy  silken  wings  ; 

Now  standing  on  thy  head,  thy  strengtli  to  lind. 
And  poking  out  tliy  small,  long  legs  behind  ; 
And  now  thy  pinions  dost  thou  briskly  ply  ; 
Preparing  now  to  leave  me,  —  farewell,  fly  ! 

Oo,  join  thy  brothera  on  yon  .sunny  board. 
And  rapture  to  thy  family  allbrd,  — 

There  wilt  thou  meet  a  mistress,  or  a  wife. 
That   saw    thee,   drunk,   drop   senseless   in   the 

stream ; 
Who  gave,  perhaps,  the  wide-resounding  scream. 
Ami  now  sits  groaning  for  thy  precious  life. 
Yes,  go  ami  carry  comfort  to  thy  friends. 
And  wisely  tcU  tlicni  thy  imprudence  ends. 

Let  buns  ami  sugar  for  the  future  charm  ; 
These  will  delight,  and  feed,  and  work  no  harm,— 

While  Punch,  the  grinning,  merry  imp  of  sin. 
Invites  the  unwary  wanderer  to  a  kiss. 
Smiles  in  his  face,  as  though  he  meant  him  bliss. 

Then,  like  an  alligator,  di-ags  him  in. 

John  wolcott  (Petkr  Pindar). 


fr- 


WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN. 

If  every  man's  internal  oare 
Were  written  on  his  brow. 

How  many  would  our  pity  share 
Who  raise  our  cnvr  now  ? 


The  fatal  secret,  when  revealed, 

Of  every  aching  breast, 
Would  prove  that  only  while  concealed 

Their  lot  apjieared  the  best. 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM  REC- 
OLLECTIONS OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

TiiKUK  was  a  time  when   meadow,   grove,   and 

stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Appareled  in  celestial  light,  — ■ 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  : 
Turn  whei-esoe'er  I  may, 
I5y  night  or  day. 
The  tilings  wliicli  1  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  ar«^  hare  ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  heantifnl  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  tho 
earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  gi'ief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  1  again  am  strong. 
The   cataracts   blow    their   trumpets   from   the 

stee)),  — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong. 
1  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng ; 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  u])  to  jollity  ; 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ;  — • 
Thou  child  of  joy. 
Shout  rounil  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  shepherd  boy  ! 


Yo  blessed  creatures  !   I  have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 

The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 
My  head  hath  its  coronal,  - 


^ 


£h- 


fUEMS   UF  tiENTlMKNT  AND  UEFLKCTlON. 


T6-i 


■a 


The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  IVel,  I  fuel  it  all. 

0  evil  day  !  if  I  were  siiUi'ii 
While  earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May  nioruiiig, 
And  Ihe  children  are  culling, 

'  )n  every  side. 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 
Fresh  llowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  ami,  — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  !  — 
But  there 's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 

A  single  Held  which  I  have  looked  upon,  — 
lioth  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  ; 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat. 
Wluther  is  (led  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  tlie  glory  and  thci  dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  ; 
The  soul  tliat  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Hath  h.ad  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  eonieth  from  afar. 

Not  in  entire  foigetfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  I'.uy  ; 
But  he  beholds  tlie  light,  ;ind  whence  it  flows,  — 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 
The  Youth  vvlio  daily  farther  from  the  cast 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  aw.ay. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  ilay. 

F.arth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own. 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kiml  ; 

And  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  minil, 
And  no  unworthy  aim. 
The  homely  nurse  doth  all  slie  can 

To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man. 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Bcbiilil  the  iliild  .iniong  his  new-liorn  blisses,  — 
.4  six  years'  darling  of  a  pygmy  size-  ! 
See,  where  mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
.See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned  art,  — 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mounting  or  a  funeral,  — 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart. 


And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song. 
Then  will  ho  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside. 

Anil  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part,  — 
Filling  from  time  to  lime  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age. 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  eijuipage  ; 

As  if  hi.s  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

T'hou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity  ! 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  "lost  keep 
Thy  heritage  !  thou  eye  among  the  blind. 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind  !  — 
Mighty  prophet  !     Seer  blest, 
On  whiiH]  th(is('  tiaiths  do  rest 
Which  ue  are  t(jiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkm;ss  of  the  grave  ! 
Thou  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Bloods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  .slave, 
A  presence  whicli  is  not  to  be  put  by  ! 
Tliou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
(Jf  heaven-liorn  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  l)lindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  .strife? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  \\wx:  witli  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  dci'ii  almost  as  life  ! 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live; 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
Wliat  was  .so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not,  indeed. 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest,  — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  cliildhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged   hope   still  fluttering  in   his 
breast : — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  ((uestionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  thing.s, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings. 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
H  igh  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised,  — 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  m.ay. 


-S 


i>>4 


POKJUS  or  AUSJ^lMJiNT  AXD  HrFlECTlOy. 


[Q- 


Are  yet  the  l\nmtaiu-lij;ht  of  all  ohi-  d»y. 
Are  yet  a  master  lij;ht  of  all  our  seeing, 

UphoM  us,  clierisli,  ami  have  ^lower  to  make 
Our  noisy  yeai-s  seem  moments  in  the  K-inj; 
or  the  eternal  silenw  :  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never,  — 
Whiih  neither  listlessness,  nor  mail  endeavor. 

Nor  man  nor  Ik\v, 
Kor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolislt  or  vU>sti-oy  ! 

Henee,  in  a  st\-«son  of  calm  weather, 
Thongh  iulantl  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sij;ht  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither,  — 
Can  in  a  ujoment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  ohiUlivn  sport  uiKin  the  sliore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  watei^  ivUiug  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  bii\ls,  sijig,  sing  a  joyous  siwig  ! 

And  let  the  young  Uuulvs  IkhukI 

As  to  the  taK>r's  sound  ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  thivng. 

Ye  that  pijie  and  ye  that  play. 

Ye  that  tliivugh  your  hearts  ttvday 

yeel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 
What  though  the  mdianee  which  was  oMce  so 

bright 
He  now  forever  taken  fix>m  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  Iwck  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower,  — 

We  will  grieve  not,  i-ather  tind 

Strength  in  what  remains  Whind  ; 

In  the  primal  synn>iithy 

Which,  having  Wen,  must  ever  be  ; 

In  the  swthiug  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  sutferitig  ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  threugh  death. 
In  years  that  bring  the  phiKv<ophic  mind. 

And  0  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 

ForelnKle  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  1  fwl  your  might ; 

1  only  have  reliunuislie<.l  one  delight 

To  live  lieneatli  your  more  habitual  swav. 

1  love  the  brexiks  which  down   their  ehauuels 

fret, 
Kveu  more  than  when  1  trip]>e»l  lightly  as  they ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-lwu  day 

Is  lovely  yet  ; 
The  donds  tliat  gsither  round  the  setting  sun 
Oo  take  a  siUH>r  wloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Another  rsu-e  hath  been,  and  other  i>alnis  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  luunan  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  Teal's,  — 
To  me  the  meanest  tlower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

WiLUAM  W\>ltDS\VOKr(l. 


SOULtHJUY;    OU  IMMl)Kl'.\iaiV. 

fKOM    "CtTO." 

t  r  must  be  so.  —  Plato,  thou  I^i^aso^^est  well  < 
Else  whem^i  this  jjeasiug  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality  < 
Or  wheni-e  this  sei'ret  drea»l,  and  inwanl  horror. 
Of  falling  into  naught  ?    Why  shrinks  the  soul 
I5ack  on  hei-self,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 
'Tis  the  divinity  that  stii-s  within  us  ; 
'T  is  Heaven  itself,  that  iK>ints  out  a  hereafter. 
And  intimates  eternity  to  mtui. 

Kternity  !  —  thou  jJeasing,  divtidfnl  tliought  ! 
Through  what  variety  of  untrievl  Wing, 
Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes,  umst  we 

pass ! 
The  w ide,  the unlK>unde»l  pi\is[>e<.t  lies  l>efore  \n»< ; 
l>nt  sliadows,  clond.s,  and  tlaikness  rest  uivn  it. 
Here  will  1  hold.     If  there  s  a  tVwer  aK<ve  us 
(And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works\  he  must  delightin  virtue; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  \v  happy. 
But  when  '  or  where  '    This  woild  was  made  for 

Oa'Siir. 
I  'm  weary  of  eorytvtures,  —  this  must  end  them. 
[Lat/iHti  his  hand  on  hia  suvnl. 
Thus  am  1  doubly  armed  :  my  death  anvl  life. 
My  liaue  and  antidote,  are  Wth  Wfore  me. 
This  in  a  motnent  brings  tue  to  an  end  ; 
But  this  informs  me  1  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  set'urtxl  in  her  e.xistemv,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  jxnnt. 
The  stai-s  sliall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Oivw  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years  ; 
But  thou  shalt  tlourisli  in  immortal  youth. 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elenumts. 
The  wnvk  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds  ! 

jOSKPH  Ae01Sv>.N. 


PRK-EXISTENCE. 

Whilb  SiUinteriug  through  thecrowdtsl  stiwt, 
Some  half-reniemberwl  face  1  meet. 

AlWut  uj>on  no  mortal  shore 

That  face,  methinks,  has  smiled  Wfore. 

Lost  in  a  gay  and  festal  throng, 
I  tremble  at  some  tender  song,  — 

Set  to  an  air  whose  golden  bars 
I  must  have  heard  in  other  stars. 


In  sacitnl  aisles  1  pause  to  share 
The  ble.<sings  of  a  priestly  prayer. 


^ 


a-- 


POKMH  Ob'  SENTIMENT  AND  HE  FLECTION. 


73: 


T^ 


y^- 


Wlieii  tlie  wliole  scene  wliicli  greets  mine  eyes 
In  some  strange  moile  I  recognize 

As  one  whose  every  mystic  part 
I  feel  jirefigureil  in  my  lieart. 

At  snnsi-(,  :is  I  eahnly  staml, 
A  stranger  on  an  alien  strand, 

Familiar  as  my  cliil.llioo.rs  lionje 

Si-'cms  tlie  long  streleh  of  wave  and  foam. 

One  sails  toward  me  o'er  tlie  liay, 
And  what  lie  eonu-s  to  do  and  say 

I  I  an  loii'till.      A  prescient  lore 
Spiiiigs  from  sonie  life  outlived  of  yore. 

(I  swift,  instinctive,  startling  gleams 
Of  deep  soul-knowledgc !  not  as  drmins 

I'm-  aye  ye  vaguely  dawn  and  die, 
l!ut  oft  with  lightning  certainty 

I'iiice  through  the  dark,  oblivious  brain, 

To  make  old  thoughts  and  memories  ]dain,  — 

Tliouglits  wliieh  jiereliance  must  travel  back 
Ari'oss  the  wild,  bewildering  track 

Of  countless  teons  ;  memories  far, 
lligli-reaching  as  yon  i)allid  star, 

I'liknown,  scarce  seen,  whose  flickering  grace 
Faints  on  llie  outmost  rings  of  space  ! 

TAUL  II.  IlAVNfi. 


A  LOST  CHORD. 

SKA'i'f.i)  otie  day  at  the  organ, 
1  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease. 

And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  noi.sy  keys. 

1  dn  not  know  what  1  was  playing, 
Oi  what  I  was  dreaming  then, 

Hut  I  struck  one  chord  of  music, 
Like  the  sound  of  a  great  amen. 

It  Hooded  the  crimson  twilit;ht, 
Like  the  cIo.se  of  an  angel's  psalm. 

And  it  lay  on  my  fevered  spirit, 
With  a  touch  of  infniite  calm. 

It  (|uieted  pain  and  sorrow, 
Like  love  overcoming  strife  ; 


It  seemed  tlie  Iiarmonious  echo 
From  our  discordant  lile. 

It  linked  all  perplexed  meanings 

Into  one  perfect  jieaee. 
Anil  trembled  away  into  silence. 

As  if  it  were  loath  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 

Tliat  one  lost  chord  divine, 
That  came  from  the  soul  of  the  organ. 

And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  Death's  bright  angel 
Will  s]ieak  in  that  chord  again  ; 

It  may  lie  th.at  only  in  lieaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  amen. 

Adiii.aioI£  annh  Procter 


THE   DIAMOND. 

.Stak  of  the  (lowers,  and  llcjwr'r  of  the  stars. 

And  earth  of  the  earth  art  thou  ! 
Aiiri    darkness    hath    battles,    and    light    hath 
wars 

That  pass  in  thy  biaulifiil  brow. 

The   eye   of  the   grouu'l   thus  was  planted   liy 
heaven, 
And  the  dust  was  new  wed  to  the  sun, 
And  the  monarch  went  forth,  and  the  earth-star 
was  given. 
That  shoulil  back  to  the  heaven-star  nin. 

So  in  all  things  it  is  :  the  first  origin  lives. 

And  loves  his  life  out  to  his  Hock  ; 
And    in   dust  and    in  matter   and    nature    lie 
gives 
The  spirit's  last  sjiark  to  the  rock. 

jAMes  John  Garth  Wilkinson. 


Ai.AS  for  them  !  their  day  is  o'er. 

Their  fires  are  out  on  hill  and  shore  ; 

No  more  for  them  the  wild  deer  bounds. 

The  plow  is  on  their  hunting-grounds  ; 

The  piale  man's  ax  rings  through  their  woods. 

The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their  floods  ; 

Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry  ; 
Their  children,  —  look,  by  power  opprest, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west, 

Their  children  go  to  die. 

Charles  Sprac:ue 


-^ 


a- 


rs(5 


i>iiiAjiii!  or  sKxirnKxr  anh  jtKnjivmos. 


fb 


Mohiv*^  <lv\  {viuivws  ill  Ui\  uj<\v»j\l  rtijtUt ! 

Of  u>W:  :o>iivsf  "V  'V  s*^""** ; 

l>i«>kf««vs  uxo  lijsiu  auvl  Mv>t(i«j;  «wl  «ho  smx ; 
l!o  thou,  IHV  mwjXAN  m>\v*>\l  ftxmx  this  Uvortl*, 
Auvl  ask  the  J^xls  u>  jv.-u\W  this  clear  tUmo, 

UkOiKV  lVkVU>    Vtlv-St.VV 


l.O\V-,VNCHOK»a>  v\v>VUl, 

NowfvHiuitlsuU  sir, 
Fouutaiu-hi\^d  ajul  sv'Uiw  vxf  ii\ws, 

IVw-ch^h.  vlrwuuHUxivrv, 

Ami  uajvkiH  sjxtwxvl  \>y  fi>,vs  ; 

Urittiivjj  uxs'Xvlow  ivf  til*  air. 
Whoiv  Wixnu  the  »l»is»e«l  Iwnks  suul  viiv'iets, 
Au»l  iu  \vhoss»>  lVmi\-  labvr«t>th 
The  Wtteni  Khxius  auvl  Iwwu  \\-aih\< ; 
^jxint  i^f  lake's  iutil  seas  anU  nvei's,  — 
IVnu"  vMtly  \»erl\>u\es  auvl  the  seeut 
Of  ht^li»i^  herl>s  tv>  jttst  meji's  tiehls, 

UVtNRV  tUVlP  TttvVKBAV, 


JJKWIVKT  UluVCH 

Wavk  at'kor  wave  smx^Nssivxcly  r\>Hs  ou 

Au>l  dies  aUxus;  the  sKoiv,  until  nuMV  Unul 

One  WlU>\v  with  v^uuvutj-ate  lv'rvt>  is  h<>ai\l 

IV  swx'U  {>ivi>l\etiv-,  and  exvtltaut  ixvars 

A  luvH'Ht  fonu  alwve  its  jnouivrs, 

AikI  msh«>s  iv>st  them  tv>  the  farthest  j^vxl. 

Thus  our  ttnuttei\>l  tWUtvjjs  ris<>  !U\>1  fall. 

Auvl  thv>>vj;ht  will  follow  thought  iu  wjual  wa\•l^s, 

Tutil  tvtUvtioJi  uer\>\<  lUvsVjjti  tv>  will, 

iM-  seutinxent  v^'er  ohiui^-o  emotion  r<-i^>s, 

.\uvl  all  its  waywstvl  undwlatious  Weiuls 

In  ojxe  o'erwhehuiujt  surj;*  ! 


TO  A  SKBUSTOK. 

IVtto  MSS.  v>l;  this ^ss^«^  wtttch  41hv«iv.X  vKnil^  tN*.-  6r. 


This  u»rt\wv  oell  was  Ule's  (vo^v-tt  ; 
riiis  s\vnv  was  Thotvght's  ntystvrious  «>«t. 
What  ly«ute\n>s  visivxus  fillevl  this  si^n  1 
What  >lix>«ins  ol'  jiUsasuiv  louji  foi^>t  I 
N>>i'  ho|H\  Uivrjoy,  uor  love,  uov  lv\«r 
Have  lott  oite  t>«er-  of  r<\vt\l  heiv, 

IVueath  this  utouUleriuj;  v««oj>y 

OuvV  shone  the  Ui^jlxt  ami  Imsy  ew  ; 

I5ut  start  not  at  the  vlismal  vwivl,    - 

If  svvial  love  that  eye  en>(\loy<M, 

If  with  no  lawhvss  tiiv  it  jjhstun^l, 

l>ut  tluvujjh  the  dews  of  kiudue^  KnxuunI, 

That  eye  sltall  K>  fowver  hi  ijjht 

When  stars  and  suu  aiv  sunk  in  uij;l>t. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hun^s 
The  ready,  swift,  atid  tu«el\ll  toivjjue  ; 
If  Valselnsxl's  liouey  it  disvlainevl, 
,Vi\d  when  it  wuld  not  \>r«ise  v>-»s  ehaiutnl  : 
ir  KxKl  iu  Virtue's  cause  it  .six>fce. 
Yet  j^-ntle  v\MU\>i\l  never  hivke,     - 
This  silent  tot>j:«e  shall  i>U\ad  for  thwi 
When  'nme  tiuv<>ils  Ktetuity  ! 

5^ay,  vliil  th<>si>  tiuj^-is  ilelw  the  tniiw  ! 
Or  with  the  euvie»l  r«l>i<v<  sl>iiu> ,' 
To  hew  the  «\vk,  or  wi\-»r  a  jitein, 
t'ait  little  now  avail  to  them, 
l<nt  it"  the  ^>aJ)^<  of  'f^nith  they  svnijiht. 
Or  vvutfort  to  the  mourner  Ixivujjht, 
Thesi'  hanvls  a  richer  m«H\I  sltall  claim 
Thixn  all  that  wait  on  Wealth  and  Kaute, 

Avails  it  whether  Iwix'  or  sluxl 
rUesi"  fivt  the  jiaths  of  dtity  tixxl ! 
If  iVut  the  l<owers  of  Kas<>  they  tU\l, 
To  siH'k  .Vtlliction's  humUe  sluxl ; 
If  Oraudeur's  gitilty  hril»>  they  spurne*l. 
And  home  to  Virtue's  <vt  ivtunwxl.  — 
Thi\<»x  r<x>t  with  angel  winjjs  shall  vi<s 
And  tr«\td  the  ivxlaixx  of  the  sky  ! 


THK  SKinX 

rSOM  "CMllPR  «ARO>l\" 

Rkmovk  yon  skull   from  ont   the  swittenxl 

hea)v$ : 
Is  that  a  temi»le  wher\x  a  i^xl  may  dwell  ' 
Why  even  the  wvrm  at  last  dis^lains  her  shat- 

tejwl  v-ell  ! 


fr*- 


Bkhoux  this  min  !    T  was  a  skull 
Oiux'  xxf  ethetvMl  sjvirit  full. 


r.ook  on  its  broken  aw'h,  its  rnin«xl  wsdl. 
Its  chatnlx'rs  d<>sv>late,  and  |x>rtals  foul  : 
Yes,  this  \v;>s  o«>x>  Ambition's  airy  h.-Ul, 
The  dome  of  Thoujiht,  the  \vU«>x>  of  the  Sonl ; 


-^ 


c::^- 


I'OKUH  Oil'  HICSriMENT  AND  nrji'LLCT/ON. 


737 


,ra 


fr.- 


lU-.iioUL  tUfimnit  '■Jii.h  la/:k-liJJitr<r,  nyaUim  luAit 

'I'ili:  l^ty  )<«;<;»»  of   WiwJ/y/ll  alul  </f   V>'jt, 

Ao't   I'luvii/iii'ii  \ujst,  t)«it  )i<;v<,-r  i/n»ik>-A  <-j/ii- 

t<o)  ; 
'/'an  all  saint,  nnscu  or  hijjiUUit  -.vnr  writ, 
\''ii\i\i;  this  \mii:)y  UiW'ir,  tlius  tijocwont  r<;fit  ? 

V'ft  iC,  ;i»  lioliifflt  IH/!H  liav<:  lUvtliiini,  tlwrre  tx; 
A  laii'l  ';f  !s<>ul»  UiytiH'l  tliat  ssaUi;  «)i/<(<», 
7'<<  iiliaiiii;  tlw!  iliH-Xiilii:  of  tli';  HtuhUu'j":, 
Ami  >s'/j<liLi<t«,  MHitty  vain  of 'Jiihi/jijo  loi':  ; 
Mow  i)W<'^;t  it  W<;l<:  ill  lAiui'MIt  ill  a/li/i'; 
With  tli</w;  wji/y  iiiaiU:  <iur  iiii>rU)\  bU/ns  li^lit  I 
7'o  li«ai'  ea/;!)  foi/*  vw;  t'tmnA  to  Jural'  iio  inoi<;  I 
l'«;))ol'l  i!.>/.l)  iiii^lity  B)ia/I/!  r<!V<,-a|/r'J  Uj  »ii({)<l, 
7'li<;  l/Ji/.-tiiaii,  Haiiiiaii  k»(^i;,  aii'l  ail  who  taujjht 
th<;  ligljt  I 


MIONOK'K   HOMO. 

I'fX/U  "WttAililM  Ul'.tVIV.V.,- 

K^(iw')n  thou  til'.-  hui'l  wii<;i<;  b|/yjiji  til'!  citron 

lx>w<ji», 
VVInTi;  tin:  goU-oiaiigi:  liglitss  tin;  fliiJiky  grovi; '( 
lligli  wav<;(i  tli<;  laiii<;l  ttii;rir,  tli>r  liiyitli;  flow"fi>., 
AikI  thioiigh  a  istill  hluo  h<Miv<:ii  lh<:  «wi«t  wiii'Jji 

10  VI:. 
Kiiow'ut  thou  it  w<;ll ; 

'I'lii;;':,  thi.-X;  witli  thi* 
0  fiii!U<l,  0  \i)iiA  oil';  !  iaiii  my  iit/,-(«  woul'i  11'*. 

Know'st  thou  th';  'IwcDing?—  then;  th';  [lillani 

liw;, 
Kofi  »hiii';»  th';  hall,  th'.'  imniti'l  i;harijl>';r)i  glow  ; 
Aii'l  fornoi  of  inaihl'!  wmw  with  pitying  ';yi;)i 
'I'o  say,  "  JVir';liil'i  I  what  thua  hath  wrought 

th';':  wo*;  y " 
Know'st  thou  it  W';ll  ? 

There,  th'rTC  with  tli';«, 
0  my  [irot'-.et'jr  !  hoiiiewar'In  might  1  fl';'; ! 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  ?  — high  its  hri'lge 

i»  hung. 
Where  the  muh;  sfrekn  through  mint  an'l  ';lou<l 

hin  way  ; 
'I'herc  lurk  the  'Iragon-ra're,  •\hi:])  ';av'w  among, 
U'er  lK;'!tling  roekx  there  f'jams  the  Uirreut  spray. 
Know'st  thou  it  well  ? 

With  thee,  with  th';c. 
There  lies  my  path,  0  father  I  l';t  ii»  «««  ! 

From  itiT  '^rriftan  '/f  '»liT/ir-, 
t^y  l-el.l'.IA  ni'.UAn-i. 

INDIAN  NAMKB. 

Yb  say  they  .all  have  juihivA  away. 

That  nohl'!  rai*  an<l  hi-avc  ; 
That  their  light  '«in'x;s  have  vaiii«h';<l 

From  off  the  c.niiU-A  wave  ; 


Tlwt  mill  tiKr  f';r'Mts  wl)i,-re  tli^rv  r'/aiiwl 
'I'heie  lingo  no  huiit«r'ii  shout  ; 

IJut  lloiir  name  i«  on  ynir  wat/.-re, 
Ve  may  not  wa»h  it  </ut, 

'T  is  where  Oi,' 

Like  'Ar-sin' 
Where  str'/ng        ,  ms  wak« 

'X'lw!  ';«Im>  of  the  w'/rl/i. 
Where  r';/!  Jlisviurj  l«i«geth 

lii'ih  tributx;  from  the  Wiait, 
AikI  lt:»|/(«haiin'>';k  »W';/;tly  >.l';<p>i 

On  giipi;n  Virginia's  l/ieast. 

Ve  say  their  ijiwAi^i):  'aibins, 

That  elu»U;|.;/|  o'.;r  th<   val':. 
Have  (I'->1  away  like  wither';^!  haives 

I{<.-fore  the  autumn  fjale  ; 
Kutth.  ;•  v^rhilK, 

Thej, 
Y'^jre.' 

Th..-ir.l,;.|-'.  vfyoj.;. 

Ol'i  ifassa/rhuwrtts  w'«rs  it 

l.'(X;M  her  loi'JIy  <,ioiin, 
AiM  hr<>a<)  Ohio  Urais  it 

Ami'l  his  young  renown  ; 
f,'onii';'.li';ut  hath  wr'<itli';'l  it 

Where  her  'juiet  foliage  wav'«  ; 
An'l  UM  K'fntueky  l/r<«ithe4  it  h'/aiv: 

Through  all  her  aneient  'aves, 

Wax.hujcjtt  Iii'l'rs  its  lingering  voi'.-e 

Within  his  r'A;ky  h'-art. 
Ami  All'fghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  ';hart ; 
Mona/ln'A;k  on  his  loreli'ra'l  \ii,v 

iJoth  wal  th'!  tuv-.n-ji  trust ; 
Your  niountainn  huiW  th<-ir  monument. 

Though  ye  'lestroy  their  'lust. 

Ye  eall  th'fls';  r'!'l-Iirow';'l  hi'.-thr'.-n 

The  inseets  of  an  hour, 
Crushe'l  like  the  n'/t<-l';ss  worm  aniM 

The  I'fgions  of  their  j/'/wer  ; 
Y'!  'irive  Ih'.-m  from  their  fathers'  laii'ls. 

Ye  hreak  of  faith  th''  W!al, 
Hut  ';an  ye  from  the  eouit  of  Il'siven 

Kxelu'le  their  last  apfcjal  ? 

Ye  w;*;  their  unresisting  trilx;s, 

With  t/iilwjme  st"/)  an'l  slow. 
On  through  the  tra':kl';ss  •hm-.ei  pass, 

A  'airavan  of  wx: ; 
Think  ye  the  Kt/;mal  Kar  in  'lr;af ! 

His  sl'xipless  vision  'lim  ? 
Think  ye  the  mul'n  hlvxl  may  not  cry 

From  that  far  lan<l  Vi  him  ? 

l.vi/iA  ll'ixn.ny  Kir.ovyi 


-^ 


e-- 


738 


POEMU   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


■^ 


THE  POET  OF  TO-DAY. 

More  thun  tlu'  soul  of  aucieiit  song  is  given 
To  tliee,  0  [loct  of  to-day  !  —  tliy  dower 

Comes,  fioni  ii  liiglier  than  Olynnnan  Leaven, 
In  holier  beauty  and  in  lai-ger  power. 

'I'll  tliee  Humanity,  her  woes  revealing, 

\\'ould  uU  her  griefs  and  aneient  wrongs  re 
hearse  ; 

Would  make  thy  song  the  voiee  of  her  appealing 
.\nil  sob  her  mighty  sorrows  through  thv  verse 


While  in  her  season  of  great  darkness  sharing. 
Hail  thou  the  ooniing  of  eaeh  promise-star 

Whieh  elimbs  the  midnight  of  her  long  despair- 
ing, 
.Vud  wateh  for  morning  o'er  the  hills  afar. 

Wherever  Truth  her  holy  warfare  wages, 

Or  Freedom  pines,  there  let  thy  voice  bo  heard  ; 

Sound  like  a  prophet-warning  down  tlie  ages 
The  hunnin  utterance  of  God's  living  word. 

But  bring  not  thou  the  battle's  stormy  chorus. 
The  tramp  of  armies,  and  the  roar  of  light. 

Not  war's  hot  smoke  to  taint  the  sweet  morn 
o'er  us, 
Xor  blaze  of  pillage,  reddening  up  the  night. 

0,  let  thy  lays  prolong  that  angel-singing, 
I'irdling  with  nuisie  the  Redeemer's  star. 
And  breatlie  (iod's  peace,  to  earth  'glad  tidings' 
bringing 
From  the  near  heavens,  of  old  so  dim  and  far  ! 
Sakah  J.  LippiNCOTT  (Grace  Greu.nwood). 


ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  ETON  COLLEGE, 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  anticine  towers. 

That  erowu  the  watery  glade. 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade  ; 
.\ud  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 
t)f  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey  ; 

Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 

Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
Ills  silver-winding  way  ! 

.Ml,  happy  hills  !  ah,  pleasing  .shade  I 

.•\.h,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  : 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  yo  blow 
\  momentary  hliss  bestow. 


As,  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  sonl  they  seem  to  soothe. 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race. 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  ? 
Tlie  captive  linnet  which  inthrall  ? 

What  idle  progeny  succeed 

To  chase  the  rolling  eirelc's  sjieed, 
Or  urge  the  llying  ball  ? 

While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent. 

Their  murmuring  labors  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty, 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 
And  unknown  ix'gions  dare  descry  : 

Still  as  they  run,  they  look  behind  ; 

They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

(lay  hope  is  theirs,  by  hincy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possessed  ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast. 
Theirs  bu.\om  health  of  rosy  hue, 
Willi  wit,  invention  ever  new. 
And  lively  cheer  of  vigor  born  ; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night. 

The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light. 
That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas  !  regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play  ; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  ; 
Vet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate. 
And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train. 

Ah  !  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand. 

To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band  ; 
Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  1 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear. 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  jiallid  Fear, 

And  Shiime,  that  skulks  behind  ; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth. 
Or  Je-alousy  with  nuikling  tooth. 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 

And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 

Grim-visaged,  comfortless  Despair, 
And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart 


--& 


[Q- 


POEMS  OF  SKNl'lMENT  AND  REFLEVTION. 


"7^ 


Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  lise, 

Then  whirl  the  wi-etch  from  high, 
To  bitter  Seorii  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  trj', 
And  hard  Unkindness'  altered  eye, 
That  mocks,  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow  ; 
And  keen  Remorse  witli  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness  laugliing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 

Lci  !  in  the  vale  of  years  Ijcneath 

A  grisly  troop  aie  seen,   -  - 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  cjueen  : 
Tliis  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  laboiing  sinew  strains, 
Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage  ; 

Lo  !   Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 

That  numbs  the  soul  witli  icy  hand  ; 
And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  suil'erings  :  all  aic  men. 

Condemned  alike  to  groan  ; 
The  tender  for  another's  pain. 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah  !  why  should  they  know  their  fate. 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late. 
And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ! 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 

No  more  ;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'T  is  folly  to  lie  wise. 


MY  MOTHER'.S  PICTTTRE. 

0  THAT  those  li])s  had  language  !  Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1  lieard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  arc  thine,  — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
Tlie  same  that  oft  in  childhood  .solaced  me; 
V(iii:e  only  fails,  else  liow  distinct  they  say, 
"Orieve   not,    my   child;    chase   all   thy   fears 

away ! " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  tho"sc  dear  eyes 
cl'ilest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize. 
The  ai-t  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
'I'd  quench  it  !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  .same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear  ! 
ri  wflcome  guest,  though  une.\liecte(l  here  ! 
WIhi  bidVt  me  Iiouor  with  an  artless  song, 
Allri  f  iniiifc,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  .jlicy,  — not  willingly  alone, 

Ihit  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief,  — 
Kliall  .steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  .she. 


My  mother  !    when  I  learned  tliat  thou  wast 

dead. 
Say,  wa.st  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  .son-owing  son,  — 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss  ; 
Perliaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss  — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers  —  Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day ; 
1  .saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away ; 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ? —  It  was.  —  Where  thou  art 

gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  area  sound  unknown  ; 
May  I  but  meet  thei-  on  that  ]iea<;elul  .shore, 
Tlie  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern. 
Oft  gave  me  jiromise  of  thy  ipiick  return  ; 
What  ardently  1  wi.sl[eil  1  longbelic'ved. 
And,  disajipointed  still,  was  still  deceiviul,  — 
By  exjiectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupa  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  .sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  s])ent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot  ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 
Where   once  we    dwelt  our  name   is   lieard  no 

more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nui-sery  floor  : 
And  where  the  gar<lener  liobin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way,  — 
Delighted  with  my  bawble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm  and  velvet  cap,  — 
'T  is  now  Ijccome  a  history  little  known 
That  once  we  called  the  ]iastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-livetl  possession  !  but  the  record  fair 
That  memoi'y  keeps  of  all  thy  kin<lne.ss  there 
Still  outlives  many  a  .storm  that  has  elfaccd 
A  thou.sand  other  themes,  htss  deeply  tracccl  : 
Tiiy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  nnide, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safeand  warmly  laid  ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home,  — 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum  ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thv   own   hand,    till    fiesh    they  shone  and 

"glowed,  — 
All  thi.s,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall,  — 
Ne'er  rougheiieil  by  tlio.se  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  liumor  interposed  too  often  makes  ; 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  jiage. 
And  still  to  he  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may,  — 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere,  — 
Not    scorned  in  he.aven,    tliough    little   noticed 

here. 


y^- 


& 


o^ 


-U) 


POEMS  OF  SEI^TIMENT  AND  liEFLECTION. 


n 


h 


OouUl  time,   his  llight  i-ovoi'stHl,  n'stow  the 
horn's 
AVhoii,  phiyius  witli  thy  vostiuv's  UssuoU  How- 

Ill's  — 

Tho  vioh't,  the  i>iiik,  tho  jossnmiuo  — 

I  |>iii'ko<l  thi'iu  into  (hiiht  with  «  ('in 

^Aiul  thou  wust  hiiii\iii>ilhimuu'si'lt' tlio  wliilo  — 

WouUlst  softly  siH'"''>  ""''  sti'oko  my  lioiul  ami 

smilo)  — 
t'oiiUl  thoso  tVw  plonsant  iliiys  again  a[>i)ear, 
Mijtlit  Olio  wish  biiiij'  thoiii,  wouUl  1  wish  thoni 

hoit<  I 
I  woiilil  not  trust  my  lu-art,  —  tho  iloav  ilolight 
Sfi'iiis  so  to  l«'  lU'siivil,  iiorliai>s  1  mij;ht. 
Hut  110,  —  what  lioiv  wo  call  our  lifo  is  suoli, 
8o  littlo  to  bo  lovoil,  ami  thou  so  uiiuh, 
I'hat  1  shoiilil  ill  iviiuito  thoo  to  ooiistiiiiii 
'I'hy  uubouiul  sjiiiit  into  hoiuls  again, 

'I'hou  —  as  a  gallant  hiik,  fnnu  .'Vlhioii's coast, 
(Tho  stovuis  all  woathoivd  ami  tho  oooaii  cit.ksseil,') 
Shoots  into  poit  at  somo  woll-havoiuHl  islo, 
Whoiti  siiicosbvoathoaiul  biiglitov soasoiis smilo  ; 
Thoix'  sits  iiuiosioiit  on  tho  llooils,  tliat  show 
Hor  bonutfous  t'oiiu  ivItoctoU  oloar  bolow, 
Wliilo  ail's  iminvgnattxl  with  inooiiso  play 
Arouiul  liei',  fanning  liglit  hor  stivainors  gay,  — 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift  !  hast  ivaolioil  tho 

slunv 
"  Wlioro  toiiiposts  iiovor  boat  nor  billows  ivar  "  : 
And  thy  lovoil  ooiisort  on  tho  »langoi\>us  ti<.l« 
0(  lifo  long  simo  has  anohoivd  by  thy  siilo. 
lint  mo,  siaivo  hoping  to  attain  that  n>st. 
Always  fivin  port  withhold,  always  distivssed,  — 
Mo  howling  blasts  drivo  devious,  tompost-tossod, 
Sails  ripjH'd,  soaius  oivning  wido,  ami  oonnmss 

Uxst ; 
And  day  by  day  somo  onrivnt's  thwarting  foivo 
Sots  ino  inoi'<>  distant  fi'om  a  pixwpei-ous  ooui-so. 
Yot  0,  tho  thought   that  thou  art  safo,  mid 

ho !  - 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrivo  what  may  to  mo. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  doduoo  my  birth 
V'lxnn  loins  oiithivnod,  and  ruloi's  of  I  ho  oarth  ; 
Hut  liighov  far  my  pnmd  pivtonsions  riso,  — 
Tho  sou  of  pamnts  jmssod  into  tho  skios. 
And    now,    fannvoll !  —  Time,   uni'tivoked,   has 

run 
His    woiitod    oourso ;    yet    what    1    wished    is 

done. 
By  oouteniplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
1  seem  to  have  lived  my  eliiUlluHHl  o"or  again,  — 
To  have  nniewed  the  joys  that  onee  weiv  miuo, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
.■\nd,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free. 
Ami  1  can  view  this  mimio  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft,  — 
Thyself  ivmovcd,  thy  power  to  siHithe  mo  left, 
William  Cowpkr. 


RKVENOE  OF  INJURIES, 

TllK  faiivst  action  of  our  hiiiimn  life 

Is  scorning  to  revenge'  an  injury  : 
l''or  who  forgives  without  a  further  strife 

His  advei'sary's  heart  to  him  doth  tie  : 
.\ml  't  is  a  lirmer  comiuest  truly  said 
To  will  tho  heart  than  overthi'ow  tho  head. 

If  wo  a  worthy  enemy  do  timl. 

To  yield  to  worth,  it  must  be  nobly  done  ; 
Hut  if  of  l«iser  metal  be  Ids  mind. 

In  Uise  ivvenge  there  is  no  honor  won. 
Who  would  a  worthy  courage  overtliiiiw  ' 
.\ml  who  would  wivstlo  with  a  worthless  foe  ? 

We  say  our  hearts  are  great,  and  cannot  yield  ; 
Hecause   they    cannot   yield,    it    proves  llieiii 
poor  ; 
tiivat  hearts  are  tasked  beyond  their  power  but 
sold  : 
The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  rmir. 
Truth's  school  for  certain  does  this  same  allow, 
High-heiu'todness  doth  soinetimos  teach  to  Ihiw. 


FAITH. 

liKrrKi!  trust  all  and  bo  deceived. 
And  weep  that  trust  and  that  ileoeiving. 
Than  doubt  one  heart  that,  if  lielieved. 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

O,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 
T'lie  doubting  lieiul  o'citakes  our  youth  ; 
Hotter  be  cheated  to  the  last 
Thau  lose  the  blessed  hoi)e  of  truth. 

l-KANCUS  AN.S'B  KtJMllLB 


JUDGE  NOT. 

.Tl'HOK  not ;  the  workings  of  his  brain 
And  of  his  heart  thou  canst  not  se«  ; 

What  looks  to  thy  dim  eyes  a  stain. 
In  IuhI's  puix>  light  may  only  Iw 

A  scar,  brought  I'liun  some  well-won  lield, 

Wheiv  thou  wouldst  only  faint  and  yield. 

The  look,  the  air,  that  fMs  thy  sight 

May  bo  a  token  that  below 
The  soul  has  closed  in  deadly  tight 

Willi  some  infernal  liery  foe, 
Whose  glance  would  scoivh  thy  smiling  grace, 
And  east  thee  sliudderiug  on  thy  face  ! 

The  fall  thou  dart'st  to  despise,  — 
May  bo  the  angel's  slackemxl  hand 


-^ 


iD-*- 


P0EM8  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  BEFLEOTION. 


741 


^ 


^- 


Hun  Ku(r<!ii:il  it,  that  Ik;  may  Hue 

Ami  tak<j  a  linin!!,  buiim'  Btaiul ; 
Or,  tniHtirig  W.m  to  earthly  things. 
May  h«ii<;i!l<)rtli  learn  to  uw;  hi«  wings. 

Aii'l  jii'lj^e  nom:  lo«t ;  but  wait  anil  sec, 
With  ho|«-(nl  pity,  not  aiwUin  ; 

'I'lie  <ii|)th  of  the  ahynn  may  1« 
'I'lic  nieimure  of  the  height  of  pain 

Ami  love  ami  glory  that  may  raise 

'I'liiii  Boul  to  fJoil  in  afV-r  ilayx  ! 

AL'lil.AIUIl  AKKn  I'KfXTIiK. 


FLOWEIW   WITHOUT  KKUrr, 

riu'NK  thou  thy  words  ;  the  thoughts  control 
That  o'er  thee  swell  anil  throng  ;  — 

They  will  eomlense  within  thy  soul. 
Ami  eliange  U>  purjKjw;  strong. 

IJiit  he  who  lets  his  I'ei-lingH  run 

in  soft  luxurious  flow, 
iShiinkK  when  hajil  s<;rvicc  must  be  done. 

Anil  faints  at  every  woe. 

I'aitli's  meanest  ileeil  more  favor  lx;ars, 
Wheie  hearts  ami  wills  are  weighi;il, 

Tlian  bright<;«t  transjioils,  choiwst  prayers, 
Whic-ii  bloom  llieir  hour,  ami  faile. 

John  llni.nv  Newman, 


THE  DOORSTEP. 

Ti!K  eoiiferenec-meeting  through  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waiteil, 

'J'o  «ie  the  girls  eome  trip|iiiig  jtast, 
Ijke  snowbirds  willing  to  be  mati'd. 

Not  liravcr  he  that  leaps  the  wall 

My  level  innsket-llashes  litt^m, 
Than  1,  who  st^tpped  Iwfore  them  all, 

Who  longed  to  sec  me  get  the  mitten. 

liut  no  ;  she  blushed,  ami  timV  my  arm  I 
We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway. 

Ami  started  toward  the  Maple  Fann 
Along  a  kind  of  lover's  by-w.ay. 

1  lan't  rememlsir  wliat  we  said, 
'T  wtis  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story  j 

Yet  that  ruile  jmfh  liy  whieh  we  spcl 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  eri»p  txtneath  our  feet. 
The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming  ; 

I5y  hood  and  tipfx-t  sJieltered  sweet, 

ifer  faix'  with  youth  and  health  wa«  beaming. 


The  little  hand  outside  her  mulf,  — 

O  sculptor,  if  you  eould  but  mold  it !  — 

Ho  lightly  touehf«l  my  ja<;ket-cuff. 
To  keep  it  warm  1  luwl  it>  hold  it. 

'I'll  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 

'T  Wits  love  and  fear  and  tiium])h  blended. 

At  l.'ist  we  rea';hed  the  fwjt-worn  st/jne 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ende<L 

The  old  folks,  t'w,  were  almost  home  ; 

Ilir  iliin]ili:d  liand  the  lati.hes  fingered. 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come. 

Yet  on  the  d<x)i-stej)  still  we  lingercL 

8he  sliook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood. 

And  with  a  "Thank  you,  Ned,"  dissembled, 

IJut  yet  1  knew  she  underst^jod 

With  what  a  daring  wish  I  tremblwL 

A  cloud  jiassed  kimlly  overhead. 
Tin:  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it. 

Yet  hid  its  fa<^!,  as  if  it  said, 

"  Come,  now  or  never  !  do  it !  rf»  U I " 

My  lips  till  then  ho^l  only  known 

The  kiss  of  mother  ami  of  sistiir, 
liut  somehow,  full  ujwn  her  own 

.Swc<:t,  rosy,  darling  mouth  —  1  kissed  her  I 

Perhaps  't  was  l.ioyish  love,  yet  still, 

0  listless  woman,  weary  lover  ! 

To  feel  onw  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill 

1  'd  give —     Hut  who  can  live  youth  over  ( 

EUMONO  ci.aki;hck  niy.iiUAU. 


THE   HONO   OK  THK  CAMl'. 

"  Ol  VK  us  a  s<jng  !  "  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outi'r  trenches  giurding. 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  <;amj)S  allied 

Grew  weary  of  Ixjmbarding. 

The  dark  Keilan,  in  silent  scoff, 
I<ay,  grim  and  threati.-ning,  under  ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Mahikoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

Tliere  wa«  a  j<aus<?.     A  guardsman  said  : 
"  We  Htnrm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

IJi-Iow  the  smoking  cannon  : 
IJrave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  Iianks  of  Shannon. 


-^ 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


-^ 


They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame  ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory  ; 
Eaeh  heart  reealled  a  dill'erent  name, 

But  all  sang  "  Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Hose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong,  — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

IJear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak. 
But,  as  the  song  grew  louder. 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Waslied  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

lioyonil  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  bloody  sun.set's  embei's, 
Willie  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Kainetl  on  the  Russian  quarters. 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell. 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  ej'cs  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory  ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "  Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers  !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing  ; 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 

B.\V.\RD  TAYLOR. 


THE  TOUCHSTONE. 

A  M.VN  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell, 
Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand  ; 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 

By  its  unerring  spell. 

I  juick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair  ; 
Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nov  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  licirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 

Were  many  changed  to  chips  and  clods, 
.■\nd  even  statues  of  the  gods 

Crumbled  beneath  its  toucli. 

Then  angi-ily  the  people  cried, 

• '  The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far  ; 
Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are  ; 

We  will  not  have  them  tried." 


B^- 


And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  this  unrelenting  guest, 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "Let  him  test 

How  real  is  our  jail  !  " 

Hut,  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword. 
And  in  a  lire  his  touchstone  burned. 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'erturned, 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm. 
They  strewed  its  ashes  on  the  breeze  ; 
They  little  guessed  each  grain  of  these 

Conveyed  the  perfect  charm. 


THE  OLD  MAID. 

Why  sits  she  thus  in  solitude  ?     Her  heart 

Seems  melting  in  her  eyes'  delicious  blue  ; 
And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart, 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  throbbings  through  ; 
In  her  dark  eye  a  depth  of  softness  swells. 

Deeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood  wore  ; 
And  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that  tells 

The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 

It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday  !     With  a  sigh 

Her  soul  hath  turned  from  youth's  lu.xuriaiit 
bowers, 
And  her  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 

That  mcixsured  out  its  links  of  golden  hours  ! 
She  feels  her  inmost  soul  within  her  stir 

With   thoughts   too   wild   and  passionate   to 
speak  ; 
Yet  her  full  heart  —  its  own  interpreter  — 

Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek. 

Joy's  opening  buds,  affection's  glowing  flowers. 

Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming  track  ; 
0,  life  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours, 

And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wander  back  ! 
No  !  she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 

On  pleasures  past,  though  nevermore  to  lie  ; 
Hope  links  her  to  the  future,  — but  the  link 

That  binds  her  to  the  past  is  memory. 

.•\M1U.1.\  B.  Welbv 


MUSIC'S  DITEL. 

Now  westward  Sol  had  speiit  the  richest  beams 

Of  noon's  high  glory,  when,  hard  by  the  streams 

Of  Tiber,  on  the  scene  of  a  green  plat, 

Under  protection  of  an  oak,  there  .sat 

A  sweet  lute's-master,  in  wliose  gentle  airs 

He  lost  the  day's  heat  and  his  own  hot  cares. 

Close  in  the  covert  of  the  leaves  ther-e  stood 

A  nightingale,  come  from  the  neighboring  wood 


--U^ 


[Tt- 


POEMH   OF  SENTIMENT  AXD  REFLECTION. 


h 


(The  sweet  iuhaljitaiit  of  eacli  glad  tree, 
Tljeir  muse,  their  biieii,  haniiless  siren  she)  : 
Tliere  stood  she  listcuiug,  aud  did  entertain 
'I'Ice  music's  soft  report,  aud  mold  the  same 
In  lier  own  murmurs  ;  that  whatever  mood 
His  curious  fingers  lent,  her  voice  made  good. 
The  man  perceived  his  rival,  and  her  art ; 
Disposed  to  give  the  light-foot  lady  siwit. 
Awakes  his  lute,  aud  'gainst  the  light  to  come 
Informs  it  in  a  sweet  prieludium 
•  If  iloser  strains,  and  e'er  the  war  begin. 
He  lightly  skirmishes  ou  every  string 
Charged  with  a  flying  touch  ;  and  sti-aightway  she 
Carves  out  her  dainty  voice  a.s  readily 
Into  a  thousand  sweet  distinguished  tones, 
And  reckons  uj)  in  soft  divisions 
Quick  volumes  of  wild  notes,  to  let  him  know, 
By  that  shrill  taste,  she  could  do  something  too. 
His  nimble  hand's  instinct  then  taught  each 
string 
A  capering  cheerfulness,  and  made  them  sing 
To  theii-  own  dance  ;  now  negligently  rash 
He  throws  his  aim,  and  with  a  long-drawn  dash 
Blends  all  together  ;  then  distinctly  trips 
From  this  to  that,  then  quick  returning  skips, 
Aud  snatches  this  again,  and  pauses  there. 
She  measures  every  measure,  everywhere 
Meets  art  with  art ;  sometimes,  as  if  iu  doubt 
Not  perfect  }'et,  and  fearing  to  be  out, 
Trails  her  plain  ditty  in  one  long-spun  note, 
Tlirough  the  sleek  passage  of  her  o|)eu  throat, 
A  clear,  unwrinkled  song  ;  then  doth  she  point  it 
With  tender  accents,  and  severely  joint  it 
By  short  diminutives,  that  being  leared 
In  controverting  warbles,  evenly  shared. 
With  her  sweet  self  .she  wrangles  ;  he,  amazed 
That  from  so  small  a  channel  should  be  raised 
The  torrent  of  a  voice  whose  melody 
<-'ould  melt  into  such  .sweet  variety, 
Strains  higher  yet,  that,  tickled  with  rare  art, 
The  tattling  strings,  each  breathing  in  his  part, 
Host  kindly  do  fall  out :  the  grumbling  bass 
In  surly  groans  disdains  the  treble's  gi-ace  ; 
The  high-percht  treble  chirps  at  this,  and  chides, 
L'ntil  his  finger  (moderator)  hides 
And  closes  the  sweet  (luarrcl,  rousing  all, 
Hoarse,  shrill,  at  once  ;  as  when  the  trumpets  call 
Hot  Mars  to  the  harvest  of  death's  field,  and  woo 
Men's  hearts  into  their  hands  ;  this  lesson  too 
.Slie  gives  them  back  ;  her  .supple  breast  thrills  out 
Sharp  airs,  and  staggers  in  a  warbling  doubt 
Of  dallying  sweetness,  hovers  o'er  her  skill. 
And  folds  in  waved  notes,  with  a  trembling  bill. 
The  pliant  series  of  her  slippery  song; 
Then  starts  she  suddenly  into  a  throng 
Of  short  thick  sol)s,   whose  thundering  volleys 

float, 
And  roll  them-selves  over  her  lubric  throat 


I  In  panting  munnurs,  stilled  out  of  her  breast ; 
That  ever-bubbling  spring,  the  sugared  nest 
Of  her  delicious  soul,  that  there  does  lie 
Bathing  in  streams  of  liquid  melody  ; 
Music's  best  seed-plot ;  when  in  ripeued  airs 
A  golden-headed  liarvest  fairly  rears 
His  honey-dropjiing  tops  plowed  by  lur  lirealh 
Which  there  recijirocally  laboreth. 
In  that  sweet  soil  it  seems  a  holy  (juire. 
Sounded  to  the  name  of  great  Ajwllo's  lyre  ; 
Whose  silver  roof  rings  with  the  sprightly  notes 
Of    sweet-lipiwd    angel-imps,    that   swill    their 

throats 
In  cream  of  morning  Helicon,  and  then 
Prefer  soft  anthems  to  the  ears  of  men. 
To  woo  them  from  their  licds,  still  murmuring 
That  men  can  sleep  while  they  their  matins  sing 
(Most  divine  .serricc),  whose  so  early  lay 
Prevents  the  eyelids  of  the  blu.sliing  dov. 
There  might  you  hear  her  kindle  her  soft  voice 
In  the  clo.se  murmur  of  a  sparkling  noise  : 
And  lay  the  gr^'undwork  of  her  hopeful  song, 
Still  keeping  in  the  forward  stream  .so  long. 
Till  a  sweet  whirlwind  (striving  to  get  out) 
Heaves  her  .soft  bosom,  wanders  round  about, 
And  makes  a  pretty  earthquake  in  her  breast. 
Till  the  fledged  notes  at  length  foi'sake  their  nest. 
Fluttering  in  wanton  shoals,  and  to  the  sky, 
Winged  with  their  own  wild  echoes,  prattling  fly. 
She  opes  the  floodgate,  and  lets  loose  a  tide 
Of  streaming  sweetness,  which  in  stite  doth  lide 
On  the  waved  back  of  every  swelling  strain, 
Kising  and  falling  in  a  i>ompous  train  ; 
And  while  she  thus  discharges  a  shrill  peal 
Of  fla-shing  airs,  she  qualifies  their  zeal 
With  the  cool  epode  of  a  giaver  note  ; 
Thus  high,  thus  low,  as  if  her  silver  throat 
Would  reach  the  biazen  voice  of  war's  hoarse  bird  ; 
Her  little  soul  is  ravished,  aud  so  poured 
Into  loose  ecstasies,  that  she  is  placed 
Above  herself,  music's  enthusiast. 

Shame  now  and  anger  mi.xed  a  double  sUiin 
In  the  musician's  face  :  "Yet,  once  again. 
Mistress,  I  come  :  now  reach  a  strain,  my  lute, 
Above  her  mock,  or  be  forever  mute. 
Or  tune  a  .song  of  victory  to  me. 
Or  to  thyself  sing  thine  own  olise(iuy." 
So  said,  his  hands  sprightly  as  fire  he  flings. 
And  with  a  quavering  coyness  ta.stcs  the  strings. 
The  sweet-lipped  sisters  musically  frighted. 
Singing  their  fears  are  fearfully  delighted  ; 
Tremljling  as  when  Apollo's  golden  hairs 
.•\re  fanned  and  frizzled  in  the  wanton  airs 
Of  his  own  breath,  which,  married  to  his  lyre, 
Doth  tune  the  spheres,  and  make  heavens  si-lt 

look  higher ; 
From  this  to  that,  from  that  to  this  he  flies. 
Feels  music's  pulse  in  all  her  arteries  : 


^ 


e-:- 


44 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


^ 


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Caiiglit  in  a  net  which  there  Apollo  spreads, 
His  fingers  struggle  with  the  vocal  threads, 
Following  those  little  rills,  he  sinks  into 
A  sea  of  Helicon  ;  his  hand  does  go 
Those  parts  of  sweetness  which  with  nectar  drop. 
Softer  than  that  which  pants  in  Hebe's  cup. 
The  humorous  strings  expound  his  learned  touch 
By  various  glosses  ;  now  they  seem  to  grutcli 
And  murmur  in  a  buzzing  din,  tlien  jingle 
In  shrill-toned  accents  striving  to  be  single  ; 
Every  smooth  turn,  every  delicious  stroke, 
Gives  life  to  some  new  grace ;  thus  doth  he  invoke 
Sweetness  by  all  her  names  ;  thus,  bravely  thus 
(Fraught  with  a  fury  so  harmonious), 
Tlie  lute's  light  genius  now  does  proudly  rise. 
Heaved  on  the  surges  of  swollen  rhapsodies  ; 
^Vh(>se  flourish  (meteor-like)  doth  curl  the  air 
With  Hush  of  high-born  fancies,  here  and  there 
Diincing  in  lofty  measures,  and  anon 
Creeps  on  the  soft  touch  of  a  tender  tone. 
Whose  trembling  murmui-s,  melting  in  wild  airs. 
Run  to  and  fro,  complaining  his  sweet  cares  ; 
Because  those  precious  mysteries  that  dwell 
In  music's  ravished  soul  he  dare  not  tell. 
But  whisper  to  the  world  ;  thus  do  they  vary, 
Each  string  liis  note,  as  if  they  meant  to  carry 
Their  master's  blest  soul  (snatched  out  at  his  ears 
By  a  strong  ecstasy)  through  all  the  spheres 
Of  music's  heaven  ;  and  seat  it  there  on  high, 
In  tlie  empyrean  of  pure  harmony. 
At  length  (after  so  long,  so  loud  a  strife 
Of  all  the  strings,  still  breathing  the  best  life 
Of  blest  variety,  attending  on 
His  fingers'  fairest  evolution. 
In  many  a  sweet  rise,  many  as  sweet  a  fall) 
A  full-mouthed  diapason  swallows  all. 

Tills  done,  he  li.sts  what  she  would  say  to  this ; 
And  slie,  although  her  breath's  late  exercise 
Had  dealt  too  roughly  with  her  tender  throat. 
Yet  summons  all  her  sweet  powers  for  a  note. 
Alas  !  in  vain  !  for  while  (sweet  soul)  she  tries 
To  measure  all  those  wild  diversities 
or  chattering  strings  by  the  small  size  of  one 
Poor  simple  voice,  raised  in  a  natural  tone  ; 
She  fails,  and  failing  grieves,  and  grieving  dies  : 
Sill-  dii's,  and  leaves  her  life  the  victor's  prize, 
F;illiiiu'  upon  his  lute  :  0,  fit  to  have 
('I'liat  lived  so  sweetly),  dead,  so  sweet  a  grave  ! 

RiCllAKD   CRASHAW. 


THE  MUSICAL  DTTEL. 

FROM  THE  "LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY." 

Mesaphox.     Passing  from  Italy  to  Greece, 
the  tales 
Which  poets  of  an  elder  time  have  feigned 
To  glorify  their  Tempe,  bred  in  me 
Desire  of  visiting  that  paradise. 


To  Thessaly  1  came  ;  and,  living  private. 
Without  acquaintance  of  more  sweet  companions 
Than  the  old  inmates  to  my  love,  my  thoughts, 
I  day  by  day  frequented  silent  groves 
And  solitary  walks.     One  morning  early 
This  accident  encountered  me  :  I  lieard 
The  sweetest  and  most  ravishing  contention 
That  art  and  nature  ever  were  at  strife  in. 

Amethus.      I  cannot  yet  conceive  what  you 

infer 
By  art  and  nature. 

Men.  1  shall  soon  resolve  you. 

A  sound  of  music  touched  mine  ears,  or  rather, 
Indeed,  entranced  my  soul.     As  I  stole  nearer, 
Invited  by  the  melancholy,  I  saw 
This  youth,  this  fair-faced  youth,  upon  his  lute. 
With  strains  of  strange  variety  and  harmony. 
Proclaiming,  as  it  seemed,  so  bold  a  challenge 
To  the  clear  choristers  of  the  woods,  the  birds. 
That,  as  they  flocked  about  him,  all  stood  silent. 
Wondering   at   what  they  heard.     I   wondered 

too. 
Am.    And  so  do  I  ;  good  !  —  On  ! 
Men.  a  nightingale, 

Nature's  best  skilled  musician,  undertakes 
The  challenge,  and,  for  every  several  strain 
The  well-shaped  youth  could  touch,  she  sung  her 

own  ; 
He  could  not  run  division  with  more  art 
Upon  liis  quaking  instrument  than  she. 
The  nightingale,  did  with  her  various  notes 
Reply  to  ;  for  a  voice,  and  for  a  sound, 
Amethus,  't  is  much  easier  to  believe 
That  such  they  were  than  hope  to  hear  again. 
Am.    How  did  the  riv.als  part  ? 
Men.  You  term  them  lightly  ; 

For  they  were  rivals,  and  their  mistress,  Har- 
mony. — 
Some  time  thus  spent,  the  young  man  grew  at 

last 
Into  a  pretty  anger,  that  a  bird 
Whom  art  had  never  taught  clefs,   moods,    or 

notes. 
Should  vie  with  him  for  mastery,  whose  study 
Had  busied  many  hours  to  perfect  practice  : 
To  end  the  controversy,  in  a  rapture 
Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftly. 
So  many  voluntaries,  and  so  quick. 
That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning. 
Concord  in  discord,  lines  of  differing  method 
Meeting  in  one  full  center  of  delight. 
Am.    Now  for  the  bird. 

Men.  The  bird,  ordained  to  be 

Music's  first  martyr,  strove  to  imitate 
These  several  sounds ;  which,  when  her  warbling 

throat 
Failetl  in,   for  grief,  down  dropped  she  on  his 


lute. 


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POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  llEFLEGTION. 


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And  broke  her  heart !     It  was  the  (quaintest  sad- 
ness 
To  see  the  eonijueror  upon  her  hearse 
To  weep  a  funeral  elegy  of  tears  ; 
That,  trust  me,  my  ^Vmethus,  1  could  chide 
Mine  own  unmanly  weakness,  that  made  me 
A  fellow-mourner  with  him. 

Am.  I  believe  thee. 

Men.    He  looked  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 
Then  sighed,  then  wiped  his  eyes,  then  sighed, 

and  cried, 
"-•Vlas,  poor  creature  !     I  will  soou  revenge 
This  cruelty  ui>ou  the  author  of  it ; 
Henceforth  this  lute,  guilty  of  innocent  blood, 
Shall  nevermore  betray  a  hannless  peace 
To  an  untimely  end  "  ;  and  in  that  sorrow. 
As  he  was  pashing  it  against  a  tree, 
I  suddenly  stept  in. 

John  ford. 


O,   THE  PLEASANT  DAYS  OF  OLD  I 

0,  THE  pleasant  days  of  old,  which  so  often  pecjple 

praise  ! 
True,  they  wanted  all  the  lu.xuries  that  grace  our 

modern  days  : 
Bare  floors  were  strewed  with  rushes,  the  walls 

let  in  the  cold  ; 
O,  how  they  must  have  shivered  in  those  pleasant 

days  of  old  ! 

0,  those  ancient  lords  of  old,  how  magnificent 

they  were  I 
They  threw  down  and   imprisoned   kings,  —  to 

thwart  them  who  might  dare  ? 
They  ruled  theii-  serfs  right  sternly  ;  they  took 

from  .Tews  their  gold,  — 
Above  both  law  and  equity  were  those  great  lords 

of  old  ! 

0,  the  gallant  knights  of  old,  for  their  valor  so 

renowned  ! 
With  swcinl  ami  lance  and  armor   strong   they 

scoured  the  country  rouml  ; 
And  whenever  aught  to  tempt  them  they  met  by 

wood  or  wold, 
By  right  of  sword  they  seized  the  prize,  —  those 

gallant  knights  of  old  ! 

0,  the  gentle  dames  of  old  !  who,  quite  free  from 

fear  or  pain. 
Could  gaze  on  joust  and  tournament,  and  see 

their  champions  slain ; 
They  lived  on  good  beefsteaks  and  ale,  which 

made  them  strong  and  bolii,  — 
O,  more  like  men  than  women  were  those  gentle 

dames  (if  old  ! 


0,  those  mighty  towers  of  old  !  with  their  turrets, 

moat,  and  keep. 
Their  battlements  and  bastions,  their  dungeons 

dark  and  deep. 
Full   many  a  baron  held  his  court  within  the 

castle  hold  ; 
And  many  a  cajitive  languished  there,  in  those 

strong  towers  of  old. 

0,  the  troubadoiu's  of  old  !  with  the  gentle  min- 
strelsie 

(_)f  hojie  and  joy,  or  deep  desjiair,  whiehe'er  their 
lot  might  be  ; 

For  years  they  served  theii-  ladye-loves  ere  they 
their  passions  told,  — 

0,  wondrous  patience  must  have  hail  those  trou- 
badours of  old  ! 

O,  those  blessed  times  of  old,  with  their  chivalry 

and  state  ! 
1  love  to  read  their  chronicles,  which  such  brave 

deeds  relate  ; 
I  love  to  sing  their  ancient  rhymes,  to  hear  their 

legends  told,  — 
But,   Heaven  be  thanked  !   I   live  not  in  those 

blessed  times  of  old  ! 

FK.VNCtS  BKOW.N. 


f&-- 


MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD. 

TiiF,  tattoo  beats,  —  the  lights  are  gone, 
The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies. 

The  night  with  solemn  pace  moves  on, 
The  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies  ; 

But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  flown, 
And  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  0  darling  one. 

Whose  love  my  early  life  hath  Vilest  — 

Of  thee  and  him  —  our  baby  son  — 
Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast. 

God  of  the  tender,  frail,  and  lone, 
0,  guard  the  tender  sleeper's  rest ! 

And  liover  gently,  hover  near 

To  her  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet,  — 

To  mother,  w'ife,  —  the  doubly  dear, 
In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 

Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  dear. 
And  cheer  her  drooping  spiiits  yet. 

Now,  while  she  kneels  before  thy  throne, 
0,  teach  her.  Ruler  of  the  skies. 

That,  while  by  thy  behest  alone 

Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  or  rise. 

No  tear  is  wept  to  vhee  unknown. 
No  hair  is  lost,  no  sjiarrow  dies  ! 


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POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


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That  thou  canst  stay  the  ruthless  hands 
Of  dark  disease,  and  soothe  its  pain  ; 

That  only  by  thy  stern  commands 
The  battle 's  lost,  the  soldier 's  slain  ; 

That  from  the  distant  sea  or  land 

Thou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home  again. 

And  when  upon  her  pillow  lone 

Her  tear-wet  cheek  is  sadly  pressed. 

May  happier  visions  beam  upon 

The  brightening  current  of  her  breast, 

No  frowiiing  look  or  angry  tone 
Disturb  the  Sabbath  of  her  rest ! 

Whatever  fate  these  forms  may  show, 
Loved  with  a  passion  almost  wild. 

By  day,  by  night,  in  joy  or  woe. 

By  fears  oppressed,  or  liopes  beguiled, 

From  every  danger,  every  foe, 
0  God,  protect  my  wife  and  child ! 

THOMAS  JONATHAN  jACKSON 


QUATRAINS   AND   FRAGMENTS 

FROM   RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

NORTHMAN. 

The  gale  that  wrecked  you  on  the  sand. 
It  helped  my  rowers  to  row  ; 

The  stonn  is  my  best  galley-hand, 
And  drives  nie  where  I  go. 

POET. 

To  clothe  the  fieiy  thought 
In  simple  words  succeeds. 

For  still  the  craft  of  genius  is 
To  mask  a  king  in  weeds. 


Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls, 
Justice  conquers  evermore. 
Justice  after  as  before,  — 
Arid  he  who  battles  on  her  side, 
God,  though  he  were  ten  times  slain, 
Crowns  him  victor  glorified,  — 
Victor  over  death  and  pain. 
Forever. 

HEROISM. 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust. 
So  near  is  God  to  man. 
When  Duty  whispers  low.  Thou  must, 
Tlie  youth  replies,  /  can. 

BORROWING. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH. 

Some  of  your  hurts  you  have  cured. 

And  the  sharpest  you  still  have  survived, 


But  what  torments  of  gi'ief  you  endiu'ed 
From  evils  which  never  arrived  ! 

HEEI.  CR.VS,   HODIE. 

Shines  the  last  age,  the  ne.xt  with  hope  is  seen, 
To-day  slinks  poorly  otf  unmarked  between  ; 
Future  or  Past  no  richer  secret  folds, 
0  friendless  Present !  than  thv  bosom  holds. 


LINES  AND  COUPLETS 


What,  and  how  great  the  viitue  and  the  art. 
To  live  on  little  with  a  cheerful  heart. 


Between  excess  and  famine  lies  a  mean. 

Plain,  but  not  sordid,  though  not  splendid,  clean. 

Its  proper  power  to  hurt,  each  creature  feels  : 
BuUs  aim  their  horns,  and  asses  kick  their  heels. 

Here  Wisdom  calls,  "  Seek  virtue  first,  be  bold  ; 
As  gold  to  sUver,  vii'tue  is  to  gold." 

Let  lands  and  houses  have  what  lords  tliey  will. 
Let  us  be  fi.^ed  and  our  own  masters  still. 


'T  is  the  first  vii-tue  vices  to  abhor. 
And  the  first  wisdom  to  be  fool  no  more. 


Long  as  to  him  who  works  for  debt,  the  day. 


Not  to  go  back  is  somewhat  to  advance. 

And  men  must  walk,  at  least,  before  they  dance. 


True,  conscious  honor  is  to  feel  no  sin  ; 
He  's  armed  without  that 's  innocent  within. 


For  virtue's  self  may  too  much  zeal  be  had. 
The  worst  of  madmen  is  a  saint  run  mad. 


If  wealth  alone  can  make  and  keep  us  blest. 
Still,  stUl  be  getting  ;  never,  never  rest. 

That  God  of  nature  who  within  us  still 
Inclines  our  actions,  not  constrains  our  «ill. 


It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad. 


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rOEMS  OF  SENTIMEXT  AXD  HEFLEGTIOX. 


74 


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Pretty  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms 
(If  hair,  or  straws,  or  dirt,  or  grubs,  or  worms  : 
Tile  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare, 
Ijiit  wonder  how  the  mischief  they  got  there  ! 

Do  good  by  stealth,  and  blush  to  find  it  fame. 

He  who,  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft. 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left. 

All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee. 

All  chance,  dii'ection  which  thou  canst  not  see. 

'T  is  education  forms  the  common  mind  ; 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  's  inclined. 

Manners  witli  fortunes,  humors  turn  with  climes. 
Tenets  with  books,  and  principles  with  times. 

Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  ? 

And  then  mistook  reverse  of  wrong  for  right. 

That  secret  rare  between  the  extremes  to  move, 
(_)f  mad  good-nature  and  of  mean  self-love. 

Ye  little  stars,  hiiie  your  diminished  rays. 

A\Tio  builds  a  church  to  God,  and  not  to  fame. 
Will  never  mark  the  marble  with  his  name. 

'T  is  strange  the  Tiiiser  should  his  cares  employ 
To  gain  those  riches  he  can  ne'er  enjoy. 

Something  there  is  more  needful  than  e.xpense. 
And  something  previous  e'en  to  taste,  —  't  is 
sense. 

In  nil  let  Nature  never  be  forgot, 
But  treat  the  goddess  like  a  modest  fair, 
Not  overdress  nor  leave  her  wholly  bare  ; 
Li't  not  each  beauty  everywhere  be  spied, 
Where  half  tlie  skill  is  decently  to  hide. 

'T  is  use  alone  that  sanctifies  expense, 

And  splendor  borrows  all  her  rays  from  sense. 

And  knows  where  faith,  law,  morals,  all  began, 
AH  snd,  —  in  love  of  God  and  love  of  man. 


Know  then  this  truth,  enough  for  man  to  know. 
Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below. 

Happier  as  kinder  in  whate'er  degi'ee, 
And  height  of  bliss  but  height  of  charity. 

If  then  to  all  men  happiness  was  meant, 
God  in  externals  coiUd  not  place  content. 

Order  is  Heaven's  first  law,  and,  this  confcst, 
Some  are,  and  must  he,  gi-eater  than  the  rest. 

Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  .sense, 
Lie  in  three  words,  —  health,  peace,  and  compe- 
tence, 
liut  health  consists  with  temperance  alone, 
And  peace,  O  Virtue  !  peace  is  all  thine  own. 

Fortune  her  gifts  may  variously  dispose, 
And  these  be  happy  called,  unhappy  those  ; 
But  Heaven's  just  balance  ecpial  will  ajjpear. 
When  those  arc  placed  in  hnjie,  and  these  in /car. 

"  But   sometimes   virtue  starves,    while   vice   is 

fed  "  ; 
"  What  then  is  the  icward  of  virtue,  —  bread  ? 
That  vice  may  merit,  't  is  the  price  of  toll, 
The  knave  deserves  it  when  he  tills  the  soil." 


What  nothing  earthly  gives  or  can  destroy,  — 
The  soul's  lahn  sunshine,  ami  the  heartfelt  joy. 


As  heaven's  blest  beam  turns  vinegar  more  sour. 


Lust  tlirougli  some  certain  strainers  well  refined 
Is  gentle  love,  and  ehaiTus  all  womankind. 


Vice  is  a  monster  of  such  hideous  mien 
That  to  be  hated  needs  but  to  be  seen  ; 
Yet  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  end.irace. 

Behold  the  child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw  ; 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  his  youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite. 


tS-«- 


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POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


FROM   "THE 


U 


1'keak,  Fantasy,  from  thy  cave  of  cloud, 

And  spread  thy  purple  wings, 
Now  all  thy  figures  are  allowed. 

And  various  shapes  of  things  ; 
f'reate  of  airy  forms  a  stream, 
It  must  have  blood,  and  naught  of  phlegm  : 
And  though  it  be  a  waking  dream. 

Yet  let  it  like  an  odor  rise 
To  all  the  senses  here, 

And  fall  like  sleep  upon  their  eyes. 

Or  music  in  their  ear. 

Ben  Jonson. 


DELIGHTS  OF  FANCY, 


As  Memnon's  marble  harp  renowned  of  old 
By  ral>ling  Nilus,  to  the  quivering  touch 
( It  Tilan's  ray,  with  each  repulsive  string 
( 'uiis.nting,  sounded  through  the  warbling  air 
Unbidden  strains  ;  e'en  so  did  Nature's  hand 
To  certain  species  of  external  things 
Attune  the  finer  organs  of  the  mind  ; 
So  the  glad  impulse  of  congenial  powers. 
Or  of  sweet  sound,  or  fair-proportioned  form. 
The  grace  of  motion,  or  the  bloom  of  light. 
Thrills  through  imagination's  tender  frame, 
From  nervr  to  nerve  ;  all  naked  and  alive 
They  catch  the  spreading  rays  ;  till  now  the  soul 
At  length  discloses  every  tuneful  spring, 
To  that  harmonious  movement  from  without. 
Responsive.     Then  the  inexpressive  strain 
Diffuses  its  enchantment  ;  Fancy  dreams 
Of  siirri'd  fountains  and  Elysian  groves, 
Ami  v:ilcs  of  bliss  ;  the  Intellectual  Power 
Uriids  IVom  his  awful  throne  a  wondering  ear. 
And  smiles  ;  the  passions  gently  soothed  away, 
Sink  to  divine  repose,  and  love  and  joy 
Alone  are  waking  ;  love  and  joy  serene 
As  airs  that  fan  the  summer.     0  attend, 
Whoe'er  thou  art  whom  these  delights  can  touch, 


Whose  candid  bosom  the  refining  love 
Of  nature  warms  ;  0,  listen  to  my  song. 
And  I  will  guide  thee  to  her  favorite  walks, 
And  teach  thy  solitude  her  voice  to  hear, 
And  point  her  loveliest  features  to  thy  view. 

MARK  AKENSIDE. 


HALLO,   MY  FANCY. 


In  melancholic  fancy, 

Out  of  myself. 
In  the  vulcan  dancy. 
All  the  world  surveying, 
Nowhere  staying. 
Just  like  a  fairy  elf ; 
Out  o'er  the  tops  of  highest  mountains  skipping, 
Out  o'er  the  hills,  the  trees  and  valleys  tripping. 
Out  o'er  the  ocean  seas,  without  an  oar  or  shipping. 
Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Amidst  the  misty  vapors. 

Fain  would  I  know 
What  doth  cause  the  tapers  ; 
Why  the  clouds  benight  us 
And  affright  us. 

While  we  travel  here  below. 
Fain  would  I  knowwhat  makes  the  roaring  thun- 
der. 
And  what  these   lightnings  be  that  rend  the 

clouds  asunder. 
And  what  these  comets  are  on  which  we  gaze 
and  wonder. 
Hallo,  my  I'aucy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Fain  would  1  know  the  reason 

Why  the  little  ant, 
All  the  summer  season, 
Layeth  up  provision, 
On  condition 

To  know  no  winter's  want  : 
And   how   housewives,     that   are   so   good   and 

painful. 
Do  iinto  their  husbands  prove  so  good  and  gain 
ful; 


& 


POEMS   OF  FANCY. 


749 


-a 


u 


And  why  the  hazy  drones  to  them  do  prove  dis- 
(hiinfnh 
Hallo,  my  liincy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

When  I  look  before  me, 

There  I  do  l.rhold 
Tliere  's  none  tliat  sees  or  knows  me  ; 
All  the  world  's  a-gadding, 
Running  madding  ; 

None  doth  his  station  hold. 
He  that  is  below  envieth  him  that  riseth, 
And  he  that  is  above,  him  that 's  below  despiseth, 
So  every  man  his  plot  and  eounter-plot  di^viseth. 
Hallo,  my  I'aney,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Look,  look,  what  bustling 

Here  1  do  espy  ; 
Each  another  jostling. 
Every  one  turuioiling, 
The  other  spoiling. 
As  I  did  pass  them  by. 
One  sitteth  nmsing  in  a  dimipish  passion. 
Another hangshishead because  he's outof  fashion, 
A  third  is  fully  bent  on  sport  and  recreation. 
Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Fain  would  I  be  resolvfed 
How  things  are  done  ; 
An<l  wlicre  fhe  bull  was  calvid 
Of  bloody  I'halaris, 
Ami  where  the  tailor  is 

That  works  to  the  man  i'  the  moon  ! 
Fain  would  I  know  how  Cuijid  aims  so  sightly  ; 
And  how  flirse  little  fairies  do  dance  and  leap  so 

li-hlly  ; 
And  wh.rr  lair  ( 'yntluamakes  her  ambles  rightly. 
Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

In  conceit  like  Phaeton, 

I  Tl  mount  Phrebus'  chair, 
Having  ne'er  a  hat  on. 
All  my  hair  a-burning 
In  my  journeying. 

Hurrying  through  the  air. 
Fain  would  1  hear  his  fiery  horses  neighing. 
And  see  how  they  on  foamy  bits  are  playing  ; 
All  the  stars  and  planets  I  will  be  surveying  ! 
Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Fain  also  would  I  prove  this, 

By  considering 
What  that  which  you  call  love  is  : 
Whether  it  be  a  folly 
Or  a  melancholy, 
Or  some  heroic  thing  ! 
Fain  1  'd  have  it  proved,  by  one  whom  love  hath 
wounded. 


And  fully  upon  one  his  desire  hath  founded, 
Whom  nothing  else  could  please  though  the  world 
were  roimded. 
Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

To  know  this  world's  centre. 

Height,  depth,  breadth,  and  length, 
Fain  would  I  ailventure 
To  search  the  hid  attractions 
Of  magnetic  actions. 

And  adamantine  strength. 
Fain  would  1  know  if  in  some  lofty  mountain, 
Where  the   morn  sojourns,  if  there  be  trees  or 

fountain  ; 
If  there  be  beasts  of  lire_v,  or  yet  be  fiehls  to 
hunt  in. 
Hallo,  my  fancy,  whilluM'  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  hallo. 

Stay,  stay  at  home  with  me, 

I  can  thee  no  longer  follow, 

For  thou  hast  betrayed  me. 

And  bewrayed  me  ; 

It  is  too  much  fin'  thee. 

Stay,  stay  at  home  with  me  ;  leave  olT  thy  lofty 

soaring  ; 

St.iy  thou  at  home  witii  me,  and  on  thy  luioks  be 

I'oring  ; 

For  he  tli.il  goes  abroad  lays  little  up  in  storing: 

Tliou  'it  welcome  home,  my  fancy,  welcome  home 

to  me. 

Anonymous. 


THE  CLOUD. 

I  nr.iNf;  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowei-s, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  tlie  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  birds  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  thiur  mother's  breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under  ; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

.A.nd  laugh  as  1  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skysy  bowers 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits  : 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder  ; 

It  struggles  and  howls  by  fits. 


-^ 


f 


750 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


n 


ft 


Over  earth  luid  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  nie. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 
Over  tlie  rills  und  the  crags  luid  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
TVlierever  he  dream,  uniler  mountain  or  stream. 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  iu  ruins. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  nick. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As,  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag 

Which  an  eartlupuike  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle,  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 

lu  tlie  light  of  its  golden  wings ; 
And  when  sunset  nuvy  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath. 

Its  ardoi's  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

Th.at  orbed  maiden  with  white  lire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glinnueiing  o'er  my  Ueece-like  floor 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  nnseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof. 

The  stars  peep  behintl  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  thoiu  whirl  and  tlee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl  ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 
swim. 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfnrl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Suubeain-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  nunintains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  tire,  anil  snow, 
When  the  powei-s  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my 
chair,    . 

Is  the  million-colored  how  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  eiu'th  was  laughing  below. 


I  am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water  ; 

Ami  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
1  piiss  through  the  poivs  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ; 

I  change,  but  1  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
.\nd  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  — 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

.■\nd  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from 
the  tomb, 

I  rise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

I'ERCV  BVSSHE   SlIELLEV. 


FANCY  IN  NUBIBUS. 

0,  IT  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease. 
Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies, 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  he  what  yon  jileasc, 
Or  let  the  easily  pei-suaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the  mold 
Of  a  friend's  fancy  ;  or,  with  bead  bent  low, 
Aiul  check  aslant,  see  rivei-s  flow  of  gold, 
'Twi.\t  crimson  Iwnks  ;  and  then  a  traveler  go 
Fronr  mount  to  mount,  through  Cloudland,  gor- 
geous land  ! 
Or,  listening  to  the  tide  with  closfcd  sight. 
Be  that  blind  Bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand. 
By  those  deej)  sounds  possessed  with  inwaiil  light, 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey, 
Kise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 

SAMUEL  Taylor  Colerihge. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  UKN. 

Tnou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness  !. 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

.\  tlowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  >.     What  maidens 
loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  !    What  struggles  to  escape  > 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?   What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 
ripe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone. 

Fair  youth  beneatli  tlie  tiees,   thou  canst   not 
leave 


■g 


a- 


FUEMU  OF  FANCY. 


751 


■a 


Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare. 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  tliou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal,  — yet  do   not 
grieve  : 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy 
bliss  ; 
Forever  wilt  tliou  love,  and  slie  be  fair  ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu  ; 
And  liappy  melodist,  unwearied. 

Forever  pil>ing  songs  forever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
Forever  panting  and  forever  young  ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  I'ar  above. 

That  leavi'.s  a  heart  liigh-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  mom  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  foreverniore 

Will  silent  be,  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate  can  e'er  return. 

0  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  ovei'wrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity.     Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom   thou 

.say'st, 

"  IJcauty  is  tnith,  truth  beauty,"  —  that  Ls  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  an<l  all  ye  need  to  know. 

John  Keats. 


&-- 


My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away. 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat. 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote  ; 

Round  puqile  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  ciystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Tlirough  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 


Far,  vague,  and  dim 

The  mountains  swim  ; 
While,  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim. 

With  outstretched  hands. 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  licjuid  miles  ; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles. 

Calm  Capri  waits. 

Her  sap])liire  gates 
I'egniling  to  her  bright  estates. 

1  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  fi'oni  cliff  to  cliff ;  — 

Witli  dreamful  eyes 

Jly  spirit  lies 
Under  tlie  walls  of  Paradi.se. 

I'nder  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals 

At  Jieace  1  lie. 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  uijon  this  licjuid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child. 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled  ;  — 

The  ail's  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keeL 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  1  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail ; 

A  joy  int<'nsc. 

The  cooling  .sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies,  — 

O'erveiled  with  vines. 

She  glows  and  .shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gamboling  with  the  gamboling  kid  ; 

Or  down  the  walls. 

With  tipsy  calls. 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child. 
With  tresses  wild. 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 


-^ 


e-- 


70- 


POEMS  OF  FAN 01 


With  glowing  lips 

Sings  lis  she  skips. 

Or  giizea  at  the  fur-otr  ships. 

Yon  ilcep  biuk  goes 

Where  Tmllie  blows, 
I'loiu  lanils  of  sini  to  Imuls  of  snows  ;  — 

This  happier  one, 

Its  eomso  is  nin 
l''i'oni  hmtls  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

0  happy  ship. 

To  rise  anil  ilip. 
With  tlie  blue  crystal  at  your  Up  ! 

0  happy  eivw, 

Jly  heart  with  yon 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  ! 

No  move,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraiils  nil)  with  its  loud  uproar  ! 

With  dieanil'ul  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  ot  I'aradise  ! 

1m  lofty  lines, 

Mid  palms  and  pines. 
And  olives,  alues,  elms,  and  vines, 

Sorrento  swings 

On  sunset  wings. 
Where  Tasso's  spirit  soaw  and  sings.* 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

Nil  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathednd  stoops. 
No  winding  toiches  paint  the  midnight  air  ; 

Hero  the  green  pines  delight,  the  asjion  droops 
Along  the  modest  pathways,  and  those  fail- 

Pah)  asters  of  the  season  spread  their  pinnies 
Around  this  field,  lit  garden  for  oiu'  tombs. 

.\ud  shall  thou  panse  to  hear  some  funenil  bell 
Slow  stealing  o'er  thy  heart  in  this  calm  place, 

Not  with  a  throb  of  pain,  a  feverish  knell. 
But  in  its  kind  and  supplicating  grace, 

It  says.  Go,  pilgrim,  on  thy  march,  be  more 
Friend  to  the  friendless  than  thou  wast  before ; 

Li«ru  from  the  loved  one's  vest  serenity  ; 

To-morrow  that  soft  liell  for  thee  shall  sound, 
And  thou  repose  beneath  the  whispering  tree. 

One  tribute  more  to  this  submis,sive  ground ; — 
Prison  thy  soul  from  malice,  bar  out  pride, 

Nov  these  pale  flowers  nor  this  still  field  deride : 


Kather  to  those  ascents  of  being  tuvn, 

Whore  a  ne'er-setting  sun  illumes  the  year 

Eternal,  and  the  incc,s,sant  watch-lires  bmn 
Of  unspent  holiness  and  goodness  clear,  — 

Forget  man's  littleness,  deserve  the  best, 
Uod's  mercy  in  thy  thought  and  life  eonfest. 

WU-LIAM  Ul-LBKV  CHANNINC. 


THE  SUNKEN  CITY. 

Hakk  !  the  faint  bells  of  the  sunken  city 
Peal  once  more  their  wonted  evening  chime  ! 

From  the  deep  abysses  lloats  a  ditty. 
Wild  and  wondrous,  of  the  olden  time. 

Temples,  towers,  and  domes  of  many  stories 
There  lie  buried  in  an  ocean  grave,  — 

Undescried,  save  when  their  golden  glories 
t^leam,  at  sunset,  through  tlie  lighted  wave. 

And  the  mariner  who  had  seen  them  glisten, 
In  whose  ears  those  magic  bells  do  sound, 

Night  by  night  bides  there  to  watch  and  listen. 
Though  death  lurks  behind  eachdark  rock  round. 

So  the  bells  of  memory's  woTider-city 
Peal  for  me  their  old  melodious  diime  ; 

So  my  heart  poms  forth  a  changi'ful  ditty, 
Sad  and  pleasant,  from  the  bygone  time. 

Domes  and  towers  and  castles,  fancy-builded. 
There  lie  lost  to  daylight's  g.irish  beams,  — 

There  lie  hidden  till  unveiled  and  gilded, 
Glory-gilded,  by  my  nightly  dreams ! 

And  then  hear  I  music  .sweet  upknelling 
From  many  a  well-known  phantom  hmil, 

And,  through  tears,  can  see  my  natural  dwelling 
Far  olfin  the  spirit's  luminous  land  ! 

Translated  from  the  Gcrnuu  of  Wn.UKLM  MliCLLBR. 

by  Jambs  Clarence  Mangan. 


THE  BOWER  OF  BUSS. 

FROM  Tint  "rAURin  qubenb." 

There  the  most  daintie  paradise  on  ground 
Itselfe  doth  olTer  to  his  sobiM-  eye, 
In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  nbowud. 
And  none  does  othera  happinesse  envyo  ; 
The  painted  flowres  ;  the  trees  npshooting  hye  ; 
The  dales  for  shade  ;  the  hilles  for  breathing 

space ; 
The  trembling  groves ;  the  christidl  running  by ; 


-3 


f 


POEMU  OF  FANCY. 


753 


-a 


And,  that  w}iich  all  fairc  workes  dotli  most 
aggiacc,* 
'I'lie  art,  wlii<;li  all  that  wrought,  appeared  in  no 
,,lac,,.. 

One  would  liave  thought  (so  cunningly  the  rude 
And  scorniid  partes  were  mingled  with  the  line) 
'J'hat  Mature  lia<l  for  wantonesse  ensudet 
Art,  and  that  Art  at  Natuie  did  repine  ; 
.So  striving  each  th'  other  to  undermine, 
Kaeli  did  the  others  worke  niore  lK;autify  ; 
So  dili"'ring  both  in  willes  agreed  in  line  : 
So  all  agreed,  thiougli  sweet*  divei-sity, 
This  gardin  to  adorne  witli  all  variety. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountaine  stoo'i. 
Of  rieliest  siiljstanee  that  on  earth  might  bee. 
So  pure  and  shiny  tliat  the  silver  flood 
'i'hrough  every  chaniiell  running  one  might  sec ; 
Host  goo<]ly  it  with  cuiious  ymagerec 
Was  over-wrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boyes. 
Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  ioUitee 
To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toyes, 
Whylest  others  did  themselves  embayj  in  lii|uid 
ioyes. 

And  over  all,  of  purest  gold,  was  spred 
A  tniyle  of  y  vie  in  his  native  hew  ; 
For  the  rich  metal  1  was  so  coloured, 
That  wight,  wlio  did  not  well  avLscU§  it  vew. 
Would  surely  deeme  it  to  bee  yvie  trew  : 
Low  his  lascivious  amies  adown  did  creepe. 
That,  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew, 
Their  fleecy  flowres  they  fearefully  did  stcepe, 
Which  drops  of  christall  seemed  for  wantones  to 
weep, 

Infinit  streames  continually  did  well 

Out  of  this  fountaine,  sweet  and  faire  t<j  see. 

The  which  into  an  ainjde  laver  fell, 

And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  i|uantitie, 

That  like  a  little  lake  it  seemed  to  bee ; 

Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  hight, 

That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom 

see. 
All  pav'd  beneath  with  iaspar  shining  bright, 
That  seemd  the  fountaine  in  that  sea  did  sayle 

upright. 

Eftsoonsl!  they  lieard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  daintie  eare. 
Such  as  attoncc  might  not  on  living  ground. 
Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere. 
Kight  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  diil  it  heare, 
To  read  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee ; 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  eare 


[&-- 


e  with  3 


Wag  there  consorted  in  one  harmonee  ; 
Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  wiudes,  waters,  nil 
agree  : 

The  ioyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  cheareluU  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet ; 
Th'  augelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  resiKjndence  meet ; 
The  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  biuic  murniurc  of  the  watc-rs  fall ; 
The  waters  tall,  with  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  rail ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  Ui  all. 
Edmund  Scknser. 


THE  CAVE   OF  SLEEP 


He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  •  aj-re, 
And  through thewoild  of  waterswide  and  deej)e, 
To  ilorjiheus  house  doth  hastily  rei»aire, 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steejie, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  m'ver  peepc, 
His  dwelling  is  ;  theie  Tethys  his  wet  Ijcd 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  f'ynthia  still  doth  steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hcd. 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth 
sjtrcd. 

And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling 

downe, 
And  ever-drizling  rainc  ujion  the  loft, 
MLxt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the 

sownet 
Of  Bwamiing  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne.J 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peojiles  troublous  cryes. 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  tfjwne. 
Might  there  Ix-  heard  ;  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes 
Wiapt  in  etemall  silence,  farre  from  enimyes. 

iiDMU.NU  Sl'ENSEK. 


UNA  AND  THE  LIOK. 

FKOH  THE  •*  FAEklfc  C^L'LENE." 

Onk  day,  nigh  wearic  of  tlie  yrkesome  way, 
From  her  unliastic  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  gra.ssc  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight ; 
From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight. 
And  layd  her  stole  aside.     Her  angels  face. 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright. 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ; 
Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heaven  lygra'-c. 

•  Dispcried.  ♦  Nolle.  J  Deep  ileep. 


-S 


en 


764 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-^ 


11  l\>tliimNil,  out  of  tlio  Ihiokiwt  woo.1 
A  miii|>iii«  l.v.m  iumIiihI  Hiuiaoiiil.v. 
limiting  t>iU  Ki"<">ly  allov  siilviiK"  l'l»i"l  :  " 
S.uiiio  us  till'  IMViill  viiKlii  1»'  >li>l  »1'.Y. 
Willi  niil'iiiK  iiumtli  Ht  lii'i'  ran  srewlily, 
To  lmvi>  iittonc'o  lU'Voimul  luir  toiulov  oorati ; 
liiil  to  tlio  l>ru,V  wlioimst  he  divw  more  i\.Y, 
His  l>Uu..ly  lago  iiswiij'v'mI  with  ivmorso.i- 
All. I,  with   iho  sight  imuwil,   loi^'it  I'''*  l'ui'io»» 


THK  SUNSET  CITY, 

Til  mat 'surity  that  liosiiitlw  Kiii>!ilomol'l 
In  I  III'  nlorioiis  i-oiiiiU_v  on  liii;li, 

Wliii'li  111!  II/.111V  iiiul  silvoi'y  omtuiii  I'lisluo 
To  soiot'ii  it  Ivom  inoitul  i<y>'  ; 

A  oily  ol'  t.'iniilos  mul  tniivts  ol' Kol.l, 

Tliiit  uli'iiin  hy  11  sui>pliiio  swi. 
l.iko  jinvcls  iiiovo  siilmnliil  Ihiin  luii'th inuy  Ik 

Or  iii'o  iliviinnil  of  I'V  von  mnl  hy  ini'. 


ItiiiiU, 
.mis, 


Inst.Mil  thiMvol',  hn  kist  hiM'  wiMU'io  foot, 
An.l  U>kt  hi'V  lilly  Iminls  with  I'uwiiinK  toiij; ; 
As  ho  hor  witnij'iVl  iimori'iu-o  iliil  woi't,:? 
(>  how  I'lm  hmnlio  niivistor  I  ho  most  stiMiis, 
Ami  siiniilo  truth  suhilno  iiv.'n}jiuj;  wunij;  I 
Whoso  yii'hh'il  prvilo  iinil  prouil  snhniission, 
SliUaii'iuliiiKai'iilh,  whoii  sho  hml  iimrk.Vl  UiUf!, 
Il.'r  hurl  «uii  iiu<lt  in  .urout  oomiwssion  ; 
Ami  ilriiliiiK  toiiros  iliil  shod  for  imiti  ulhu'tion. 

••  Tho  lyou,  Unit  ofovorio  hwist  in  liohl," 
thioth  slio,  "  liis  jiriiicoly  puissuiioi'  ilotli  iihiito, 
Amlniijchtioimnultolinmhlowt'uko§iloosyiohl, 
V\irj{otfiitl  of  tho  huujtry  ru>;o.  wliioh  Into 
Him  i>viokt,  ill  Jiittio  of  my  sml  ostiito  :  - 
Init  ho,  my  lyou,  lunl  \ny  iiohlo  lonl, 
11..VV  doos  ho  Iliul  in  ornoU  hurt  to  halo 
Ihr,  tliul  him  lovil,  nml  ovor  most  lulonl 
As  tho  j,'i>il  of  my  lifo !  why  hutli  ho  mo  uhlunil  I " 

lioilonmlinjt  toni'M  iliil  ohoko  th' omi  of  hor  plrtiut, 
W hiih softly ooohooil  fitun  tho miighhouv wood ; 
And,  sud  to  soo  hor  soninvlull  oonslruint, 
Tho  kingly  Iwist  upon  hor  gu/ing  stood  ; 
With    pittio    oulmd,    dowiio    foil    his    unjjry 

mood. 
At  lust,  in  oloso  hurt  shiittiiii;  up  lu-r  (uiyno, 
AiHiso  tho  virgin  hornoof  liouvoiily  hiood. 
And  to  hor  snowy  imlfivy  got  ugnyuo, 
Tosooko  horstrayid  ohiuuimni  if  sho  might  ut- 

tuyiio, 

Tlio  lyon  would  not  louvo  hov  desoliito. 
Hut  with  hor  wont  along,  as  ii  stivng  giiv>l 
Of  hor  ohast  porson,  tiiid  ii  I'uythfuU  mnto 
Of  hor  sad  tmuhlos  and  misfortunos  huitl  ; 
Still,  whoii  sho  slopt,  ho  kopt  Iwth  watoli  and 

waitl ; 
Aiul,  whou  aho  wakt,  ho  waytod  diligottt, 
With  lutmhlo  sorvioo  to  hor  will  pit'paftl  ; 
I'lvm  hor  tiiyre  oyos  ho  took  oinumaudrtnoiit. 
And  ovor  hy  hor  lookos  couooiviNd  hor  intont. 

GOMltNO  SPUNSUR. 


>  nioMol  mIIvI  dniiiMU 


J  I'livlpiswml. 


And  uhont  it  uio  liif;lihin.ls  ,.t  urnhn  lliul  roaoh 
l''ar  away  till  thoy  molt  in  tho  ^looni ; 

.And  wators  that  lioiii  an  imniaoulato  hoiuli 
With  Iringos  of  luminous  foam. 

Aoriiil  liridgos  of  poiirl  thoiv  iiiv, 

.And  Iwllrios  of  marvolons  sliapw, 
.And  lighUiousos  Ut  hy  tho  ovoiiing  star, 

That  -siiarklo  on  violot  oapos; 

.And  hanging  gurdons  that  far  away 

Knohnntoitly  lloiit  aloof  ; 
Itainhow  pavilions  in  uvonuos  guy, 

.And  Imniioi-s  of  glorious  woof ! 

Whou  tho  Siimmor  simsot's  crimsoniug  tiros 
Aiv  aglow  in  tJio  wostorn  sky,  . 

Tho  pilgrim  ilisiovoix  tho  donios  and  spiros 
t)f  this  woiidorful  oily  on  high  ; 

And  gazing  oiirapt  us  tho  gathoriiig  shiulo 

I'lvops  ovor  tho  twilight  loa, 
Soos  palaoo  and  pinnaolo  tottor  and  fado. 

And  sink  in  tho  sapphiro  soa  ; 

Till  Iho  vision  losos  liy  slow  dogivo.s 

Tho  mugioal  sploudor  it  woiv  ; 
'l"ho  sih'ory  ourtuiii  is  druwn,  and  ho  .soo-h 

riio  hoanlifnl  oily  no  moiv  ! 

IIUNKV  SVI.VIISTUK  CORNWULl. 


TllK   I'Kl'UlFlKn  KKKN, 

1 N  a  vuUoy,  contnvios  ago, 

tirow  u  liltlo  forn-loaf,  givon  and  slondor, 
Voining  dolioato  and  lihoi's  toiidor  ; 

Waving  when  tho  wind  orept  down  so  low. 
Uuslu'stall,  and  mos,s,  and  grass  grow  iiiuiid  it, 
riuyl\il  sunlvams  darted  in  and  found  it, 
l>ivps  of  dew  stole  in  hy  night,  and  oixiwued  it. 
Hut  no  loot  of  man  o'er  tivd  that  way  : 
Karth  was  young,  and  keeping  lioliday. 


[Q^ 


Miuister  lishes  swam  the  silent  maiii. 
Stately  fonvsts  waved  their  giant  hiiiiuhes. 


-^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


to.'Pt 


Moiiiitiiins  liurlwJ  tlieir  (snowy  avalanches, 
Miuniiioth  <:ix-aluii!B  iitalki;(l  lutvmii  the  i/lain  ; 
Nature  reveled  in  gland  inyst<jiieij, 
lint  Die  little  fciii  wan  not  of  tlic.te, 
l)i<i  not  nuniher  with  the  hills  and  trees  ; 
Only  grew  and  wavwl  its  wild  sweet  way, 
No  one  eanie  to  not*;  it  day  by  day. 

Ilailli,  one  time,  put  on  a  frolie  mood. 

Heaved   the  roeks  and  ehangeil  the  mighty 
motion 

Of  tlie  d<reii,  strong  currents  of  the  ocean  ; 
Moved  tli(!  plain  and  shook  the  haughty  wo<xl, 

Criisheii  the  little  fe-in  in  soft  moist  <;lay,  — 

Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 

O,  the  long,  long  eenluries  sinee  that  day  ! 

0,  the  changes  !  O,  life's  ))itt<;r  (»st, 

Sinee  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost  ! 

Useless  'I    Lost  ?    There  eame  a  thoughtful  man 
.Searching  Nature's  sij<;rets,  far  and  deep  ; 
I'loin  a  lissure  in  a  rocky  sti-ep 

lie  withdrew  a  aUmi;  o'er  which  there  ran 
Fairy  in^ncilings,  a  ijuaint  design, 
V'einings,  leafage,  libel's  clear  and  fine, 
And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line  ! 
.So,  I  think,  Cod  hides  some  souls  away. 
Sweetly  Ui  suiiirijse  u.s,  the  hist  day. 

MAKV  L.  IVjILKS  liBAXCri. 


The  turrets  reflated  the  blue  of  the  skies. 
And  the  windows  with  sunbeams  were  gilt. 

The  rainljow  somctitnes  in  its  Ijtautiful  slate 

Enameled  the:  mansion  around  ; 
And  the  ligures  that  fancy  in  cIouiIjj  can  create 

iSupjilled  me  with  gaidiuis  and  ground. 

I   ]i:vl  grotUw   and   fountains    and    orange-tiec; 
groves  ; 
1  liiid  all  that  enchantment  has  t/dd  ; 
I  ha^l  sweet  shady  walks  for  the  gods  and  their 
loves  ; 
I  IiimI  mountai/is  of  coral  and  gold. 

IJut  a  st^jrni  that  I  felt  not  hail  risen  and  rolled. 
While  wrappiyl  in  a  slumlj<-r  I  lay  ; 

And  when  1  awoke  in  the  morning,  Ijehold, 
My  castle  was  carried  away  ! 

It  jKissed  over  rivers  and  valleys  and  groves  ; 

The  world,  it  was  all  in  my  view  ; 
I  thought  of  my  friends,  of  their  fat<;s,  of  their 
loves. 

And  oi'Um,  full  oft<;n,  of  you. 

At  length  it  came  over  a  beautiful  scene, 

Which  Nature  in  silence  ha<l  made  ; 
The  pliue  was  but  small,  but  'twas  sweitly  s<;iene, 
I      And  chr^'kered  with  sunshine  and  sh.uie. 


HIVEK  BONO. 

CoMK  U>  the  river's  reedy  shore, 

My  maiden,  while  the  skies. 

With  blushes  lit  to  gra/.-e  thy  cheek. 

Wait  for  the  sun's  uprijie  ; 

There,  dancing  on  the  ripiding  wave, 

My  loat  expectant  lii«. 

And  jealous  flowers,  as  thou  gofist  by, 

I'nclose  their  dewy  eyes. 

As  slowly  down  the  stream  we  glide. 

The  lilies  all  unfold 

Their  leaves,  less  rosy  whit';  tlian  thou, 

And  virgin  hearts  of  gold  ; 

The  gay  bir<l»  on  the  niearlow  elm 

Salute  thee  blithe  an-i  Ixjid, 

While  1  sit  shy  anil  silent  here. 

And  glow  with  love  untohL 

r.  B.  Sakdorh, 


THE  CABTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 


I  gazed  and  I  envied,  with  painlul  go'j<l-will, 
And  grew  tired  of  my  seat  in  the  air. 

When  all  of  a  sudden  my  castle  st/)od  still 
Aji  if  some  attni/.tion  was  there. 

Like  a  lark  in  the  sky  it  came  lluttiiiing  down. 

And  placed  me  exa.  tly  in  view. 
When,   whom  should  1   meet  in  this  charming 
retreat. 

This  'xirner  of  calmness,  but  you  'I 

Delighted  to  find  you  in  honor  and  case, 

I  felt  no  more  sorrow  nor  pain. 
But,  the  wind  coming  fair,  I  ascendwl  the  breeze, 

And  went  l)a<;k  to  my  ca;itle  again. 


THE  LADY    LOKT  IN  THE  WOOD. 


'  Tills  way  the  nois*.-  was,  if  mine  ear  \x;  true, 
.KTTERS  PROM    Mv  Ixjst  guldc  HOW  ;  nietliouglit  it  was  the  sound 
"'"•  Of  riot  and  ill-rnanagi;<l  merriment. 

In  the  region  of  clouds,  where  the  whirlwindB  '  Such  as  the  jixiund  flute  or  gaines<)mc  pijK; 

Stirs  up  amongst  the  loose,  unlett^^reil  hinds, 


u 


My  castle  of  fancy  was  built. 


I  When  for  their  teeming  flocks  and  giangi« 


-^ 


a- 


756 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


--a 


hi  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loath 
To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swilled  insolence 
Of  such  lute  wassailers  ;  yet  0,  where  else 
Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 
In  tlie  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 
My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 
Under  the  spreading  favor  of  these  pines. 
Stepped,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side 
To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind,  hospitable  woods  provide. 
They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded  eveu, 
Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed, 
Kose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phiebu.s'  wain. 
But  where  tliey  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back. 
Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thoughts  :  'tis  likeliest 
They  had  engaged  their  wandering  stej)s  too  far, 
And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  return, 
Had  stole  them  from  me  ;  else,  0  thievish  night, 
Why  shouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end, 
In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars. 
That   nature    hung   in  heaven,  and  tilled  their 

lamps 
With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveler  ! 
This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess. 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  rife,  and  perfect  in  my  listening  ear, 
Yet  naught  but  single  darkness  do  I  find. 
AVhat  might  this  be  ?     A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory. 
Of  calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire. 
And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  sands  and  shores  and  desert  wildernesses. 
These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a  strong-siding  champion,  Conscience. 

0  welcome,  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  angel  girt  with  golden  wings. 
And  thou  unblemished  form  of  Cluistity  ; 

1  see  you  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  to  whom  all  things 

ill 
Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance. 
Would  send  a  glistering  guardian,  if  need  were, 
To  keep  my  life  and  honor  unassailed. 

Milton. 


^ 


THE  NYMPH  OF  THE  SEVERN. 

FROM  "  COMUS." 

TnERK  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far  from  hence 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Severn 

stream. 
Sabrina  is  her  name,  a  virgin  jiure  ; 
Whilom  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 


That  had  the  scepter  from  his  father  Brute. 
She,  guiltless  damsel.  Hying  the  mad  pursuit 
Of  her  enraged  stepdame  Guendolen, 
Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood. 
That  stayed  her  flight  with   his  cross-flowing 

course. 
The  water-nymphs  that  in  the  bottom  played. 
Held  up  their  pearlid  wrists,  and  took  her  in. 
Bearing  her  straight  to  siged  Nereus'  hall. 
Who,  piteous  of  her  woes,  reared  her  lank  head. 
And  gave  her  to  liis  daughters  to  imbathe 
lu  nectared  lavers  stiewed  with  asphodel, 
And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of  each  sense 
Dropped  in  ambrosial  oils,  till  she  revived. 
And  underwent  a  quick  immortal  change, 
Hade  Oodde.ss  of  the  river :  still  she  retains 
Her  maiden  gentleness,  and  oft  at  eve 
Visits  the  herds  along  the  twilight  meadows, 
Helping  all  urchin  blasts,  and  ill-luck  signs 
That  the  shrew'd  meddling  elf  delights  to  make. 
Which  she  with  precious  vialed  liquors  heals  ; 
For  which  the  shepherds  at  their  festivals 
Carol  her  goodness  loud  in  rustic  lays, 
And  throw  sweet  garland  wreatlis  into  her  stream 
Of  pansies,  pinks,  and  gaudy  datl'odils. 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  SORCERER. 


Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood. 
Immured  in  cypress  shades  a  sorcerer  dwells. 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great  Comus, 
Deep  skilled  iu  all  his  raotlier's  witcheries  ; 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful  cup. 
With  many  murmurs  mixed,  whose  pleasing  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that  drinks, 
And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a  beast 
Fi.\es  instead,  unmolding  reason's  mintage 
Charactered  in  the  face  :  tliis  I  have  learnt 
Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i'  the  hilly  crofts, 
That  brow  this  bottom-glade,  whence  night  by 

night. 
He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to  howl. 
Like  stabled  wolves,  or  tigers  at  their  prey, 
Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 
In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost  bowers. 
Yet  have  they  many  baits,  and  guileful  spells, 
T'  inveigle  and  invite  tlie  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the  way. 
This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chewing  flocks 
Had  ta'en  their  supper  on  th»  savory  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-be.sprent,  and  were  in  fold, 
1  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaimting  honeysuckle,  and  began, 


-ff 


[tr 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


rQ] 


Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy, 
To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy, 
Till  fancy  had  her  fill,  but  ere  a  close, 
The  wonted  roar  w;is  up  amidst  the  woods, 
And  filled  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance  ; 
\t  which  I  ceased,  and  listened  them  awhile. 
Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sud<len  silence 
liuvc  respite  to  the  drowsy  frighted  steeds. 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtained  sleep  ; 
At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Kose  like  a  stream  of  rich  distilled  perfumes. 
And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 
Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she  might 
Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 
Still  to  be  so  dis])laced.     I  was  all  ear. 
And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  death  :  but  0,  ere  long 
Too  well  I  did  jierceive  it  was  the  voice 
Of  my  most  honored  Lady,  youi'  dear  sister. 
Amazed  I  stood,  harrowed  with  grief  and  fear, 
And  0  poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 
How  sweet  thou  sing'st,  how   near  the  deadly 
snare  ! 

MILTON. 


THE  SIRENS'  SONG. 


Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines, 

All  beaten  mariners  : 
Here  lie  undiscovered  mines, 

A  prey  to  passengers  ; 
Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  the  best 
That  make  the  phcenix  urn  and  nest : 

Fear  not  your  ships. 
Nor  any  to  oppose  you  save  our  lips  ; 

But  come  on  shore. 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  love  has  gotten  more. 

For  .swelling  waves  our  panting  breasts. 
Where  never  storms  arise, 

E.xchange  ;  and  be  awhile  our  guests  : 
For  stars,  gaze  on  our  eyes. 

The  compass,  love  sliall  hourly  sing  ; 

Anil,  as  he  goes  about  the  ring. 
We  will  not  miss 

To  tell  each  point  he  nameth  with  a  kiss. 
William  Browne. 


B- 


THE  TRAVELER'S  VISION. 

It  was  midway  in  the  desert  ;  night  her  dusky 

wing  had  spread. 
And  my  Arab  guides  were  sleeping,  sharing  each 

his  courser's  bed  ; 


Far  and  near  where  streams  of  moonlight  lay  on 

Nile's  time-honored  plain, 
Silvery  white,  amid  the  sand-heaps,  glcameil  the 

bones  of  camels  slain. 

I  lay  wakefid,  where  my  saddle  made  a  pillnw 

hard  and  cool  ; 
With  the   dried  fruits  of  the  palm-tree    I  had 

heaped  its  pouches  full  ; 
I  had  spread  my  loosened  caftiin  over  knee  and 

over  brea.st, 
Naked  sword  and  gun  beside  mo  :  thus  had  laid 

me  down  to  rest. 

All   was  still,  —  save  when    the    embers  of  our 

sunken  watch-fire  stirred  ; 
Save  when,  hurrying  to  lier  homestead,  screamed 

some  wild  belated  bird  ; 
Save  when,   slumbering,   stamped   the   charger, 

bound  beside  his  Arab  lord  ; 
Save  wlien,  dreaming  of  the  battle,  grasped  the 

rider's  hand  his  sword  ! 

Heaven  ! — thetremblingearth  upheavcth  !  Shad- 
owy IbiTTis  are  dimly  seen, 

And  the  wild  bea.sts  fly  before  them  far  across 
the  moonlight  sheen  ! 

Snort  our  steeds  in  ileadly  terror,  anil  the  startled 
dragoman 

Dro]«  his  ensign,  murmuring  wildly  :  "'Tis  the 
.Spirit-caravan  !  " 

See,  they  come  !  before  the  camels  ghastly  lead- 
ers point  the  way  ; 

Borne  aloft,  unveiled  women  their  voluptuous 
charms  display  ; 

And  beside  them  lovely  maidens  bearing  pitchers 
—  like  Kebecca  — 

And  behind  them  liorsemen  guarding,  —  all  are 
huiTying  on  to  Mecca  ! 

More  and  more  !  their  ranks  are  endless  !  who 

may  count  than  ?  more  again  ! 
Woe  is  me !  —  for  living  camels  are   the  bones 

upon  the  plain  ! 
And   the   brown   sands,    whirring   wildly,   in  a 

dusky  mass  uprise. 
Changing  into  cam  el-drivers, — men  of   bionze 

with  flaming  eyes. 

Ay,  this  is  the  night  and  hour,  when  all  wander- 
ers of  the  land 

Whom  the  whirlwind  once  o'ertaking,  'whelmed 
beneath  its  waves  of  sand  ; 

Whose  stomi-driven  dust  hath  fanned  us,  — 
crumbling  bones  around  us  lay,  — 

Rise  and  move  in  wan  procession,  by  their 
Prophet's  grave  to  pray  ! 


^ 


iQ-^. 


7o8 


FUEMS   OF  FANCY. 


--a 


More  and  more  ■  the  last  in  order  have  not 
jwsscd  across  the  phiin, 

Ere  the  first  with  loosened  bridle  fast  are  flying 
back  again. 

From  the  verdant  inland  monntain,  even  to 
Bab-el-mandeb's  sands, 

They  have  sped  ere  yet  my  charger,  wildly  rear- 
ing, breaks  his  hands  ! 

Courage  !  hold  the  plunging  horses  ;  each  man 

to  his  courser's  head  ! 
Tremble  not,  as  timid  sheep-Hocks  tremble  at 

the  lion's  tread. 
Fear  not  though  yon  waving  mantles  fan  you  as 

they  hasten  on  ; 
Call   on  Allah  !  and   the  pageant  ere  you  look 

again  is  gone  ! 

Patience,  till   the   morning   breezes  wave  again 

your  turbans'  plume  ; 
Morning  air  and  rosy  dawning  are  their  heralds 

to  the  tomb. 
Once  again  to  dust  shall  daylight   doom  these 

wanderers  of  the  night ; 
See,  it   dawns  !  —  a  joyous  welcome  neigh  our 

horses  to  the  light !  — 

From  the  German  of  FREILIGRATH. 


DIEGO  ORDAS  IN  EL  DORADO. 

DllCGO  Oi!D.\s,  come  to  El  Dorado, 
Getteth  him  down  from  off  his  weary  steed ; 

And —  "  Here,"  he  cries,  "0  Cortez,  is  the  haven 
That  shall  reward  our  wanderings,  indeed  !  " 

Bright  shines  the  gold  o'er  all  the  ancient  city  ; 

Gold  on  the  house-tops,  gold  to  pave  thestreets  ; 
And  golden  cuirass,  shield,  and  burnished  Iiehnet, 

At  every  corner  wondering  Ordas  meets. 

.\11  ilay  he  wanders  through  the  devious  mazes 
That  blaze  and  glimmer  on  his  weary  way  ; 

And  still  he  stumbles  o'er  the  shining  pavement, 
Wlien  silver  night  shuts  out  the  golden  day. 

All  through  tVie  night  the  pale  moon  .sees  him 
stumbling 

Wliere  golden  glimmers  sparkle  in  her  light. 
And  .still  no  outlet  to  the  mighty  city 

Kinds  weary  Ordas  when  he  ends  the  night. 

Another  day  —  "0  for  a  gleam  of  water  ! 

0  for  the  sound  of  gleeful  Spanish  tongue  ! 
0  for  the  shiver  tlirough  the  burning  daylight. 

That  sings  in  Spain  when  convent  bells  are 


And  still  he  wanders  through  the  devious  mazes 
That  blaze  and  glimmer  on  his  devious  way  ; 

And  still  he  stumbles  o'er  the  golden  pavement 
When  silver  night  shuts  out  the  second  day. 

"  Sure  there  's  a  curse  o'er  all  this  ancient  city  I 
Sure  there  's  a  curse  on  palace  and  on  street  1 

No  friendly  hand  salutes  me  in  my  passing ; 
No  friendly  welcome  ever  do  I  meet !  " 

And  through  the  night  the  pale  moon  sees  him 
stumbling 

Where  golden  glimmera  sparkle  in  her  light ; 
And  still  no  outlet  to  the  mighty  city 

Finds  weary  Ordas  when  he  ends  the  night. 

And  when  the  sun,  upon  the  dreary  morning. 
Springs,  golden   red,   from  out  the  glorious 
east, 

Diego  Ordas,  blindly  crawling  onward. 
Dreams,  as  he  staggers,  of  a  glorious  feast : 

No  kindly  food  has  passed  his  lips  for  ages,  — 
So  I'uns  his  dream,  —  but  now  he  finds,  at  last, 

A  table  spread,  where  all  that  earth  can  furnish 
Of  food  and  wine  sets  forth  a  rich  repast. 

And  greedy  Ordas  snatches  at  the  viands, 

Seizes    the    flasks   with  dry  and    trembling 
clutch    — 

And  all  the  freshness  of  the  heavenly  bancpiet 
Changes  to  gold  upon  the  slightest  touch  ! 

"  Sure  there  's  a  curse  upon  this  ancient  city  '  " 
Cries   hungry  Ordas,    prowling  through   the 
night ; 
"  And  e'en  in  dreams  it  drives  men  on  to  mad- 
ne.s.s,  — • 
0  gold  !  0  cursfed  gold  !  I  hate  thy  sight ! " 

And  through  the  night  the  p.ile  moon  sees  him 
stumbling 

Where  molten  gold-light  si)arklesin  her  gleams, 
And  still  no  outlet  to  the  mighty  city, 

And  still  no  rest  in  waking  or  in  dreams  ! 

Anil  when  the  sun,  upon  the  dreary  morning. 
Springs  golden  red  into  the  burning  sky. 

He  shoots  death-madness  on  the  fiery  pavement 
Where  weary  Ordas  has  lain  down  to  die. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  heaven  ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 


fr- 


fi- 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


n 


She  had  tliree  lilies  in  her  hand, 
And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Hfrr  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  Hiouglit  flowers  did  iuloru, 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift. 

For  service  neatly  worn  ; 
Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  Ijack 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  com, 

Ili-r  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

I  inc  of  God's  choristers  ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  (|uite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 
Albeit,  to\hem  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

It  was  the  rampart  of  (jod's  house 

That  she  was  stiinding  on  ; 
i'y  God  built  over  the  sheer  dej^h 

The  wliicii  is  space  begun  ; 
Ho  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

.She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  a.s  a  bridge. 
Ijcneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends 

Amid  their  loving  games 
.S]iake  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  virginal  chaste  names  ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stopped 

Out  of  the  circling  chanu  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  wann, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  a-sleep 

Along  her  bended  ann. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Thiough  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
The  patli  ;  and  now  .she  spoke  as  when 

Tlie  stars  sang  in  their  splieres. 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me. 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  prayed  in  heaven  ?  —  on  earth. 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ?  " 


She  gazed  and  listened,  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 

"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  toward  her,  filled 

With  angehs  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  ; 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers. 
And  laid  her  face  Ijctween  her  hands. 

And  wept.     (I  lieard  her  tears.) 

Da.stb  gaukii^l  rossettl 


THE  THREE   SHIPS. 

Over  the  waters  clear  and  dark 
Flew,  like  a  startled  bird,  our  bark. 

All  the  day  long  with  steady  sweep 
Sea-gulls  followed  us  over  the  deep. 

Weird  and  strange  were  the  silent  shores, 
Rich  with  their  wealth  of  buried  ores  ; 

Mighty  the  forests,  old  and  gray. 

With  the  secrets  locked  in  their  hearts  away  ; 

Semblance  of  castle  and  arch  and  shrine 
Towered  aloft  in  the  clear  sunshine  ; 

And  we  watched  for  the  warder,  stem  and  grim, 
And  the  priest  with  his  chanted  prayer  and  hymn. 

Over  that  wonderful  northern  sea. 

As  one  who  sails  in  a  dream,  sailed  we. 

Till,  when  the  young  moon  soared  on  high, 
Nothing  was  round  us  but  sea  and  sky. 

Far  in  the  east  the  pale  moon  swung  — 
A  crescent  dim  in  the  azure  hung ; 

But  the  sun  lay  low  in  the  glowing  west. 
With  bars  of  purple  across  his  breast. 

The  skies  were  aflame  with  thi;  sunset  glow, 
The  billows  were  all  aflame  Ijelow  ; 

The  far  horizon  seemed  the  gate 

To  some  mystic  world's  enchanted  state  ; 

And  all  the  air  was  a  luminous  mist, 
Crimson  and  amber  and  amethyst. 


Then  silently  into  that  fiery  sea  - 
Into  the  heart  of  the  mystery  — 


y- 


^ 


c:r: 


760 


POEMS  OF  FA\CY. 


-*-a 


Three  ships  went  sailing  one  by  one, 
The  fairest  visions  under  the  sun. 

Like  the  flame  in  the  heart  of  a  ruby  set 
Were  the  sails  that  flew  from  each  mast  of  jet ; 

WhUe  darkly  against  the  burning  sky 
Streamer  and  pennant  floated  high. 

Steadily,  silently,  on  they  pressed 
Into  the  glowing,  reddening  west ; 

Until,  on  the  far  hoiizon's  fold. 

They  slowly  passed  tlirough  its  gate  of  gold. 

You  think,  perhaps,  they  were  nothing  more 
Than  schoonei-s  laden  with  common  ore. 

Where  Care  clasped  hands  with  grimy  Toil, 
And  the  decks  were  stained  with  earthly  moil  ? 

0  beautiful  ships,  who  sailed  that  night 
Into  the  west  from  our  yearning  sight. 

Full  well  I  know  that  the  freight  ye  bore 
Was  laden  not  for  an  earthly  shore  ! 

To  some  far  realm  ye  were  sailing  on. 
Where  all  we  have  lost  shall  yet  be  won  : 

Ye  were  bearing  thither  a  world  of  dreams, 
Bright  as  that  sunset's  golden  gleams  ; 

And  hopes  whose  tremulous,  rosy  flush 
Grew  fairer  still  in  the  twilight  hush  : 

Ye  were  bearing  hence  to  that  mystic  sphere 
Thoughts  no  mortal  may  utter  hero  — 

Songs  that  on  earth  may  not  be  sung  — 
Words  too  holy  for  human  tongue  — 

The  golden  deeds  that  we  would  have  done  — 
The  fadeless  wreaths  that  we  would  have  won  ! 

And  hence  it  was  that  our  souls  with  you 
Traversed  the  measureless  waste  of  blue, 

Till  you  passed  under  the  sunset  gate, 
And  to  us  a  voice  said,  softly,  "  Wait  !  " 

JULI.-V  C.   R.   DOKK, 


& 


IN  THE  UnST. 

Sitting  all  day  in  a  silver  mist. 
In  silver  silence  all  the  day, 
Save  for  the  low,  soft  kiss  of  spray 

And  the  lisp  of  sands  by  waters  kissed. 
As  the  tide  draws  up  the  bay. 


Little  I  hear  and  nothing  1  see, 
Wrapped  in  that  veil  by  fairies  spun  ; 
The  solid  earth  is  vanished  for  me 

.\ud  the  shining  houi-s  speed  noiselessly, 
A  woof  of  shadow  and  sim. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  shifting  veil 

A  magical  bark,  by  the  sunbeams  lit. 
Flits  like  a  dream  —  or  seems  to  flit  — 

With  a  golden  prow  and  a  gossamer  sail, 
And  the  waves  make  room  for  it. 

A  fair,  swift  bark  from  some  radiant  realm,  ^ 
Its  diamond  cordage  cuts  tlie  sky 
In  glittering  lines  ;  all  silently 

A  seeming  spirit  holds  the  helm. 
And  steel's.     Will  lie  pass  uie  by  ? 

Ah  !  not  for  me  is  the  vessel  here  ; 

Noiseless  and  swift  as  a  sea-binl's  flight 
She  swerves  and  vanishes  from  the  sight ; 

No  flap  of  sail,  no  parting  cheer,  — 
She  has  passed  into  the  light. 

Sitting  some  day  in  a  deeper  mist, 

Silent,  alone,  some  other  day. 

An  unknown  bark,  from  an  unknown  bay. 
By  unknown  watere  lapped  and  kissed, 

Shall  near  mo  through  the  spraj*. 

No  flap  of  sail,  no  scraping  of  keel. 
Shadowy,  dim,  with  a  banner  dark. 
It  will  hover,  will  pause,  and  1  shall  feel 

A  hand  which  grasps  me,  and  shivering  steal 
To  the  cold  strand,  and  embark,  — 

Embark  for  that  far,  mysterious  realm 

Where  the  fathomless,  trackless  waters  flow. 
Shall  I  feel  a  Presence  dim,  and  know 

Thy  dear  hand.  Lord,  upon  the  helm, 
Nor  be  afraid  to  go? 

And  through  black  waves  and  stormy  blast 
And  out  of  the  fog-wreaths,  dense  and  dun. 
Guided  by  thee,  sliall  the  vessel  run, 

Gain  the  fair  haven,  night  being  past, 
And  anchor  in  the  sun  ? 


SONG  OF  THE  SEA  BY  THE  ROYAL  GARDEK 

AT  NAPLES. 

I  H.WE  swung  for  ages  to  and  fro  ; 

I  have  striven  in  vain  to  reach  thy  feet, 

0  Garden  of  joy  !  whose  walls  are  low, 
And  odors  are  so  sweet. 

1  palpitate  with  fitful  love  ; 

I  sigh  and  sing  with  changing  breath  ; 


-4? 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


(61 


■a 


I  raise  my  liands  to  heaven  above, 
I  smite  my  shores  beneath  ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  !  while  far  and  fine, 
To  curb  tlie  madness  of  my  sweep, 

Runs  the  wliite  limit  of  a  line 
I  njay  not  overleap. 

Once  thou  wert  sleeping  on  my  breast, 

Till  fiery  Titans  lifted  thee 
From  the  fair  silenee  of  thy  rest, 

Out  of  the  loving  sea. 

And  I  swing  eternal  to  and  fro  ; 

I  strive  in  vain  to  reach  thy  feet, 
0  Garden  of  joy  !  whose  walls  are  low. 

And  odors  are  so  sweet  ! 

RossiTER  w.  Raymond. 


SONG  OF  THE  LIGHTNING. 

"  Puck.     I  '11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 

Muisummer  tVtghCi  Dream. 

Away  !  away  !  througli  the  sightless  air 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread  ! 
For  I  would  not  dim  my  sandals  fair 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread  ! 
Ay,  rear  it  up  on  its  million  piers. 

Let  it  circle  the  world  around. 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 

I  '11  clear  at  a  single  bound  ! 

Though  I  cannot  toil,  like  the  groaning  slave 

Ye  have  fettered  with  iron  skill 
To  ferry  you  over  the  boundless  wave, 

Or  grind  in  the  noisy  mill. 
Let  him  sing  his  giant  strength  and  speed  ! 

Why,  a  single  shaft  of  mine 
Would  give  that  monster  a  flight  indeed,  — 

To  the  depths  of  the  ocean's  brine  ! 

No  !  no  !  I  'm  the  spirit  of  light  and  love  ! 

To  my  unseen  hand  't  is  given 
To  pencil  the  ambient  clouds  above 

And  polish  the  stars  of  heaven  ! 
I  scatter  the  golden  rays  of  fire 

On  the  horizon  far  below. 
And  deck  the  sky  where  storms  expire 

With  my  red  and  dazzling  glow. 

With  a  glance  I  cleave  the  sky  in  twain  ; 

I  light  it  with  a  glare. 
When  fall  the  boding  drops  of  rain 

Tlirough  the  darkly  curtained  air  ! 
The  rock -built  towers,  the  turrets  gray. 

The  piles  of  a  thousand  years. 


Have  not  the  strength  of  potter's  clay 
Beneath  my  glittering  spears. 

From  the  Alps'  or  the  Andes'  highest  crag. 

From  the  peaks  of  eternal  snow. 
The  lilazing  folds  of  my  fiery  flag 

Illume  the  world  below. 
The  earthquake  heralds  my  coming  power. 

The  avalanche  bounds  away, 
And  howling  storms  at  midnight's  hour 

Proclaim  my  kingly  sway. 

Ye  trenibh^  when  my  legions  come,  — 

When  my  iiuivering  sword  leaps  out 
O'er  the  hills  that  echo  my  thunder  down, 

And  rend  with  my  joyous  shout. 
Ye  <[uail  on  the  land,  or  upon  the  sea 

Ye  stand  in  your  fear  aghast, 
To  see  me  burn  the  stalworth  trees, 

Or  shiver  the  stately  mast. 

Tlie  hieroglyphs  on  the  Persian  wall,  — 

The  letters  of  high  command,  — 
Where  the  prophet  read  the  tyrant's  fall, 

Were  traced  by  my  burning  hand. 
And  oft  in  fire  have  I  wrote  since  then 

What  angiy  Heaven  decreed  ; 
But  the  sealed  eyes  of  sinful  men 

Were  all  too  blind  to  read. 

At  length  the  hour  of  light  Ls  here, 

And  kings  no  more  shall  bind. 
Nor  bigots  crush  with  craven  fear, 

Tlie  forward  march  of  mind. 
The  words  of  Truth  and  Freedom's  rays 

Are  from  my  pinions  hurled  ; 
And  soon  the  light  of  better  days 

Shall  rise  upon  the  world. 

GEORGE  W.  CUTTER. 


ORIGIN  OF  THE  OPAL. 

A  DEW-DROP  came,  with  a  spark  of  flame 
He  had  caught  from  the  sun's  last  ray, 

To  a  violet's  breast,  where  he  lay  at  rest 
Till  the  hours  brought  back  the  day. 

The  rose  looked  down,  with  a  blush  and  frown ; 

But  she  smiled  all  at  once,  to  view 
Her  own  bright  form,  with  its  coloring  warm, 

Reflected  back  by  the  dew. 


Then  the  stranger  took  a  stolen  look 
At  the  sky,  so  soft  and  blue  ; 

And  a  leaflet  green,  with  its  silver  sheen, 
Was  seen  by  the  idler  too. 


^ 


fl- 


762 


POEMS   OF  FANCY. 


-a 


A  cold  north-wind,  as  he  thus  reclined, 

Of  a  sudden  raged  around  ; 
And  a  maiden  fair,  who  was  walking  there. 

Next  morning,  an  opal  found. 


Anonymous. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARP. 

'T  IS  believed  that  this  harp,  which  1  wake  now 

for  thee, 
Was  a  Siren  of  old,  who  sung  under  the  sea  ; 
And  who  often,  at  eve,  through  the  bright  billow 

roved, 
To  meet,  on  the  green  shore,  a  youth  whom  she 

loved. 

But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep, 
And  in  tears,  all  the  night,  her  gold  ringlets  to 

steep. 
Till  Heaven  looked  with  pity  on  true-love  so 

warm, 
And  L'lianged  to  this  soft  harp  the  sea-maiden's 

form. 

Still  her  bosom  rose  fair  —  still  her  cheek  smiled 

the  same  — 
While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  curled  round 

the  frame  ; 
And  her  hair,  shedding  tear-drops  from  all  its 

l.iright  rings. 
Fell  o'er  her  white  arm,  to  make  the  gold  strings  ! 

Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  harp  so  long  hath 

been  kuown 
To  mingle  love's  language  with  sorrow's  sad  tone  ; 
Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond 

lay 
To  be  love  when  I  'm  near  thee,  and  grief  when 

away  ! 


t&-- 


0  THAT  the  chemist's  magic  art 

Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure  ! 

Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 

Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye  ; 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell,  — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility  ! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light ! 

In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine. 
More  calmly  clear,  more  nuldly  bright. 

Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 


Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 

Who  ever  fliest  to  bring  relief. 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 

Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age. 
Thou  charm'st  in  Fancy's  idle  liream, 

In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law  which  molds  a  tear. 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source,  — 

That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere. 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 
SA.MUEL  Rogers. 


A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT. 

What  was  he  doing,  the  gi-eat  god  Fan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban. 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 

With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river  ? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep,  cool  bed  of  the  river. 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran. 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  la_t» 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away. 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river. 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can 
With  his  hard,  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed. 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fre.sh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 

(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 
Then  drew  the  pith  like  the  heart  of  a  man. 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring. 
Then  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 

In  holes,  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river  !) 
"The  only  way  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  0  Pan, 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river ! 
Blinding  sweet,  0  great  god  Pan  ! 
Tlie  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die. 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 


-& 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


763 


-a 


Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man. 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  the  pain,  - 

For  the  reed  that  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 

ELIZABETH  Barrett  BRO\v^•r^■G. 


THE  FAIRY  QUEEN. 

M   "THE  MYSTERIES  OF  LOVE  AND  ELOQUErJCE."     1658. 

Come,  follow,  foUow  me, 

You,  fairy  elves  that  be  ; 

Which  circle  on  the  gi'een. 

Come,  follow  Mab,  your  queen. 
Hand  in  baud  let  's  dance  around. 
For  this  place  is  fairy  ground. 

When  mortals  are  at  rest, 

And  snoring  in  their  nest ; 

Unheard  and  unespied. 

Through  keyholes  Ave  do  glide  ; 
Over  tables,  stools,  and  shelves. 
We  trip  it  with  our  fairy  elves. 

And  if  the  house  lie  loul 

With  platter,  dish,  or  bowl. 

Up  stairs  we  nimbly  creep. 

And  find  the  sluts  asleep  : 
There  we  pinch  their  arms  and  thighs  ; 
None  escapes,  nor  none  espies. 

But  if  the  house  be  swept, 

And  from  uncleauness  kept, 

We  praise  the  household  maid. 

And  duly  she  is  paid  ; 
For  we  use,  before  we  go. 
To  drop  a  tester  in  her  shoe. 

Upon  a  mushroom's  head 

Our  table-cloth  we  spread  ; 

A  grain  of  rye  or  wheat 

Is  manchet  which  we  eat ; 
Pearly  drops  of  dew  we  drink. 
In  acorn  cups  filled  to  the  brink. 

The  brains  of  nightingales. 
With  unctuous  fat  of  snails. 
Between  two  cockles  stewed. 
Is  meat  that 's  easily  chewed  ; 
Tails  of  worms,  and  marrow  of  mice, 
Do  make  a  dish  that  's  wondrous  nice. 

The  grasshopper,  gnat,  and  fly 
Serve  us  for  our  minstrelsy  ; 
Grace  said,  we  dance  awhile, 
.\nd  so  the  time  beguile  ; 


And  if  the  moon  doth  hide  her  head, 
The  glow-worm  lights  us  home  to  bed. 

On  tops  of  dewy  grass 
So  nimbly  do  we  pass. 
The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne'er  bends  when  we  do  walk  ; 
Yet  in  the  moniing  may  be  seen 
Where  we  the  night  before  have  been. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  FAIRIES. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk. 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home,  — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  inouutain-hike, 
With  fi'ogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  king  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He  's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses. 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  nmsic 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  suj)  with  the  queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
Wlien  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow  ; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves. 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hillside. 
Through  the  mosses  bare, 


-^ 


e- 


764 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-a 


They  have  planted  thorn-trees 
For  pleasure  here  and  there. 

Is  any  man  so  daring 
To  dig  one  up  in  spite, 

He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 
In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
"Wee  folk,  good  folk. 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owl's  feather ! 


AM  ALLINCHAM. 


SONG  OF  WOOD-NYMPHS. 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell 

In  forest  deep  ! 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  tell 

Why  thou  dost  weep  ! 

Is  it  for  love  (sweet  pain  !) 

That  thus  thou  dar'st  complain 

Unto  our  pleasant  shades,  our  summer  leaves. 

Where  naught  else  grieves  ? 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  lie 

By  whispering  stream  ! 

Here  no  one  dares  to  die 

For  love's  sweet  dream  ; 

But  health  all  seek,  and  joy, 

And  shun  perverse  annoy. 

And  race  along  green  paths  till  close  of  day, 

And  laugh  —  alway  ! 

Or  else,  through  half  the  year. 

On  rushy  floor. 

We  lie  by  waters  clear, 

While  skylarks  pour 

Their  songs  into  the  sun  ! 

And  when  bright  day  is  done. 

We  hide  'neath  bells  of  flowers  or  nodding  corn. 

And  dream  —  till  morn  ! 


t 


FAIRIES'  SONG. 

We  the  fairies  blithe  and  antic, 
Of  dimensions  not  gigantic, 
Though  the  moonshine  mostly  keep  us, 
Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  peep  us. 


Stolen  sweets  are  always  sweeter  ; 
Stolen  kisses  much  completer  ; 
Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels  ; 
Stolen,  stolen  be  your  apples. 

When  to  bed  the  world  are  bobbing, 
Then 's  the  time  for  orchard-robbing  ; 
Yet  the  fruit  were  scarce  worth  peeling 
AVere  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing. 

From  the  Latin  of  THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 

by  Leigh  hunt 


THE  FAIRIES'  LULLABY. 

FROM  "  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM." 

Enter  Titania,  tvith  her  train. 
TlTANL\.     Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy 

song  ; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ;  — 
Some  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  ; 
Some,   war  with   rear-mice   for   their  leatliern 

wings. 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats  ;  and  some,  keep 

back 
The   clamorous  owl,   that   nightly   hoots,   and 

wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  youi'  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

SOXQ. 

1  Fairy.  Youspottedsnakes,  vnthdouhlelongtu, 

Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen  ; 

Xetots,  andblind-worrns,  do  nowrong ; 

Come  not  near  our  fairy  qxieen. 

Chokus.   Philomel,  with  melody. 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby  ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ; 
Never  Juirm, 
Nor  spell  nor  charm. 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good  night,  mith  lullaby. 

2  Fairy.    Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,    you   long-legged  spinners, 
hence  I 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  -near  ; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Chorus.   Philomel,  with  melody,  etc. 

1  Fairy.  Hence  away  ;  now  all  is  well  : 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.     Titania  sleeps. 

SHAKESPEARE- 


-^ 


fl- 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


■a 


COMPLIMENT   TO  QUEEN   ELIZABETH. 

Obeuon.    My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.    Thou 
reincmber'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song. 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres. 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  .   I  remember. 

Obe.   That  very  time  I  saw  (Ijut  tliou  couldst 
not), 
Flying  lietwcen  tlie  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
I  'ii[iid  iill  armed  ;  a  certain  aim  he  took 
Ai  a  Tail  v(  stal  throned  by  the  west, 
.\iid  Iniisrd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
.As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  ; 
Hut  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
i^hu'iichedin  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon, 
And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on, 
111  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 
Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell  : 
It  fell  u])on  a  little  western  flower 
Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound, 
And  maidens  call  it,  Love-in-idleness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


& 


0  THEN  1  see,  Queen  Mabhath  been  with  you. 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife  ;  and  slie  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman. 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep  : 
Hei'  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 
Tile  cover,  of  the  wings  of  gi-asshoppers  ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams  ; 
Her  whip,  of  cricket's  hone  ;  the  lash,  of  film  ; 
Her  wagoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat. 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Pricked  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid  : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut. 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub. 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers. 
And  in  tliis  state  she  gallops  night  by  night 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of 

love  : 
On    courtiers'  knees,   that   dream  on   court'sies 

straight ; 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees  ; 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream,  — 


1  Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
j  Because  their  breaths  with  sweetmeats  tainted 
j  are  : 

Sometime  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 
.\nd  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit  ; 
And  sometime  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  'a  lies  asleep, 
Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice  : 
Sometime  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck. 
And  tlien  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats. 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish  blades. 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep  ;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts,  and  wakes  ; 
And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  a  prayer  or  two. 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab,      • 
That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night  ; 
And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hairs. 
Which,  once  untangled,  much  misfortune  bodes  : 
This  is  the  hag,  when  maiils  lie  on  their  backs. 
That  presses  them,  and  learns  them  first  to  bear, 
Making  them  women  of  good  carriage. 

Shakespeare. 


ROBIN  GOODFELLOW. 

Fbo.m  Oberon,  in  fairy-land. 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadows  there, 
Mad  Robin  1,  at  his  command, 
Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 

What  revel  rout 

Is  kept  about, 
In  every  corner  where  I  go, 

I  will  o'ersee. 

And  merry  be. 
And  make  good  sport,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  fly 

About  this  airy  welkin  soon. 
And,  in  a  minute's  space,  dcseiy 

Each  thing  that 's  done  below  the  moon. 

There 's  not  a  hag 

Or  ghost  shall  wag. 
Or  cry,  'ware  goblins  !  where  I  go  ; 

But  Robin  I 

Their  feasts  will  spy. 
And  send  them  home  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meet. 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge  home, 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greet. 
And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roam 

Through  woods,  through  lakes  ; 

Through  bogs,  through  brakes  ; 
Or  else,  unseen,  with  them  I  go, 

All  in  the  nick. 

To  play  some  trick. 
And  frolic  it,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


--& 


[&^ 


76(5 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-a 


i 


Somptiiiu's  1  meet  tlioiu  liko  «  miui, 

Soinotiim's  «n  ox,  soiiu't  iuu's  ii  boiiml  ; 
Ami  to  !i  lioi-so  I  tiiiii  ii\i'  01111, 

To  ti'ii'  mul  trot  nluuit  tlioiii  nniiul. 
Hut  if  to  ii<U> 
My  Uu'k  tlioy  striilo, 
Jloro  swift  than  wiiul  away  1  go  ; 
t^'i'i'  hedgo  ami  laiuls, 
Through  jHHils  ami  jiomls, 
\  hurry,  hiughiiig,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

WIk'u  lails  and  lassoa  moiry  h>>, 

AVitli  (lossi^ts  and  with  jvmkots  tiuo, 
Uiisoim  of  all  tho  comiiaiiy, 

1  I'at  thoir  cakes  ami  si()  tlu'iv  wiiio! 

Ami,  to  niaku  siioit, 

1  inilf  and  snort ; 
And  out  I  ho  oiuidh'S  1  do  blow ; 

Tho  maids  I  kiss  : 

They  shriek  —  Who's  this ! 
1  answer  naught  hut  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  iiuiids  to  please, 

At  midnight  I  eui\l  up  their  wool  ; 
And,  while  they  sleep  ami  take  thoir  ease, 
With  wlieel  to  threads  their  Ihix  I  pull. 

1  grind  at  mill 

Their  malt  up  still  ; 
1  dress  their  hemp  ;   I  spin  their  tow  ; 

If  any  wake. 

And  would  me  take, 
1  wend  nu',  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

When  any  need  to  borrow  aught. 

We  lend  them  what  they  do  ivquiro  : 

And  for  the  use  demand  wo  naught  ; 
Our  own  is  all  we  do  desiro. 

If  to  IVJUIY 

They  do  delay, 
Abroad  amongst  them  then  1  go. 

And  night  by  night, 

I  them  atl'right, 
With  pinolungs,  divams,  and  bo,  ho,  ho  ! 

When  lazy  nueans  have  naught  to  do, 

lint  study  how  to  oog  and  lie  ; 
To  make  dehsite  and  niisobief  too, 
'Twixt  one  another  seoretly  ; 
1  mark  their  gloze. 
Ami  it  disoloso 
To  them  whom  they  have  wrongi^d  so  ; 
When  1  have  done 
1  get  mo  g»ine. 
And  leave  them  seolding,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  men  do  tm]>s  and  engines  set 
In  loopholes,  where  the  vermin  oroop. 


Who  from  their  folds  and  houses  got 

Their  diioks  and  gi'ese,  and  lambs  ami  sheep, 

1  spy  tho  gin. 

And  enter  in. 
Ami  seem  a  verniiu  tflkeii  so  ; 

r.ut  when  they  thoio 

Appivaeh  me  near, 
1  lea[i  out  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

By  wells  luul  rills,  in  meadows  green, 

AVe  nightly  danee  our  heyday  guise  ; 
Ami  to  our  fairy  king  and  <iueeii. 

Wo  ehaiit  our  moonlight  niinstivlsies. 
When  larks  'gin  sing, 
.•\way  we  lliiig  ; 
And  Ivibes  new-born  steal  as  we  go  : 
Ami  elf  in  bed 
We  leave  instead. 
Ami  wend  us  laughing,  bo,  ho,  ho  I 

From  hag- bred  Merlin's  time,  have  1 

Thus  nightly  ivveled  to  and  fro  ; 

And  for  my  pranks  nten  eall  mo  by 

The  name  of  liobin  Goodfellow. 

Fiends,  ghosts,  ami  sprites, 

Who  haunt  the  nights. 
The  hags  and  goblins  do  me  know  ; 

And  beldames  old 

My  feats  have  told. 
So  valo,  vale  ;  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Aurlbutc^l  to  Bl!N  loNSON. 


FROM  "  rna  .ji'i'.i^N's  wake." 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gited  up  tho  glen  ; 
But  it  wasna  to  meet  l>uneim's  men, 
Kor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see. 
For  Kilmeny  was  pnro  a-s  puiv  eould  be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  yoilin  sing, 
.\nd  pu'  tho  eross-llower  round  the  spring,  — 
The  searlet  liypp,  and  the  hindhorrye, 
.\nd  the  nut  that  hung  frao  the  hazel-tive  ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  puiv  eould  be. 
But  laiig  may  her  niiniiy  look  o'er  the  wa', 
.\nd  lang  may  she  seek  i"  the  given-wood  shaw  . 
Lang  the  Iniixl  of  Duiieiiii  blame. 
And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  eomo  haiiie. 

When  many  a  day  bad  eomo  and  lied. 
When  grief  grow  calm,  and  hope  was  dead. 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been  sung. 
When  tho  bedesman  had  i>rayed,  and  the  dead- 
bell  rung  ; 
Ijite,  late  in  a  gloaniin,  when  all  was  still, 
When  the  fringt>  was  rod  on  the  wostlin  liill. 
The  wood  was  seiu',  tho  moon  i'  the  wane. 


-^ 


POEMH  OF  FANCY. 


707      i 


& 


Till)  nwk  o'  the  cot  hung  over  tlio  j)Iain,  — 
IJki;  a  litt)(!  wee  cluuil  in  tlie  woilil  itH  lane ; 
Wlirai  till;  ingic  lowed  with  an  ciiy  lenie, 
Late,  lute  in  the  gloamiu  Kilineny  came  hanie  I 

"  Kijniftny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  Ijccn  ? 
IjUji(<  hue  we  Bought  baith  holt  and  den,  — 
I'y  linn,  by  lord,  and  green-wood  tree  ; 
Vi't  yon  are  halcBoine  and  fair  to  nee, 
Wheie  got  you  that  joui>  o'  the  lily  »heen ? 
That  bonny  Hnood  of  the  birk  Bac  green  I 
And  thcHe  roncH,  the  fairent  tliat  ever  waH  seen  1 
Kilineny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  '(" 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 
Hut  nae  Hniilij  wjih  Been  on  Kilmcuy'H  itux  ; 
Ah  Htill  was  her  look,  and  an  Btill  waB  her  co, 
An  the  stilliieHB  that  lay  on  the  eiiierant  lea, 
'»!■  the  niist  that  BleepH  on  a  wavelesB  «ca. 
loj  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where, 
Ami  K  il  meny  hail  Been  what  Hlie  could  not  declare. 
Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 
Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never 

blew  ; 
liul  it  Beemed  aft  the  haqi  of  the  Hky  hail  rung. 
And  the  airH  of  heaven  played  round  her  tongue. 
When  Bhe  «i«tke  of  the  lovely  forms  Bhe  bail  Hccn, 
And  a  land  where  Bin  liiul  never  been,  — 
A  land  of  love,  and  a  land  of  light, 
Withouten  sun  or  moon  or  night ; 
Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 
And  the  light  a  jiure  celestial  ficam  : 
The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 
A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  yon  green-wood  there  is  a  walk. 
And  in  that  walk  there  is  a  weiie, 
And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike. 
Thai  neither  haw  flesh,  blowl,  noi-  bane  ; 
And  down  in  yon  green-wood  he  walks  hi«  lane. 

In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay. 
Her  liosom  hajjjied  wi'  the  flowerets  gay  ; 
Hut  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep, 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  B0U7id  asleep  ; 
She  kend  nae  mair,  nor  opened  her  ee, 
Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  eountrye. 

She  awaked  on  a  couch  of  tlie  silk  sac  slim. 
All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's  rim  ; 
And  lovely  beings  around  were  rife. 
Who  erst  ha*!  traveled  mortal  life  ; 
And  aye  they  smiled,  and  'gan  to  speer: 
"  What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal  here  ?" 

"  I<ang  have  1  journeyed  the  world  wide," 
A  meek  and  reverend  fere  replied  ; 
"  I'aith  night  and  day  I  have  watched  the  fair 
Kident  a  thousand  years  and  mair. 
Yes,  I  have  watcheil  o'er  ilk  dcgri^i. 


Wherever  blooms  femenitye  ; 

But  sinless  virgin,  free  of  sfciin, 

In  mind  and  iKidy,  land  I  nane. 

Never,  since  the  banijuet  of  time. 

Found  I  a  virgin  in  her  prime, 

Till  late  this  bonny  maiden  I  siiw. 

Am  H|KjtleHH  as  the  morning  snaw. 

I'lill  twenty  years  she  has  lived  as  free 

As  the  spirits  that  sojoiiin  in  this  eountrye. 

I  have  biought  her  away  frae  the  snares  of  men, 

Tliat  sin  or  death  she  may  never  ken." 

They  clasjKtd  her  waist  and  her  liands  sae  fair  ; 
They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kenied  her  hair; 
And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere. 
Saying,  "  lionny  Kilmeny,  ye  're  wehonn;  here; 
Women  are  freed  of  the  litUind  scorn  ; 
0,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  Ixjrn  ! 
Now  shall  the  bind  of  the  spirits  si;c. 
Now  shall  it  ken,  what  a  woman  nmy  be  !" 

They  liftel  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 
And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a  sunlihs  day; 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright, 
The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light ; 
The  emerald  fields  weie  of  dazzling  glow. 
And  the  (lowers  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  Uidy  they  laid. 
That  her  youth  and  iKfaiity  never  might  fade  ; 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they  saw  her 
lie 

In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by. 
And  she  heard  a  song,  • —  she  heard  it  sung. 
She  kend  not  where  ;  but  sae  sweetly  it  rung. 
It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  tin-  morn,  — 
"  O,  blest  \x:  the  day  Kilmeny  was  boni ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  si-e. 
Now  shall  il  ken,  what  a  woman  may  1*  !  " 

They  l)ore  her  far  to  a  momit-iin  green, 
To  see  what  mortal  never  had  w^en  ; 
And  they  si.'ated  her  high  on  a  purple  sward. 
And  bade  her  heed  what  she  saw  and  beard. 
And  note  the  change-s  the  spirits  wrought ; 
I''or  now  Bhe  lived  in  the  land  of  thought.  — 
She  looked,  and  she  saw  nor  sun  nor  skies, 
lint  a  crystal  dome  of  a  thousand  dyes ; 
She  looked,  and  she  saw  nae  land  aright, 
But  an  endless  whirl  of  glory  and  light ; 
And  railiant  beings  went  and  came, 
V-M  8wifti;r  than  wind  or  the  linked  flame  ; 
She  hid  her  etn  frae  the  dazzling  view  ; 
She  looked  again,  and  the  B<«ne  was  new. 

She  s-aw  a  sun  on  a  summer  sky. 
And  clouds  of  amber  sailing  by  ; 
A  lovidy  land  beneath  her  lay. 
And  that  land  Iiail  glens  and  mountains  gray  ; 


-^ 


L 


Xu<X  that  Imii.1  had  valWys  auvl  hijary  jules, 

Auvl  msurlW  s*as,  *ud  a  thousauJ  uU<;s ; 

Its  fieUls  \v*iv  sjHvklwl,  its  fo»-*sts  grwu. 

Ami  its  l;ik<w  w«>w  all  of  iho  A-uiliujc  shwu, 

likf  uva^ic  uurivrs,  wheiv  slumWviu^  lay 

The  sua  and  th*  sky  aud  th<j  clomUtt  gray. 

Whii-h  htf«v<?vl  and  t^\'U^b^^^l,  aud  j^utly  swung  ; 

On  every  show  thtfy  seetaevl  to  bt<  hmi^  ; 

For  there  they  wvre  seen  oa  their  downwtu\l  ^ilaiu 

A  thousand  tin\<ss  and  a  thousand  a^u  ; 

In  winding;  lake  and  i>lav'id  firth,  — 

little  peawful  heavens  in  the  K>«t>itt  of  eai'th. 

Kitiueuy  sijtheil  and  seemei.1  to  j;rieve. 
For  she  found  her  heart  to  that  laud  did  eleave  ; 
$he  saw  the  wru  wave  on  the  vale  ; 
She  saw  the  deer  nm  dowu  the  dale  ; 
$he  saw  the  plaid  and  the  bi\>ad  elaymoiv. 
And  the  bivws  that  the  ^a^^J!:e  ol'  five<.lom  bor<j ; 
And  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  laud  beforev 

Then  Kilmeny  h^jsgevl  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  wuutrye. 
To  tell  the  plaee  whew  she  had  been. 
And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  laud  unseen ; 
To  wain  the  living  waivleus  lair, 
I'ho  U'vevl  of  heaven,  the  spirits'  carw, 
rU,»t  all  wh>.>se  minds  uuiueW  remain 
Sh.dl  V>loom  in  heauty  when  time  is  gaue. 

With  distant  mnsio.  soft  and  deejv 
Tliey  luUetl  Kilmeny  souuvl  asleep  ; 
And  when  she  awakenevl,  she  lay  her  lane, 
All  hapj>e>,l  with  flowers  in  the  gitwu-woovl  \v««e. 
When  se\-en  long  yeaj-s  h!>d  otuue  and  ttevl ; 
When  grief  was  eahu,  and  hojie  was  dead  ; 
When  seai\-e  was  rewemhere*.!  KiUueuy's  name. 
Late,  late  iu  a  gloamiu,  Kilmeny  came  haute  ! 
And  0,  her  beauty  was  tair  to  see, 
Rut  still  and  steadfast  wtis  her  ee  ! 
Sueh  beauty  baj\l  may  uever  vleclare. 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  {«ssioa  there  ; 
And  the  soft  desitv  of  maidens"  een 
lu  that  mild  fa^-e  ivuld  never  l>e  seen. 
Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower. 
And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  iu  the  showur ; 
Aud  her  wii-e  like  the  distant  meUxiye 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 
But  she  lovevl  to  raike  the  lanely  glen. 
And  keei>e<.l  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men ; 
Her  holy  hymns  uuheaixl  to  sing. 
To  suek  the  flowers  and  vlrink  the  spring. 
But  whei-ever  her  i>eai,-eful  form  appeaivd, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hills  were  eheerevl ; 
The  wolf  playevl  blythely  rvmud  the  field  ; 
The  lorvlly  bysou  lowe^l  aud  fcueelevl ; 
The  duu  deer  wo<>ed  with  manner  bland. 
And  ivwereil  ai\eath  her  lilv  l^uivl. 


'  .\ud  when  at  even  the  wvxxllauds  ruixg. 
When  hymns  of  other  wv^rlvls  she  sung 
In  e>.'Stasy  of  sweet  devotion, 

1  0,  then  the  gleu  was  all  iu  motiou  ! 

I  The  wild  leasts  of  the  forest  eame, 

I  t5rt<ke  fivui  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tan\e> 
Aud  g<.>ve\l  aivuml,  chaiinevl  and  am,^e<.l ; 
Kven  the  dvUl  cattle  ciwuevl,  aiid  ga^evl, 
Aud  luurmurexl,  and  Uvkwl  with  anxious  i>aiu 
Kw  something  the  mystery  to  explsun. 
The  buiiaixl  came  with  the  thi\>stle-i-ock. 
The  >.vrby  left  her  houf  iu  the  »\vk  ; 
The  blackbiul  alaug  wi'  the  eagle  flew  ; 
The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew  ; 
The  wvdf  and  the  kid  their  ituke  Ivgau  ; 
.\ud  the  tinl.  and  the  laiuK  aiul  the  leveivt  wn  ; 
The  hawk  aud  the  heru  attour  them  hung, 
Aud  the  merl  aud  the  tuavis  forh<.K>ye<,l  their 

young ; 
,\ud  sill  iu  a  i>eai-et\rl  ring  weiv  hurlevl : 
It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world ! 

When  a  mouth  and  day  havl  cv>uve  aud  gami, 
Kilmeny  sovight  the  giveu-wiKxl  wene  ; 
There  laivl  her  down  <>n  the  leavivs  sae  green, 
Auvl  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  msur  seea. 
lint  0  the  wonls  that  fell  f»\uu  her  mouth 
Wew  woi\ls  of  woudei-.  and  woixis  of  tnith ! 
But  all  the  land  weiv  iu  fear  .and  dread. 
For  they  keud  ua  whether  she  was  living  w  dead. 
It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  ivuldna  jvuuiiu  ; 
She  left  this  wvnld  of  siuivw  and  j>ain, 
Aud  wtiu'uevl  to  the  laud  of  thottght  again. 

.I.\U8S  Hocc 


FAIRY  SONG, 

SuKr>  uo  tear !  0,  shevl  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  Wooin  another  year. 
Weep  no  mow  !  O,  weep  no  more  ! 
Young  bxuls  sleep  iu  the  jwt's  white  cvnv. 
Pry  your  eyes  '.  0.  dry  your  eyes  ' 
For  1  was  taught  in  Faradise 
To  ease  my  bivast  of  meUxUes,  — 

Shevl  no  tear. 

Ch'erhead  I  KK>k  overheavl  ! 
'Moug  the  blossoms  white  aud  ivvl. 
Look  ui\  look  up  '.     1  flutter  now 
On  this  fresh  promegrauate  K>ugh. 
See  me  !  "t  is  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  goo<.l  man's  ill, 
Shevl  no  tear  I  0,  shevl  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bUxnu  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu  —  1  fly —  adieu  1 
1  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue,  — 

Adieu,  adieu ! 

JOH.N  KlUkVi. 


-S 


e-^ 


I'ORMH  OF  FANCY. 


7(i'.) 


-a 


t 


ruK  t:iiu'iar  vay, 

"V  iH  ttiii  mi'l'lU:  v/auU  of  a  sumnmr's  night,  — 
The  <!a/i)j  is  <ia)k,  but  tiut  hitavvitx  air':  Wli^tt ; 
Nauglit  is  wx-n  iij  tli/;  vault  on  hjfjh 
I5ut  ttu!  iii'xm,  a;j<l  tli/i  stars,  au'l  t)i*  ckiu<jl/^ 

sky, 
AmJ  tlw;  litjod  whi';h  joljjs  its  milky  him, 
A  rivi-.r  </ light  on  tht  w«jkiii  Uux;. 
Til";  rnvju  l<xjks  down  ou  <Ati  tUv'mvit ; 
Hhc  )n«ll/jws  th';  felui/l/^s  on  his  sliajjgy  )y|'aist, 
Au<l  sijisms  Ijis  hu{{<(  gray  fon/i  to  throw 
l/i  a  silver  <^tnt;  on  th«  wav;  lj<;low. 
His  si'lcs  ar<j  hrokcij  hy  «j>ot»  of  sita/U:, 
Hy  tli<;  walnut  )i'ms(it  anil  tlu;  '^/lar  «ja/l<; ; 
A/j'l  througii  tlw^ir  <;Iu»ti;rin({  hrauchfts  <iark 
Olin/HiK/s  an'l  <ii«s  the  (irefl/s  sj/ark,  — 
J,ik";  starry  twijiklns  tJiat  )uo«K;ntly  br'sak 
Through  tli<;  rifts  of  th<;  gatlijc-rin({  teinjMrrst's  iiu:k. 

Th<:  stars  are  on  tlie  n/ovin({  stnianj, 

Aii'i  (ling,  as  its  jijij^les  gently  Jlow, 
A  l/ui7iijilri!'l  lengtli  of  wavy  l,<;a)n 

In  an  <*l-like,  spiral  line  t;«;low  ; 
The  wiu'ls  are  whist,  aiwl  the  ow)  is  still  ; 

TIm;  t«t  in  the  shelvy  rwk  hi  hi/1  ; 
Aijii  iraught  is  h<«*r<l  on  the  lonely  hill 
Jiijt  the  eriek<;t's  ehir)),  and  the  answer  shiill 

Of  the  gauwi-wing')<l  bityJi'l  ; 
An/1  the  jfhiint  of  the  wailing  whij/jtoorwill. 

Who  jii'Mns  uns"-/;)),  and  ';ea*ehfljs  siiigs 
Evei-  a  note  of  wall  and  woe, 

'I'ill  nf^rning  siir'swls  her  rosy  wings. 
And  i«rth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow, 

'T  is  the  hour  of  fairy  1/an  ar/d  s|«;ll  ; 
The  wo'/l-tiek  lias  kej/t  the  winuUss  well  ; 
f£e  lias  counted  the/n  all  witti  click  and  stroke 
Dei;i<  in  the  h'sait  of  the  rnountain-vak, 
And  he  lias  awaken<;'l  the  »intry  elve 

Who  »le";(<s  with  hini  in  the  hauntird  tree. 
To  hid  hirn  ripg  tire  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry  ; 
Twelve  srnall  strokes  on  his  tinkling  tiell 
("V  was  rnjule  of  the  whit*  snail's  [learly  shell;  ; 
"  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well ! 
Hither,  hitJi/;r  wing  your  way  ! 
'T  is  the  dawn  of  the  (airy -'lay." 

They  wme  from  Wis  of  li<;hen  green, 

They  er'jep  from  tlu;  mulh^in's  velv<rt  screen  ; 

Some  on  the  hatjks  of  beetles  fly 
From  the  silver  Ujjm  of  mo'jn-touch's'i  trees. 

Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  hammock* 
high. 
And  T<)(:hiA  al>out  in  the  evening  br<ie»! ; 

Some  from  the  hunt-bird's  downy  n'sst,  — 
They  Iia/i  driven  him  out  by  elfin  jy/wer, 

An>I,  i;illowe<l  on  (jlur/ujsof  his  rainlxjw  breast. 


I  Ha<l  slunjljer<s<l  theie  till  the  vlmrni'A  hour- ; 

Some  lia/1  lain  in  tiiA  »:/if/p  of  the  rv.k, 
I  With  glitt<!ring  ising'Stai-s  inlaid  ; 

Arrd  xouni  Wl  ojr-uiwI  tlie  four-o'chjck, 
]  And  si/Ati  within  it«  {yurj/h:  shaxle. 

And  now  tJwry  throng  lli*  ni'yynlight  glade, 
Alwve,  tj<:k>w,  on  every  si<l<;,  — 
1     Th<;ij-  little  minim  for;ns  array«<l 
!  In  th/!  triijksy  i>omi/  of  (airy  j/ride  ! 

I  Tlujy  <-/im<i  not  now  t/>  j/rlnt  the  lea, 

In  fr<«ik  and  'Ian';/;  around  tlje  tree. 

Or  at  the  niushro'/m  l^/zard  to  su//, 
,  And  drink  the  iIkw  from  the  buttercup ; 
j  A  Sf^ne  of  sorrow  waits  them  now, 
I  F'/r  an  ouj/he  lias  bioken  his  vestal  vow ; 

He  lias  \iivit>i  an  <«iithly  iriai<l. 

And  left  for  her  his  wwlland  slude  ; 

He  has  lain  uj/on  li/rr  lip  of  <lew. 

And  sunn/;d  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 

Fannwl  Iier  clie/tk  with  his  wing  of  air, 

J'layed  in  the  ringlet*  ol  her  liair, 

An'l,  nutHWuy  or,  I'-r  :-r.'Vv,y  bieast, 

Forg//tthe).  '.. 

For  this  th.  vf  air 

To  the  ejfj-  rjj,t/;  away  : 

An'l  now  they  sUwi  eysi/w.-Uint  tli/;re. 
To  Iwair  the  'l»om  of  tlw:  culprit  (ay. 

The  throne  was  reared  ui^/n  the  gra»j, 
Of  spi';e-w<>oil  and  of  sassafras  ; 
On  pillars  of  mottWi  t'/rU/is/j-shell 

Hung  the  burnish';<i  'aiu'/py,  — 
An'l  o'er  it  gorgc/us  curtains  fell 

Of  the  tulip's  crims'/n  diajiery. 
Tlie  m</narch  sat  on  his  ju'lgin':nt-seat. 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imj/eiUil  hhohf., 
The  pri»'/n<;r  fay  was  at  his  (/jet, 

An'l  his  [/"^rs  were  rang'-/l  ar'/und  tlie  throne. 
He  wav'^l  his  s-^ef/ter  in  the  air, 

He  I'>ok<5<l  around  an<l  'ailmly  si^/ke  ; 
His  brow  was  grave  and  his  <;ye  s<;vere, 

Jiut  his  V'>i<;e  in  a  softencl  a/j<M;nt  broke  : 

"  Fairy  !  fairy  1  list  and  mark  : 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  eUin  chain  ; 

Thy  flarn's-W'X/il  lamp  i-;  'i'i'?n'}i'')  and  'lark, 

An'l  thy  wings  ai'  -  ily  stain,  — 

Thou  hast  sullh;/!  ti. 

In  the  glan';/!  of  a  ;  '-  eye  ; 

'I'hou  liast  ttvinKfl  our  <iiead  liei.-jee. 

And  thou  shoulds-t  [/ay  the  forfeit  high. 
But  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 

Is  pure  as  the  angel  (bnns  al/jve, 
Oentle  an'l  mfei;k,  and  chaste  and  kind, 

Su'h  as  a  spirit  well  might  love. 
Fairy  !  lia/l  she  sjM  or  taint. 
Bitter  ha/i  W-n  thy  punishment ; 


-S 


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XL  . 

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I  VMi.  . 

v.: 


(/„  „^.^  y  „-/<.(<-.,^^    Iv/J-  ¥",^;?,'< 


/•'/)«>'<, 


(It:  yitriifA  iiiiii  rmini,  miii  tUA  niu^ii, 


htfi  l»itl»:itt"t  HSm 


/,  vttt4 
■-Am\  iint4. 


Ufit, 


'W'J/, 


'I'hry  fi'iii'/  •)(«  rz-n.-fif  ill  I 

,m  Mi'.i'Mi: 

y/>(K/,  un  iMtniii-A-  ).ift.  U^ii,  lit  I;.*  ')//<{w<//l't>»A, 
iMf/t  mi/l  tumttiUA,  «///(  tti/t  skwJ  «//»«, 

(/,    I,....  1  i.,.  ,(,,^„  „„  ^l„.  imi^iy  nUlll:  ', 

i :  ■  .  ■  r.K  full*.  lA  i}it:  I'.liiniiifA  Hin-, 

.,.,,,.,(  ,).^  w,v<•-J",M!;)!f•f;;i" 
)'■,,■ 
'I'h 

Al,  1,1.';  (/.U/rti*  /.;»(,  (J  i/,fc  )»i</  />.j/^,!.. 


>  't/*  IimiiImii*  Inul', 

■)  :  ■111, 

\\  ■  •. .  ,:  /('/w  J 

Ah/l  \lt:  Iki>.  tiKil  iiin  ill  III*  >itliK*K  nil'tfA, 

An  iiH  ilf»iik  Uii  jiiii-M  <4  tUtt  in\itiiin»'tit>A ; 
Anii  ii'fW  h".  Ufn/h  t)(«  ft»»A)  itii/irti 
Am  trt!>>li  n-iiil  viii'/toiit  «*  W//**, 


u- 


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■■'i  IIMIIl, 


'i  It  fMl'Ji  UiK  lit'f^i  iti  il*  i-.liin*/lli  l'M\h 
'  V/itt;-- '   ■  ■      *•,. 

j      i.. 


*    >  f 


[& 


772 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-a 


o- 


livit  ho  left  an  aivh  of  silver  bright, 
Tho  rainbow  of  tho  moony  main. 

It  was  a  straugv  and  lovely  sight 
To  see  the  [Uiny  goblin  thoa" ; 

He  seenuxl  an  angel  form  of  light. 
With  azuiti  wing  anU  snnny  hair, 
Thronoil  on  a  oloud  of  pnri>lo  ftiir, 

tMreled  with  bine  and  edged  with  white. 

Anil  sitting,  at  the  fivll  of  oven, 

Ueneath  tho  Knv  of  summer  heaven. 

A  moment,  and  its  luster  fell ; 

Unt  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue 
He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell 

A  divplet  of  its  sjwrkling  dew  !  — 
.Toy  to  thee,  fay !  thy  task  is  done. 
Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  gem  is  won,  — 
Cheerly  ply  thy  dripping  our, 
And  haste  away  to  tho  olfm  shore. 

Ho  turns,  and,  lo  !  on  either  side 

The  ripples  on  his  path  divide  ; 

And  the  track  o'er  which  his  bout  must  pass 

Is  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  polished  ghiss. 

Around,  their  liml«  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 

With  snowy  arms  half  swelling  out. 
While  on  the  glossed  and  glcamy  wave 

Their  sea-green  ringlets  loiKsely  tlout. 
They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song  ; 

They  press  the  biirk  with  pearly  himd, 
And  gently  urge  her  coni-so  along 

Towai\l  the  beach  of  speckled  s;ind, 

And,  as  he  lightly  leaped  to  land, 
Thoy  Uule  adieu  with  nod  and  bow  ; 

Then  gjvyly  kissed  each  little  hand, 
And  drepjwd  in  tho  crystal  deep  below. 

A  moment  stayed  tho  fairy  there  ; 

He  kissed  the  lieach  and  breathed  a  prayer ; 

Then  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue. 

And  on  to  the  eUin  court  he  tlew. 

As  ever  ye  saw  a  bubble  vise, 

.\i\d  shine  with  a  thousand  changing  dyos. 

Till,  lesiiening  far.  through  ether  driven, 

It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 

As,  at  the  glimjise  of  morning  jwile. 

The  lance-tly  spreads  his  silken  sail. 

And  gleams  with  blendings  soft  and  bright 

Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night,  — 

So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  fay  ; 

So  vanished,  tar  in  heaven  away  ! 

Up,  fairy  !  quit  thy  chickweed  bower, 
Tho  cricket  has  called  the  second  hour  ; 
Twice  again,  and  the  lark  will  rise 
To  kiss  the  streaking  of  the  skit>s,  — 
Up  !  thy  charmed  armor  don. 
Thou  'It  need  it  ere  tho  nigkt  bo  gone. 


He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on  ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-down  ; 

The  eoi-selet  plate  that  guanled  his  breast 

Was  once  the  wild  bee's  g^>ldcn  vest ; 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes. 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  buttertlies  ; 

His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  quoon. 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green  ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he   brandished 

bright 
Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  ho  had  slain  in  tight. 
Swift  he  bestrode  his  lirelly  steed  ; 

He  l>ivred  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass  blue; 
He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cocklo-seod, 

And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he  flow 
To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
Tlie  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 

The  moth-lly,  as  he  shot  in  air. 

Crept  under  the  leaf,  and  hid  her  there  ; 

The  katyilid  forgot  its  lay, 

Tho  prowling  gnat  lied  fast  away, 

Tho  fell  mosquito  checked  his  drone 

And  folded  his  wings  till  the  fay  was  gone. 

And  the  wily  beetle  dropped  his  head, 

.\nd  fell  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were  dead  ; 

They  crouched  them  close  in  the  darksome  shade. 

They  quaked  all  o'er  with  awe  and  fear. 
For  they  had  felt  the  blue-bent  blade, 

And  writhed  at  the  prick  of  tho  olfiu  spear. 
Many  a  time,  on  a  summer's  night. 
When  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  moon  was  bright. 
They  had  been  roused  from  the  haunted  ground 
By  the  yelp  and  Iwy  of  the  fairy  hound  ; 

They  had  heaul  the  tiny  bugle-horn. 
They  had  heaul  the  twang  of  the  maize-silk  string, 
When  the  vine-twig  bows  were  tightly  drawn. 

And  the  needle-shaft  through  air  was  lioruo. 
Feathered  with  down  of  the  hum-binl's  wing. 
And  now  thoy  deemed  the  courier  oupho 

Some  hunter-sprite  of  the  eltin  ground. 
And  they  watched  till  they  saw  him  mount  tho 
roof 

That  canopies  the  world  around  ; 
Then  glad  they  left  their  covert  lair. 
And  freaked  about  in  the  midnight  air. 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 

His  jvith  the  firetly  coui~sev  bent. 

And  at  every  gallop  on  tho  wind 

He  thing  a  glittering  spark  behind  ; 

He  tlies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 

Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  jiast- 

Uut  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their  work. 
And  a  drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast ; 

He  cannot  see  through  tho  mantle  murk  ; 
He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  ni-ges  fast ; 

Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and  shade, 


-^ 


\n 


POEMS  01<'  FANCY. 


773 


ra 


h 


III;  lashes  his  steed,  ami  ajmra  anmiii,  — 
I'ur  shailowy  hands  have  twitched  the  rein, 

And  llanie-shut  tongues  around  him  played. 
And  near  him  many  a  fiendish  eye 
(ilared  with  a  fell  malignity, 
And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 
Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear. 

His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 
'ri)e  plume  hangs  drijiping  from  his  crest. 
His  eyes  are  blurred  with  the  lightning's  glare, 
And  his  ears  are  stunned  with  the  thunder's  blare, 
liut  he  gave  a  shout,  and  his  blade  he  drew. 

He  thrust  before  and  he  struck  behind. 
Till  he  pierced  their  cloudy  bodies  through. 

And  gashed  their  shadowy  limbs  of  wind  ; 
Howling  the  mLsty  specters  Hew, 

'I'liey  rend  the  air  with  frightful  cries  ; 
For  he  has  gained  the  welkin  blue, 

And  the  land  of  clouds  beneath  him  lies. 

Up  to  the  cope  careeiing  swift. 

In  breathless  motion  fast. 
Fleet  as  tlio  swallow  cuts  the  drift, 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 
The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 
The  earth  but  seems  a  tiny  blot 

On  a  sheet  of  azure  cast. 
(J,  it  was  sweet,  in  the  clear  moonlight, 

To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even  ! 
To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night. 

And  feel  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven  ! 
liut  the  elfin  made  no  stop  or  .stay 
Till  he  .-ame  to  the  bank  of  the  Milky  Wiiy  ; 
Tlnri  111-  rlii'cked  his  courser's  foot, 
Anil  watibed  for  the  glimpse  of  the  planet-shoot. 

Sudden  along  the  snowy  ti<le 

That  swelled  to  meet  their  footsteps'  fall. 
The  sylphs  of  heaven  were  seen  to  glide. 

Attired  in  sunset's  crimson  pall ; 
Around  the  fay  they  weave  the  dance. 

They  skip  before  him  on  the  |)lain, 
And  one  has  taken  his  wasp-sting  lance. 

And  one  upholds  his  bridle-n-in  ; 
With  uarblings  wild  tliey  lead  him  on 
To  where,  through  clouds  of  amber  seen, 
.Studdcid  with  stars,  resplendent  sliono 

The  jialace  of  the  sylphid  queen. 
Its  s])iral  columns,  gleaming  bright. 
Were  streamers  of  the  northern  light ; 
Its  curtain's  light  and  lovely  Hush 
Was  of  the  morning's  rosy  blush  ; 
And  the  ceiling  fair  that  rose  aboon. 
The  white  and  feathery  fleece  of  noon. 

Hut,  0,  how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 
I'eneath  a  rainbow  bending  bright ! 


She  seemed  to  the  entranced  fay 

The  loveliest  of  the  fornui  of  light ; 
Her  mantle  was  the  purple  rolled 

At  twilight  in  the  west  afar  ; 
'T  was  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 

And  buttoned  with  a  sparkling  star. 
Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 

That  veils  the  vestal  jilanet's  hue  ; 
Her  eyes,  two  beandets  from  the  moon. 

Set  fioating  in  the  welkin  blue. 
Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam. 
And  the  diamond  gems  which  round  it  gleam 
Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 
That  ne'er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 

She  was  lovely  and  fair  to  see, 

And  the  cllin's  heart  beat  fitfully  ; 

liut  lovelier  far,  and  still  more  fair. 

The  earthly  form  imprinted  there  ; 

Naught  he  saw  in  tlie  heavens  above 

Was  half  so  <lear  as  his  mortal  love, 

For  he  thought  uj)on  her  looks  so  meek, 

And  he  thought  of  the  light  fiush  on  her  cheek. 

Never  again  might  he  bitsk  and  lie 

On  that  sweet  cheek  and  moonlight  eye  ; 

But  in  his  dreams  her  form  to  see, 

To  clasp  her  in  his  revery. 

To  think  upon  his  virgin  bride, 

Was  worth  all  heaven,  and  earth  beside. 

"  Lady,"  ho  cried,  "  I  have  sworn  to-night. 

On  the  word  of  a  fairy  knight. 

To  do  my  sentence-task  aright ; 

My  honor  scarce  is  free  from  stain,  — 

I  m.ay  not  soil  its  snows  again  ; 

Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe. 

Its  mandate  must  be  answered  now." 

Her  bosom  heaved  with  many  a  sigh. 

The  tear  was  in  her  droojiing  eye  ; 

But  she  led  him  to  the  palace  gate. 

And  (sdled  the  .sylphs  who  hovered  there. 
Anil  bade  them  fly  and  bi'iiig  him  straight, 

Of  clouds  condensed,  a  sable  car. 
With  charm  and  sjiell  she  blessed  it  there. 
From  all  the  fiends  of  upper  air  ; 
Then  round  him  cast  the  sh.adowy  shroud. 
And  tied  his  steed  behind  the  cloud  ; 
And  jiressed  his  hand  as  she  bade  him  fly 
Far  to  the  verge  of  the  northern  .sky. 
For  by  its  wane  and  wavering  light 
There  was  a  star  would  fall  to-night. 

Borne  afar  on  the  wings  of  the  blast. 
Northward  away  he  speeds  him  fast, 
And  his  cour.ser  follows  the  cloudy  wain 
Till  the  hoof-strokes  fall  like  patti.'ring  rain. 
The  clouds  roll  backward  as  he  flies, 
Each  flickering  star  behind  him  lies. 


-^ 


a- 


774 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-fb 


y- 


And  he  has  reached  tlie  northern  plain, 
And  backed  his  firefly  steed  again, 
Ready  to  follow  in  its  flight 
The  streaming  of  the  rocket-light. 

The  star  is  yet  in  the  vault  of  heaven. 

Hut  it  rocks  in  the  summer  gale  ; 
And  now  't  is  fitful  and  uneven, 

And  now  't  is  deadly  pale  ; 
And  now  't  is  wrapped  in  sulphur-smoke, 

And  quenched  is  its  rayless  beam  ; 
And  now  with  a  rattling  thunder-stroke 

It  bursts  in  flash  and  flame. 
As  swift  as  the  glance  of  the  arrowy  lance 

That  the  storm-spirit  flings  from  high. 
The  star-shot  flew  o'er  the  welkin  blue, 

As  it  fell  from  the  sheeted  sky. 
As  swift  as  the  wind  in  its  train  behind 

The  elfin  gallops  along  : 
The  fiends  of  the  clouds  are  bellowing  loud. 

But  the  syljihid  charm  is  strong  ; 
He  gallops  unhurt  in  the  shower  of  fire. 

While  the  cloud-fiends  lly  from  the  blaze  ; 
He  watches  each  flake  till  its  sparks  expire, 

And  rides  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 
But  he  drove  his  steed  to  the  lightning's  speed. 

And  caught  a  glimmering  spark  ; 
Tlien  wheeled  around  to  the  fairy  ground. 

And  sped  through  the  midnight  dark. 

Ouplie  and  goblm  !  imp  and  sprite  ! 

Elf  of  eve  !  and  starry  fay  ! 
Ye  that  love  the  moon's  soft  light, 

Hither,  — hither  wend  your  way  ; 
Twine  ye  in  a  jocund  ring, 

Sing  and  trip  it  merrily. 
Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  mng, 

Kound  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again 

With  dance  and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre  ; 
Pure  his  wing  and  strong  his  chain. 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire. 
Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round. 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea  ; 
Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground, 

He  flies  about  the  haunted  place. 
And  if  mortal  there  be  found, 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face  ; 
The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay. 

The  owlet's  eyes  our  lanterns  be  ; 
Thus  we  sing  and  dance  and  play 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

But  hark  !  from  tower  to  tree-top  high. 
The  sentrv-elf  his  call  has  made  ; 


A  streak  is  in  the  eastern  sky, 

Sliapes  of  moonlight !  flit  aud  fade  ! 
The  hill-tops  gleam  in  morning's  spring. 
The  skylark  shakes  his  dappled  wing, 
The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 
The  cock  has  crowed,  and  the  fays  are  gone. 
JOSEPH  Rodman  Drake. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  FAIRIES. 

Farewell  rewards  and  fairies  1 

Good  housewifes  now  may  say. 
For  :iow  foul  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they. 
And  though  the}'  sweep  their  hearths  no  less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  do. 
Yet  who  of  late,  for  cleanliness, 

Finds  si.xpence  in  her  shoe  ? 

Lament,  lament,  old  Abbeys, 

The  fairies'  lost  command  ; 
They  did  but  change  priests'  babies, 

But  some  have  changed  your  land  ; 
And  all  your  children  sprung  from  thence 

Are  now  gi'own  Puritans  ; 
Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since, 

For  love  of  your  domains. 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both, 

You  merry  wei'e  and  glad. 
So  little  care  of  sleep  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had  ; 
When  Tom  came  home  from  labor. 

Or  Cis  to  milking  rose. 
Then  merrily  went  their  tabor. 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  JIary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain  ; 
But  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James  came  in. 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

By  which  we  note  the  fairies 

Were  of  the  old  profession. 
Their  songs  were  Ave-Maries, 

Their  dances  were  procession  : 
But  now,  alas  !  they  all  are  dead. 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas  ; 
Or  farther  for  religion  fied  ; 

Or  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A  telltale  in  their  company 
Tliey  never  could  endure, 


-^ 


POEMS   OF  FANCY. 


-zrn 


And  whoso  kept  not  secrftly 

Their  mirth,  was  jiuuislu'd  sure  ; 

It  was  a  just  and  Christian  deed, 
To  pinch  sucli  black  and  blue  : 

0,  how  the  commonwealth  doth  need 

Such  justices  as  you  ! 

Richard  Curb 


fQ— 


THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAJT. 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 

Down  and  away  below. 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay  ; 
Now  the  great  winds  shorewards  blow  ; 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow  ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 

Children  dear,  let  us  away. 
This  way,  this  w'ay. 

Call  her  once  before  you  go. 

Call  once  yet. 
In  a  voice  that  she  will  know  : 

"  ilargaret !  Margaret!" 
Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear  : 
Children's  voices  wild  with  pain. 

Surely  she  will  come  again. 
Call  her  once,  and  come  away, 

This  way,  this  way. 
"  Mother  deai',  we  cannot  stay  ! 
The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret, 

Margaret  !  ilargaret ! " 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down. 

Call  no  more. 
One  last  look  at  the  white-walled  town. 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  shore. 

Then  come  down. 
She  will  not  come,  though  you  call  all  day. 

Come  away,  come  away. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  ? 

In  the  caverns  where  we  lay. 

Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell. 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewni  caverns  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep  ; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam  ; 
A\Tiere  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream  ; 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round. 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground  ; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine. 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine  ; 
Where  gi-eat  whales  come  sailing  by, 


Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Kound  the  world  forever  and  aye  ? 

When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Chililren  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 

Once  she  sat  with  you  and  me. 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea. 
And  the  youngest  sat  on  her  knee. 

She  combed  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tendc'l  it 
well. 

When  down  swung  the  sound  of  the  far-off  bell, 

She  sighed,  she  looked  up  through  the  clear  green 
sea, 

She  said,  "I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 

In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 

'T  will  be  Easter-time  in  the  world,  —  ah  me  ! 

And   I  lose  my  poor  soul,   Jlermaii,   here  with 
thee." 

I  said  :  "Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves: 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea- 
caves." 

She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  tlie 

i«y, 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 
"The  .sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan  ; 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "  in  the  world  they  say." 
"  Come,"  I  said,  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in 

the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach  in  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white-walled 

town. 
Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,  where  all  was 

still, 
To  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their 

prayers. 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climbed  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn 

with  rains, 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small 
leaded  panes. 
She  sat  by  the  pillar  ;  we  saw  her  clear  ; 
"  Margaret,  hist !  come  ([uick,  we  are  here. 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "we  are  here  alone. 
The  sea  gi'ows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look. 
For  her  eyes  were  sealed  to  the  holy  book. 
' '  Loud  prays  the  priest ;  shut  stands  the  door. '' 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more, 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more. 


Down,  down,  down, 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea. 


-^ 


f 


776 


POEMS   OF  FAXCY. 


-*-9i 


y- 


She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  hummiug  town, 

Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  -what  she  sings  :  "  0  joy,  0  joy, 
From  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its 

toy, 
From  the  priest  and  the  hell,  and  the  holy  well. 

From  the  wheel  where  I  spun. 

And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun." 

And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 

Singing  most  joyfully. 

Till  the  shuttle  falls  from  her  hand. 

And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,   and  looks  at  the 
sand. 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea  ; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare  ; 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear. 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye. 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 
A  long,  long  sigh. 
For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden, 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  liair. 

Come  away,  away,  children, 
Come,  children,  come  do\vn. 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  colder, 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door  ; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling. 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl,  — 
Singing,  "  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she. 
And  alone  dwell  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight. 
When  soft  the  winds  blow, 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight. 
When  spring-tides  are  low  ; 
Wl\en  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starred  with  broom  ; 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 
On  the  blanched  sands  a  gloom  : 
Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 
Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie  : 
Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 
We  will  gaze  from  the  sand-hills, 
At  the  white  sleejiing  town  ; 
At  the  church  on  the  hillside  — 
And  then  come  back,  down. 


Singing,  "  There  dwells  a  loved  one. 
But  cruel  is  she  : 
She  left  lonely  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea. ' 


MATTHEW  Arnold. 


THE  FISHEE. 

The  waters  purled,  the  waters  swelled,  — 

A  fisher  sat  near  by, 
And  earnestly  his  line  beheld 

With  tranquil  heart  and  eye  ; 
And  while  he  sits  and  watches  there. 

He  sees  the  waves  divide. 
And,  lo  !  a  maid,  with  glistening  hair. 

Springs  from  the  troubled  tide. 

She  sang  to  him,  she  spake  to  him,  — 

"Why  lur'st  thou  from  below. 
In  cruel  mood,  my  tender  brood, 

To  die  in  day's  fierce  glow  ! 
Ah  !  didst  thou  know  how  sweetly  there 

The  little  fishes  dwell. 
Thou  wouldst  come  down  then-  lot  to  share, 

And  be  forever  well. 

"  Bathes  not  the  smiling  sun  at  night  — 

The  moon  too  —  in  the  waves  ? 
Comes  he  not  forth  more  fresh  and  bright 

From  ocean's  cooUng  caves  ? 
Canst  thou  unmoved  that  deep  world  see, 

That  heaven  of  tranquil  blue. 
Where  thine  own  face  is  beckoning  thee 

Down  to  the  eternal  dew?" 

The  waters  purled,  the  waters  swelled,  — 

They  kissed  his  naked  feet ; 
His  heart  a  nameless  transport  held, 

As  if  his  love  did  greet. 
She  spake  to  him,  she  sang  to  him  ; 

Then  all  with  him  was  o'er,  — 
Half  drew  she  him,  half  sank  he  in,  — 

He  sank  to  rise  no  more. 


TAM  O'SHANTER. 


When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 
An'  folk  begin  to  fcvk  the  gate  ; 
While  wo  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy. 


^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-a 


An'  getting  fou  ami  uuco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 
Tliat  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  O'Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses). 

0  Tarn  !  hadst  thou  been  but  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum  ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober  ; 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller. 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller  ; 
That  every  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on ; 
That  at  tlie  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon. 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in  Doon  ; 
Or  eatched  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  gi'eet 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet. 
How  monie  lengthened  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

But  to  our  tale  :  Ae  market  night 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right. 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely  ; 
And  at  his  elbow  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony. 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither  ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter, 
And  aye  the  ale  was  gi-owing  better  ; 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favors  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  ; 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus  ; 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  mau  sae  happy, 
E'en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy ; 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleasure  ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread  ; 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed  ; 
Or  like  the  snow-fall  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white,  —  then  melts  forerer  ; 
( h-  like  the  horealis  race, 


That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place  ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  fomi 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide  ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride  ; 

That  hour  o'  night's  black  arch  the  keystane, 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in  ; 

And  sic  a  night  he  takes  the  road  in 

As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed  ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellowed  ; 
That  night  a  child  might  understand 
The  Deil  had  liusiness  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 
(A  better  never  lifted  leg,) 
Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire,  — 
Whyles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Wliyles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whyles  glowering  round  wi'  pradent  cares. 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares  ; 
Kirk-AUoway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoorod  ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak  's  neck-bane  ; 
And  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  himters  fand  the  murdered  bairn  ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hanged  hersel'. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods  ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  through  the  woods  ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 
When,  glimmering  through  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze  ! 
Through  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  I 
Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil  ; 
Wi'  usquebae  we  '11  face  the  Devil  !  — 
The  swats  sae  reamed  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  Deils  a  liodle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonished. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonished, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 
And,  wow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance  : 
Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast,  — 
A  towzie  tyke,  lilack,  gi'im,  and  large,— 


U- 


^ 


fl-- 


778 


POEMS  OF  FAXCY. 


n 


u 


To  gio  them  music  was  his  ohaige  ; 

Ho  sci'Ctted  the  pipes  ami  gait  tliem  skirl 

Till  roof  nil'  iiiftei-s  u'  iliil  dill. 

Collins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shawed  the  dead  ill  their  last  dresses  ; 

And  by  some  devilish  oantiip  sleight, 

Kaeh  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light,  — 

liy  which  heroic  Tiim  was  able 

To  note,  upon  the  haly  tiililc, 

A  niiii'dcrer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims  ; 

Twa  sjuin-lang,  wee,  uiiehristened  bairns  ; 

A  thief,  now  eutted  fnie  a  rape, 

W'V  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blnid  red  rusted ; 

Five  scyniitai's,  wi'  muitler  crusted  ; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 

A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 

\Vhoiu  his  i\in  sou  o'  life  bereft,  — 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft  ; 

Three  lawyere'  tongues  turned  inside  out, 

Wi'  lies  seamed  like  a  beggar's  clout  ; 

And  priests'  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 

Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk  : 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu' 

Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Taminie  glowered,  amazed  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious ; 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 
Tlie  dancers  (juick  and  quicker  Hew  ; 
They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit. 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark. 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tam,  0  Tain  !  had  they  been  ipieans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  of  ereeshie  llamien. 
Been  snaw-whito  seventeen-hunder  linen  ; 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  phish,  o'  gnid  blue  hair, 
1  wad  hae  gi'en  them  alf  my  hunlies 
Kor  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies  ! 

But  withered  beldams,  aulil  and  droll, 
Kigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock,  — 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  Ai'  brawlie. 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie. 
That  night  inlisted  in  the  core 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore  ; 
For  nioiiie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perished  monie  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meiklo  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  conntry-side  in  fear), 
ller  cutty  sark  o'  Paisley  ham. 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty. 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vaunty.  — 
Ah  !  little  kenned  thy  reverend  grannie 


That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie 
Wi"  twa  puiid  Scots  ('t  was  a'  her  riches) 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches  ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cower, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power  ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  Hang 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang), 
And  how  Tam  stooil  like  aiie  bewitched. 
And  thought  his  very  ecu  enriched. 
Ev'n  Satan  glowered,  and  fidgcd  fu'  fain, 
And  botched  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main  j 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither,  — 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither. 
And  roai-s  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  !" 
And  in  an  instjint  a'  was  dark  ; 
And  scarcely  had  ho  Maggie  ridliod. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  lienls  assail  their  byke  ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes. 
When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  Cutch  the  thitf.'  resounds  aloud  ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  —  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Taiii  !  ah.  Tain  !  thou  '11  get  thy  fairin'  ! 
In  hell  they  '11  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin'  — 
Kate  soon  will  bo  a  woefu'  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig  ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss,  — 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  i:ould  make, 
The  tient  n  biil  she  had  to  shake  ; 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  re-st, 
Hani  upon  noble  Maggie  pre'st. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettlo  : 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle,  — 
Ae  spring  brought  alf  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail  : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rnnip. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o"  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son  take  heed  ; 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 
t^r  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Kemember  Tam  O'Shanter's  mare. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELI>f. 

Hamelin  Town 's  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  City  ; 

The  riviM-  Wcser,  deep  and  wide, 
■Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side  ; 

A  pleas;inter  spot  you  never  spied  ; 


-^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


779 


-a 


fB-- 


But  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  live  Imndreil  years  ago, 

'J'o  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin  was  a  jiity. 

li^ts  1 
Thi-y  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  hit  the  babies  in  the  eradles. 
And  ate  the  cliceses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  lieked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladles. 
Split  ojicn  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats. 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  liats. 
And  even  sjjoiled  the  women's  chats, 

ISy  drowning  their  speaking 

Willi  slii-ieking  and  squeaking 
in  lifty  diliei'ent  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

'J'o  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking  : 
"  "J'  is  clear,"  cried  they,  "our  Mayor 's  a  noddy ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation,  —  shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What 's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  ! 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corpoiation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sate  in  counsel,  — 
At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence  : 

"  Fur  a  guilder  I  'd  my  ermine  gown  sell  ; 
I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence  ! 

It 's  ea-sy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  bi-ain,  — 

I  'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again. 

I  've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 

0  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap  !  " 

Just  as  he  .said  this,  what  should  hap 

At  tlie  chamber  door  but  a  gentle  ta[i  ? 

"  Bless  u.s,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "what 's  that  ? " 

"Come  in  !  "  —  the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger  ; 

And  in  did  come  the  .strangest  figure  ; 

He  .advanced  to  the  council-teble  : 

And,  "Plea.se  your  honors,"  said  he,  "I  'ra  able. 

By  means  of  a  secret  chann,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run. 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  ! 

Vi4,"  said  he,  "  poor  piper  as  I  am. 
In  Tartary  1  freed  the  Cham, 
Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats  ; 

1  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats  ; 
And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders,  — 
I  f  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats, 
Will  you  give  rne  a  thousand  guilders  ? " 
"One  ?  fifty  thousand  !"  was  the  exclamation 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 
Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 


As  if  lie  knew  what  magic  slept 
In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while  ; 

I  Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 

To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 

And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 

Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is  sjirinklcd ; 

And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered. 

You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered  ; 

And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling  ; 

And  the  grumbling  gi'ew  to  a  mighty  i-umbling  ; 

And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 

Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats. 

Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats. 

Grave  old  ploddei-s,  gay  young  friskers. 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cou.sins, 
Cocking  tales  and  pricking  whiskei's  ; 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens. 
Brothers,  sistei's,  husbands,  wives,  — 
Followed  the  piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  ])iped  advancing, 
Anil  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  ]>crished 
Save  one  who,  stout  as  J  ulius  Cajsar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Iliit-land  home  his  commentary, 
Which  was:    "At  the  first  shrill   notes  of  the 

i  I'il"-'. 

I I  heard  a  sound  as  of  .scraping  tripe, 
!  And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 

!  Into  a  cider-press's  gripe,  — 

i  And  a  moving  away  of  picklc-tub-boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 

'  And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks  ; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  p.saltcry 
Is  breatlied)  called  out,  0  rats,  rejoice  ! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery  ' 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon. 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon  ! 

1  And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 

i  All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  .shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 

I  Just  as  mcthought  it  said.  Come,  bore  me  !  — 

I I  found  the  We.ser  rolling  o'er  me." 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamclin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  locki'd  the  steeple  ; 
"  Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles  ! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes  ' 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats  ! "  —  when  suddenly,  up  the  face 
Of  tlie  piper  perked  in  the  market-place. 
With  a   "  First,   if  you  please,    my  thousand 
giiilders  !  " 


-ff 


a- 


7H() 


J'OJiMS  OF  FANCY. 


^   IIiuiihiiimI  Kliil.li.m!   Hi.'  M.iyur  Inolir.l  l.lnc  ; 
Mo  <liil  Uin  Coj'iKimMnn  lun. 

I''nl    .'i.lMX'lldilHK  r»   JIhMin    fal'll   llflVIXI 

Willi  i'Imi,.|,  M.m..|l..,  Viii-.l..(!nivo,  Ilnnlt  ; 

Anil  IiiiU'IIki  riiuiii'y  wiiiilil  ni|ili'nl»li 

'I'liclr  im.IIiii'm  \<\m™l  ImiU  wlUi  UliiiiiiHli. 

'I'"  |iii.y  IIiIm  hiiiii  Id  ii.  wiuli|cirlii«  lnlliiw 

Wil  h  n  ny|iHV  iMiiil,  (if  ri.il  iiiiil  yrllnw  I 

"  l'iiMiiiln,"i|imMi  llui  Miiyor,  williii  krinwhiKwInk, 

"Our  liuiilnnnH  wim  ilmi"  at,  llic  livrr'a  lirink  i 

VVii  Kiuv  wllli  iiiir  I'yc'M  llii'  VMiiiiin  hIiiIi, 

Anil  M'linl: '»  iliwl  I'liiri  I'MMin  In  lil'n,   I  lliilik. 

Hi.,  IVii'iiil,  wii'i'n  iml  lliu  IblltH  in  (.lirink 

li'iiiin  llii'ilnl.y  (irKlvltiKydii  Himinlliln^  I'linlriuk, 

Anil  II  iniitliir  nl'  innnny  Ui  ]iiil.  in  yimr  piikii ; 

Hill  III!  I'or  tlin  xuiliiiTH,  wlllil  wiixpnkii 

(If  llii'Mi,  III!  yiiii  vi'iy  Willi  know,  wiih  in  Jokr. 

lli.M.lr.  nnr  Inwiw  lii'ivii  niM.lii  n»  lliiil\y  ; 

A  IJM.ii.'mii.l  |Mii|.|.-rn  I  <',,i,in,  Ink,'  lilly  I" 

Till'  jMiicr'H  I'lii'i'  li'll,  anil  lir  i  riid, 
■•  Nil  ri-lllliiK  I   I  ciiiri  Willi,  I  liiniiilii, 
I  'vi'  |ii'(iniiiii'il  111  vl»il.  Iiy  illi r  Hum 

ItllK'lllI,   IMXI  II I'l   Ulli  '|»'i 

1)1  lliii  hmil  I'unk'x  |iiiIIii»;m,  nil  lir 'i<  liili  In, 
Kor  liiivliiK  li'l'l,  in  Llin  l'iili|,li'ii  kilrln'ii, 
I  II  n   Mi'ill   111  lirnl|iliinM  llii  Hinvi  Viil', 
Willi  hini  I  {M'livi'il  nil  liniKiiin  iIi'Ivit  ; 
Willi  yon,  .Iom'I   lliiiik   I  'II  liiili'  n  iiliviT  I 
Anil  loIKi  who  |.iil  nil'  in  n  |m'i'iion 
Miiy  liii'l  till'  |ii|H'  lo  iiiiollii'i  rni'lniin." 

'■  llmvr'i'iiiilllii'  M.iyor,  "il' yi'lhink  nilirnnk 

ll.'illK  H'ol'll'   hl'llll'll   I  hull  M  I k  I 

lii.iilti'ii  hy  II  lii/y  lihiiM 

Willi  iilln  |>i|miiliil  vi'Hliilv  pli'Imhl  ) 

Voiullii Ii'ii  n-i,  li'llmv  '     Do  yonr  woi'Ht, 

llh'W  yon.   |M{H'  llii'io  till  you  Imnil  1" 

II '  nmri'  hi<  m|<'|>I  iiilo  Iho  nIii'i'I  ; 

Anil  III  lii'i  li|iH  iiKiilii 
l.iii'l  hill  loiii-;  |ii|>n  III'  Hniinilh  hIi'iiIkIiI.  riino  ; 

Anil  111'  hi'  Mi'u-  Ihi'iiii  iinliw  (miu'Ii  HWcot 
Soil  iioli'M  III  yi'l  nuiHlrliin'H  (nmiilng 

Ni'viT  niivi'  Iho  i.nni|ilni'ml  iilr) 
'riino  wiiM  a  niNlling  lliiil.  hiu'Iiu'iI  liko  ii  hiiBllIng 
<  n  iiii'nyriiiwiliijniillinj/iil  iiili'liin^rnnilliiiMtlliiK; 

Siuiilll.'.l  «.'ii'|iiilli'iiin;.  w IrnMlii.iwcliilli.rillg, 

Lilllr  liHii'hii'hi|'|>in,'t,  mill  lillli'  lonKiuw  rliuttor- 

inr.; 

An. I,    IiIm'   hiwhi   in    n   hinnyiinl   when   luiili'y  \H 

'.nil  I. Tin;;, 
I  nil  I'linii'  III..  .'liil.li'i'H  rnnniiif;  : 
All  I  ho  III  III.  lioyHiiml  kiiIm, 
W  nil  niny  ..liimkH  iinil  lliix.'ii  .'uiIm, 

An.l  ii|.iir'kllnK  .'y.'K I  l.'.'Hi  liku  ii.'iii'In, 

■ril|'|iin)j;  iin.l  Hki|i|iinK.  nin  in.'irily  iiIIit 

ri"  uon.l.'iiiil  niiuiii.  with  HliimtinK  mill  laiiKhd'i'. 


Till'  Miiyoi   win  'liiinli,  iiml  Iho  ('iniiiiil  ...I 

Am  illhi'y  Willi  iliini^;.il  iiilo  lilooli,,  ol' wo.,.1, 

Unidili'  U<  niovi.  ii  hL.'|i,  w  ny 

'I'll  111.'  .'hililri'ii  nirnily  Hki|i|iinj<  liy,  — 

Anil  .'..nl.l.mly  ri.llnw'wiUi  tin.  .'yr' 

TliiiL  ,jiiyiiiiH  rjfdwil  al  tlio  iiipi'r'H  Imck, 

Dill.  Iiiiw  Mm  Miiyiir  wiih  on  tlio  rack, 

Anil  Irln.  wi'.iU'lii'.l  ('niMii'il'n  lioHoinH  liiial;, 

Am  tliii  iiipi'i'  Uirni'il  rr.nn  tin.  liiili  .Slri'i'l 

To  wli.To  Mm  W.'HiT  r.ill.'il  11h  wnt.'m 

KIkIiI'  in  Mil.  wiiy  of  Mi.'lr  hihih  and  ilanglili'rn  I 

ll.iw.'vor.  In.  Inrni'.l  I'l'iiin  houMi  to  wi.hI, 

Anil  1.1  Kiippi<lliur)<  Hill  liiit  HtopH  luUlruHHud, 

An.l  iil'Uir  lilin  Mm  idillihuii  prunauil ; 

Oi'.'id  wail  Mm  .joy  In  (.viTy  lii'(.a»l. 

"  III!  iii'Vcr  I'lin  i-riwH  Mini  nii«li(y  lop  I 

11.1 'm  r.ir<'..il  111  l.il,  Mm  [lipiiiK  drop, 

And  wi.  hIuiII  Hill,  our  .'liildr.'n  xtop  !  " 

WImii,  111,  iiH  Mmy  rt.a.'ln'd  Mm  nnninlain'H  Midi', 

A  w.indrouM  porljil  op.'iii'il  wido. 

Ah  il'  II  niiv.'rn  wiih  Hiiildniily  li.ilkiw.id  ; 

And  llin  pip.'rinlviin.'.nlainl  Mn.  I'ldldri'ii  I'lillowi'd; 

And  wli.'ii  111!  wcr.i  in,  lo  llm  vrry  IiimI, 

Till'  .1.1.11'  ill  Mill  ni.innliiiii-Mi.l.'  mIiiiI.  I'iimI. 

Hid  I  Hiiy  nil  I   No  !   Ilim  wiim  Ii , 

An.l  .'.mill  mil.  diini'i'  Mm  wlioli'  ol  Mm  way  ; 
An.l  in  iil'li'r  y.iai'H,  H' yon  w.nil.l  lilunm 

ilJH  HIldlll'MM,   Im  WIIH  ilHiid  lo  Hiiy,  — 

"  II  'm. lull  III  our  town  Hin.'n  my  |ilayiniili'M  l.d'l  I 

I  .'iin'l.  I'lirniil  Mint  1  'in  li.'riil't 

( II' nil  Mm  pk'aHanlNiKlilM  Mmy  w<i', 

Wliii'h  llm  plpi'i'  aJHo  priiniiM.iil  iim  ; 

li'or  Im  l.'il  UM,  IniHMi.l,  In  a.j.iy.iUH  land, 

.loiinni^'  Mm  l.ivvn  iiinl  jiml  al  liand, 

VVIii'i'i.  waliii'H  Kimlmil  and  I'luil-lrcon  grow, 

An.l  ll.iw.iiH  put  I'.irlli  a  I'liircr  liiio, 

An.l  i'v.,.i'yl,liiiix  wiih  Hiraii/,;..  iiiid  now  ; 

Tim  MpiirrowH  wi'i'o  liriglili'r  Mian  pnni'o.'kH  li.'ro, 

And  llinir  ilogH  iinlriin  our  hill.iw  il..i'r, 

An.l  lioimydii'i.H  Ini.l  l.wl  Mi.'ir  hMiikh, 

.And  lioiMi'M  w.Ti.  li.irn  willi  i'iihU.m'  wiiijfH  ; 

An.l  ,iuHl  HM  1  lii'i'iini.i  iiHHnr.iil 

My  lanm  I'o.il  woulil  Im  Mpi'o.lily  .•nriul, 

Thii  inilHl.i  HLippml  and  I  NtnoilMlill, 

An.l  I'.iun.l  niyMi'll'.MilMi.h'  IIh'  Hill, 

li.'l'l.  iiloim  iiKidiiHl  my  will. 

To  ),;ii  now  lini]iin/,;  ii«  h.loi.', 

An.l  n.'V.'i  li.iar.iI'Miiil  .ouiiliy  mori'  !" 


■nil';  iiAVKN. 

(Im'K  upon  a  iiiiilniKhl  .In'uiv.  wliil.'  I  pondiri'.l 

w.'iik  and  w.mry. 
Cvi'V  many  a  ipniiut  and  .'nrioiiM  vliun.'  .'I'  lor 

K.illi'n  lor.', 
Whil..  I  n.iildiiil,  nmiMy  napping,  Hn.ld.mly  llinr' 

CHIIKi  II  lllp|lillg, 


4iJ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


781 


n 


A«  of  noiriB  one  gently  ruii|niig,  lapping  at  luy  ,  "  Hurely,"  saiil  1,  "  Huiirly  tliat  U  oonielliing  at 

cljamber  iloor,  |  njy  wiaduw-lattiaj ; 

"  'T  in  Home  visiUji,"  I  iiiuttciwl,    "  lapping  at    Let  nie  »ee  tlicii  wliat  thereat  i«,  and  this  inyn- 
my  i:liai<il«r  iloor  ;  I  teiy  explore,  — 

Only  tliin,  anJ  notliing  more."  l-et  my  lirail  l/eutill  a  moment,  and  thi/i  myistery 

i:X[)loie  ;  — 
All,  di«tinetly  I  reinem lier,  it  wa«  in  the  hleak  "f  in  the  wind,  and  nothing  more," 

J  Jei.-em  her, 
And  eaeli  nefiarat*;  dying  enihei'  wrought  itu  glio«t  j 

upon  the  \\'Ktv.  '  ,      ^,                     .               .                  ,.    ■         .     , 

,.        ,      I      ■  I    I  .1  ■   \      I    I    I    I"  there  hU-miiA  a  Htat'dy  raven  of  the  Kaint  y 

Ivigerly   1    wmheil  the  morrow  ;  vainly   I    liad                    ,    ' '  „               '                                 ' 

1 .  ,     1  ■                  "IflyH  ol  yore. 

nought  U>  borrow  v       ,     ■          .   .                ,    . 

,.                1      i_                   1-  <        ^ot  the  leaiit  olwuianee  niiwie  he ;  not  an  iniiUint 

Irom  my  Ijooks  isureeaw;  of  (sorrow,  — w^rrow  loi  i  ,                ,  ,        ' 

,,     ,     .  ,  Btotiped  oj'  lilayed  he  ; 

the  lost  Lenore,  -  „ ,    _' 1 ,.  ,J^  ^  _,  ,  _• ,     , 


Oix:n  then  I  (lung  the  shutter,  when,  with  iriuny 
a  llirt  and  llutler. 


fH^- 


I'or  the  rare  and  ladiant  maiden  whom  the  angelb 
named  Lenore,  — 
Namidess  here  loreverniorc. 

And  the  uilken,  ku\,  uiicertiin  ruHlling  of  ea<:li 

puiple  enrtain 
Thrillcil  me,  —  filled  me  with  fantaslie  t<.Trors 

never  fi-lt  hefore  ; 
8o  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,   I 

(itood  ri-jxratitig, 
"  'T  Ih  (some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my 

chamhei'  door,  — 
Home  Iat»i   vitiitor    entreating  ifntranee  at    my 

ehamlKfr  door ; 
Tliat  it  is,  and  nothing  more," 

l're«ently  my  8oul  grew  stionger  ;  lienitating  then 
no  longer, 

"Hir,"Baiii  I,  "or  niadanj,  tiuly  your  forgive- 
ness I  imjilore  ; 

lint  the  fiiet  i«,  1  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you 
came  rap|)ing, 

And  »o  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my 
(;liamlx;r  door, 

That  I  wmxca:  waji  Hurc  I  heard  you" — Here  I 
o|x;ncd  wide  the  door  ; 
Darkness  tliere,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  pciring,  long   I  nt/jod 

there,  wondering,  fearing. 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreanu*  no  mort-il  ever  dared 

to  dream  l*fore  ; 
lint  the  silenec  wan  unbrolcjn,  and  the  il/irkness 

gave  no  t/iken, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  wliis- 

pirwl  word  "  Lenore  !  " 
This  I  whi(i))ered,  and  an  c<;ho  tnunnured  l>aek 

the  word  "Lenore !" 
Merely  thiw,  and  nothing  more. 

I'aek  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  withi/i 

me  burning. 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  hjuder 

tljan  before  ; 


Dut,  with  mii-n  of  lord  or  hidy,  perched  alxjve 

my  chamlxM'  door,  — 
rerchcl  upon  a  bunt  of  I'alhis,  jiint  aljove  my 

chamber  door,  — 
I'erched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

'I'hen  thuieljony  bird  lji:giiiling  njy  sad  fancy  into 
smiling, 

liy  the  grave  and  st/rn  decoriiui  of  the  counte- 
nance it  ttor(;, 

"Though  thy  crest  Ik;  shorn  and  sliavcn,  thou," 
I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven  ; 

fyhastly,   grim,   and   ancient  ravi:n,    wandering 
from  the  nightly  shore, 

Tell  me  wliat  thy  hjidly  name  is  on  the  night's 
I'lut/jidan  shore  ',  " 
Quoth  the  ravi;n,  "  Nevermore  I  " 

Much    I  marveled  thi«  ungainly  fowl   to  hear 
disconrsi;  tfi  plainly. 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning,    little  rele- 
vancy liore  ; 

Korwe  cannot  help. -igrwing  tliat  no  living  human 
being 

Kver  yet  wa«  blessed  with  weeing  bird  above  his 
cliiimlxrr  door, 

llird  or  b<;.'ist  u|kjii  the  8<;ulptuiwlbu8t  above  hii) 
chamlwr  door. 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore  I" 

I5ut  the  raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust, 

s[>oke  only 
Tliat  one  word,  as  if  hi«  soul  in  that  one  word 

he  did  out|(our. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttere<l,  —  not  a  feather 

then  he  llutt/:rcd,  — 
Till   I   scarcely  more  than   mutt/jrwl,    "  Other 

frii^nds  liave  flown  ly;fore,  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  ho[K* 

have  flown  Ijefoie," 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore  I " 

.Startlwl  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 

spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  wliat  it  uttem  Is  its  only 

»t<jck  and  store. 


■-& 


t& 


78S 


POEMS  OF  FANCY'. 


-Ui 


6- 


Cawght  fivm  soiiio  vmlmppy  mustov,  whom  uu- 

iiioiviful  ilisastor 
FoMowkhI  fast  tout  followed  fiistor,  till  his  song 

Olio  I'linlou  Iviv, 
Till  tlio  ilii'j^'s  of  his  hoi'O  tlmt  niolnuoholy  Imr- 

ilou  Knv,  — 
Of  •  Novi'vmoiv,  —  iiovonnoiv  ! ' " 

Uut  thoravoH  still  boguiliiijtiill  my  sjul  soul  into 

sniiUiig, 
Straijjtit  1  wlioele*!  «  oushionoil  s«>t  in  fivnt  of 

Wvxl  and  linst  and  tloor, 
Tlu>u,  niH>n  the  volvot  sinkinj;,  I  l>otot>k  myself 

to  Unking 
Fancy  nnto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous 

l>ii\l  of  Yoiv- 
■What  this  gvim,  \ing!\inly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and 

ominous  Wnl  of  yoiv,  — 
51  cant  in  civi»king  "  Novcrmow  !  " 

This  1  Silt  engaged  in  guessing,  l>ut  no  syllable 
oxi>ivssing 

To  the  fowl  whose  tiery  eyes  now  burned  into 
my  K>som's  coiv  ; 

This  and  nioiv  I  sjit  divining,  with  my  head  at 
ease  iwliniiig 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp- 
light glo)*totl  o'er, 

H\it  whoso  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp- 
light gUviting  o'er, 
She  shall  pivss  —  all  !  nevermoiv  ! 

Then  inctliouglit  the  air  givw  denser,  ixn-funied 
fivni  an  unseen  censor, 

Swung  hy  scmphin),  whose  fixitfalls  tinkled  on 
the  tultinl  thnn'. 

"  ^Vn>tch,"  1  critnl,  "  thy  liixl  hath  lent  theo,  — 
by  these  ang\'ts  he  hath  sent  tlico 

Eosittte,  —  wsnite  and  nejK-nthe  fivni  the  mem- 
ories of  l.cnoiv  ! 

QualV.  O,  nuair  this  kind  neixmthe,  and  foi^t 
this  lost  l.euoiv  !  " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

•"  Ihvphct  ! "  said  1,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet 

still,  if  bii\l  or  devil  ! 
Whether    tempter    sent,    or    whether    temiiest 

tossed  thct'  heiv  ashoiv. 
Desolate  yet  all  undauntt'd,  on  this  desert  huul 

cnchanttHl,  — 
On  this  home  V>y  honvrhauutevl,  —  tell  me  truly, 

1  iinploiv,  — 
Is  there  —  is  theiv  Iwlm  in  liilead  ?  —  toll  mo, 

—  tell  me,  1  implore  ! " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermoiv  ! " 

"  Pi-oiJiet  ;  "  said  1,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet 

still,  if  biivl  or  devil ! 
l?y  that  heaven  that  K'lids  aKne  us  —  hy  that 

Ood  wo  iKitli  adoiv. 


Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  wiihin  the 
distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  an- 
gels name  l.cnoii', 

t^lasp  a  fair  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  au- 
gids  name  l.cnoiv  I" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Kevernum'  !" 

•■  15tf  that  woul  our  sign  of  iwrting,   l>ii\l  or 

tiend  ! "  1  slirieked,  ujvstarting,  — 
"Oct  thee  loick  into  the  temjwstand  tJie  night's 

I'lutonian  slioiv  ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy 

soul  hath  spoken  ! 
l.cijve  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  —  unit  the  bust 

above  my  doin' ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy 

form  from  oil'  my  door  ! " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermoiv  !  " 

And  the   raven,  never  Hitting,  still   is  sitting, 

still  is  silting 
On    the  l>Jillid  bust   of   Talhis,  just  above   my 

chamber  door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  swming  of  a  demon 

that  is  ilrtiaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  stivaniing  throws 

his  shadow  on  the  lloor  ; 
And  my  sonl  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies 

lloating  on  the  floor 
Shall  U<  liftiHl  —  iifiYrmon ! 

l^'UOAR  ALLAN  IN^K 


THE  LAKE  OF  THE  DISMAL  SWAUtT 


RITTBN  AT  NO 


•lRG1^ 


kv,l 


"  They  tell  of  «  jmhiik  «wu  >Yho  U\^l  his  iitiiu)  uiwii  the  .K-ath  of 
Kirl  he  Kn-e*l,  mvX  whi\  ).tKUteut>-  ,h>.\pi»e^rtHi:  (wni  his  fUeiuK 
■its  never  (tt^erwarxls  he.tM  of.  .-Vs  he  Iwtl  ftv,iueiwly  s.\Ul  h\  his 
,tviiv,;s  th,«  the  tiifl  VV.1S  not  (U-tttl.  l>*tt  Kone  to  the  UisioAl  Sw»iii|>. 

is  siii'iHVseO  he  h.t.l  wmulerfsl  into  thill  dfeaty  wlMeriiess.  (i«(l 
htiuser.  or  bcvit  lost  to  sortie  of  its  tlr«a^lfVll  mo- 

The  liievlt  Oisiit.il  Swnnt)^  Is  ten  ortvvehtl  miles  dtstnnt  (tsvn  Nor- 
(l.«lk.  anil  the  Uko  in  the  miUUW  of  it  (tlbout  seven  miles  Ion.;*  is 
calleil  Urnnunwwl's  INmtl 

"  TiiKY  made  her  a  grave  tiw  cold  and  damp 

For  n  soul  tso  warm  and  true  ; 
And  she 's  g»ine  to  the  Lake  of  the  Pisinal  Swamp. 
Whciv  all  night  loiisj.  by  «  tiivtly  lamp. 

She  iKuldles  her  ^iSJ'canw. 

"And  her  tiivfly  lamp  1  soon  -shall  stv. 

And  her  (Middle  1  soon  shall  hear ; 
Long  and  loving  mir  life  shall  Ih>, 
.\nd  I  '11  hide  the  miiitl  in  a  cypivss-tive, 
When  the  ftiotstep  of  death  is  nt>ar  !  " 

Avray  to  the  dismal  sswamp  he  siveds,  — 
His  jwth  was  ruggx-d  and  soiv. 


-^ 


©- 


J'OEMH  OF  FANCY. 


^ 


Through  tangle]  junij*<;r,  bcls  of  ifjAn, 
Ttirough  uiany  a  fi;n  wh'.-rc  the  neriiviit  fctds, 
And  man  never  tro<l  Jjefore  ! 

And  when  on  the  earth  be  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  Blum>j«r  his  eyeliihi  kiiew, 
He  lay  where  the  <lea<lly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomnus  tear,  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  hli«t';rii)g  dew ! 

And  msir  him  the  she-wolf  stirred  the  brake, 
And  the  copj*er-suake  br'sithwl  in  liis  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  drearn  awake, 
"  0,  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?  " 

He  saw  the  I^kc,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  mirfa/^:  playwl,  — 
"  Welcjme,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  one's  light  I  " 
And  the  dim  shore  cihoe*]  for  many  a  night 

The  name  of  tlie  death-c</ld  maid  ■ 

Till  he  hoUowcl  a  )x>at  of  the  birchen  l/ark. 
Which  carriwl  hirn  off  from  shore  ; 

Far  he  followcl  the  meteor  6j>ark, 

The  wind  was  high  and  the  dourls  were  ilark, 
And  the  boat  retumcl  no  more. 

But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp. 

This  lover  and  mavl  so  true 
Are  seen,  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp, 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

And  i<addle  their  white  canoe  ! 

THOMA*;  MOORE. 


And  thus  s'l/ake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  briglit-eycl  mariner ; 

[The  ancient  mariner,  U&vin;;  rwklessly  eUiu 
an  nUfHtr'/hH,  "the  bird  of  tiOtA  ouifm,"  has 
bfju;;!)!  a  curse  ui>on  hiuiieir  aii<J  the  wh'jle 
tihijj'ti  coujj/auy.] 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  droptjJ^Jj^J^ 

down,  —  Kiddcnly 

'T  was  sa/i  a*  sad  (xjuld  Ije  ; 
And  we  di<l  sfieak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea. 

All  in  a  hot  and  copjxir  sky 
The  blooily  sun,  at  noon, 
IJight  up  alxn-e  the  m.ist  did  stand, 
Xo  bigger  tlian  the  iii'xiu. 

Day  after  day,  day  aft/.-r  day. 

We  stuck,  —  nor  br<iath  nor  motion  ; 

As  idle  a*  a  jwinted  ship 

L'j»on  a  j/ainU-d  o'./;an. 

Water,  water  everywhere,  *uu!^ 

And  all  the  lx«rds  did  shrink  ;  i<zimw 

Water,  water  everywhere, 
Kor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  0  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  I*  '. 
Yea,  slirny  things  did  crawl  with  1^ 
t,'fx>n  the  slimy  sea  ! 


EIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAEINEE. 

Aa^^^iM  If  ig  aj,  ancient  mariner, 
••xatOi      And  he  stopi«th  one  of  three. 


Unto  (Mden"  By  thy  long  gray  Ijeard  and  glittering 

ding  f«ta,  eye, 

ah  CM*.      N^ow  wherefore  stoj/p'st  thou  me  ? 

The  bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 

And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 

The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set,  — 

ifayst  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand  : 

"There  was  a  ship,"  ^juoth  he. 

"  Hold    off !    unhand    me,    graybeard 

]'>on  '. "  — 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

VS:^^  He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye,  — 
ii.^sl    '^"''  '*"'l'l>"J?-^^it  BttxA  still ; 
It:.;  •rvt  <A   Hc  listeHs  like  a  three  vears'  child  ; 
Ui-.rri  aoD.  The  manner  hath  his  wilL 

^'  h's      The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone,  — 
He  cannot  choose  hut  hear  ; 


Alx.iut,  alxjut,  in  reel  and  rout. 
The  death-fires  dan':«d  at  ni^it ; 
'  The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

And     every    tongue,     through    titter 

drougljt, 
Was  withercl  at  the  root ; 
We  wuld  not  s-i>eak,  no  more  than  if 
We  liad  been  choked  with  soot. 


Ah  !  well-a-day  I  what  eril  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  '. 
Inst/jad  of  the  cross,  the  allxitross 
A'l'jut  my  neck  was  hung. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone,  J 

Mow:  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  '.  g 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on  i> 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  l«autiful  I  ^ 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  ;  g 

And  a  thousand,  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on,  —  and  so  did  I. 


rvjafi  bit 


tr 


i 


e 


784 


/■('/'.M/.s'  or  FANCY. 


■-Cli 


r,X,      M".'l>.Mu,.,.Mll„.n.lli„KM,..,. 

IMUVII,,  I     |,„,|„,|    „| (|„.    ,,|j.;   ,|,VU, 

Ana  ih.'i.'  iiira,..a  m.,.ii  u.v. 

1  lo,.|,,'il  I.'  hi'iivi'ii  iiiul  Irica  to  imiy  ; 
linl  nr  I'vrr  n  |irii,vcM'  \mA  Kiwlil 
A  «i,lv,.a  Hlii^.iH.rnuiii.,  nna  iiuia,- 
My  lir.nl  a-,  a.y  ir.  aii-M. 

1  rlosml  luy  lia.s.  uiul  kv\A  lli.'iii  I'luso. 
Aiul  llu'  UiiIIm  llki'  (mlHoa  Inmt  : 
l''..rllio^<kvniia  Miown.  im.I  lli,>»Kinua 

llu'sUy. 
1,MV  lilvoii  loMa  OH  lay  «,Miy  oyo. 
Aii'a  lluMlona  noivMl  my  lool. 

,'l"U''uv,.ii.  ''"'"'    '"'''    ■'"""'     ""'"'''     '''■'""    ""''■' 
i<'i  lilm  I'li  liiiih.'i, 

iiw.ii.ii.1      Nov  I'ol  nor  icok  aia  llii'y  ; 

'"""  Tlio  look  Willi  wliii'li  IlioY  look.Ml  on  mo 

ILM  novor  i.;i...soa  MWiiy. 

An  oi|.1i,im'-.  .Mu-o  woniaaniglolioll 

A  siuiit  I'lon.  on  liiKli  : 

llul  O,  nioiv  lioniWo  lli.-ui  (Iml 

III  llio  mnw  in  ii  aoiul  mnn's  oyo  I 

Sovon   any«,   srvon    niKlUs.    I    sinv  lli:il, 

IMII'SI', 

Ana  yi'l  1  oonia  nol  aio. 
I„M>U„.1I  'I'lio  moving'  nio.Mi  ^^onl  np  ihoskv, 

""n.I'.'o,^^   Ana  Mouiioro  aia  Ml.ia,.; 

1    '      ":   Sol'lly  t-lio  was  jtiiiiig  np, 
I'  Ana  11  still'  or  two  liosiilo. 

"reSr     "'■''  '"'-'I""  lii'niookoil  llio  snltvy  umiii, 
l.iko  April  liOiir-l'iMSl^  siimul  ; 
Itnt  wluMv  llio  ship's  lini^o  slmaow  luy 
'I'lio  I'luirnioa  wiili-r  Imrnt  iilwiiy 
A  still  nn.l  iiwful  n-a. 

!yo",M"«I  "''y'""l  ''"'  ^''■"1""  >'!'  til"  sliip 

UowVir  1  wMtv-lio.1  tho  walorsiiiikos  ; 

.rein'um     'I'lu'Y  luovoil  ill  Imi'ks  of  sliiiiiiis  w'l'lto  ; 


I'll'™"""'  Ami  wlKMi  tliov  iviiiva,  tlio  ollish  light. 
F,-ll..trin  lioary  llakos. 

Williin  tliosluiaowoniu-shtii 

1  wiilolu-a  llioir  rioh  iittiiv.     ■ 

lUiio.  j{los,sy  ({ivou,  ana  volvot  l>luoU, 

Tlioy  I'oiloil  ana  swam  ;  ami  ovory  track 

Was  a  Itasli  ot' .uiaa.-n  liro. 

"«i'i'atul."i  "-^  li'M'Py  liviiij;  lliinipi !  no  tonj-uo 
>i'>ri>"i™.    'Hicir  i'oiiuty  iiiijjlit  doi'liiro  ; 

A  spring  of  lovo  gnslioa  IVun  iiiv  lioart, 

lio«ti,  8»ro  my  Uiiul  saint  took  pity  on  mo, 

Ami  1  I'li'ssoa  lliom  iiiinwaiv. 


Tho  Mollsaino  inoin.Mil   1  roiiia  pniy  ;        ,l',|?Jf,',' 
And  IVom  IM\   no.k  so  troo  '  Ak'  " 

Thoulhatross  Coll  oil',  iiml  sank 
l.iko  load  into  Mm  stm. 

Ana    now   this  spoil   was  smipt, ;  oiiai ^'','« ™" 
nion<  oKi>lAivttt 

I  viowoa  Iho  oooaii  groon. 
Ami  lookoa  far  forth,  yot;  littlo  saw 
Of  what  luul  olso  hoon'soon,   - 

l.iko  oio'  llinl  on  M  lonoNomo  road 

l>..lh  w.aU  in  loar  Mial  aroa.l. 

Ana,  having  ,aioo  Ininoa   ronna,  walk.s 

Ami  turns  no  inoro  his  hoail  ; 
Uooaiiso  ho  knows  a  frightful  lloml 
holli  oliiso  hohina  him  troaa. 

I!nl  Koon  Ihoi,.  I.io.ithoa  a  wiihl  on  mo, 
N.a'soiiml  noi  inolioii  iioolo  ; 
Us  path  was  not  npoii  tho  soa, 
In  ripploorinshaao. 

It  raisril  niy  hair,  if  faniioil  iiiy  olicok, 
Likoa  moailow  -alo  of  spring,    - 
It  niiiiglovl  sliaiigiay  with  my  four.s, 
Vol  it  folf  liko  a  wolooming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  How  tlio  ship. 
Vot  sho  sailoa  softly  loo; 
Swoolly,  swoollv  Mow  Iho  bivozo, — 
Dm  mo'alono  it 'hlow, 

t>  ari>am  of  joy  !  is  this  inaooil 

'I'ho  lighthonso  top  1  soo ,'  ;J;;;'i;,|;- 

Is  this  tho  hill  /  is  this  tho  kirk  »  >«'''«}'  .. 

Is  tills  iiiino  own  oountiH'of  iii.naiin 

coitittTy. 

Woilriftoa  o'or  Iho  harlu.r-liar, 
Ami  1  with  soivs  aia  pray,  — 
0.  lot  mo  ho  awako,  my  tioil  1 
0\-  lot  mo  sloop  alwiiy. 

'riio  liarlior-liay  was  oloar  as  glass, 
Ski  .smoothly  it  wiis  stivwii  1 
,\ml  oil  tho  Imy  tlio  iiiooiilight  hvy, 
Ami  tho  shaaow  of  Iho  moon. 

Tho  ivi'k  slioiio  liright,  tho  kiik  no  loss. 
That,  stamls  ahovo  tho  rook  ; 
Tho  moonlight  stoopoil  in  siloiitiioss 
Tho  stoaay  woathi'ivook. 

Hill  ,s,ioii  I  hoanl  tlio  dash  of  oai-s, 
1  hoanl  tho  pilot's  ohoor  ; 
My  lioaa  was  tiirtu>a  porfon'o  away, 
Ami  1  saw  ii  hoiit  appwir. 


U  I  . 


-p 


cB- 


J'OimS  OF  FANOV. 


785 


■a 


Tli<!  pilot  ami  the  jjilot'd  imy, 
I  iii;ui'il  Uk.'Iii  (milling  I'aitt ; 
I  )>:«!■  lyonl  ill  lii;av(;ii  !  it  wm  a  joy 
'I'Ikj  iji.-ful  riicn  coulil  not  l)li»»l. 

I  «;iw  a  thii'l,  —  I  lii.-anl  liin  voico  ; 

II  M  tlio  liKnnit  g'lwl  ! 

Ill;  ningistli  IoikI  IiIh  godly  liyinnx 

'I'liat  li<!  inakfin  in  tliu  wood  ; 

III;  'II  »lirii;vi!  my  hduI,  —  lio  'II   waiili 

away 
The  allAtl'onii'H  l)loo'l. 

O  W(;(Ming-gu<;Ht  !  tliiii  miul  lialli  Ijucii 
Aloiii;  on  a  widi;,  widi;  »ea, 
Ho  lonely  "t  wa.i,  tliat  Ood  bidiwlf 
Si  aice  iscenitd  tlj<;i<;  U>  Ix;. 

O,  dwecf.-r  tlian  tluj  iiianLigi:-fr;x'it, 
'i"  in  »wi;(;t<;r  far  Ui  in(; 
To  walk  fjgetlifci'  to  111";  kirk 
Willi  a  goodly  ';oiiii«uiy  !  — 

To  walk  tog«tli';r  to  tin;  kiik, 

And  all  togi;tIj<!r  Jiray, 

Wliili;  i;a/:li  to  liiHglvat  Katli';f  hkwh,  — 

Old  iiiijii,  and  \):i\ji:h,  and  loving  frii'iiilK, 

And  youtim  aii'l  maidens  gay  I 


by'iKin'' •'"'■"**■'-"  '  'arewell  I  l.ut  thin  I  l.;ll 
uiS'snd     '^''  *■'"'"'  "'""  «";''''i">?-gi"«t ' 
aTlTS"'  '''^'^''  I"'"''y"'-''  *'-'"  w'"'  •"V';!''  Wi;II 
iluir,,^)      Botli  man  and  bird  and  Iwaut. 


:,■!-.  and 


<„yAl 


Hi-  |ira)'<;tli  l«»t  who  lovcth  Iifist 
All  lliingx  botli  great  and  (tniall  ; 
I'or  tin;  dear  d'A  wlio  lovetli  UH, 
He  iiia/le  and  lovetli  all." 

Tlie  mariner,  whose  eye  in  bright, 
Whow  beard  with  age  i»  boar, 
lit  gone.     And  now  the  W(;<iding-giifii(t 
Turned  from  the  bridegr'xjm'n  door, 

Hewent  like  one  that  bath  l>ec'n  stunncj, 
And  i»  of  w;nise  forlorn  ; 
A  Kuhliir  and  a  wi«<;r  man 
He  row;  the  morrow  morn. 

SAMOIil.  TA'/UjV.  '^'JUitLllJt^n. 


O-.- 


Tire  KINO  OK  TUi;i,K. 

MAKOAKRTS  KOKO  IN  "PAVHT." 

'I'ni'.KK  wait  a  king  in  Tbul^, 
WaH  faithful  till  the  grave,  — 
To  whom  liin  mi«tr<fliH,  dying, 
A  golden  goblet  gave. 


Naught  wao  U)  him  more  iirni-Mm  ; 
He  drainiyl  it  at  every  Ixiut ; 
His  eye;*  with  U;ai«  ran  ovi:r, 
An  oft  an  be  drank  tlicreout. 

When  eaine  bin  time  of  dying, 
The  townn  in  biu  land  he  told. 
Naught  else  to  biij  heir  denying 
Exeept  the  goblet  of  gold. 

He  Bat  at  the  royal  baii(|iiet 
With  bU  knight;!  of  high  degree, 
In  the  lofty  hall  of  bi.s  fatherH, 
In  the  Cautle  by  the  Kea. 

Tlnie  Btooil  thi-  old  earomti-r. 
And  drank  the  lant  life-glow  ; 
And  burled  the  hallowed  goblet 
Int/j  the  tide  U-low. 

He  «iw  it  i/lunging  and  lilling. 
And  Hiiikiiig  deep  in  the  He.i,  — 
Then  fell  bix  eyelidii  forever, 
And  never  more  drank  be. 


TIIK  I'IdLOHOPHEH'H  HOALE«. 

A  Mo.s'K,  when  his  ritco  fia<;erdotal  were  o'ei, 
I II  the  depth  of  hw  <«ll  with  it»  istone-covei  ed  lloor, 
liesigning  to  thought  biii  ebimerieal  brain, 
Onee  formcl  theeontrivanwwe  nowhball  explain  ; 
liut  whether  by  magie'o  or  alebemy's  |xjwer« 
We  know  not  ;  inde<;<l,  't  is  no  bunineuB  of  ours. 

I'eihaps  it  wa«  only  by  patience  and  earc. 

At  huit,  that  be  brought  bU  invention  to  lx;ar. 

In  youth  't  wa«  j<roje<;t';d,  but  years  stole  away, 

And  ere  't  wax  complete;  hewa«  wrinkhaland  gray ; 

I'ut  xixetxm  in  eceure,  unless  iiwirt^y  lails  ; 

And  at  length  be  producefl  thk  i'jn/.o»;o)')/i'.K'» 

HCAI.KS. 

"  Wh/it  were  they  ?"  you  ask.     You  shall  pres- 
ently see ; 
Tlit-se  s^aha*  were  not  rna/le  to  weigh  sugar  and  tea. 
0  no  ;  for  such  pi-operti<d(  wondroiia  Ii/id  they. 
That  'pialitics,  feelings,  and  thoughts  they  wiuld 

weigh. 
Together  with  articles  small  or  immense, 
Krorn  mountains  or  planets  Ui  alomn  of  «<;nJ!e, 


Naught  wiia  there  m  bulky  but  there  it  woul 
Ami  naught  so  ethereal  but  there  it  woul 


luld  lay, 

d  stay,         t 


[&: 


780 


rOKMS  OF  FANCY. 


■ti 


B 


Aiiil  iiiHi^Ut  so  ivhiotiuil  but  in  il  must  go  ; 
All  wliioli  .somo  o-\iiiiiiilos  iiioiv  I'lomly  will  slinw. 

Tlii'lii'sl  tliiiislii>woij;lim(  Wiistliflu'iuKir  Vollaiiv. 
\Vlii.-liivliiiiirtl«llllu<wittlmlliiulov,'rl>.'oiilli<'iv. 
Aa  «  \vi'i_:«lit,  111'  ihivw  in  tlu'  torn  sri.i|i  of  a  li'iil', 
Coiiliiiiiiiiij  till'  imiyor  nl'  llu'  pcniiiMit  lliul'; 
Wlioii  tlu-  sUllll  vosf  uUl  with  NO  siiadrii  a  spoil 
■rii:il  11  I'oiiii.r.l  likoiiKiUoiillioiool'ortlu'a'll. 

lliit>  limo  lit'  )mt  ill  Aloxiimlor  tlu'  (iivtit, 

\Villi  tlio  jsiirmont  Hint  Doiviis  liiul  inaili'  lor  n 

w<'i}{lil  : 
Aiul  llioiij;ln'l<ul  ill  armor  fiiiiii  samliila  loi'iMwii, 
Till'  hi'iii  riisi'  up,  luul  tlu>  jfanuont  wont  ilovvii, 

.-.  louj;  i\nv  oraliiislmusos,  amply  ouilowi'il 
liy  a  woll-oslooiiiotl  Tliaiisoo,  Imsy  iiiul  proiiil, 
Noxt  loaiU'il  Olio  soalo ;  wliilo  tlio  otlioiwas  pivsso.l 
Uv  llioso  iiiitos  tliP  pool-  willow  ilioppod  into  llio 

ohost  : 
I'p  How  tlu>  omlowmoiit,  not  woijjhinj;  an  ounoo, 
Ami  iKnvii,  ilown  tlio  I'avtlunj'-woi'tli  oauio  with 

a  I'oiinoo. 

liy  fnvtlior  oxpoi'inu'nts  (no  imittov  how"! 

Ho  louml  thai  Ion  oliariots  woij;lioil  loss  tluiii  ono 

plow  ; 
A  swoi\l  with  gilt  trapping  ivso  npin  tlio  soalo, 
'riioiigh  luilamoil  l>y  only  a  ton-ponny  nail  ; 
A  sliiolil  anil  a  liolinot,  a  buoklor  ami  spoai', 
Woiglioil  loss  than  a  willow's  unoi'ystiiUi.-oil  toav. 
A  loi\l  ami  a  liuly  wont  hji  at  full  sail, 
\Vlion  11  boo  oliiinooil  to  liglit  on  Iho  opposito 

soalo ; 
Tor.  ilootoi"s,  ton  lawyoi's,  two  oonrtioi's,  ono  oiwl, 
Ton  oonnsolloi-s"  wisp,  l\ill  of  powilor  anil  ouvl, 
All  lioapoil  in  ono  Imlanoo  iinil  swinging  ri\nn 

thonoo, 
Woiglioil  loss  than  11  low  grains  oroanilornmlsonso; 
A  tii'st-watov  ilianionil,  with  brilliants  bogirt. 
Than  ono  gooil  potato  just  washml  l'ii>m  Iho  ilirt ; 
Yot  not  mountains  of  silvor  ami  goUl  oonKl  sntlioo 
l>no  poarl  to  ontwoigh,  — 't  was  riiK  i-KAia.  ok 

llKKAT   riSlOK.  , 

l^ist  of  all,  tlio  wliolo  world  was  IkiwIoiI  in  at  tho 

grato. 
With  tho  soul  of  a  boggav  to  sorvo  lor  a  woight, 
Wlion  tho  lornior  sprung  up  with  so  slivng  a  iv- 

Imir 
That  it  inailo  a  vast  itMit  and  osonpod  at  the  root' ! 
Whon  Ivilanood  in  air,  it  nsoondod  on  high. 
And  Siiilod  up  aloft,  a  Ivdloou  in  flio  sky  ; 
Whilo  tho  soalo  with  tho  soul  in  "t  so  mightily  foil 
That  it  jovkod  tho  pliilosoplior  out  of  liis  ooll. 
JANU  Taylor. 


'I'llK    NIlllll'lNUAl.H    AN1>   (!l,ll\V   WOltM 

A  MiiiMlNoAl.K,  tli.it  nil  .liiy  long 
Hail  ohooml  tho  villngo  with  liis  song. 
Nor  yot  nl  ovo  his  noto  suspoiiiloil. 
Nor  yot  wlion  ovontido  was  ondod, 
liogaii  to  fool       as  woll  ho  might    - 
Tlio  kt'on  doniaiuls  of  appotito  ; 
Wlion,  looking  oagorly  aiiiund, 
llo  spiod,  far  oil',  upon  tho  giiiiiiid, 
A  soiiiothing  shining  in  Iho  dark, 
And  know  tho  glow-worm  by  his  spmk  ; 
So,  stooping  down  fnnn  hawtliorn  top, 
llo  thought  to  put  liliii  in  his  oi\>p. 
Tho  wonu,  awaro  of  his  inloiil, 
llaiangiiod  him  thus,  ipiito  olinpiont.  -  - 

"  Hid  you  adiniiv  my  lamp,"  iniolli  lio, 
•'  As  iiiiioh  as  1  your  minstivlsy. 
Von  would  abhor  to  do  ino  wrong, 
As  ninoli  ils  I  to  spoil  your  song  ; 
I'or   I  was  tlio  soll'sunio  Towor  diviiio 
Taught  yon  to  sing,  and  ino  to  sliiiio  ; 
That  you  with  musio,  1  with  light. 
Might  boaiitify  and  olioor  tho  night." 
Tho  soiigstor  lioaixl  his  short  oiiitioii, 
.\ml,  warbling  out  his  appiiiliation, 
lu'loasod  him.  as  my  story  tolls, 
.\iiil  I'oiuul  a  siipjior  soinowhoio  olso. 


THE  MU-KMAID. 

A  MU.KMAU',  who  poisod  a  full  i>ail  on  hor  Iniul 
Thus  inusod  on  hor  piiispoots  in  lil'o,  it  is  said  ; 
"  Lot  mo  soo,  —  1  should  think  that  this  milk 

will  prooni-o 
Ono  lumdivd  good  oggs,  or  foui-sooio,  to  bo  sini', 

'■  Woll  t.lliMl,  —stop  a  bit,       it  must  not  bo  for- 

gilt  toil, 
Somt'  of  thoso  may  bo  biokon,  and  soiiio  may  bo 

rotten  : 
Hut  if  twonty  I'or  iiooidonl  should  bo  dotaohod, 
Itwill  loavo  mojnst sixty  soundi\ggstobo  liatohod. 

"  Woll.  sixty  sound  oggs,  — no,  .sound  ohiokons, 

1  moan  : 
0(  tlioso  soino  may  dio,  — wo  'llsuppixsosovontoon. 
Sovonloon  !  not  so  many,  —  say  ton  at  tho  njost, 
Wliioli  will  loavo  lil'ty  ohiokons  to  boil  or  to  ixiast, 

"  Hut  thou  thoiv  's  llioir  hirloy  ;  how  innoh  will 

thoy  nood  ! 
Why,  thoy  tako  but  ono  gi-ain  at  a  tiiiio  who.i 

thoy  food,  — 
So  that  's  a  moiv  trillo  ;  now  then,  lot  us  soo, 
At  afairmarKot  prioo  how  mnoh  monoy thoiv'll  bi\ 


--& 


[& 


I'OKMH  <)lf  b'ASQY. 


7H7 


,-a 


"Hix>ihi\\iiii(KHimr — livt — four — thiw-ainl-isU, 
To  j<;<;vi;(il  all  mlitiki;»,  that  low  [<ri/«  I  v/ii)  )iz  ; 
.Vow  wliiit  will  that  i/iaki;? fifty chi/;kciiJi,  I  «ti»l,  — 
Kitty  tii(ii;ii  ilir<i':-!iii'l-nixi)':iii/i  —  i'tlankHr'A/ter 

"  O,    hut  ijU))),  —  tlirfAi-atii'l-nixiintLV!  a  ;>air   I 

mujit  Mil  'em  ; 
Well,  a  |iair  i»a  wuplc, — now  then  I/;t  lus  t/sU  'urn  ; 
A  <ji\i\i\':  in  fifty  will  go  Crny  j/^i/r  l/iai(i  '.) 
Why,  jii«t  a  »M\i:  timeii,  and  five  j/air  v/ill  nmaUi. 

"Twenty-five  jair  of  fowl» —  now  Iww  iiniufniti: 

it  ix 
That  I  can't  reckon  up  ho  mu';)i  tiuntny  in  thix  ! 
Well,  tluire  '»  no  u»;  in  trying,  vi  let '»  give  a 

ffutm,  — 
I  '11  fiay  twenty  [(oun'lx,  «w«/  a  c«h'<  '/«  -/w  /«*. 

"Twenty  fcjun'ln  I  am  'xrVtiii,  will  1/uy  me  a  <y<w, 
Thirty  g'^w:,  ami  two  turkeys,  —  eight  pigs  an'l 

a  w^w  ; 
\ow  if  the>i<;  turn  out  well,  at  the  eml  of  tin;  year, 
I  lihall  fill  Ujlii  my  [nf.kf.U  with  guiniana,  't  i* 

el/^ar." 

Forgetting  her  hur'l/;n,  wlien  thi»  eli/;  lia/1  (said, 
'J'he  maul  sujierciliomtly  U/mnA  up  her  h<*i/l  ; 
When,  ala*  for  Jier  j/rosp^t*  !    h<;r  milk-j^uil 

d<fl>'>;n<le'l, 
And  m  all  her  nny-.tw^  for  the  future  were  emVi 

'l"hi>'  moral,  I  think,  may  U;  (safely  atta/zhfl,  — 
"  ii>:'M)m  Wit  on  your  ehlekemt  U;l>>re  tliey  are 
hiiU:li<A." 

jEPPBEVt  TKfUlU. 


l-AhD    LA.VOUAOK. 

What  do  the  wremi  and  tl»e  rohinjs  oay, 
I'alking  »o  tunefully  all  the  h/ng  <lay  ! 
Now  on  the  c^^lar  hiusfi,  now  on  the  ground, 
Chiri/ing  their  thouglitt  to  the  hUmnniix  around  ; 
Now  on  the  willow-tre^;,  waving  w^  high, 
WarUing  their  <ainti/;l/«  clowj  t/j  tlie  aky. 

What  do  the  wren*  and  the  rohirus  (say  ? 
Do  they  fi*l  t\t):  'Amnn  of  thiis  l(<rautiful  'lay  ? 
iJoeis  the  wine  of  IjapiiinetsB  wann  their  veims 
And  give  the  keynot/:  fj  tlioise  womkiful  istraims? 
Are  they  ma/1  with  love  or  drunk  with  d(:light, 
That  they  revel  »>  wildly  from  mom  to  night  I 

What  do  the  wren«  and  th<3  roinnx  Kay  ? 

I>rt  ea/:h  one  arDswer  a«  best  he  may, 

For  every  Ijjst/rner  hoWeth  a  key 

To  unl'x.-k  the  mmsi'sjl  myfstery  ; 

And  differently  all  traroslate  the  words 

Of  tliat  varying  language  hreathe'I  by  the  Mf  i». 


The  little  ehiM  h'sirx  in  tli/;  glad*/<me  strain 
A  eall  t/^  tliij  liehla  and  the  flowei-rlad  j<Uin  ; 
'J'he  »i<;k  and  tlu;  we-ary,  l;y  |(aiii  oj/j/ieijw^l, 
it  elwrniB  with  a  (/romi)s<;  of  inlinit';  riflst ; 
And  the  lover  d//th  still  in  ea/;h  i;arol  rejoi/*, 
For  li/j  liears  in  them  ever  hi*  isweetlieart'is  voi/*, 

IJut  HKrnt  <l/j  tlie  wreiui  and  the  rohin*  rejc^at 
To  lh<;  dreaming  jx/^d  n  l;,'i,;';3;;i  ;;v,<-/;t  ; 
To  hl»  finer  Wiul  anO  ■  '-. 

They  ii(xsik  with  a  ti  ■ , 

And  with  liaj/j/y  t/;;;i  .  iim, 

Ajs  he  Ibtis  t/>  the  oft-ieii-al/yi  ijyinn. 

The  icfAiuMi  of  0</l,  :  ■  ■'  '■  ■  ■•' '  •    ■^'  , 

Are  thoughts  whi(;h  ij, 

ForthcBjdendorof  ^'  kib, 

Glides  with  ti.  .,    , 

Afid  the  ]j':nu'  t.lje  strain 

He  gives  Ui  ti  ^  i, 

Ajs  he  wiaves  ii«l/>  n.any  a  lo/iti.il  lay 

Wliat  lie  h)a.n  the  wrenx  and  tlu;  rohins  say, 

F.Ky-i.intL  hHhtf.uAtf  SMiTif. 


BAJBY  ZtJLMA'8  CnhViTUAH  CAHOL. 

A  /.(';(n  KJi  s/airf  of  richer  fold 
The  morning  flu*he4  uj<';n  our  sight. 


And  Kve, 
An; 

)f;g  tr.tr.n:'-',  f,-r  lar;:;/:  of  gold 

An'l 

'  ■'■'-# 

And  iAiD-. 

wavt-^  tiAht'ji-ji  on  me  M^a 

When  1/aby  YmUiia  fjutif.  to  I*  I 

Tlie  <lay  l*tore,  a  bird  lia/1  sung 

Strange  j^'-Mir.'^  on  the  r'/-;?  and  flown  ; 
And  Night  ;■.  !  jng 

A  iVvxmiji. 
f'j/'/n  tlie  ';): 

Whereunt//,  a*  li.e  'Ii^:'.ja  .>i.'i, 
A  king  '/r  <ju<:/;n  would  vf>n  1*  le/i 
liy  s//;ne  sweet  Ait/;1  overliea/1. 

Ere  V'rt  *Ke  fin  ha/l  'rr'/!f?e'!  the  line 
V.'; 

\i.  .    .. 

Wl/at  l.nie  li^s  hii.  'x/m 

And  Ix/uglui  of  fru  j  •  /rn 

And  eljeery  eehoe&  v..^,.-.  .,.    .-...,.. 
To  gale»  of  fragran/x;  Ijarv'Sit-kiom. 

In  feV/iwl  sj/f/ts  of  •. 

And  b/e/;zy  t*:^\::.  -e, 

Tlie  trij/ping  elv<*-, '.  '; 

To  join  the  fairy  ';av;i;  ,i. 


^ 


f 


788 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-a 


& 


From  blushing  cliambers  of  the  rose, 
And  bowi'is  the  lily's  buds  enclose, 
And  nooks  and  didls  of  deep  repose, 
Where  human  sandal  never  goes. 

The  rabble  poured  its  motley  tide  : 

.'^ome  npon  airy  chariots  rode, 
By  cupids  showered  from  side  to  side. 

And  some  the  dragon-lly  bestrode  ; 
Wliilc  troops  of  virgins,  left  and  right, 
Like  microscopic  trails  of  light, 
Tlic  sweeping  pageant  made  as  bright 
As  beams  a  rainbow  in  its  llight  ! 

It  passed  :  the  bloom  of  purple  plums 

Was  rippled  by  trumpets  rallying  long 
O'er  beds  of  pinks  ;  and  dwarfisli  drums 

Struck  all  the  insect  world  to  song  : 
The  milkmaid  caught  the  low  refrain. 
The  plowman  answered  to  her  strain, 
And  every  warbler  of  the  )iluin 
The  ringing  chorus  chirped  again  ! 

Beneath  the  sunset's  faded  arch, 

It  formed  and  filed  within  our  porch. 
With  not  a  ray  to  guide  its  march 

Except  the  twilight's  silver  torch  : 
And  thus  she  came  from  clouds  above, 
Witli  spirits  of  the  glen  and  grove, 
A  Hower  of  grace,  a  cooing  dove, 
A  shrine  of  prayer  and  star  of  love  ! 

A  queen  of  hearts  !  —  her  mighty  chains 
Are  beads  of  coral  round  her  strung, 

And,  ribbon-diademed,  she  reigns, 
t'ommanding  in  an  unknown  tongue  : 

The  kitten  spies  her  cunning  ways. 

The  patient  cur  romps  in  her  plays. 

And  glimpses  of  her  earlier  days 

Are  seen  in  picture-books  of  fays. 

To  fondle  all  things  doth  she  choose, 

And  when  she  gets,  what  some  one  sends, 

A  trifling  gift  of  tiny  shoes. 

She  kisses  both  as  loving  friends  ; 

For  in  her  eyes  this  orb  of  care. 

Whose  hopes  are  heaps  of  frosted  hair, 

Is  but  a  garland,  trim  and  fair, 

Of  cherubs  twining  in  the  air. 

0,  from  a  soul  sullused  with  tears 

Of  trust  thou  mayst  be  spared  the  thorn 

Wliicli  it  has  felt  in  other  years,  — 
Across  the  morn  onr  Lord  was  born, 

I  waft  thee  blessings  !     At  thy  side 

Jlay  his  invisible  seraphs  glide  ; 

And  tell  thee  still,  whate'er  betide, 

For  thee,  for  thine,  for  all  He  died  ! 

AUGUSTUS  JUI-IAN  RkQUIER. 


THE  TOAD'S  JOURNAL. 

tit  is  said  that  Bcl/uiii.  the  traveler  in  Eijypt.  discovered  a  living 
toad  in  a  temple,  winch  had  Ijeen  for  ages  buried  in  the  sand.] 

In  a  land  for  antiquities  greatly  renowned 
A  traveler  had  dug  wide  and  deep  under  grounil, 
A  temple,  for  ages  entombed,  to  disclose,  — 
When,  lo  !  he  disturbed,  in  its  secret  repose, 
A  toad,  from  whose  journal  it  plainly  appears 
It  hail  lodged  in  that  mansion  some  thousands  of 

years. 
The  roll  which  this  reptile's  long  history  reconis, 
A  treat  to  the  sage  antiijuarian  affords  : 
The  sense  by  obscure  hieroglyphics  concealed. 
Deep  learning  at  length,  with  long  labor,  revealed. 
The  first  thousand  years  as  a  specimen  tiike,  — 
The  dates  are  omitted  for  brevity's  sake  : 
"Crawled  forth  from  some  rubbish,  and  winked 

with  one  eye  ; 
Half  opened  the  other,  but  could  not  tell  why  ; 
Stretched  out  my  left  leg,  as  it  felt  rather  iiueer, 
Then  drew  all  together  and  slept  for  a  year. 
Awakened,  felt  chilly,  —  crept  under  a  stone  ; 
Was  vastly  contented  with  living  alone, 
thie  toe  became  wedged  in  the  stone  like  a  peg, 
Oould  not  get  it  away,  — had  the  cramp  in  my  leg, 
Began  half  to  wish  for  a  neighbor  at  hand 
To  loosen  the  stone,  which  was  fast  in  the  sand  ; 
PuUed  harder,  then  dozed,  as   1  found  't  was  no 

use  ;  — 
Awoke  the  next  summer,  and  lo  !  it  was  loose. 
Crawled  forth  from  the  stone  when  completely 

awake ; 
Crept  into  a  corner  and  grinned  at  a  snake. 
Retreated,  and  found  that  1  needed  repose  ; 
Ourled  ui)  my  daiuplirabsaud  prepared  for  a  doze; 
Fell  sounder  to  sleep  than  was  usual  before, 
And  did  not  awake  for  a  century  or  more  ; 
But  had  a  sweet  dream,  as  I  rather  believe  : 
Methought  it  was  light,  and  a  fine  summer's  eve ; 
And  1  in  some  garden  delicionsly  fed 
In  the  pleasant  moist  shade  of  a  strawberry-bed. 
There  finespeckled  creatures  claimed  kindred  with 

me. 
And  others  that  hopped,  most  enchanting  to  see. 
Here  long  I  regaled  with  emotion  extreme  ;  — 
Awoke,  — disconcerted  to  find  it  a  dream  ; 
Grew  pensive,  —  discovered  that  life  is  a  load  ; 
Began  to  get  weary  of  being  a  toad  ; 
Was  fretful  at  first,  and  then  shed  a  few  tears  " — 
Here  ends  the  account  of  the  first  thousand  years. 

MOKAL. 


It  seems  that  life  is  all  a  void, 
On  selfish  thoughts  alone  employed  ; 
That  length  of  days  is  not  a  good. 
Unless  theii-  use  be  understood. 

Jane  Taylor. 


^ 


m 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


789 


-a 


& 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  TOAB. 

Down  deep  in  a  hollow,  so  damp  and  so  cold, 

Where  oaks  are  by  ivy  o'ergrown. 
The  gray  moss  and  lichen  creep  over  the  mold, 

Lying  loose  on  a  ponderous  stone. 
Now  within  this  huge  stone,  like  a  king  on 

liis  throne, 
A  toad  has  been  sitting  more  years  than  is  known  ; 
And, strange asit  seems,  yetheconstantlydeems 
The  world  standing  still  wliile  he  's  dreaming 

his  dreams,  — 
Does  this  wonderful  toad,  in  his  cheerful  abode 
In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  flinty  old  stone. 
By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  liilien  o'ei'grown. 

Down  deep  in  the  hollow,  from  uioniiug  till 
night. 
Dun  shadows  glide  over  the  giound, 
Where  a  watercourse  once,  as  it  sparkled  with 
light, 
Turned  a  rained  old  mill-wheel  around  ; 
Long  years  have  passed  by  since  its  bed  became 

<lry, 
And  the  tree's  grow  so  close,  scarce  a  glimpse 

of  the  sky 
Is  seen  in  the  hollow,  so  dark  and  so  damp. 
Where  the  glow-wonn  at  noonday  is  trimming 

his  lamp, 
And  hardly  a  sound  from  the  thicket  around. 
Where  the  rabbit  and  scjuirrel  leap  over  the 

ground, 
Is  heard  by  the  toad  in  his  spacious  abode 
I  n  the  inneiTnost  heart  of  that  ponderous  stone. 
By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen  o'ergrown. 

Down  deep  in  that  hollow  the  bees  never  come, 

The  shade  is  too  black  for  a  flower  ; 
And  jewel-\nnged  birds,  with  theirmusical  hum, 

Never  flash  in  the  night  of  that  bower ; 
But  the  cold-blooded  snake,  in  the  edge  of  the 

brake. 
Lies  amid  the  rank  grass,  half  asleep,  half  awake ; 
And  the  ashen-white  snaO,  with  the  slime  in 

its  trail. 
Moves  wearily  on  like  a  life's  tedious  tale. 
Yet  disturbs  not  the  toad  in  his  spacious  abode, 
In  the  innermost  heai-t  of  that  flinty  old  stone, 
By  the  gray -haired  moss  and  the  lichen  o'ergrown. 

Down  deep  in  a  hollow  some  wiseacres  sit. 

Like  a  toad  in  liis  cell  in  the  stone  ; 
Around  them  in  daylight  the  blind  owlets  flit, 
And  their  creeds  are  with  ivy  o'ergrown  ;  — 
Tlieir  streams  may  go  dry,  and  the  wheels  cease 

to  ply. 
And  their  glimpses  be  few  of  the  sun  and  the  sky. 
Still  they  hug  to  their  breast  every  time-hon- 
ored guest, 


And  slumber  and  doze  in  inglorious  rest  ; 
For  no  progress  they  find  in  the  wide  sphere  of 

mind. 
And  the  world  's  standing  still  with  all  of  their 

kind  ; 
Contented  to  dwell  deep  down  in  the  well, 
Or  move  like  the  snail  in  the  crast  of  his  shell. 
Or  live  like  the  toad  in  his  narrow  alwde. 
With  their  souls  closely  wedged  in  a  thick  wall 

of  stone. 
By  the  gray  weeds  of  prejudice  rankly  o'ergrown. 


THE  CALIPH  AND  SATA2». 


VERSIFIED   FR 


TRANSLATION    OUT  OF 


In  heavy  sleep  the  Caliph  lay. 

When  some  one  called,  "Arise,  and  pray  !" 

The  angry  Caliph  cried,  "  Who  daro 
Rebuke  his  king  for  slighted  prayer  ? " 

Then,  from  the  comer  of  the  room, 

A  voice  cut  sharply  through  the  gloom  : 

"My  name  is  Satan.     Eise  !  obey 
Mohammed's  law  ;  awake,  and  pray  !  " 

"  Thy  words  are  good,"  the  Caliph  said, 
"  But  their  intent  1  somewhat  dread. 

For  niattei-3  cannot  well  be  worse 

Than  when  the  thief  says,  '  Guard  your  purse  I ' 

I  cannot  trast  your  counsel,  friend, 
It  surely  hides  some  wicked  end." 

Said  Satan,  "  Near  the  throne  of  God, 
In  ages  past,  we  devils  trod  ; 

Angels  of  light,  to  us  't  was  given 

To  guide  each  wandering  foot  to  heaven. 

Not  wholly  lost  is  that  first  love. 
Nor  those  pure  tastes  we  knew  above. 

Roaming  across  a  continent, 

The  Tartar  moves  his  shifting  tent, 

But  never  quite  forgets  the  day 
When  in  his  father's  arms  he  lay  ; 

So  we,  once  bathed  in  love  divine, 
Recall  the  taste  of  that  rich  wine. 

God's  finger  rested  on  my  brow,  — 
That  magic  touch,  I  feel  it  now  ! 


^^ 


[& 


790 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


-a 


I  fell,  't  is  true  —  0,  nsk  not  why, 
For  still  to  God  I  turn  my  eyo. 

It  was  a  chancy  by  whicli  I  fell, 
Another  takes  mo  back  IVum  hell. 

'T  was  but  my  envy  of  mankind, 
The  envy  of  a  loving  mind. 

Jealous  of  men,  1  could  nut  bear 
God's  love  with  this  new  race  to  share. 

But  yet  God's  tables  open  stand. 
His  guests  tloek  in  from  every  land  ; 

Some  kind  aet  toward  tin'  race  of  men 
May  toss  us  into  heaven  again. 

A  game  of  chess  is  all  we  see,  — 
And  God  the  player,  pieces  wo. 

White,  black  — queen,  pawn,  —  't  is  all  the  same, 
For  on  both  sides  he  plays  the  game. 

Moved  to  and  fro,  from  good  to  ill, 
We  rise  and  fall  as  suits  his  wiU." 

The  Caliph  said,  "  If  this  be  so, 
I  know  not,  but  thy  guile  1  know  ; 

For  how  can  1  tliy  words  believe. 
When  even  God  thou  didst  deceive  ? 

A  sea  of  lies  art  thou,  —  our  sin 
Only  a  drop  that  sea  within." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Satan,  "  1  serve  God, 
His  angel  now,  and  now  his  rod. 

In  tempting  I  both  bless  and  curse. 
Make  good  men  better,  l>ad  men  wors*. 


Good  coin  is  mi.xed  with  bad,  my  brother, 
I  but  distinguish  one  from  the  other." 

"  Granted,"  the  Caliph  saiil,  "  but  still 
You  never  tempt  to  good,  but  ill. 

Tell  then  the  truth,  for  well  1  know 
You  come  as  my  most  deadly  foe." 

Loud  laughed  the  fiend.     "You  know  me  well, 
Therefore  my  purpose  1  will  tell. 

If  you  had  missed  your  prayer,  I  knew 
A  swift  repentance  would  ensue  ; 

And  such  repentance  would  have  been 
A  good,  outweighing  far  the  sin. 

I  chose  this  humbleness  divine. 

Borne  out  of  fault,  should  not  be  thine. 

Preferring  prayers  elate  with  pride 
To  sin  with  penitence  allied." 

James  Freeman  Clarke. 


AIRY  NOTHINGS. 


Our  revels  now  are  endeil.     These  our  actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air  ; 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  clond-eapped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces. 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 
Yea,  all  wliicli  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve. 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.     Wo  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

SHAKB6PEARE. 


f&^ 


-^ 


a- 


■-a 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


©-- 


TKE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE. 

[James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose,  was  executed  in  Edin 
burgh.  May  21.  1650.  for  an  attempt  to  overthrow  the  Common, 
wealth,  and  restore  Charles  II.) 

The  morning  tla\Tnetl  full  darkly, 

The  rain  came  flashing  down, 
And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  'eviu-bolt 

Lit  up  the  gloomy  town. 
The  thunder  crashed  across  the  heaven. 

The  fatal  hour  was  come ; 
Yet  aye  broke  in,  with  muffled  beat. 

The  'larum  of  the  drum. 
Tliere  was  madness  on  the  earth  below 

And  anger  in  the  sky. 
Ami  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor, 

fame  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah  God  !  that  ghastly  gibbet ! 

How  dismal  't  is  to  see 
The  great  tall  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree  ! 
Hark  !  liark  !  it  is  the  clash  of  arms,  — 

The  bells  begin  to  toll,  — 
"  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! 

God's  mercy  on  his  soul  ! " 
One  last  long  peal  of  thunder,  — 

The  clouds  are  cleared  away, 
And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks  down 

Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 

"He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! " 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 

To  the  scatfold  and  the  doom. 
There  was  glory  on  his  forehead, 

There  was  luster  in  his  eye. 
And  he  never  walked  to  battle 

More  proudly  than  to  die. 
There  was  color  in  his  visage, 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan  ; 
And  they  marveled  as  they  saw  him  pass, 

That  gi'eat  and  goodly  man  ! 

He  mounted  up  the  scaffold. 

And  he  turned  him  to  tlie  crowd  ; 

But  they  dared  not  trust  the  people. 
So  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 


But  he  looked  upon  the  heavens. 

And  they  were  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liijuid  ether 

The  eye  of  God  shone  through  : 
Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 

Lay  resting  on  the  hill. 
As  though  the  thunder  slept  within,  — 

All  else  was  calm  and  still. 

The  grim  Geneva  ministers 

With  anxious  scowl  drew  near. 
As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 

Around  the  dying  deer. 
He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign. 

But  alone  he  bent  the  knee  ; 
And  veiled  his  face  for  Christ's  dear  grace 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree. 
Then,  radiant  and  serene,  he  rose. 

And  cast  his  cloak  away  ; 
For  he  had  ta'en  his  latest  look 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him. 

Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 
And  he  climbed  the  lofty  ladder 

As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 
Tlien  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud. 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roll  ; 
And  no  man  dared  to  look  aloft,  — 

Fear  was  on  eveiy  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush,  and  then  a  groan  ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky,  — 

The  work  of  death  was  done  ! 

WlLLIANt  EDMONDSTOUNE  A-iTOL'N. 


CJOD'S  JtrDGMEJrT   ON  A  WICKED  BISHOP. 

[Hatto,  Archbishop  of  Mentz.  in  the  year  914.  barbarously  mtrr- 
dered  a  number  of  poor  people  to  prevent  their  consuming  a  por- 
tion of  the  food  during  that  year  of  famine.  He  was  afterwards 
devoured  by  rats  in  his  tower  on  an  island  in  the  Rhine.  —  Old 

Thk  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet. 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet : 
'T  was  a  piteous  siglit  to  see  all  around 
The  gi-ain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 


-i 


[& 


792 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


-a 


u^ 


Every  day  tli»  starving  jvor 
Civwilcd  aroiuul  liisliop  Hatto's  door  ; 
For  ho  liad  a  pU-ntit'iil  last-yoar's  store, 
And  all  the  iieij;hl>orhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  weiv  furaislioil  well. 

At  last  Hisliop  llatto  apiHiinted  a  day 

To  nuiet  the  poor  without  delay  ; 

He  hide  them  to  his  givat  bam  ivpair, 

.•Vnd  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  theiv. 

Kejoiced  the  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folks  lloeked  fi\>ni  far  and  near; 
The  givat  Iwrn  was  full  as  it  eouUi  hold 
Of  wonu^u  and  children,  and  young  mid  old. 

Then,  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
liishop  Hatto  he  niado  fast  the  door ; 
And  whilst  for  nierey  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  btrrn,  and  burnt  tlieni  all. 

"I"  faith  't  is  an  excellent  lioufire  !  "  tiuoth  ho ; 
"And  tho  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me 
For  riddiug  it,  in  these  times  forlorn. 
Of  rats  tluit  only  consume  tlie  corn." 

So  then  to  his  psUace  l•eturn^d  he. 

And  he  sj\te  down  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man  ; 

l?ut  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

hi  the  morning,  as  he  entenxl  the  hall. 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  looked,  there  came  a  man  from  his  farm,  — 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  nlnriu  : 
'■  Jty  loi-d,  I  o|icned  your  granaries  this  mom, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently. 
And  ho  was  [lalc  as  jmle  could  Iw. 
"Fly  !  my  loi\l  bishop,  fly  '."  ipioth  he, 
"  Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  way,  — 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yestenlay  !" 

"  I  "11  go  to  my  tower  in  the  Tihine,"  replied  he  ; 
"  "T  is  the  safest  place  in  Germany,  — 
The  walls  are  high,  and  the  shores  are  steep. 
And  the  tide  is  strong,  and  tho  water  deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away  ; 
And  he  crossed  the  Uliine  without  delay. 
And  reached  his  tower,  and  Iwrred  with  care 
All  tho  windows,  dooi's,  and  loop-holes  there. 


He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes, 

But  soon  a  scream  made  liim  arise  ; 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  tiame 

On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  sci-eaming  wime. 

He  listened  and  looked,  —  it  was  only  the  cat ; 
But  the  bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for  that. 
For  she  sate  screaming,  mad  with  fear 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  were  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so  deep. 
And  they  have  cUuiIhhI  the  shores  so  steep. 
And  now  by  thousands  up  they  crawl 
To  the  holes  luui  the  windows  in  the  wall. 

Down  on  his  knees  tho  bishop  fell. 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell. 

As  louder  and  louder,  drawing  near. 

The  saw  of  their  teeth  without  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door. 

And  through  the  walls,  by  thousands  they  (lOur  ; 

And  down  fivm  the  ceiling  and  up  through  tlia 
tloor, 

I'l'om  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and 
before. 

From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  be- 
low, — 

And  all  at  once  to  the  bisliop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones. 
And  now  they  pick  the  bishop's  bones  ; 
They  gnawed  the  tlesli  from  every  limb. 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him  ! 

KoliRKT  SOI'TUHY. 


THE  SACK  OF  BALTIMORE 

[n.altin)ore  is  a  siiwH  seaport  in  the  Uirony  of  CaHtct>*.  in  Sovith 
MuiJslcr.  11  (jrew  up  aroiuul  u  castle  of  0'Uriscoll\.  and  was,  after 
his  ruin,  colonieed  by  the  l£u£lish.  On  the  20th  of  June,  1631.  the 
crews  of  two  Al^crine  galleys  landed  in  the  dcjtd  of  the  night, 
sacked  the  town,  and  bore  otf  into  slavery  all  who  were  not  too  old, 
or  ti>o  youiiK,  or  too  fierce,  for  their  purpose.  The  pirates  were 
steered  up  the  intricate  channel  by  one  llacfcett.  n  Dunffarvan  lish- 
ern»an.  wiioui  they  had  titken  at  sea  for  the  purp^vic.  Twxi  years 
after,  he  was  convicted  of  the  crime  and  execntetl  Baltimore 
never  recovered  from  this.) 

The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Caibcry"* 

hundred  isles. 
The    summer    sun    is   gleiuning   still    through 

Gabriel's  rough  defiles,  — 
Old    Inisherkin's   crumbled    fane   lotiks   like   a 

molting  biixl ; 
And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean  tide  is 

heanl  ; 
The  hookei-s  lie  upon  tho  beach  ;  the  children 

cea.se  their  play  ; 
The  gossijis  leave  tho  little  inn  ;  the  htniM'holds 

kneel  to  pray  ; 


-^ 


a- 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


793 


-a 


And  full  of  lovo  and  peace  and  rest,  —  its  daily 

labor  o'er,  — 
Upon  that  cozy  creek  there   lay  the   town  ol 

baltimore. 

A  'lijeper  rest,  a  stajry  trance,  has  come  with 

midnight  there  ; 
No  sound,  except  that  throbhing  wave,  in  earth 

or  sea  or  air. 
The  massive  capes  and  ruined  towers  seem  con- 
scious of  the  calm  ; 
The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breathing 

heavy  balm. 
So  still  the  night,  these  two  long  barks  round 

IJun.ishad  that  glide 
Must   trust   tlieir   oars  —  methinks  not   few  — 

af^aiust  the  ebljing  tide. 
0,  some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must  urge 

them  to  the  shore,  — 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride,  who  sigbo  in 

Baltimore  ! 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that  rocky 

street. 
And   these   must   be  the  lover's   friendB,   witli 

gently  gliding  feet. 
A  stilled  gasp  !   a  dreamy  noise  !     The  roof  is 

in  a  llame  ! 
From  out  their  beds,  and  to  their  doors,  rush 

maid  and  sire  and  dame, 
And  njeet,  ujioii  the  threshold  stone,  the  gleam- 
ing saber's  fall, 
And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the  whit<; 

or  crimson  sliawl. 
The  yell  of  "  Allah  !  "  breaks  above  the  prayer 

and  shriek  and  roar  — 
0  blessed  God!  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  I'altimore! 

'i'hcn  (lung  the  youth  his  naked  liand  against 

the  shearing  sword  ; 
Then  sprung  the   mother  on   the   brand  with 

which  her  son  was  gored  ; 
Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his  grand- 

b;ibr;s  cliit<hing  wild  ; 
Then  llr-d  lln-  ujaiden  moaning  faint,  .and  nestled 

with  the  child. 
J',iit  see,  yon  pirate  strangling  lies,  and  crusljed 

with  sjilashing  heel, 
While  o'er  him  in  an  Irish  hand  tliere  sweeps 

his  Syrian  steel  ; 
'i'hough  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and  misers 

yield  their  store, 
There  's  o/if:  heartli  well  avenged  in  the  sack  of 

lialtimore  I 


©^^ 


Miilsummer  mom,  in  woodland  nigli,  the  birds 
begin  to  sing ; 


They  stc  not  now  the  milking-maida,  deserted  is 
the  spring ! 

Midsummer  day,  this  gallant  rides  from  distant 
Uandon's  town, 

Thes<;  hookers  crossed  from  stormy  Skull,  that 
skill'  from  AHadown. 

They  only  found  the  smoking  walls  with  neigh- 
bors' blood  besprent, 

And  on  the  strewe<l  and  trampled  beach  awhilo 
they  wildly  went, 

Then  dashed  to  sea,  and  pajiscil  Cape  Clear,  and 
saw,  five  leagues  Ijefore, 

The  pirat<;-galleys  vanishing  tliat  ravaged  lialti- 
more. 

0,   sonic  must  tug  the  galley's  oar,   and  some 

must  tend  the  steed,  — 
Tliis  boy  will  )x>ar  a  Sclieik's  chibouk,  and  that 

a  Bey's  jerrecd. 
0,  some  are  for  the  arsenals  by  beauteous  Dar- 
danelles, 
And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's  sandy 

dells. 
The  maid  that  Bandon  gallant  sought  is  chosen 

for  the  Dey, 
She  'h  safe,  —  she  's  dcail,  —  slie  stablwd  him  in 

the  midst  of  his  Serai ; 
And  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire  that  noble  maid 

they  liore. 
She    only    smiled,  —  O'DriscoU's    child, — she 

thouglit  of  I'altimore. 

'T  is  two  long  years  since  gunk  the  town  beneath 
that  bloody  band. 

And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a  larger 
concourse  stand. 

Where  high  u])on  a  gallows-tree  a  yelling  wretch 
is  seen,  — 

'T  is  Haikett  of  Dungarvan,  —  he  wlio  steered 
the  Algerine ! 

Ho  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout,  with  scarce  a  pass- 
ing prayer, 

For  lie  lia<l  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many  a 
liiindred  there  : 

Some  muttered  of  MacMorrogh,  who  liad  brought 
the  Norman  o'er. 

Some  cursed  him  with  Iscariot,  that  day  in  Bal- 
timore. 

THOMAS  IJAVIS. 


PARRHASnjS. 

Parrhasius  stood,  giizing  forgetfully 
Upon  the  canvas.     There  Prometheus  lay, 
r'hained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus, 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 
Of  the  lame  Lemnkn  festering  in  his  flesh  ; 


-& 


©■ 


794 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


-a 


fe- 


Ami,  us  tlio  jxiiiitt'v's  iiiiiul  I'elt  tlinnigli  the  dim 
Kapt  inystevv,  aiul  jiUukeU  the  sluulows  forth 
With  its  I'lU'-ivaohiiig  fancy,  luul  with  fonu 
Ami  ooloi-  I'liul  them,  his  tiiio,  wirnost  uyo 
Fhishi'U  with  a  passiouato  tii-o,  ami  the  ijuiek  curl 
tlf  liis  tliiii  nostril,  ami  his  nuivering  lip, 
Weiv  like  the  winged  god's  breathing  from  his 
(lights. 

"  Bring  me  the  eapti\e  now  ! 
My  hand  feels  skillful,  and  the  sliadows  lift 
Fixmx  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift  ; 

And  I  eould  jKiint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens,  -     aroiuid  me  play 
Coloi's  of  siu'h  divinity  to-day. 

"  Ua  !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  !  as  rromelheiis  in  my  pietuiv  here  ; 
Quiik,  —  or  ho  faints  !  —  stand  with  the  eordial 
near  ! 

Now,  —  bend  him  to  the  raek  ! 
l'^«ss  down  the  poisoueil  links  into  his  llesli ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afix'sh  ! 

"  So,  —  let  him  writhe  I     How  long 
Will  he  live  thus  >.    tjHuek,  my  good  pencil,  now  ! 
\Vliat  a  line  agony  works  upon  his  bi-ow  ! 

Ua  !  gmy-haiivd,  and  so  stivng  ! 
Uow  fearfully  he  stitles  that  sliort  moan  ! 
Gods  !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  gi-oan  ! 

•'  rity  thee  !  so  1  do  ! 
1  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altnr. 
But  does  the  mbed  priest  for  his  pity  falter  ! 

I  'd  rack  thee,  though  1  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine  ; 
What  weiv  ten  tliou.<«nd  to  a  fime  like  mine? 

"  Ah  !  then'  's  a  deathless  name  !  — 
A  spirit  that  the  snu>thering  vaults  shall  spurn. 
And,  like  a  steadfast  planet,  mount  and  burn  ; 

And  though  its  crown  of  llame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone. 
By  all  the  tiery  stars,  1  "d  bind  it  on  ! 

"  .\y  !  though  it  bid  me  rille 
My  luNirt's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thiret,  — 
Though   every  life-strung  nerve   li«  maddened 
fu-st.  — 

Though  it  .should  bid  n>e  stitle 
The  yearnings  in  my  heart  for  my  sweet  child. 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild,  — 

"AH,— I  would  do  it  all,— 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot 
Thrust  foully  in  the  earth  to  be  foi-got. 

O  Heavens  !  —  but  1  appall 


Your  heart,  old  man  !  —  forgive  —  ha  !  on  your 

lives 
Let  him  not  faint  !  rack  him  till  he  rovivos  I 

"  Vain,  —  vain,  — give  o'er.     His  eye 
U lazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now,  — 
Stand  back  !  1  '11  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow  ! 

t!ods  !  if  he  do  not  die. 
But  for  one  moment  —  one  —  till  1  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  culm  lips  ! 

"Shivering!     Hark!  he  nuitters 
Brokenly  now,  —  that  was  a  dillicult  breath,  — 
Another?    Wilt  thou  never  come,  0  Death  ? 

Look  !  how  his  temple  tluttei's  ! 
Is  his  heart  still  <    Aha  !  lift  np  his  head  ! 
Ho  shudders,  —  gas\)s,  —  Jove  help  him  !  —  so, 
—  he  's  dead  ! " 

How  like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart 
U\ilos  the  univined  ambition  !     Let  it  once 
But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 
Cilows  with  a  beauty  that  hewildei-s  thought 
.\nd  unthrones  peace  foit'ver.     Putting  on 
The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 
The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 
Left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's  lip. 
We  look  \ipon  our  splendor,  and  foi-get 
The  thii'st  of  which  we  perish  ! 

Nathaniel  Takkuk  Willis. 


THE  ROMAN  FATHER'S  SAORIFICK. 


SriiAioni'WAY  Vii-ginius  led  the  maid 

A  little  space  aside. 
To  where  the  reeking  shambles  stood, 

riled  up  with  horn  and  hide  ; 
Close  to  yon  low  dark  aivhway, 

Where,  in  a  crimson  Hood, 
Leajis  down  to  the  givat  sewer 

The  gm'gling  stream  of  blood. 

Hani  by,  a  tlesher  on  a  blwk 

Had  laid  his  whittle  down  : 
Virginius  caught  the  whittle  up, 

And  hid  it  in  his  gown. 
And  then  his  eyes  gn'W  very  dim. 

And  his  throat  liegan  to  swell. 
And  in  a  hoarse,  changed  voice  he  spake, 

"Farewell,  sweet  child  !   Farewell  I 

"  0,  how  I  loved  my  darling  ! 

Though  stern  I  sometimes  be, 
To  thee,  thou  know'st,  1  was  not  so,  — 

Who  could  \)o  so  to  thee  ? 


--& 


a-^- 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


795 


--a 


h 


And  liow  my  daiUiig  lovud  mc  I 

How  glad  she  was  to  hear 
My  foolfitej)  on  the  thretihold 

\Vh(;n  I  came  back  hist  year  I 

".And  h(jw  she  danced  witli  nh;asuro 

'I'll  SIT  my  civic  crown, 
And  tiiok  my  sword,  and  liung  it  up, 

And  lironglit  mc  forth  my  gown  ! 
Now,  all  those  things  arc  over,  — 

Yes,  all  thy  pretty  ways. 
Thy  needlework,  thy  jirattle, 

Thy  snatches  of  old  lays; 

"And  none  will  grieve  when  I  go  forth. 

Or  siriile  when  I  retnrn. 
Or  watch  beside  the  old  man's  bed, 

Or  weep  upon  his  urn. 
'I'lio  house  that  was  tlie  happiest 

Within  the  Roman  walls, 
The  house  lliat  cMvii'd  not  the  wealth 

(ItC^iim^'s  marble  lialls, 

"Now,  lor  tlie  brightness  of  tliy  snnle, 

Must  have  eti-rnal  gloom. 
And  for  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

The  silence  of  the  tomb. 
The  time  is  conu!  !     See  how  hi:  points 

His  eager  hand  this  way  ! 
See  how  his  eyes  gloat  on  thy  grief. 

Like  a  kite's  upon  the  prey  ! 

"With  all  his  wit,  he  lillle  deems 

That,  spurned,  Ijctrayed,  bereft. 
Thy  father  hath,  in  his  despair. 

One  fearful  refuge  left. 
He  little  deems  that  in  this  hand 

1  clutch  what  still  can  save 
Thy  gentle  youtli  from  taunts  and  IjIows, 

The  portion  of  the  slave  ; 

"Yea,  and  from  nanudess  evil, 

That  jiasseth  taunt  and  blow,  — 
Foul  outrage  which  thou  knowest  not, 

Whieli  thou  shalt  never  know. 
Then  clasp  me  round  the  neck  oiu.'e  more. 

And  give  me  one  more  kiss  ; 
And  now,  mine  own  dear  little  girl, 

There  is  no  way  but  this." 

With  that  he  lifted  high  the  steel, 

And  smote  her  in  the  side. 
And  in  her  blood  she  sank  to  earth. 

And  with  one  solj  she  died. 
Then,  fiu'  a  little  moment, 

All  people  held  their  breath  ; 
And  through  the  crowded  forum 

Was  stillness  as  of  death  ; 


And  in  another  moment 

iii-akc  forth,  from  one  and  all, 
A  cry  as  if  the  Volscians 

Were  coming  o'er  the  wall. 
Some  with  averte<l  faces 

Shrieking  lied  home  amain  ; 
Some  lan  to  call  a  leech  ;  and  some 

Ran  to  lift  up  the  slain. 

Some  felt  her  lips  and  little  wrist, 

If  life  might  there  be  found  ; 
And  somit  tore  up  their  garments  fast. 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  wound. 
In  vain  they  lan,  and  felt,  and  stanched  ; 

For  never  truer  blow 
Tliat  good  right  arnj  had  dealt  in  fight 

Against  a  Volscian  foe. 

When  Appius  Claudius  saw  that  deed. 

He  shuddered  and  sank  down. 
And  hid  his  face  some  little  space 

With  the  corner  of  his  gown  ; 
Till,  with  wdiite  lips  and  bloodshot  eyes, 

Virginius  tottered  nigh. 
And  stood  before  the  ju<Igment-8oat, 

And  held  the  knife  on  high. 

"()  dwellers  in  the  nether  gloom, 

Avengers  of  the  slain, 
I'.y  this  dear  blood  I  cry  to  you 

Do  right  between  us  twain  ; 
And  even  as  Appius  Claudius 

Hath  dealt  by  me  and  mine. 
Deal  you  by  Apjiius  Claudi\is, 

And  all  the  Claudian  lino  !  " 

So  spake  the  slayer  of  his  child. 

And  turned  and  went  his  way  ; 
Hut  first  he  east  one  haggard  glance 

To  wdicrc  the  body  lay. 
And  writhed,  and  groaned  a  fearful  groan, 

And  then,  with  steadfast  feet. 
Strode  right  across  the  markot-placo 

Unto  the  Sacred  Street. 

Then  u]i  sprang  Ajipius  Claudiuii : 

"Stii]i  him  ;  alive  or  deatl ! 
Ten  thousand  pounds  of  copper 

To  the  man  who  brings  his  head." 
He  looked  upon  his  clients  ; 

Hut  none  would  work  his  will. 
He  looked  upon  his  lictors  ; 

Hut  they  trembled,  and  stood  still. 

And  as  Virginius  through  the  press 

His  way  in  silence  cleft. 
Ever  the  mighty  multitude 

Fell  back  to  right  and  hitt. 


-& 


a-r 


796 


rOKMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


-^ 


And  lio  Imtli  jwssihI  in  safety 

I'nto  his  wol'iil  home, 
And  there  tn'en  hoi-se  to  tell  the  eanip 

W'lmt  de»ds  aiv  done  in  Home. 

THOMAS  ISAIUNGION  MACAL'LAV. 


LAMENT  OF  VIRGINIUS. 


1--ROM   "Al'l'U'S 


ViROimus.     Faivwoll,  my  sweet  Virginia  ; 
never,  never, 
Shall  1  taste  fruit  of  the  most  blesstd  hope 
I  had  in  thee.     Lot  me  forget  the  thought 
Of  thy  most  pivtty  infaney  :  when  tivst 
Keturning  fiwm  the  wai-s,  I  took  delight 
'J'o  roek  thee  in  my  target  ;  when  my  girl 
Would  kiss  her  father  in  his  Inirgiinet 
Of  glittering  steel  hung  'bout  his  arm^d  neek  ; 
And,  viewing  the  bright  metal,  smile  to  see 
Another  fair  Virginia  smile  on  thee  ; 
When  1  tii'st  taught  thee  how  to  gii,  to  speak  ; 
And  when  my  wounds  have  smarted,   1  have 

snng 
AVith  an  unskillful,  yet  a  willing  voiee, 
To  bring  my  girl  asleep.     0  my  Virginia, 
When  we  began  to  he,  Iwgan  our  woes, 
Ineivasing  still,  as  dying  life  still  grows  ! 

John  Weustek. 


©- 


A  DAGGER  OF  THE  MINT). 


Is  this  a  dagger  which  1  see  before  me. 
The  handle  towant  my  hand  '    Come,  let  me 

eluteh  thee  :  — 
1  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  iuit,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proeeeding  from  the  heat-oppressM  brain  ? 
1  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  jialpable 
As  this  which  now  1  draw. 
Thou  mai'shal'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going  ; 
And  such  an  instrunuint  1  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses. 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest  ;  1  see  thee  still  ; 
And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon  gonts  of  blood, 
Which  was  not  so  before.  —  There  's  no  such 

thing : 
It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes.  —  Now  o'er  the  one  half 

world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  drvams  abuse 
The  eurtained  sleep  ;  witchcraft  celebrates 


Tale  Hecate's  olTerings  ;  and  withered  murder, 

Alarumed  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf. 

Whose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy 

pace, 
With  Tarijuin's  nivisliiug  strides,  towai\ls  his 

design 
Moves  like  a  ghost.  —  Thou  sure  and  lirm-set 

earth, 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,   for 

fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
Which  now  suits  with  it.  —  Whiles  I  threat,  he 

lives  : 
WorIs  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

(A  bell  rings.) 
I  go,  and  it  is  done  ;  the  bell  invites  mu. 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thoo  to  heaven  or  to  hell. 

SUAKBSrBAKB. 


THE  MURDER. 


ScKNK  in  the  Castle.    Enter  Lady  M.\cbkth. 

Lady  M.\cbetii.   That  which  hath  made  them 
drunk  hath  made  me  bold  ; 
What  hath  iiuenched  them  hath  given  n\e  tire. 

Hark  !  —  IVace  ! 
It  was  the  owl  that  shrieked,  the  fatal  Wlman, 
Which  gives  the  stern'st  good  night.      He  is 

alwut  it ; 
The  dooiis  are  open  ;  and  the  surfeited  gi-ooms 
Do  mark   their  chai-ge  with   snores :     1   have 

druggi>d  their  possets. 
That  death  and  nature'  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live,  or  die. 

M.vcitKTii  (within).    Who  "s  there  ?  What,  ho  ! 
Lady  M.      Alack,    I   am  afmid    they   have 
awaked 
And  't  is  not  done  ;  —  the  attempt  and  not  the 

deed 
Confounds  us.  —  Hark  I  —  1  laid  their  daggers 

ready ; 
He  could  not  miss  them.  — Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father,  as  ho  slept,  I  had  done  't.  —  My  hus- 
Ixind  ! 
Macb.     I  have  done  the  deed.      Didst  thou 

not  hear  a  noise  ? 
Lady  M.    1  heanl  the  owl  scream,  luul  the 
crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 
AlAor„"  When  ? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Mack.  As  I  descendeil ! 

hAVX  M.     Ay. 


4 


fi-^- 


POEMH  OF  TUAGEDY. 


797 


ra 


B^- 


Macd,     Hark  !  — 
Wlio  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

I/ADY  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.     {lofiki-ntj  tjnh-inhanda).    Thiw  is  a  Horry 

sight. 
I.AUY  M.     A  fijolisli  thought,  to  say  a  sorry 

sight. 
Macb.     There  's  one  did  hiugli  in  's  Bleejj,  and 
one  cried,  "  Murder  !  " 
'i'liat  they  did  wake  ea<;)i   other  :    I   st<jod  and 

licard  them  : 
I'iit  they  did  say  tlieir  prayers,  and  addressetl 

tliem 
Again  to  bleep. 

Lahy  M.  There  are  two  lodged  togetlier. 

Macb.     One  cried,   "God  bless  iw  !  "   and, 
"Amen,"  the  other ; 
As   they   had   seen    me  with   tliese   liangman's 

liands. 
Listening  their  fear.    1  could  not  say,  "Amen," 
When  they  did  say,  "God  bless  us." 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macd.    Hut  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce 
"  Amen  "  '! 
I  lia'i  most  need  of  blessing,  and  "  Anien  " 
fituck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.     These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways  ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 
Macb.    Methought  1  heard  a  voice  cry,  "  Sleep 
no  more ! 
Macbeth   does   murder  sleep,"  —  the   innocent 

slecj). 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  raveled  sleave  of  care. 
The  death  of  ea<;h  day's  life,  sore  lalxir's  Ixith, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  coui'sc. 
Chief  nourislier  in  life's  feast,  — 

Laijy  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Ma':i).     Still  it  cried,  "Sleep  no  more!"  to 
all  the  house  : 
"Olaniis  hath   murdered  sleep;    and  therefore 

Cawdor 
Shall  slee|(  no  more,  —  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no 
more  ! " 
LaiiY  M.    Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?    Why, 
worthy  tljane. 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strengtli,  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things.  —  Go,  get  some  water. 
And  wiish  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
'I'hey  must  lie  there  ;  go  carry  them  ;  and  smear 
'J'he  sleepy  giooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I  'II  go  no  more  ! 

I  am  afrai<l  to  think  what  I  Ixave  done  ; 
Look  on  't  again,  I  dare  not. 

Laiiy  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  ! 

Give  me   the   daggers  :    the  sleeping,   and  the 

dead. 
Are  but  as  pictures  ;  't  is  the  eye  of  chililhood 


That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I  '11  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal ; 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt. 

[lijril..     Kiwc.kinij  within. 
Macd.     Whence  is  tliat  knocking  f 
How  is 't  with  me,  when  every  noise  ajiiialls  me  t 
What  )ian<is  are  here  !     Ha  !    they  pluck   out 

mine  eyes ! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wa.sli  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand  I    No  ;  tliis  my  hand  will 

rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine. 
Making  the  green  —  one  red. 

He-enter  Lady  .Macbkth. 
Lauy  M.     My  han'ls  are  of  your  color  ;  but  I 

sliame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.     (JCnockhiy.)     I  hear 

a  knocking 
At  the  Sfjuth  entry  ;  —  retire  we  to  our  chamber  : 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed  : 
How  easy  is  it,  then  !     V'our  constancy 
Hath  left  you  unatt<;nded.      (KiMcIciiifj.)    Hark, 

nioie  knocking. 
Get  on  your  nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us. 
Anil  show  us  to  be  watchers  :  —  be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

Macb.   To  know  my  <leed,  't  were  best  not 

know  myself.     (Kiwckimj.) 
Wake  Duncan  with  thy  knocking  !  J  would  thou 

couldst. 

SJlAKIiSeeARK, 


LUCIUS    JUNIUS    BRUTUS    OVER   THE    BODY 
OF  LUCKETIA. 

FROM  ■■IJKUTCi." 

Wotri,D  you   know  why  I  summoned  you  to- 
gether ? 
^k  ye  what  brings  me  here  ?  Behold  this  dagger, 
"Jlottcd  with  gore  !     IJehold  that  frozen  corse  ! 
.See  where  the  lost  Lucretia  slcejw  in  death  ! 
She  was  the  mark  and  model  of  the  time, 
The  raolc  in  which  each  female  face  was  foiTued, 
The  very  shrine  and  sar;risty  of  virtue  ! 
Fairer  than  ever  was  a  form  created 
liy  youtliful  fancy  when  the  bloorl  strays  wild, 
And  never-resting  thought  is  all  on  fire  ! 
The  worthiest  of  the  worthy  !     Not  tlie  nymph 
Who  met  old  iSTuma  in  his  hallowed  walks. 
And  whisjK-red  in  his  car  her  strains  divine. 
Can  I  conceive  beyond  her  ;  —  the  young  choir 
Of  vestal  virgins  bent  to  her.     'T  is  wonderful 
Amid  the  daniel,  hemlock,  and  base  weeds. 
Which  now  spring  rife  from  the  luxuiious  com- 
post 
.Spread  o'er  the  realm,  how  this  sweet  lily  rose,  — 
How  from  the  shade  of  those  Ul-neighljoring 
plants 


.4 


\£r- 


798 


POJSMS  OF  TBAGEDY. 


n 


lliM-  tnUicr  s1u'Uoi\hI  liov.  tliiit  not  a  U'lif 
Was  Wijthtwl,  bul,  an-sivod  in  imitwt  j;mi'0, 
Slu-  Woonu'il  \msiillit'il  Wauty.   Sucli  iK'irootions 
Mij;lit  litivi'  calUHl  \>aik  tlu>  torpid  luvast  of  aJ,^■ 
To  loiig-roi-gvntoii  rajituiv  ;  s>\i'h  a  uiiiul 
Mijtlil  lia\.'  iiUisliwl  tho  boUUst  lilHTtiiio 
Aiul  tiinunl  (ioMiti  to  ivvi'ix'iitial  lovo 
Aiul  lioliist  alU'ction  !     l^  my  coimtiymou  ! 
You  all  oaii  \vit\u'ss  wlirii  that  slu>  wont  t'oith 
It  was  a  holiday  ii\  liouio  ;  old  aJ^' 
yoi^Mt  its  nuli'h,  labor  its  ttusk,  — a]l  nm, 
And  inothoi-s,  tuniinj;  to  tlunr  daiightoi-s,  oriod, 
"  'riu>n\  ihoiv  's  lAU'wtia  ! "  Jvow  look  y«  wUt'i-o 

slu.  lit's  ! 
That  lva»too\is  llowor,  that  imuKviit  swoot  i\is<>. 
Torn  uji  by  nithlossvioh'Ui'o, — gone  !  gouo !  j^mo,' 

Say,  would  you  sook  iustruotiou  !  woidd  yo  ask 
AVhat  yi>  should  do  >  Ask  yo  you  cousoious  walls, 
Whioh  saw  his  jKnsoui'il  bivthor,  — 
Ask  yoi>  dosortwl  stix>ot,  whmi  'l\>llia  divvo 
ll'or  hor  dead  father's  ooi-st>,  't  will  cry,  Kovcugo  ! 
Ask  y oudor  si>nato-houso,  whoso  stones  aw  jiurplo 
.With  huniau  blooil,  and  it  will  ory,  Uovoiigi'  ! 
Uo  to  Iho  tomb  whoiv  lies  his  uuuxloivd  wife. 
And  tho  poor  nuoou,  who  loved  him  as  her  sou, 
Their  unappeased  ghosts  will  shriek,  lu-veuge  ! 
The  temples  of  thegvHls,  the  all-viewinj; heavens, 
The  gods  themselves,  sliall  justify  tJio  ery. 
And  swell  the  gi'ueml  sound,  Kevongo  !  Keveu^ ! 

A\id  wo  will  lie  ivvengi'd.  my  eouutrymen  ! 
Urutus  shall  lead  you  on  ;  tSriitus,  a  name 
Whieh  will,  when  you  "re  ivvenged,  Vw  deaivr  to 

him 
Than  all  the  noblest  titles  earth  ean  Iwast. 

Urutus  your  king  !  —  No,  fellow -eitizens  ! 
If  mad  ambition  iti  this  guilty  frame 
Had  strung  one  kingly  lilvr,  yw),  but  one,  — 
r>y  all  the  gvHls,  this  daggt'r  whieh  1  hold 
Slundd  rip  it  out,  though  it  intvvined  my  hejirt. 

Now  take  the  Ixxly  u|>.      Hear  it  K'foiv  us 
To Tanpiin's  jwlaee :  theiv  we '11  light  oiu' toivlu^s. 
And  in  the  bliuing  eontlagmtion  ittir 
A  (lile,  for  tlu>se  chaste  ivlies,  that  slmll  send 
Her  sovU  amongst  tlie  st<u-s.     On  !  Brutus  loads 
you  ! 

John  Howaku  vavnk. 


BF^VTKICE  OENCI. 


FROM  "Tm:  CKNCl." 


llKATRlCK.  0, 

Jly  01  Oil !  ean  it  Ih>  jH>ssiblo  1  have 

To  die  so  suddeidy  *    S<>  young  to  gvi 

I'nder  the  oliseuif,  eold,  rotting,  wormy  ground  ! 

To  Iw  nailwl  down  into  a  narrv>w  place  ; 

To  see  no  nioiv  sweet  sunsliine  ;  hear  no  moiv 


lilithe  voice  of  living  thing  ;  muse  not  again 
I'pou  familiar  thoughts,  sail,  yet  thus  lost,  — 
How  fearfid  ! 

l,i'Oi;KriA.  I'hild,  perhnjvs 

It  will  W  ^iiwtml.     Wo  may  all  then  live 
To  make  those  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years. 
O,  w  liat  a  thought  !     It  gushes  to  my  heart 
Like  the  warm  IJoixl. 

IUlviu.  Yet  \H>th  will  soon  be  eold. 

0,  trample  out  that  thought  !  \Vorse  tJuiii  despdr, 
Woi-se  than  tho  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope  ; 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  lind  place 
l'lK>n  the  giddy,  sharp,  and  utiri\>\v  hour 
Tottering  K'neath  us.     Plead  with  the  swift  fivst 
That  it  shoidd  spaiv  the  eldest  llower  of  spring  ; 
riead  with  awakening   oartluiuako,  o'er  whose 

eoueh 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  fair,  stivng,  luid  five  ; 
Now  stench  and  lilaokness  yawns,  like  death. 

0,  plead 
With  famine,  or  wind-walking  pestilence. 
Wind  lightning,  or  tho  deaf  sea,  not  with  man  ! 
Cruel,  cold,  formal  man  !  righteous  in  woixls. 
In  deinls  a  Cain.     No,  mother,  we  nuist  die, 
Since  such  is  the  ivwai\l  of  innocent  lives, 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 
And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  lUid  haixl,  cold 

men, 
Smiling  and  slow,  walk  tluvngh  a  world  of  tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleej>,  "t  weiv  just  the  grave 
Wen>  some  strang\>  joy  for  us.     t.\ime,  ol>scniv 

Death, 
And  wind  n\e  in  thine  all-embracing  arms  ! 
Uike  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  iKvtoin, 
And  i\K-k  me  to  tlie  sleep  from  whieh  noiui  wake. 

I'HKCV  llVSSIlIi  SHBLLKV. 


THK  YOUNO  OKAY   HEAD. 

GiUKK  hath  Ihhmi  kiunvu  to  turn  the  young  head 

gray,  — 
To  .silver  over  in  a  single  day 
The  blight  hn'ks  of  the  Iwmtiful,  their  piiine 
Seaively  o'eriwst  ;  as  in  the  fearful  time 
Of  l^allia's  nn\dness,  that  discrowned  IkwI 
Seivne,  that  oi\  the  accursM  altar  bled 
MiscalU4  of  Lilwrty.     0  martyitnl  Queen  ! 
What  must  the  sufferings  of  that  night  have 

lH>en  — 
That  I'lir-  —  that  sprinkUxl  thy  fair  tj-essiw  o'er 
With  time's  nutimely  snow  !   Hut  now  no  molts 
Lovely,  august,  unhappy  one  I  of  thtH>  — 
1  have  to  tell  a  hnnihler  history  ; 
A  vilhigi>  tale,  whose  only  charm,  in  six>th 
^lf  any),  will  Ih)  siid  and  simple  trnth. 


-^ 


[S- 


rOMMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


799 


■a 


"  MotLor, "  ijuotli  AinbroHe  to  liis  tlirifty  darat,  — 
So  oft  our  peasant's  u«e  his  wil'i;  to  name, 
"  Fatlier  "  and   "Manter"  to  hiiiiHell' ajijjlieii. 
Ah  life's  fjravo  duties  niatronize  tlic  biide,  — 
"  Mollier,"  quoth  Ambrose,  ashefaeed  tlienorlli 
Willi  liard-set  teeth,  before  lie  i«»ued  forth 
'I'o  his  day  labor,  I'roiii  the  cottage  door,  — 
"  I  'ill  thinking  that,  tu-niglit,  if  not  before, 
Thi-re  'U  be  wild  work.     Dost  hear  old  Cliewton* 
roar  J 

I I  'k  browing  up  down  westwaid  ;  and  look  there, 
I  'lie  of  those  sea-gulls  !  ay,  there  goes  a  pair  ; 
And  such  a  mdden  thaw  !     If  rain  eonies  on, 
.\s  threats,  the  wat<:rs  will  lie  out  anon. 

'I'liat  path  by  the  ford  's  a  nasty  bit  of  way,  — 
liisl  li't  the  young  ones  bide  from  sehool  to-day." 

"  \)i),  mother,   do  ! "    the  ijuiek-earcd  urchins 

cried  ; 
Two  little  lasses  to  tlie  fatlier's  side 
''lose  elinging,  as  they  looked  from  him,  to  spy 
Tlie  answering  language  of  the  mother's  eye. 
Tlu.re  was  di;niul,  and  she  shook  liei'  head  : 
"  Nay,  nay,  —  no  hanii  will  come  to  them,"  she 

said, 
"  'I'lie  riiislress  lets  tlioni  off  these  short  dark  days 
All  li.jiii  I  lie  earlier  ;  and  our  Liz,  she  says, 
,M;i\  i|iiili:  lie  trusted  —  and  I  know  't  is  true  — 
To  take  eare  of  herself  and  .Jenny  too. 
And  so  she  ought,  —  she  '«  seven  come  lirst  of 

May,  — 
years  the  oldest ;  and  they  give  away 
<  'liristmas  bounty  at  the  school  to-day." 

The  mother's  will  was  law  (alas,  for  her 
TIkiI  hapless  day,  poor  soul  !) — sAc  could  not  eiT, 
Tliciiight  Ambrose  ;  and  his  little  fair-liaired  .lane 
(llir  namesake)  to  his  heart  he  liugged  again, 
Whin  each  had  had  her  turn  ;  she  clinging  so 
As  if  that  day  she  could  not  let  him  go, 
lint  Labor's  sons  must  snatch  a  hasty  bliss 
in  nature's  tendere.st  mood.     One  last  fond  kiss, 
"i;od  bli-ss  my  little  maids  !  "  the  father  said. 
And  cheerly  went  his  way  to  win  their  bread. 
Then  might  be  seen,  the  ])layiiiate  jiarent  gone. 
What  looks  demure  the  sister  pair  put  on,  — 
Not  of  the  mother  as  afraid,  or  shy, 

III  i|iir,ii.,iiing  the  love  that  could  deny  ; 
Kill     Mn|ilv,  as  their  simple  training  taught, 
111  .iiiiri,  [ilaiu  straightforwardness  of  thought 
(.Siil.iiii.ssively  resigned  the  hope  of  play) 
Towards  the  serious  business  of  the  day. 

To  me  there  's  something  toucliing,  I  confess. 
In  the  grave  look  of  early  thoughtfulncKs, 
•Seen  often  in  some  little  childish  face 

♦  A  freiih- water  aprlnif  rui,1ilnK  Imo  the  lica,   called  Clicwton 


Two 

The 


*]- 


Among  the  poor.     Not  that  wherein  we  trace 
(.Shame  to  our  land,  our  rulers,  and  our  race  !) 
'i'he  unnatural  sufferings  of  the  fact'jry  child. 
But  a  staid  ijuietness,  reflective,  mild, 
Jjctokening,  in  the  depths  of  those  young  eyes. 
Sense  of  life's  cares,  without  its  miseries. 

So  to  the  mother's  charge,  with  thoughtful  brow. 
The  doc;ile  Lizzy  stood  attentive  now, 
I'loud  of  her  years  and  of  iuijjuted  sense, 
And  prudence  justifying  confidence,  — 
And  little  .Jenny,  more  demurely  still, 
licside  her  waited  the  maternal  will. 
So  standing  hand  in  hand,  a  lovelier  twain 
(Jaiiisborough   ne'er   painted  :   no  —  nor   he   of 

Sjiain, 
Glorious  Murillo  !  —  and  by  conti'ast  sliown 
More  beautiful.     The  younger  little  one, 
With  large  blue  eyes  and  silken  ringlets  fair, 
Uy  nut-brown  Lizzy,  with  smooth  parted  hair. 
Sable  and  glossy  a.s  the  raven's  wing. 
And  lustrous  eyes  as  dark. 

"Now,  mind  and  bring 
.Jenny  safe  home,"    the  mother  said,  —  "don't 

stay 
To  jiull  a  liough  or  berry  by  the  way  : 
And  when  you  come  to  cross  the  ford,  hold  fast 
Your  little  sister's  hand,  till  you  're  (|ulte  past,  — 
That  plank  's  so  crazy,  and  so  slippery 
elf  not  o'erllowed)  the  stepping-stoins  will  bo. 
lint  you  're  good  children  —  steady  as  old  folk  — 
I  'd  trust  ye  anywhere."     Then  Lizzy's  cloak, 
A  good  gray  duflle,  lovingly  she  tied. 
And  amply  little  .Jenny's  lack  supplied 
With  her  own  warmest  shawl.     "  lie  sure,"  said 

she, 
"  To  wraj)  it  round  and  knot  it  carefully 
(Like  this),  when  you  come  home,  just  leaving 

free 
Une  hand  to  hold  by.     Now,  make  haste  away  — 
Hood  will  to  school,  and  then  good  right  to  play." 

Was  there  no  sinking  at  the  mother's  heart 
When,  all  equipt,  tliey  turned  them  to  dejiart  ? 
When  down  the  lane,  she  watched  them  as  they 

went 
Till  out  of  sight,  was  no  forefeeling  sent 
( If  coming  ill !     In  truth  I  cannot  tell  : 
.Such  warnings  luivc  been  sent,  we  know  full  well 
And  must  believe  —  believing  tli.at  they  are  — 
In  mercy  then  —  to  rouse,  restrain,  preiiare. 

And  now  I  mind  me,  something  of  tlie  kind 

Did  surely  haunt  that  day  the  mother's  mind. 

Making  it  irksome  to  bide  all  alone 

I!y  her  own  (|uiet  hearth.     Though  never  known 

For  idle  gossipry  was  .Jenny  Gray, 

Yet  so  it  was,  that  mom  she  could  not  stay 


-S 


fl-J 


800 


POEMS  OF  TllAGEDY. 


^ 


Al  li.Muo  Willi  hn-  own  tlu>uj;lit,s,  Imt   look  hw 

way 
'I'o  ln>r  in'xt  iU'ij;lilHii''s,  liiilt'  a  hml'  U>  U>i'i\>w,  — 
\  it   iuij;lit   lior  stoiv  Imvo  liistoil  out  tlu>  iiioi- 

ivw,    -- 
Ami  with  llio  liwu  olitninotl,  sho  liiif^Mxul  still, 
Siiiil  nIu',   "  My  miisloi'.  it' lio  M  hail  liis  will, 
WouUl  liavo  ko[it  Imok  out'  lilt-Ui  oiio,s  I'wim  school 
'riiis  ilix'iull\il  u\oruiiig  ;  iiiitl  I  'ill  suoh  n  fool, 
Siuoo  tlioy  'vo  liroii  jj^nio,  1  'vo  wislioil  tliom  Imi'k. 

uiil  tlion 
It  wiml  ilo  ill  siu'li  tJiiiijp  to  liiimor  moii,  — 
l>ui'  Anibi\>so  s|ii'i'iall,v.      If  let  iiloim 
11(1  M  sjioil  llioso  wi'iiolios.     Uiit  it '»  i'oniiu){  on, 
That  stonii  lu'  sitiil  wiis  Invwiiig,  sun  oiiough,    - 
Wi'll  !  wlml  of  that?     'IV  think  what  iilU'  stiill" 
AVill  ooino  into  ono's  h«ul  !     Ami  lii>iv  with  yon 
I  slop,  as  if  1  \l  notliiiijj  olso  to  ilo 
Anil  tlioy  11  oonio  homo,  (li\>wmHl  iiitji.     I  must 

1h>  ji^mo 
To  _i;ol  vhy  tliinjpi,  ami  sot  llio  kottlo  on." 

Ilisilay'swoikiloiio.  ihivoiiuiilal  iiiilos,  aiul  nioiv, 
l.jiy  Ivlwooii  Amhroso  ami  his  oottaijo-iloor. 
A  woaiy  way,  liod  wot,  for  woaiy  wijjlit  I 
Hut  yot  far  oll'tlio  oiulinj;  siiioko  in  sight 
Fiviii  his  own  ihimnoy,  ami  his  heart  frit  light. 
How  (iloasaiilly  tho  liumhlo  homostcail  stood, 
Oown  tho  gu>on  laiio,  l>y  slu'ltoriiigShiiloy  wood  ! 
How  swoot  tho  waftiiij;  of  tho  ovoiiing  lnvo/o. 
In  sining-linio,  fivni  his  two  oUl  ohon-y-tiws, 
Shoot  oil  with  Mossoni  !     And  in  hot  .Uily, 
Wnn  tho  luMwn  moor-traok,  shadowloss  and  dry. 
Mow  jji-atofnl  tho  oool  oovorl  to  ivgaiii 
0(  his  own  lUvitKc,      that  slnuly  lano, 
With  tho  wliilo  oottaui>.  in  a  slantinj;  glow 
iM'snnsot  i;loiy,  gloaming  l>i'i>{ht  holow. 
And  jasniino  non'li,  his  nisli>  |>ortioo  ! 

With  what  a  thankful  gladiioss  in  liis  faoo, 
(.Siloiit  lioart-liomag<>,  —  \ilant  of  sjiooial  graoo  !) 
.\t  tho  lano's  ontramo,  slaokoning  otY  his  (Woo, 
Would  .\nil>i\wo  solid  a  loving  look  Ivforo  ; 
t\inooitiiig  tho  oagiul  Maokbinl  at  tho  door, 
'l^ho  vory  Waokbiixl,  strainotl  its  littlo  tlii\>at. 
In  woloomo,  with  a  nu»\>  ivjoioiiig  nolo  ; 
.\nd  lionost  Tinkor,  diig  of  douM  ful  luvod, 
.Ml  brislhs  Ivaok,  and  tnil,  Imt  "  gvxwl  at  not>d," 
Ploasant  his  giwting  to  tlio  aoonslomoil  oar  ; 
Uul  of  all  woloonios  ploasanlost,  most  ilwir, 
Tho  ringing  voioo.t,  liko  swoot  silvor  Ih-Us, 
0(  his  two  littlo  onos.     llow  fondly  swoUs 
Tho  fathor's  hoart,  as,  danoing  np  tho  lano, 
K,tioh  olas]<s  a  hand  in  hor  small  hand  again, 
.'\iid  <-aoli  must  toll  lior  talo  and  "  say  luu-  si»y," 
Im|H>ding  as  sho  loads  with  swwt  dolay 
(OhildluH>d's  Most  tliouglitlossne^i !)  his  onwiii'd 


t  way. 


Ami  wlioii  tho  wintor  day  olosod  in  so  fiust ; 
Soaivo  for  his  task  would  droary  daylight  last ; 
.\nd  ill  all  woatliors-     driving  sloot  and  snow     - 
Homo  l.y  thill  haro,  hloak  moor-tnuk  must  ho  go, 
Harkling  and  louoly.     O.  tho  lilo,s.sod  sight 
(.His  polostar)  of  that  littlo  twinkling  light 
l''ixmi  ono  small  window,  through  tho loalloss  tivos, 
lilimnioring  so  lit.t'uUy  ;  no  oyo  hut  his 
ll.id  spiod  it  so  tar  oil'.     And  suro  was  hi>, 
Kntoring  tho  lano,  a  stoadi»r  hoam  to  soo, 
Kuddy  and  hi-oad  as  poat-fod  lioarth  oouhl  poui, 
^^tlvalllillg  to  moot  him  from  tho  opoii  door. 
Thou,  though  tho  hlaokhird's  wohoiiio  was  m. 

hoard,  -- 
Silonood  l>y  wintor,       noli'  of  summor  l>ii\l 
Still  hailod  him  from  no  mortal  fowl  alivo. 
lint  I'lviii  tho  ouokoo  olook  just  striking  livo. 
.Vml  f  inkor's  oar  and  Tinkor's  noso  w  oiv  koon, 
l>ll'slartod  ho,  and  thon  a  form  was  .soon 
I'ai'koning  tho  doorway  ;  and  a  .simdlor  .sprito, 
.Viid  thon  anothor,  pooivd  into  tho  night, 
Ivoavly  to  follow  fivo  on  Tinkor's  tniok, 
lint  tor  tho  mothor's  hand  that  hold  hor  haok  ; 
.■\nd  yot  n  moinont  —  u  low  stojis  —  ami  tlioiv, 
Tnllod  o'or  tho  thiY.shold  by  that  oagx-r  pair, 
Ilo  sits  by  his  own  hoartli,  in  his  own  oliair  ; 
Tinkor  takos  post  bo.sido  with  oyos  that  .say, 
"  Mastor,  wo'vo  doiio  onr  biisino.ss  for  tho  day," 
Tho  kottlo  sings,  tho  oat  in  oliorus  put's, 
Tho  bu.sy  housowifo  with  hor  toa-things  stii's  ; 
Tho  iloor  's  mado  fast,    tho  old   stulf  onrtain 

drawn  ; 
How  tho  hail  olattoi-s  !     Lot  it  olattor  on  ! 
How  tho  wind  ravos  and  rattlos  !    What  oaivs  lio  f 
Safo  liousod  and  warm  iH'iioath  liisown  ivot'-lroo. 
With  a  woo  lassio  prattling  on  oaoh  knoo. 

Suoli  was  tho  lunir  —  hour  saoivd  and  apart  — 
Wnrniod  in  oxpootjuioy  tho  i«>or  man's  heart. 
Simunor  and  wintor,  as  his  toil  ho  pliod. 
To  him  and  his  tho  litoral  doom  appliod, 
l^vnouiiood  on  .Vdam.     Hut  tho  bivad  was  swoot 
Sooarnod.  for  suoli  doar  months.    Tho  woaiy  foot, 
HoiH>-sliod,  sli'pt  lightly  on  tlio  liomowanl  way  •, 
So  spooially  it  I'aivd  with  Atubi\>so  lliiiy 
That  timo  1  toll  of.     Ho  had  workod  ail  day 
At  a  givat  oloaring  ;  vigorous  stroko  on  stroko 
Striking,  till,  wlioii  ho  stopt,  his  hiok  sooniod 

bivko. 
Ami  tho  strong  arms  dropt  norvoloss.     What  of 

that  > 
Thon>  was  a  tixwsiuv  hiddon  in  his  liat.  — 
.\  plaything  for  tlio  young  onos.     Ilo  had  found 
A  dormonso  nost :  tho  living  Kill  ooilod  ixiiuid 
For  its  long  winter  sloop  :  and  all  his  thoiiglit. 
As  ho  trudgx'd  stoutly  homowai\i.  was  of  naught 
l>ut  tho  glad  wondoiniont  in  .lonny's  ovi-s. 
And  gravor  I.iitey's  ipiiotor  surprise. 


-^ 


I'OKMH  Oil'  TUAaiiliY. 


801. 


-a 


WliKii  III!  hIkiuIiI  yir;|il,  )iy  naurn  and  kuM  and 

IIhj'J  WDii,  till;  rn./i;ii  I'ujiijvit  tij  lli':ir  ciiru. 

"r  wan  II  wild  (jvi.iiiiig,  —  wild  mid  rough.      "I 

knew," 
'I'liDU^^hl.  AiiiIjiow!,   "  llioHo  imluuky  giill«  Bpoku 

tl'lli;,  — 
And  O.iller  ChnviUm  w.vf.v  growlo  lor  iiauglit,  — 
I  Blioidd  \»;  iiioi't'il  'rmi/ud  now  if  I  tlioiigtit 
My  lillji;  iiiiiid)!  wr;ri;  not.  (wfi!  Iioiiwiil  l^doro 
'i'lial  lilinding  )mil-ntorni,  —  iiy,  Uux  tioiu  and 

inori;, 
(JnlcHH  by  tliat  old  c.niv.y  liit  of  lic;aid, 
'I'licy  'v(j  not,  j«iHw:d  dryd'oot  ovi;r  Sliallow  ford, 
'I'liat  I  'II   I)'!    Iiocind    for,       i(Woll<:n   a;i  il   iiMiJit 

U- 
W'ldl  !  if  my  niiatr<:nH  liad  l«;i:n  ridird  liy  mo  —  " 
I5ul,  idnwking  tin:  lialf-tljouglit  m  lii;ri!Ky, 
H'-.  lor,ki;d  out,  for    tliB    Ilonii;  Star.      Tlicro  it 

hIioipi', 
AnrI  with  a  gla<ldi;ii<:<l  li«:art.  Ik;  li;i«li:nr;il  on. 

Ill;  'h  ill  till!  lain;  again,  — and  tlicru  Ixilow, 
Stri;amn  from  tin;  o])!;!!  doorway  llmt  r<;d  glow, 
Wliiidi  warnix  Iiim  Imt  Ui  look  at.    Kor  1m«  prizo 
','aiItioilH  III;  f<;i;l»,  — all  Kafi;  and  nniig  it  lii:».  — 
"  Uown,  Tinker  !  ilown,  old  iKjy  !    -  not  ijnitc  mi 

fr<;i;,  — 
'I'Ih!  tiling  tlioii  HnidVjut  w  no  gainu  for  tin*.  — 
IJiit  wliat'M  tin;  meaning '(  no  lookout  tonight  I 
No  living  Koul  luilir  !     I'ray  God,  all  'h  right ! 
Who  'h  llilt/;ring  round  tho  i«jat-nta<;k  in  nuch 

w<;atlii;r  ? 
.\rotli<;r  ! "  you   might  havu  fi;lli;il    him    with   a 

f.-ath.;r, 
Winn  the  nhort  an»wi;r  t'l  hix  loud  "  Uillo  !  " 
And  hurriud  <|ii<;Mlion,   "Are  they  come?"  wa« 

"  .N'o." 

To  throw  IiIh  toolH  down,  h/uttily  unhook 
The  old  erai'ked  1,-intern  from  itn  du«ly  nook. 
And,  while  he  lit  it,  Bjieak  a  ehe<:ring  word, 
Thutalni'wt  ehoked  him,  and  wan  wareely  beard, 
WaH  hut  a  niomi;nt'»  iu;t,  and  he  wan  gone 
To  wheie  a  fearful  foresight  If;*!  him  on. 
I'aiwing  a  iieighl«)r'H  (xjttjige  in  IiIh  way,  — 
Mark  Kentfjn'H,  — him  he  took  with  Bhort  delay 
To  hear  him  ^mpany,  —  for  who  wuld  nay 
What  iii;i;<l  might  he  'I  They  dtruck  intf<  the  track 
The  children  hliould  have  taken  eoming  tja/.k 
From  wdiool  that  djiy  ;  and  rn«ny  a ryill  and  nhout 
Int/)  the  iilt';hy  darkneiiB  they  Hftnt  out. 
And,  hy  the  lant';ni  light,  jiwjred  all  aUmt, 
In  every  roa<l«ide  thicket,  hole,  and  nook, 
'i'ill  Buddenly  — a»  n<«iring  now  the  Vjrook  — 
Something  bru»he«l  [Kust  them.     Tliat  wao  Tink- 
er'* l/ark,  — 


fB-- 


Lfnhewied,  lie  luul  followixl  in  the  dark, 
C'loHij  at  hix  iii«Mt<!r'B  heolB  ;  hut,  Bwift  iiH  light, 
l)arti;d  hefoii:  them  now.    "  I5e  Burn  he  'b  right, 
He  'h  on  the  tra':k,"  eried  Anihio»<;.    "  Hold  the 

light 
liOW  down,  —  he 'b  niiikingfor  the  wat<;r.    Mark  ! 
1  know  that  whim;,        the  old  dog 'b  found  them, 

Mark." 
Ho  BpiHiking,  hreathleBBly  he  hurried  on 
'I'oward  the  old  crazy  foot-hriilge.      It  wiui  gone  I 
And  all  hix  dull  contriu;t<;'l  light  <;<juld  Bhow 
Wa* the  hla<;k  voiil  and ikrk  Bwollen  Btreain  Udow. 
"  Vet  there  'b  life  B'imewhere,  —  more  Ihitn  Tink- 

er'B  whine,  — 
Th.it  'b  Bure,"  wiid  Mark.      "Ho,  let  the  lantern 

Bhine 
Down  yonder.    There  'b  the  dog,  — and,  hark  I  " 

"  O  dear  I  " 
And  a  low  boIi  came  faintly  on  the  ear, 
Mocked  hy  the  B<ihhing  ginit.      iJown,  i|uick  aB 

thought, 
Int<j  the  Htieuni  |iui|<t  AmljroB<i,  wheie  he  caught 
l''aBt    hold    of    itoinething,  —  a    iJark    hudiJJiMl 

lieai),  — 
Half  in  thcwat'jr,  where  't  wa«  B':arce  knee-di;i;[> 
Kor  a  tall  man,  and  half  ahove  it,  i/ro(i|/ed 
I5y  Bome  old  ragged  «ide-|»ileB,  that  hail  ntopt 
KndwayB  the  broken  plank,  when  it  gave  way 
With  the  two  little  onen  that  lueklcBB  <L-iy  ! 
"  My  lialicB  I  —  my  lanibkinn  ! "  waH  the  father'n 

cry. 
One  lilUe  amoi  riiaile  an/twcr,   "  Here  am  I  !  " 
'T  wan  Lh/.y'it.     There  bIio  crouched  with  fa';e 

ax  whit<!, 
More  ghaBtly  by  the  lliekcring  lant/;rndight 
Than  Bhi;el<;d  ij>r\>ni:.     The  [Kile  blue  lijiB  drawn 

tight. 
Wide  [Kirted,  showing  all  the  |x;arly  t/;eth. 
And  eycM  on  nome  dark  object  underneath, 
WiiBhed  by  the  turbid  wat<;r,  fixed  as  ulunn,  — 
One  arm   and   hand   Htret<;hed   out,    and  rigid 

grown, 
OniBping,  an  in  the  d<»ith-griii<:,  .Jenny'B  frock. 
There  she  lay  drowned.     Could  he  nu/ital/i  that 

Bhock, 
The  doling  father  ?     Where 'b  the  unriven  rock 
Can  bi<le  Huch  bLa«ting  in  itB  flinticBt  [lart 
Ax  that  wih  B<;ntient  thing,  — the  human  heart? 

They  lilWl  her  from  out  tier  wat'jry  l/<yl,  — 
Itn  <:overing  gone,  the  lovely  little  hea/1 
Hung  like  a  broken  Bnowdroji  all  .-tidde  ; 
And  one  small  hand,  —  the  mother'B  shawl  wax 

tied, 
f/caving  tli/d  fri*,  about  the  child's  small  form. 
Ax  was  her  last  injunction  —  "fuM  and  warm  "  — 
'I'oo  well  obcyi;/],  —  t'jo  faxt  !     A  Oit'd  Jiold 
Affording  to  the  Hcrag  by  a  thick  fold 


^ 


f 


802 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


*i3i 


t^^ 


Tlmt  caught  and  iiiiiiiod  her  in  tho  vivor's  Iwd, 
Whilo  thron.;h  lli(>  ivcklcss  waliM-  ov.'rlioaa 
Ih'Hir.-l.iciith  l.iil.l.Ua  up. 

"Sli,.  iiii},'ht  have  livinl, 
Sti'uj,'f;liuj;  liki<   l.i/zy,"    was  tlui    tluiuylil  that 

riv.'il 
'I'ho  wivtrhi'il  umthor's  heart,  whon  sho  know  nil, 
"  luit  ti.r  my  loolishnrss  aluuit  that  sluiwl  1 
Au.l  master  wouUl  liavo  kept  tliem  hack  the  day  ; 
I'mt  1  was  willful,       driviiif;  them  away 
\usurl,  wil.l  Wealhel  !" 

Tims  I  he  tortured  heart 
I'uMalurally  a,i,'iiinst  itselt  tukes  part, 
Priviuf,'  the  sharp  edjje  di'i'per  nt  a  wcie 
'I'lHi  deep  already.     They  liad  raised  her  iu>\v, 
And  partiiij;  the  wi't  ringlets  from  hor  hrow, 
Til  that,  and  the  eold  check,  and  lips  iis  cold, 
I'he  lather  glued  his  warm  ones,  ere  they  rolled 
(Inee  more  tlic  fatal  shawl  —  her  winding-sheet — 
Ahout  tin'  prceious  day.     One  heart  still  beat. 
Warmed  hy  hU  1,,-nrfs  hlood.     To  his  oiiln  t-hihl 
He  turned  him,  but  her  jnteous  moaning  mild 
I'iereed  him  afresh,  —  ami  now  she  kitcw  him  not. 
"Jlolher!"  slii<  miuinured,    "who  .says  1   for- 
got \ 
"  Motlier  !  indeed,  ind.'ed,  1  k.'pt  last  hold. 
And  tied   tlie  shawl  (inite  close       she  can't  he 

eold  — 
lint  she  won't  movo  —  wo  slipt  —  1  don't  know 

how  — 
lint  1  held  on  —  and  I  'm  so  weary  miw  — 
.\nd  it  's  so  dark  ni\d  cold  !  0  dear  !  0  dear  !  — 
.\nd  she  won't  move  —  if  daddy  was  but  here  !" 

I'oor  lamli  !  she  wamlered  in  lur  mind,   't  was 

clear; 
Hut  soon  the  iiileous  nuirmur  died  away, 
And  quiet  in  her  father's  arin,>i  she  lay,  — 
They  their  dead  burden  had  resigned,  to  tilko 
The  living,  so  near  lo.st     For  her  dear  sake, 
.And  om>  at  home,  ho  nnned  himself  to  boar 
His  misery  like  a  man,  — with  temler  eare 
Polling  his  coat  her  shivering  I'm'in  to  fold 
(His  neighbor  bearing  that  which  felt  no  cold), 
He  clasped  her  close,  ami  .so,  with  little  said, 
llomewnril  they  bore  the  living  and  the  dead. 

From  Ambrose  Gray's  poor  cottagi>  all  that  night 
Shone  litfnlly  a  little  .shifting  light. 
Above,  below,  —  for  all  were  watchers  there. 
Save  one  sound  sleeper,     //cc,  parental  eare, 
rarei\tal  watchfulness,  availed  not  now. 
Uut  in  the  yoting  survivor's  throbbing  brow, 
And  wandering  eyes,  delirious  fever  burned  ; 
And  all  night  long  from  side  to  side  she  turned, 
Piteously  plaining  like  a  wounded  dove, 
With  now  and  thou  the  murmur,  "Sho  won't 
movo. " 


Aiui  lo  !  when  morning,  as  in  mockery,  bright 
Shone  on  that  pillow,  passing  strange  the  sight.    - 
That  young  head's  raven  hair  was  streaked  w  ith 

white  ! 
No  idle  liclion  this.     Such  things  have  boon. 
Wo  know.      .\nd  now  /  Ifll  irhat  I  have  seen. 


that  .small 
All  became 


Life  struggled    long   with   death    in 

frame. 
Hut  it  was  strong,  and  conipiered. 
As  it  had  been  with  the  poor  family,  — 
All,  saving  that  which  nevermore  might  be  : 
Thero  was  an  empty  place,  —  thoy  were  but  three. 

CAKOLINtl  OOWLUS  SOU!  UKV. 


FRA  GIACOMO. 

Al..\s,  Fill  ("Jiaconto, 

Too  late  !  —  but  follow  mo  ; 
Hush  !  draw  the  cnrtain,  —  so  I  — 

She  is  deail,  ipiite  dead,  you  seo. 
Poor  little  lady  !  she  lies 
With  the  light  gone  out  of  her  eyes, 
Unt  her  featm-es  still  wear  that  soft 

Oniy  meditative  expression. 
Which  you  nmst  have  noticed  oft. 

And  admired  loo,  at  eoid'ession. 
How  saintly  she  looks,  and  how  meek  ! 

Though  this  he  the  chamber  of  death, 

I  fancy  1  feel  her  breath 
As  1  kiss  her  on  the  chcok. 
With  that  pensive  religious  face, 
She  has  gone  to  a  holier  place  ! 
And  1  hardly  appreciated  her,  — 

Her  praying,  fasting,  confessing. 
Poorly,  1  own,  1  mated  her  ; 
I  thought  her  too  cold,  and  rated  hor 

For  her  endless  imago-cai'cssing. 
Too  saintly  for  me  by  far. 
As  pure  aiul  as  cold  as  a  star. 

Not  fashioned  for  kissing  and  pressing,  — 
But  made  for  a  heaveidy  crown. 
Ay,  father,  let  us  g«i  down,  — 

IJut  first,  if  you  please,  your  blessing  ! 

II. 
Wine  1    No  ?    Come,  come,  you  nuist  ! 

Yon  '11  bless  it  with  your  prayers, 
.\nd  ipialVa  cup,  1  trust, 

To  the  health  of  the  saint  up  staii-s  ? 
My  heart  is  aching  so  I 

And  I  feel  so  weary  and  sad. 

Through  the  blow  that  I  have  had,  — 
You  '11  sit,  Fra  (liaeomo  / 
My  friend  !  (ami  a  friend  I  rank  you 

For  tho  sake  of  that  saint,)  —  nay,  nav  I 


\tr 


POEMH  OF  TRAOEDY. 


803 


ra 


Hi!rc  '«  the  wine,  — an  you  lovo  mc,  stay  I- 
'T  is  Montcjml'.iano  !  —  Tliaiik  you. 


IIi;igh-ho  !     "f  in  now  hix  summere 

Since  I  won  Diat  angel  anil  niarriwl  her  : 

I  wax  ri';l),  not  old,  ami  carried  her 
Oflin  the  la<;e  of  all  cornerH. 
So  (Vesli,  yet  so  briniining  with  soul ! 

A  tenderer  rnorsel,  I  swear. 
Never  rruulft  tlie  dull  bliuik  coal 

Of  a  monk's  eye  glitter  anrl  glare. 

Your  pardon  !  —  nay,  keep  your  chair  I 
I  wander  a  little,  but  mean 
No  olfence  to  the  gray  gabardine  : 
Of  the  eliurch,  Kra  Oio'jomo, 
I  'm  a  fiiithfnl  upholder,  you  know, 
liut  (hunjor  nie  I)  she  was  as  sweet 

As  the  saintH  in  your  convent  windows, 
Ho  gentle,  so  meek,  so  discreet, 

She  knew  not  what  lust  docs  or  sin  doi.-s. 
I   11  confess,  though,  before  we  were  one, 

I  deemed  her  less  saintly,  and  thought 

The  blood  in  her  veins  ha*!  caught 
Some  natural  wannth  from  tlie  sun. 
I  was  wrong,  —  I  was  blind  as  a  Iwt,  — 

I'rut^!  that  I  was,  how  I  lilundered  ! 
Though  such  a  mistake  as  that 
Might  have  occurred  as  pat 

To  ninety-nine  men  in  a  hundred. 
Yourself,  for  e»imple  ?  you  've  seen  her  ? 
Sjiite  her  rnoilest  and  pious  demeanor, 
And  the  manners  so  nice  and  precise, 

Secmwl  there  not  color  and  light, 

liright  motion  and  appetitf;. 
That  were  scarcely  consist<;nt  with  ice  ? 
Kxttrnalj)  implying,  you  see. 

Internals  less  saintly  than  human  ?  — 
Pray  speak,  for  between  you  and  mo 

You  're  not  a  ^ml  judge  of  a  woman  I 


A  jest,  —  but  a  jest  !  —  Very  tnio  : 
'T  is  hardly  Ijeconjing  to  jest, 
And  tliat  saint  up  stairs  at  rest,  — 
Her  soul  may  >^  listijning,  t'>o  I 
1  was  always  a  brute  of  a  fellow  1 
Well  may  your  visage  turn  yellow,  — 
To  think  how  I  doubted  and  doubted, 
SuKijected,  gnimbled  at,  floutfid 
That  golden-haired  angel,  — and  solely 
Ikcause  she  was  zealous  and  holy  I 
Noon  and  night  and  mom 

She  devoted  ht^rsclf  to  piety  ; 
Not  that  she  seemed  to  scorn 

Or  dislike  her  husband's  society  ; 
But  the  claims  of  her  smtl  superseded 


All  that  I  aski^l  for  or  needwl. 
And  her  thoughts  were  far  away 
From  the  level  of  sinful  clay. 
And  she  trembld  if  earthly  matters 
Interfered  with  her  avcH  and  poUnrn. 
Poor  dove,  she  so  /lutt<-rcd  in  flying 

Alove  the  ilim  vajwrs  of  hell  — 
Hent  on  self-sanctifying  — 
That  she  never  thought  of  trying 

To  save  her  huslmud  as  well. 
And  while  she  was  duly  electwl 
Kor  place  in  the  heavi;nly  roll, 
I  (brute  that  I  wiis  !)  susjiccted 

Her  manner  of  saving  her  soul. 
So,  half  for  the  fun  of  tlie  thing, 
Wluit  dill  I  (blasphemer  !)  but  fling 
On  my  shoulders  the  gown  of  a  monk  — 
Whom  I  njanagetl  for  tliat  very  day 
To  get  safely  out  of  the  way  — 
And  seat  me,  lialf  sober,  half  drunk, 
With  the  cowl  throwli  over  my  face. 
In  the  father  cnnfcssoi's  pla<;e. 
JCIwM  I  Ijcrw.dir.iie  ! 
In  her  orthwlox  sweet  simplicity. 
With  that  pensive  gray  expression. 
She  sighfully  knelt  at  confession. 
While  I  bit  my  lips  till  they  \,\iA, 
And  ling  my  nails  in  my  hand. 
And  heard  with  averted  head 

Wliat  I  'd  guessed  and  couhl  understand. 
Kach  word  was  a  seqient's  sting, 

I5ut,  wrapt  in  my  gloomy  gown, 
I  sat,  like  a  rnarble  thing. 
As  she  U>\'l  me  all  !  —  Sir  Dow.v. 


More  wine,  Fra  Giacomo  ! 
One  cup,  —  if  you  love  me  !     No  f 
What,  have  these  dry  lips  drank 
So  deep  of  the  swi'ets  of  pleasure  — 
Sub  rom,  but  quite  without  measure 
That  Montcpulciano  tastes  rank  ? 
''ome,  drink  !  't  will  bring  the  streaks 
Of  crimson  back  to  your  cheeks  ; 
Come,  drink  again  to  the  saint 
'W\i(>%i;  virtues  you  loved  to  paint. 
Who,  stretched  on  her  wifely  bed. 
With  the  tender,  grave  expression 
You  used  to  ailmire  at  confession, 
Lies  poisoneiJ,  overhead  ! 


Sit  still,  —  or  by  heaven,  you  die  ! 
Face  to  face,  soul  to  soul,  you  and  I 
Have  S(!ttled  accounts,  in  a  fine 
I'leasant  fashion,  over  our  wine. 
Stir  not,  and  seek  not  to  fly,  — 


-^ 


L& 


804 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


■^ 


U 


Nay,  whothei'  w  not,  yov\  mv  mine  ! 
Tlimik  MoiiteimU'Wuo  for  s'viug 

You  ilwuli  i\i  sui'U  lU^licato  siiva  ; 
'T  is  not  t^vjMV  luouk  I'lMisra  living 

With  so  (Jrtisaut  a  tasto  on  his  lijw  ; 
15nt,  U^st  MontojmU'iiuio  unsmvlv  slumUl  kis«, 

'I'iiko  this  !  auil  this  !  aiul  this  ! 


Covor  hvn\  ovev,  Pietro, 

Ami  hniy  him  in  the  co\ut  Mow,  — 

You  inn  be  soorot,  hul,  1  know  ! 

A\ul,  hark  you,  then  to  the  convent  go,  — 

liiil  every  Imll  of  the  convent  toll. 

And  the  monks  say  n\ass  for  yonr  nsisti'ess'  soul. 

KOBEKT  UCCHANAN. 


THK  ROSE  ANU  'I'llK  OAUNTUi'V 

Low  siwke  the  knight  to  the  jieasjiut  maid, 
'"  0,  he  not  tlms  of  my  sviit  alViuvl  ! 
Fly  with  me  li'om  this  gaixlen  small. 
Anil  thou  slialt  sit  in  my  castle  hall. 

"Thou  shalt  have  iionip  and  wealth  and  i>leasui«, 
Joys  lieyond  thy  I'auoy's  meiisnre  ; 
llcn>  with  my  swoul  and  howe  1  stand, 
To  bear  thee  away  to  my  distant  land. 

'"Take,  thou  faii-est !  this  full-Mown  i-ose 
A  token  of  love  that  as  ripely  Wows." 
With  his  glove  of  steel  he  jjuekeil  the  token. 
And  it  feli  funn  thegsvuntlet  cruslieil  and  broken. 

The  maiden  exclaimeil,  "Thou  seest.  Sir  Knight, 
Tliy  lingers  of  iron  can  only  smite  ; 
And,  like  the  rose  thou  hast  torn  and  scatterod, 
1  in  thy  gias)' should  Iw  wivcked  and  sliatterod  !  " 

She  tivmblcd  and  blushed,  and  her  glances  fell. 
But  slie  turned  from  the  knight,  and  said,  "  Fare- 
well •• ; 
"Not  so,"  he  cried,  "will  1  lose  my  juize, 
1  h<H'd  not  thy  vv-onls,  but  I  I'ead  thiue  eyes." 

He  lifted  hev  up  in  his  grasp  of  steel. 
And  he  monntetl  and  spnnwl  with  fiery  heel ; 
Hnt  her  cry  drow  forth  her  hoary  aire, 
AVho  si\atched  his  K>w  from  above  the  fir«. 

Swift  from  the  valley  the  warrior  tied, 
Kut  swifter  the  bolt  of  the  ciMss-lww  sped  ; 
And  the  weight  that  pitissed   on  the  lleet-foot 

hoise, 
"Was  the  living  man  and  the  woman's  corae. 


That  morning  the  i-ose  was  bright  of  hue, 
That  morning  the  maiden  was  sweet  to  view ; 
lint  the  evening  sun  its  bea\ity  shed 
On  the  witherod  leaves  and  the  maiden  dead. 

John  WILSI>.\  ItURISTUFHBR  NOK'iH). 


KBVOGIO  MlNti,  NOKTHHKN  MKXICO. 

Drvnk  and  sensele.sa  in  his  place, 
l*>t>ne  and  sprawling  on  his  face, 
Moif  like  brute  than  any  nnin 
Alive  or  dead,  — 
By  his  gitiat  pump  out  of  gtiar. 
Lay  the  peon  engineer. 
Waking  only  just  to  hear, 

t>verhead, 
Angry  tones  that  called  his  name, 
l">aths  and  cries  of  bitter  blame,  — 
^Voke  to  hear  all  this,  ami  waking,  turned  and 
tied  ! 

"To  the  man  who  '11  bring  to  me," 

Cried  Intendant  Harry  Lee,  — 
Harry  Lee,  the  Kngli.sh  foreman  of  the  mine,— 

"  Bring  the  sot  ali\e  or  dead, 

1  will  give  to  him,"  he  saiil, 

"  Fifteen  hundrod  ji><'.«M."  down. 

Just  to  set  the  rascal's  crown 
l'ndern«»th  this  heel  of  mine  : 
Since  but  death 

Deserves  the  nian  whoso  deed. 

Be  it  vice  or  want  of  he«l, 

Stojw  the  punn)s  that  give  ns  breath,  — 

Stoi>s  the  p>imi>s  that  snek  the  death 
Fix>m  the  puisone*!  lower  levels  of  the  mine  ! " 

No  one  answeitKl,  for  a  cry 
Fi^om  the  .sliaft  ivsie  up  on  high  ; 
.-\nd  shuttling,  scrambling,  tumbling  from  Kilow, 
lame  the  mind's  each,  the  bolder 
Mounting  on  the  wcaker's  shoulder, 
Grappling,  clinging  to  their  hold  or 

Letting  go. 
As  the  weaker  gasped  and  fell 
From  the  ladder  to  the  well,  — 
To  the  poisoned  pit  of  hell 

Uown  below  ! 

"To  the  man  who  sots  them  flee," 
Cried  the  foitnuan,  Harry  Lee,  — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foronnm  of  the  mine,  — 
"  Brings  them  out  and  sets  them  flx-e, 
I  will  give  that  uran,"  said  he, 
"'IVice  that  sum,  who  with  a  x-ope 
Face  to  face  with  death  sliall  cope  : 
L«t  hinx  come  who  darvs  to  hoi>e  !  " 


-^ 


[fl- 


POEMH  OF  TllAGEDY. 


805 


-a 


"  ilold  your  peac«  1 "  some  one  replied,  ( 

Htaiidiiig  by  the  foreman's  side  ;  i 

"There  has  one  already  gone,  whoe'er  he  \)f,\" 

Then  they  held  their  breath  with  awe, 

I'ulling  on  the  iojk-,  and  saw 

Fainting  figures  r'aijipear, 

On  the  hla<;k  ro]M;  swinging  clear, 
Fastene'l  by  some  skillful  Ijand  from  below ; 

Till  a  s<;ore  the  level  gain<i<J, 

And  but  one  alone  remained,  — 

He  the  hero  and  the  last. 

He  whose  skillful  liand  maxle  last 
The  long  line  tliat  brought  them  Ijack  to  hoj* 
and  eheei  ! 

Haggard,  gapping,  down  dropjx^l  he 
At  the  teet  of  Harry  I^ee,  — 
Harry  Ijne,  the  Knglish  foreman  of  the  mine  ; 
"  1  liave  come,"  he  gaspe^l,  "to  claim 
Bijth  rewards,  Seiior,  —  my  uame 

Is  liamon  I 
I  'm  the  drunken  engineer,  — 
I  'm  the  cowaid,  >S(rfjor  —  "     Here 
He  fell  over,  by  that  sign 
Dead  as  sUjne  ! 

BR£T  HaKTS. 


& 


THE  KING  LS  COLD. 


Kakk  the  emljers,  VJow  the  'i/jals. 

Kindle  at  once  a  roaring  fire  ; 

Here  's  some  f>ajjer  —  't  is  nothing,  sir  — 
Light  it  (they  've  save<I  a  thousand  souls), 
Kun  for  fagots,  ye  s<.urvy  knaves. 

There  are  plenty  out  in  the  public  S'juare, 

You  know  they  fry  the  heretics  there. 
(But  God  rememl>er  thcii'  nameless  graves  !) 
Fly,  fly,  or  the  king  may  die  ! 

L'gh  !  his  royal  feet  are  like  snow. 
And  the  wld  is  mounting  up  to  his  heart, 

(But  tliat  was  frozen  long  ago  '.) 
liasi^als,  varlets,  do  as  you  are  told,  — 
The  king  is  cold. 


Hl-i  bed  of  state  Is  a  gi-aud  affair. 
With  sheets  of  satin  and  pillows  of  down, 
And  close  l;eside  it  stands  the  crown,  — 

liut  that  won't  keep  him  from  djTug  there  I 

His  liands  are  wrinkle*!,  lus  hair  is  gray. 
And  his  ancient  blood  is  sluggish  and  tliin 
When  he  was  young  it  was  hot  with  sin,  — 

But  that  is  over  this  many  a  day  ! 

Under  these  sheets  of  satin  and  lace 
He  slejit  in  the  arms  of  his  concubines  ; 


Now  they  carouw;  with  the  prince  instea«l, 
Orinking  llie  ma<idest,  njerriest  wines  ; 
It  's  pleasant  l/j  hear  such  cat«hes  troUwl, 
Now  the  king  is  cold  ! 


What  sliall  I  do  with  His  Majifsty  now  ? 

For,  tlianks  to  my  i>otion,  the  man  is  dead  ; 

■Supj><.ise  1  Ixdster  him  up  in  l>i?4, 
And  fix  the  crown  again  on  his  brow  ? 
Tliat  would  Ije  merry  !  but  then  the  prince 

Would  tumble  it  down,  I  know,  in  a  Xtvm  ; 

'T  wouU  puzzle  the  iJevil  t<j  nanie  a  viij« 
That  would  make  his  Kx%dh-nt  Highness  wince! 

Hark  !  he  's  coming,  I  know  his  step ; 

He  's  stealing  to  »>v.  if  his  wishes  are  true  ; 
Sire,  may  your  fathei^'s  end  \ai  youra  ! 

'With  just  such  a  son  t/>  murder  you  '.) 
I'koix  Xki  the  dead  !    Ut  the  Ulhi  Ije  tolhjd  — 
The  king  is  wjU  ! 

KofcJdRT  BROWMWC- 


SATAN-S  ADDEESS  TO  THE  SUN. 

FKOM   "  J-AKAJylSE  1^:'^  I  " 

0  TUOl',  that,  with  surjrassiug  glory  ciowned, 
Look'st  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  tlie  g/A 
Of  this  new  world  ;  at  whos<;  sight  all  th«  stars 
Hide  their  diminished  heads  ;  to  thee  1  call. 
But  with  no  frien<lly  voice,  and  a/id  thy  uame, 

0  Sun  !  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  Ijeams, 
That  iM-ing  to  my  remembi-auce  from  what  state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  aUjve  thy  sj/here  ; 
Till  piide  and  woise  ambition  threw  me  down, 
Warring  in  heaven  against  heaven's  matchless 

King  : 
Ah,  wherefore  ?  he  deserved  no  such  return 
From  me,  whom  he  created  what  I  was 
In  tliat  bright  eminemje,  and  with  his  good 
Upbraided  none  ;  nor  was  his  servi<;e  hard- 
What  could  Ije  less  tlian  \/i  afford  him  praise, 
The  easiest  ivMuiyx-.u^'u  and  pay  him  tlianks. 
How  due  '.  yet  all  his  goo<l  piove<l  ill  in  me. 
And  wrought  but  malii.«  ;  lifted  up  so  high 
I   's<lained  subjection,   and    thought  one  step 

higher 
Would  set  me  highest,  and  in  a  moment  quit 
The  debt  immense  of  eu'iless  gratitude 
Ho  burdensijme,  still  joying,  still  to  owe  : 
F'orgetful  wliat  from  him  I  still  receive(l, 
'.  Ajid  understood  not  that  a  grateful  mind 
By  owing  owes  not,  but  still  pays,  at  once 
Indebteii  and  discharge"!  ;  what  burden  then  ? 
0  ha/i  his  powerful  destiny  orilaiued 
Me  some  inferior  angel,  I  had  st/jo"! 
Then  happy  ;  no  unb'.iuuded  hope  had  raised 
Ambition,     Yet  why  Jiot  ?  S'/me  other  jwwe 


^ 


p 


806 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


-^ 


As  great  might  have  asinred,  and  me,  though 

mean, 
Drawn  to  his  part ;  but  other  powers  as  gieat 
Fell  not,  hut  stand  unshaken,  from  within 
Or  from  without,  to  all  temptations  armed. 
Hadst  thou  the  same  free wUl, and  powerto stand? 
Thou  hadst  :  whom  hast  thou  then  or  what  to 

accuse, 
But  Heaven's  free  love  dealt  equally  to  all  ? 
Be  then  his  love  accursed,  since  love  or  hate. 
To  me  aUke,  it  deals  eternal  woe '. 
Nay,  cureed  be  thou  ;  since  against  his  thy  will 
Chose  freely  what  it  now  so  justly  rues. 
Jle  miserable  !  which  way  shall  I  fly 
Infinite  wTath,  and  infinite  despair  ? 
Which  way  I  fly  is  hell  ;  ni^-self  am  hell ; 
And,  in  the  lowest  deep,  a  lower  deep 
Still  threatening  to  devour  nie  opens  wide, 
To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  heaven. 
0,  then,  at  last  relent  :  is  there  no  place 
Left  for  repentance,  none  for  pardon  left  ? 
None  left  Vnit  by  submission  ;  and  that  word 
Disdain  forbids  me,  and  my  dread  of  shame 
Among  the  spirits  beneath,  whom  I  seduced 
With  other  promises  and  other  vaunts 
Thau  to  submit,  boasting  I  could  subdue 
The  Omnipotent.     Ah  me  !  they  little  know 
How  dearly  I  abide  that  boast  so  vain ; 
Under  what  torments  inwardly  I  groan. 
While  they  adore  me  on  the  throne  of  hell. 
With  diadem  and  sccj-vter  high  adviuiced. 
The  lower  still  I  fall,  only  snpivme 
In  misery  :  such  joy  ambition  finds. 
But  say  I  could  repent,  and  could  obtain, 
By  act  of  grace,  mj'  fonner  state  ;  how  soon 
Would  height  recall  liigh  thoughts,  Low  soon 

unsay 
What  feigned  submission  swore  !     Ease  woiJd 

recant 
Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void. 
For  never  can  true  reconcilement  grow- 
Where  wounds  of  deadly  hate  have  pierced  so 

deep  : 
Which  would  but  lead  me  to  a  worse  relapse 
And  heavier  fall ;  so  should  I  purchase  dear 
Short  intermission  bought  with  double  smart. 
This  knows  my  punislier  ;  therefore  as  far 
From  granting  he,  as  I  from  begging  peace  ; 
All  hope  excluded  thus,  behold,  instead 
Of  us  outcast,  exiled,  his  new  delight. 
Mankind  created,  and  for  him  this  world. 
So  farewell  hope,  and  with  hope  farewell  fear, 
Farewell  remorse  :  all  good  to  me  is  lost  ; 
Eril,  be  thou  my  good  ;  by  thee  at  least 
Divided  empire  with  heaven's  King  I  hold. 
By  thee,  and  more  than  half  perhaps  will  reign  ; 
As  man  ere  long,  and  this  new  world  shall  know. 


& 


COtr^fTESS  LAtTRA. 

It  was  a  dreary  day  in  Padua. 
The  Countess  Laura,  for  a  single  year 
Fernando's  wife,  upon  her  bridal  bed. 
Like  an  uprooted  lily  on  the  snow, 
The  withered  outcast  of  a  festival, 
Lay  dead.     She  died  of  some  uncertain  ill, 
That  struck  her  almost  on  her  wedding  day. 
And  clung  to  her,  and  dragged  her  slowly  down, 
Thinning  her  cheeks  and  pincliing  her  full  lips, 
Till,  in  her  chance,  it  seemed  that  with  a  year 
Full  half  a  century  was  overpast. 
In  vain  had  Paracelsus  taxed  his  art. 
And  feigned  a  knowledge  of  her  malady  ; 
In  vain  had  all  the  doctors,  far  and  near, 
Gathered  ai-ound  the  mystery  of  her  bed, 
Draining  her  veins,  her  husband's  treasury. 
And  physic's  jargon,  in  a  fruitless  quest 
For  causes  equal  to  the  dread  resiUt. 
The  Countess  only  smiled  when  they  were  gone. 
Hugged  her  fair  body  with  her  little  hands, 
And  turned  ujmn  her  pdlows  wearily. 
As  though  she  fain  would  sleep  no  common  sleep, 
But  the  long,  breathless  slumber  of  the  grave. 
She  hinted  nothing.     Feeble  as  she  was. 
The  rack  could  not  have  WTUUg  her  secret  out. 
The  Bishop,  when  he  shrived  lier,  coming  forth. 
Cried,  in  a  voice  of  liea\-enly  ecstasy, 
"  0  blessed  soul  !  with  nothing  to  confess 
Save  virtues  and  good  deeds,  which  she  mis- 
takes — 
So  humble  is  she  —  for  our  human  sins  I  " 
Praring  for  death,  she  tossed  upon  her  bid 
Day  after  day  ;  as  might  a  shipwrecked  bark 
That  rocks  iipon  one  billow,  and  can  make 
Xo  onward  motion  towards  her  port  of  hope. 
At  length,  one  morn,  when  those  around  hersjiid, 
' '  Surely  the  Countess  meuds,  so  fresh  a  light 
Beams  from  her  eyes  and  beautifies  her  face,"  — 
One  mom  in  spring,  when  every  flower  of  earth 
Was  opening  to  the  sun,  and  breathing  up 
Its  votive  incense,  her  impatient  soul 
Opened  itself,  and  so  exhaled  to  heaven. 
AVhen  the  Count  heard  it,  he  reeled  back  a  pace ; 
Then  turned  with  anger  on  the  messenger ; 
Then  craved  his  pardon,  and  wept  out  his  heart 
Before  the  menial  ;  teare,  ah  me !  such  tears 
As  love  sheds  only,  and  love  only  once. 
Then  he  bethought  him,  "Shall  this  wonder  die, 
.\nd  leave  behind  no  shadow?  not  a  trace 
Of  all  the  glory  that  environed  her. 
That  mellow  nimbus  circling  round  my  star?" 
So,  with  his  sorrow  glooming  in  his  f:)ce. 
He  paced  along  his  gallery  of  art. 
And  strode  among  the  paintere,  where  they  stooil, 
With  Carlo,  the  Venetian,  at  their  head, 
Studvius;  the  Mastei-s  by  the  dawning  light 


-^ 


[& 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


807 


-a 


u 


or  liis  traiiM'.iMnleiit  genius.    Tlirougli  tlic  groups 
Ofgiiyly  vestured  artists  moved  tlie  Count, 
i\s  some  lone  cloud  of  thick  and  leaden  hue, 
I'actkeil  with  the  secret  of  a  eoiniiig  stoini, 
Jloves  tlirough   tlie  gold  and  crimson  evening 

mists, 
l)i'.Mlrni?ig  their  splendor.      In  a  moment  still 
\V;is  ( 'arlo's  voice,  and  .still  the  prattling  crowd  ; 
Ami  a  great  shadow  overwhelmed  thcni  all, 
As  tlieir  white  faces  and  their  an.xious  eyes 
Puisued  Fernando  in  his  moody  walk. 
II c^  paused,  a.s  one  who  balances  a  doubt. 
Weighing  two  courses,  then  burst  out  with  this  : 
' '  Ye  all  have  seen  the  tidings  in  my  face  ; 
Or  has  the  dial  ceased  to  register 
The  workings  of  my  heart  ?    Then  hear  the  bell. 
That  almost  cracks  its  frame  in  utterance  ; 
Tlic  Countess,  —  she  is  dead  !  "     "  Dead  !  "  Carlo 

groaned. 
iViid  if  a  bolt  from  middle  heaven  had  struck 
His  spl(!ndid  features  full  ujion  the  brow. 
He  could  not  have  appeared  more  scathed  and 

blanched. 
"  Dead  !  —  dead  !  "     He  staggered  to  his  easel- 
frame. 
And  clung  around  it,  buffeting  the  air 
With  one  wild  arm,  as  though  a  drowning  man 
Hung  to  a  spar  and  fought  against  the  waves. 
The  Count  resumed  :   "I  came  not  here  to  grieve, 
Kor  see  my  sorrow  in  another's  eyes. 
WIio  Tl  paint  the  Countcs.s,  as  she  lies  to-night 
hi  state  within  the  chapel  ?     Shall  it  be 
That  eartli  must  lose  her  wholly  ?  that  no  hint 
I  It  her  gold  tresses,  beaming  eyes,  and  lips 
That  talked  in  silence,  and  the  eager  soul 
That  ever  seemed  outbreaking  through  her  clay. 
And  scattering  glory  round  it,  —  shall  all  these 
lie  dull  corruption's  heritage,  and  we, 
I'licir  bi'ggars,  have  no  legacy  to  show 
Tliat  love  she  bore  us?  That  were  shame  to  love, 
And  shame  to  you,  my  masters."     Carlo  stalked 
Forth  from  his  easel  stiffly  as  a  thing 
Moved  by  mechanic  impulse.     His  thin  lips, 
And  sharpened  nostrils,  and  wan,  sunken  cheeks. 
And  the  cold  glimmer  in  his  dusky  eyes. 
Made  him  a  ghastly  sight.      The  throng  drew 

back 
As  though  they  let  a  specter  through.   Then  he. 
Fronting  the  Count,  and  speaking  in  a  voice 
Sounding.remote  and  hollow,  made  reply  : 
' '  Count,  I  shall  paint  the  Countess.     'T  is  my 

fate,  — 
Xot  pleasure,  —  no,  nor  duty."   But  the  Count, 
Astray  in  woe,  but  understood  assent. 
Not  the  strange  words  that  bore  it ;  and  he  flung 
His  arm  round  Carlo,  drew  him  to  his  breast. 
And  kissed  his  forehead.    At  which  Carlo  shrank; 
I'erhaps  't  was  at  tlic  honor.     Then  the  Count, 


A  little  reddening  at  his  public-  state,  — 
I'nseemly  to  his  near  and  recent  lo.s.s,  — 
Withdrew  in  haste  between  the  downcast  eyes 
That  did  him  reverence  as  he  rustled  by. 

Night  fell  on  I'adua.      In  the  chapel  lay 
The  Countess  Laura  at  the  altar's  foot. 
Her  coronet  glitti'red  on  her  palliil  brows  ; 
A  crimson  pall,  weighed  down  with  golden  work. 
Sown  tliick  with  pearls,  and  heaped  with  early 

flowers, 
Draped  her  still  body  almost  to  the  chin  ; 
And  over  all  a  thousand  candles  (lamed 
Against  the  winking  jewels,  or  streamed  down 
The  marble  aisle,  and  Hashi:d  along  the  guard 
Of  men-at-arms  that  slowdy  wove  their  turns. 
Backward    and    forward,    through    the    distant 

gloom. 
Wlien  Carlo  entered,  his  unsteady  feet 
Scarce  bore  him  to  the  altar,  and  his  head 
Diooped  down  so  low  that  all  his  shining  curls 
Poured  on  his  breast,  and  veiled  his  countenance. 
Upon  Ids  easel  a  half-finished  work. 
The  secret  labor  of  his  studio. 
Said  from  the  canvas,  so  that  none  might  err, 
"  1  am  the  Countess  Laura."     Carlo  kneeled, 
And  gazed  upon  the  picture  ;  as  if  thus. 
Through  those  clear  eyes,  he  saw  the  way  to 

heaven. 
Then  he  arose  ;  and  as  a  swimmer  conies 
Forth  from  the  waves,  he  shook  his  locks  aside, 
Emerging  from  his  dream,  and  standing  firm 
Upon  a  purpose  with  his  sovereign  w  ill. 
He  took  his  palette,  murmuring,  "  Not  yet ! " 
Confidingly  and  softly  to  the  corpse ; 
And  as  the  veriest  dnidge,  who  plies  his  art 
Against  his  fancy,  he  addressed  himself 
With  stolid  resolution  to  his  task. 
Turning  his  vision  on  his  memory, 
.\nd  .shutting  out  the  present,  till  the  dead, 
The  gilded  pall,  the  liglits,  the  pacing  guard. 
And  all  the  meaning  of  that  solemn  scene 
Became  as  nothing,  and  creative  Art 
Resolved  the  whole  to  chaos,  and  refornieil 
The  elements  according  to  her  law  : 
So  Carlo  wrought,  as  though  his  eye  and  hand 
Were   Heaven's  unconscious  instruments,   and 

worked 
The  settled  purpose  of  Omnipotence. 
And  it  was  wondrous  how  the  i-ed,  the  white, 
The  ocher,  and  the  umber,  and  the  blue. 
From  mottled  blotches,  hazy  and  opaque. 
Grew  into  rounded  forms  and  sensuous  lines  ; 
How  just  beneath  the  lucid  skin  the  blood 
Glimmered  witli  warmth  ;  the  scarlet  lips  apart 
Bloomed  with  the  moisture  of  the  dews  of  life  ; 
How  the  light  glittered  through  and  underneath 
The  golden  tresses,  and  the  deep,  soft  eyes 


-ff 


fh- 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


y- 


Became  intelligent  with  conscious  thought, 
And  somewhat  troubled  underneath  the  arch 
Of  eyebrows  but  a  little  too  intense 
For  perfect  beauty  ;  how  the  pose  and  poise 
Of  the  litlie  figure  on  its  tiny  foot 
Suggested  life  just  ceased  from  motion  ;  so 
That  any  one  might  cry,  in  marveling  joy, 
"That  creature  lives, — has  senses,  mind,  a  soul 
To  win  God's  love  or  dare  hell's  subtleties  ! " 
The  artist  paused.     The  ratifying  "  Good  !  " 
Trembled  upon  his  lips.     He  saw  no  touch 
To  give  or  soften.     "  It  is  done,"  he  cried,  — 
"  My  task,  my  duty  !     Nothing  now  on  earth 
Can  taunt  me  with  a  work  left  unfulfilled  !  " 
The  lofty  flame,  which  boj'e  him  up  so  long, 
Died  in  the  ashes  of  humanity  ; 
And  the  mere  man  rocked  to  and  fro  again 
Upon  the  center  of  his  wavering  heart. 
He  put  aside  his  palette,  as  if  thus 
He  stepped  from  sacred  vestments,  and  assumed 
A  mortal  function  in  the  common  world. 
"Now  for  my  rights!"   he  muttered,   and  ap- 
proached 
The  noble  body.      "  0  lily  of  the  world  ! 
So  withered,  yet  so  lovely  !  what  wast  thou 
To  those  who  came  thus  near  thee  —  for  I  stood 
Without  the  pale  of  thy  half-royal  rank  — 
When  thou  wast  budding,  and  the  streams  of 

life 
Made  eager  struggles  to  maintain  thy  bloom. 
And  gladdened  heaven  dropped  down  in  gi'acious 

dew.s 
On  its  transplanted  darling  ?     Hear  me  now  ! 

I  say  this  but  in  justice,  not  in  pride. 
Not  to  insult  thy  high  nobility. 

But  that  the  poise  of  things  in  God's  own  sight 
May  be  adjusted  ;  and  hereafter  I 
May  urge  a  claim  that  all  the  powers  of  heaven 
Shall  sanction,  and  with  clarions  blow  abroad.  — 
Laura,  you  loved  me  !     Look  not  so  .severe, 
With  your  cold  brows,  and  deadly,  close-drawn 

lips  ! 
You  proved  it,  Countess,  when  you  died  for  it,  — - 
Let  it  consume  you  in  the  wearing  strife 

I I  fought  with  duty  in  your  ravaged  heart. 
I  knew  it  ever  since  that  summer  day 

I  painted  Lila,  the  pale  beggar's  child, 
At  rest  beside  the  fountain  ;  when  I  felt  — 

0  Heaven  !  —  the  warmth  and  moisture  of  your 

breath 
Blow  through  my  hair,  as  with  your  eager  soul — 
Forgetting  soul  and  body  go  as  one  — 
You  leaned  across  my  easel  till  our  cheeks  — 
Ah  me  !  't  was  not  your  purpose  —  touched,  and 

clung  ! 
Well,  gi'ant  't  was  genius  ;  and  is  genius  naught  ? 

1  ween  it  wears  as  proud  a  diadem  — 
Here,  in  this  very  world  —  as  that  you  wear. 


A  king  has  held  my  palette,  a  grand-duke 

Has  picked  my  brush  up,  and  a  pope  has  begged 

The  favor  of  my  presence  in  his  Kome. 

I  did  not  go  ;  1  ]iut  my  fortune  by. 

I  need  not  ask  you  why  :  you  knew  too  well. 

It  was  but  natural,  it  was  no  way  strange, 

That  I  should  love  you.     Everything  that  saw, 

Or  had  its  other  senses,  loved  you,  sweet, 

And  I  among  them.     Martyr,  holy  saint,  — 

I  see  the  halo  cui-ving  round  your  head,  — 

I  loved  you  once  ;  but  now  I  worship  you, 

For  the  great  deed  that  held  my  love  aloof, 

And  killed  you  in  the  action  !     I  absolve 

Your  soul  from  imy  taint.     For  from  the  day 

Of  that  encounter  by  the  fountain-side 

Until  this  moment,  never  turned  on  me 

Those  tender  eyes,  unless  they  did  a  wrong 

To  nature  by  the  cold,  defiant  glare 

With  which  they  chilled  me.      Never  heard   1 

word 
Of  softness  spoken  by  those  gentle  lips  ; 
Never  received  a  bounty  from  that  hand 
Which  gave  to  all  the  world.    I  know  the  cause. 
Y'ou  did  your  duty,  —  not  for  honor's  sake, 
Nor  to  save  sin  or  suffering  or  remorse. 
Or  all  the  ghosts  that  haunt  a  woman's  shame. 
But  for  the  sake  of  that  pure,  loyal  love 
Your  husband  bore  you.     Queen,  by  grace  of  God, 
I  bow  before  the  luster  of  your  throne  ! 
I  kiss  the  edges  of  your  garment-hem. 
And  hold  myself  ennobled  !     Answer  me,  — 
I  f  1  had  wronged  you,  you  would  answer  me 
Out  of  the  dusty  jiorches  of  the  tomb  ;  — 
Is  this  a  dream,  a  falsehood  ?  or  have  I 
Spoken  the  very  truth  ? "     "  The  very  truth  !  " 
A  voice  replied  ;  and  at  his  side  he  saw 
A  form,  half  shadow  and  half  substance,  stand. 
Or,  rather,  rest ;  for  on  the  solid  earth 
It  had  no  footing,  more  than  some  dense  mist 
That  wavers  o'er  the  surface  of  the  ground 
It  scarcely  touches.     With  a  reverent  look 
The  shadow's  waste  and  wretched  face  was  bent 
Above  the  picture  ;  as  though  greater  awe 
Subdued  its  awful  being,  and  appalled, 
With  memories  of  terrible  delight 
And  fearful  wonder,  its  devouring  gaze. 
"You  make  what  God  makes, — beauty,"  said 

the  shape. 
"And  might  not  this,  this  second  Eve,  console 
The  emptiest  heart  ?    Will  not  this  thing  outlast 
The  fairest  creature  fashioned  in  the  flesh  ? 
Before  that  figure.  Time,  and  Death  himself, 
Stand  baffled  and  disanned.    What  would  you  ask 
More  than  God's  power,  from  nothing  to  create  ?" 
The  artist  gazed  upon  the  boding  form. 
And  answered  :  "  Goblin,  if  }'ou  had  a  heart, 
That  were  an  idle  question.     What  to  me 
Is  my  creative  power,  bereft  of  love  ? 


-^ 


0- 


POEMS   OF   TUAGEDY. 


809 


--a 


Or  what  to  God  wouUl  lie  that  selfsame  jiowi-r, 
if  so   bereaved.'"      "And  yet  the  love,   thus 

mourned, 
You  calmly  forfeited.     For  had  you  said 
To  living  Laura  —  in  her  burnmg  ears  — 
t_Mie  half  that  you  professed  to  Laura  dead, 
She  would  have  been  your  own.    These  contraries 
Sort  not  with  my  intelligence.     But  speak, 
Were  Laura  living,  would  the  same  stale  play 
Of  raging  passion  tearing  out  its  heart 
Upon  the  rock  of  duty  be  performed  ? " 
"The  same,  0  phantom,  while  the  heart  I  bear 
Trembled,  but  turned  not  its  magnetic  faith 
From  God's  fixed  center."     "  If  I  wake  for  you 
This  Laura,  —  give  her  all  the  bloom  and  glow 
01'  that  midsummer  day  you  hold  ho  dear,  — 
The  smile,  the  motion,  the  impulsive  soul. 
The  love  of  genius,  — yea,  the  very  love, 
Tlie  mortal,  hungry,  passionate,  hot  love, 
She  bore  you,  flesh  to  fle.sh,  — would  you  receive 
That  gift,  in  all  its  glory,  at  7ny  hands  'i" 
A  smile  of  malice  curled  the  tempter's  lips. 
And  glittered  in  the  caverns  of  his  eyes. 
Mocking  the  answer.     Carlo  paled  and  shook  ; 
A  woful  spasm  went  shuddering  throughhis  frame, 
Curdling  his  blood,  and  twisting  his  fair  face 
With  nameless  torture.     But  he  cried  aloud. 
Out  of  the  clouds  of  anguish,  from  the  smoke 
Of  very  martyrdom,  "0  God,  she  is  thine  ! 
Do  with  her  at  thy  jileasure  ! "    Something  grand. 
And  radiant  as  a  sunbeam,  touched  the  head 
He  bent  in  awful  .sorrow.     "  Jlortal,  see  —  " 
"  Dare  not !     As  Christ  was  sinless,  I  abjure 
These  vile  abominations  !     Shall  she  bear 
Life's  burden  twice,  and  life's  temptations  twice. 
While  God  is  justice  ? "     "  Who  has  made  you 

judge 
Of  what  you  call  God's  good,  and  what  you  thhik 
God's  evil  ?     One  to  him,  the  source  of  both. 
The  God  of  good  and  of  permitted  ill. 
Have  you  no  dream  of  days  that  might  have  been, 
Had  you  and  Laura  filled  another  fate  ?  — 
Some  cottage  on  the  sloping  Apennines, 
lioses  and  lilies,  and  tlie  rest  all  love  ? 
1  tell  you  that  this  tranquil  dream  may  be 
Filled  to  repletion.     Speak,  and  in  the  shade 
Of  my  dark  pinions  I  shall  bear  you  hence. 
And  land  you  where  the  mountain-goat  himself 
Struggles  for  footing."     He  outspread  his  wings. 
And  all  the  chapel  darkened,  as  though  hell 
Had  swallowed  up  the  tapers  :  and  the  air 
Grew  thick,  and,  like  a  current  sensible. 
Flowed  round  the  person,  with  a  wash  and  dash. 
As  of  the  waters  of  a  nether  sea. 
Slowly  and  calmly  through  the  dense  obscure, 
Dove-like  and  gentle,  rose  the  artist's  voice  ; 
"  I  dare  not  liring  her  spirit  to  that  shame  ! 
Know  iiiv  lull  iiuMiiiu'.,',  —  I  who  neither  fear 


t& 


Your  mystic  person  nor  your  dreadful  power. 
Nor  shall  1  now  invoke  God's  potent  name 
For  my  deliverance  from  your  toils.     1  stand 
Upon  the  founded  structure  of  his  law. 
Established  from  the  first,  and  thence  defy 
Your  arts,  reposing  all  my  trust  in  that ! " 
The  darkness  eddied  olf ;  and  Carlo  saw 
The  figure  gathering,  as  from  outei'  space. 
Brightness  on  brightness  ;  and  his  former  shape 
Fell  from  him,  like  the  ashes  that  fall  oti'. 
And  .show  a  core  of  mellow  fire  within. 
Adown  his  wings  there  poured  a  lamljent  Hood, 
That  seemed  as  molten  gold,  which  plashing  I'ell 
Upon  the  Hoor,  enringing  him  witli  llame  ; 
And  o'er  the  tresses  of  his  beaming  head 
Arose  a  stream  of  many-eohnvd  light. 
Like  that  which  crowns  the  morning.    Carlo  stood 
Steadfast,  for  all  the  splendor,  reaching  up 
The  outstretched  palms  of  his  untainti'd  so\il 
Towards  heaven  for  strength.     A  moniont  thus  ; 

then  asked. 
With  reverential  wonder  quivering  through 
His  sinking  voice,  "Who,  spirit,  and  what,  art 

thou  * " 
'  ■  I  am  that  blessingwhich  men  fly  from,  —  Death. " 
"Then  take  my  hand,  if  so  God  orders  it ; 
For  Laura  waits  me."    "  But,  bethink  thee,  man. 
What  the  world  loses  in  the  loss  of  thee  ! 
What  wondrous  art  will  suU'er  with  eclipse  ! 
What  unw'on  glories  are  in  store  for  thee  ! 
Whatfame,  outreachingtimeand  temporalshocks. 
Would  shine  upon  the  letters  of  thy  name 
Graven  in  marble,  or  the  brazen  height 
Of  columns  wise  with  memories  of  thee  ! " 
"Take  me  !     If  1  outlived  the  Patriarchs, 
1  could  but  paint  those  features  o'er  and  o'er  : 
Lo  I  that  is  done."     A  smile  of  pity  lit 
The  seraph's  features,  as  he  looked  to  heaven. 
With  deep  inquiry  in  his  tendei'  eyes. 
The  mandate  came.    He  touched  w'ith  downy  wing 
The  sufferer  lightly  on  his  aching  heart ; 
And  gently,  as  the  skylark  settles  down 
Upon  the  clustered  treasures  of  her  nest. 
So  Carlo  softly  slid  along  the  prop 
Of  his  tall  easel,  nestling  at  the  foot 
^  As  though  he  slumbered  ;  and  the  morning  broke 
j  In  silver  whiteness  over  Padua. 

George  Henry  boker. 


THE  DREAM  OF  CLARENCE, 


ScEXE,  a  room  in  the  Tnurt:     Enter  Clarence 
and  Bi:AKENBin;v. 
Bkakenbury.    Why  looks  your  giace  so  heav- 
ily to-day  ? 
Clakence.    0, 1  have  passed  a  miserable  night. 


-^ 


[fi-' 


810 


POEMS  OF  TRAQEDY. 


ftj 


S..  lull  orirniliil  .livHMii,  ..IukIv  ^i^■j|l^ 
'I'liiir.M.sl  Miiinrliii.hi.n  luillilul  immii, 

1    Wlinl.l   IM.I   :,|.,'1mI  , Ihnl    Hllrli  „   m-^\i\ . 

TImmikI.  'I  «rh.  lo  l.ii^  ,1  woiia  nrh,ii.|.v  .liiyn; 

S(l   lull    c.r,I.M,i,ll    lrll,,l    «m.  III.'    li 

IlliMv.       \VllMlHll^.V..lll.lll■ llvliM.I   :'      I    |.niV 

V,m,  l,.ll  ,„.•, 
Cl.Ali.     Mi.IIm.ukIiI  IIihI   I  IuhI  l.i..l..n  li.Mii  lln' 

'I'liWrl-, 
Au.l  wiiH,.inhMrli,Ml  |„  n„>iH  I,.  !!iir..iiii.l,v  ; 
Ah.l  ill  my  .'"iiiiHUiy,  my  linillu'i  (ll.mlor, 
W  111.  Ir..iii  my  I'liliiii  li'iiiplml  iim  lo  »>ilk 
|l|„,„  |l„l„il,llrM;  llirlinwi-l.inknl  linMil.l  Kllf^- 

Ihii.I, 
Ami  .11, a  ii|.  II  llmiiMiml  li.Mivy  lim..M, 
iiiuiii-  III"  H'.irM..r  Y.iik  Kiul  l.iimM>.l..i', 
'I'Iml  liml  l...r»ll..ii  iw.     As  w..  imm.il  mI.hik' 
ll|um  llu.  kI'I'I.V  ru..lliiK>inlmliiil.Oi,.M, 
Mflli.iiiKlit.  Iliiil   (il.mlir  sUimlil.'il;  iiii.l,  in  liill- 


i»K. 


rl...iir.l, 


SIriiiU  WW,  tliiil  lli..iif;lil  I..  -Iriy  li 
lulu  llir  luml.Uiix  liUI..«-,  .il  IIh-  m.nii. 
()  liLMVim!  im.l)i.mnlil  «li.il  |.mii  il  u.i,-.  I...ln.»ii  ' 
Wliiil  ai..M,ll\ll  imis,.  ol  w.iU'r  111  mini,  riirn  ! 
Wluil  sIk'IiI^  nr  ukI.V  ili'iilli  "illiiii  nilm.  t-yi.n  ! 
i\l,.||ioiiKlil  1  Niiw  11  llmiimuia  IViu'rnl  hiv.'Kh; 
A  tlmiisunil  men,  lliiil  llslii'.s  f^irnvvwl  ii|.im  ; 
\Vi<a>;ua  urf^nia,  nit.|i|.  iincamlM,  \\m\>h  i.l  |.nirl, 
hmsliniiiMi.  hli.ni'.s,  nnviilm.a  jowcls, 
All  Hi'iUli.n.a  in  till.  Liillnm  iilllioHni, 
Soini'lii.v  iiMli'iia  nii.n'MNliiills  ;  iiiiil  in  llmsi.  ImlcH 
WliiTii  <'\vi.n  ilia  iiu.'i.  inluiliil,  tlmri.  woiv  rivpl 
(An  '1  wm'o  in  Nimin  iil'  i>yi'»')  lolloi'tinj;  Kcnw, 
Tliiit  wnoi.il  tin.  .slimy  li'iiltoni  ul' llm  awp, 
Ami  ni...lu'.l  llira.'Mii  ImiiLSllinl  lay  hnillrml  l.y, 
lii:Ak,     lliiil  yi.ii  sm-li  liiisniv  in  llir  linii'  ol' 
a,.Mlli 
'I'll  Hiizii  n|iiin  llmsi.  sinTi'ts  ul'  lln'  il.i'l.  ' 

Cl.Ai!.     MotliimKla.  lima;  iiml  ..ll.n  .li.l  Uliiv<. 
'I\.  yii.ia  llm  kIu'sI  •,  1ml  still  llm  i-nvions  llmnl 
Kiipt  in  n\y  sunl.  uml  woiUa  not  Ua  il  rortli 
'I'.i  Min.k  till'  I'lni'ly,  Mist,  1111(1  wiimli'iinK  iiir ; 
I'.nl  sill. . 111.  i.'.l  it  williin  my  I'linlinK  l>nlk, 
W  lii.'li  iiliii..'.!  I.iii'.l  I..  I.i'lrli  it  in  tlio  son. 

I'.M>.    Awnli.sl  >..n  n..l  « illi  this  sni<.  iif^oiiy  f 
Cl  \K.    I>,  n...  mv  .liviiiii  WHS  l,.nKll»'nca  iil'ti.l' 
lifi., 
O,  Hmn  lii'^an  tin.  l.>in|>i.sl  In  my  smil  ! 
1  imssril,  nii'llmnKla,  llm  nn^Unrlioly  lli.oil. 
Willi  tlml  Kiiiii  I'l'i'iyniun  wlik-li  i»>i.ts  writo  ul', 
Until  tin.  UnKaoni  nf  |ii'r|«it\n\l  uIkIiI. 
Tim  livsl  Unit  lli.'iv  ilia  Kiis'l  my  stnmKt'V  sonl, 
Was  my  Kiviil  fiillnT-inlaw,  >vim\vn.M  Warwi.'U, 
Wlni  orii.a  iilonil,  "  Wliat  si.nnrj'c  I'nr  |a'VJui'y 
fan  lliis  aaiU  nmnavi'liy  ullni'il  liilsn  ("iaivni'i' '(" 
Anil  s(i  ho  vanislnul  ;  tlifiii  nanm  wanai'i'ln);  l>y 
A  shaai.w  lik,.  an  anf><'l,  with  hd.nlit  hair 
Hal.l.hsl  in  l.lu.iil:  an.lhi.  >hrlrlMsl  ...it  ah.n.l. 


•'rluii'iii'ii    Ih    C'omo,  —  lalsn,    lli.iling,    |imjnrcil 

I  'lurnncia,  — 
riiiit^  sl,.ililii.il  nm  in  tin.  lichl  hy  T.nvUHl.nry  ; 
.S..i/iiiin  him,  Kiirii.H,  lakahim  tnyonr  liirnn'nU!" 
Willi  that,  nn'thmiKht,  a  IrKlnnnl' I'onl  hanils 
l\ii\  ii..iii.a  UII1,  anil  Iniwli'il  in  mini.  I'arn 
Sm  h  hiih.ims  (.vies,  that  with  tin'  very  nnisK 
I  livnililin^;  wakn.l,  ami,  I'ur  a  wiismi  all.  r, 
I'nnhl  111. I  liiOii'Vi'  lint  that  I  was  in  lull, 
in.h  li'i'iihlr  impivssinn  niailn  my  aiciim. 


'I'lltl  |i|!1.;AM  ll|.'  KIUIKNI'I  AliAM 

"r  WAS  In  Ihi.  |irinn>  nl' hnniniiT  (ina.. 

An  I'ViminK  nilni  ami  rnnl, 
Ami  rmiraml  twenty  hapny  ImyN 

( 'am..  I.iaiiiilinf;  o\it  of  arlmnl  ; 
Tli.'i.'  vv.'H.  si. Mil'  that  van,  ami  sclm'  tliiit  li'a|.t 

Like  linnth'ls  in  a  )innl. 

Away  Ihry  s|i,..l  with  j,'ann.s..im.  niiii.l-. 

Ami  si.nls  nntiiinOn'il  liy  sin  ; 
'I'l.  a  h.v.a  mrail  th.y  .'Mnm,  ami  llii'lv 

•rin.y  ilravn  tin.  w'ii.knts  ill  i 
rii'iisanlly  nIioiii'  tin.  si'ltiiiK  siiii 

Over  till'  I..HII  111  Lynn. 

l.iko  s|uiitivii  aai'V  lliay  c'nur.si.a  al'.ail, 

Ami  slmuti.a  as  tliay  ran, 
'rnniinK'  I"  niirih  all  lliiii;;s  ..f  .nilli 

As  ..nly  Imylnual  oan  ; 
Uiit  llu'  nsln.i'.sat  ri'iiml.'  rr.aii  all, 

A  nnaiim'lmly  man  ! 

Ills  hat  was  oil',  liis  vlsI  ai.ait, 
To  I'litrh  la'avan's  lilasswl  Invr/.i.  ; 

l''iii'  a  luirnin^'  thout;lit  was  in  Ills  lirow, 
Ami  his  liiisniii  ill  at  t'lisn  ; 

Si>  ho  loanoil  his  In.na  nn  liis  liainis,  ami  road 
Tin.  hook  liotwoou  hts  Uiioos. 

l.oarartoi'  loaf  lio  tnrnoil  it  n'or, 

Nov  ovor  glanooa  asi.lo,  ■ 
For  tho  jioai'o  of  his  siinl  ho  voail  that  liook 

In  thoHolilon  ovonliao  ; 
Mmh  St  inly  Innl  imalo  him  vory  loan, 

Ami  iialo,  ami  loailon-oyoil. 

At  hisl  ho  shut  tlio  iiomlovmis  toiiio  ; 

Willi  a  I'a.st  anil  I'otvont  nvasp 
llo  Mliuinoil  llio  lUisky  envoi's  elo.so, 

.Villi  lixoil  llio  liriwoii  lins|i ; 
"O  (Joil  I  eonlil  I  .so  oloso  my  iiiiml, 

Ami  olasp  it  willi  a  olasp  ! " 


Thou  loapinj;  on  Iii.s  foot  uiivij;lit, 
.•^oino  nioiuly  tunis  lio  took,  — 


.-[]] 


a-- 


POEMH  OF  THAaF.DY. 


81 


r^ 


Now  iiji  Llii'  iiii'iiil,  Uk.'Ii  down  \.\n:  iiii^ii'l, 

And  \MHt  a  nliiidy  nook,  — 
And,  lo  !  Ill)  Hiiw  a  littlij  lioy 

Tlml;  jioii'd  M|M,ii  a  l,ook. 

"  My  giMil.li:  licd,  ttlial  irt  'I  you  read,  — 

lloiiianiui  or  I'aiiy  I'alili!  ? 
Or  \n  it.  Homo  liintorii;  jiagi-, 

or  kiiigh  and  crowns  iinslalilc  ?" 
'I'lir:  young  lioy  gave  an  iijiward  glani:e,  — 

"Ilia  'Till!  DwiUi  of  Al«,l."' 

Tin:  iiMlinr  took  hIx  liaaty  HtridoH, 

Am  aniil  wllh  Hiiddcn  pain,  — • 
Mix  liaxly  ntridcn  l)i:yond  tin-  plai'O, 

Tliaii  alowly  ljai:k  again  ; 
And  down  lic^bal.  li.Md.- Ilir:  la.l, 

And  l;.ll<.'d  willr  liijn  of  I  ain  ; 

And,  long  ninrc  Ua-n,  ol'  lilooily  men, 

Wl.ow:  iIi'imIh  tradilion  mivch; 
And  lon.dy  lolk  niloirunwrn, 

Ajid  Idd  ill  xiiddcn  gi'uvca  ; 
And  liorrid  hIuIik,  In  giovcM  forlorn  ; 

And  iniiidi:r»  iloiii:  in  cuvi'H  ; 

And  liow  l.lii'  h)irili'H  of  injiin-d  mun 

ShiiHc  upward  IVoin  Lli'i:  aod  ; 
Ay,  liow  till'  glioMJlv  liiind  will  point 

'To  hIiow  till'  lairial  ,:loil  ; 
And  iiiiKiiowii  IilIh  of  guilty  aiilH 
An-  :<.•.  II  ill  di.ann  from  hod. 

Ill:  told  lii/w  iiiiirdiTcrM  walk  tlio  earth 

lli'iii-atli  tlic  ciirHe  of  Cain,  — 
Willi  iriniHoii  idoiicl.H  liefori-  tlicir  eyes, 

And  llaiiM'M  al»iiit  tlieir  laain  ; 
fill  l.lood  luiH  li'ft  upon  tlii:ir  houIh 

IIh  I'Vi'iliiHting  Hiaiii  I 

"  And  well,"  i|Uotli  lie,  "  I  know  for  Iriilli 
'I'lii'ir  pangH  miiat  lie  extreme  — 

Woe,  woe,  iinullerulile  woe  I  — 
Will)  Mpill  lil'e'a  mured  Ntream. 

i-'or  why  '     Meilioiiglit,  la:<t  iiiglit  I  wrought 
A  miirdei,  in  a  dieaiii  ! 

"One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong, — 

A  feelile  man  and  old  ; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  lielil,  — 

Tin:  moon  alione  elear  and  eold  : 
Now  here,  Hiiid  I,  tliia  man  hIiiiII  die. 

And  I  will  have  hi,,  gold  ! 

"Two  liiitlden  l.loWH  with  a  ragged  stick. 

And  one  with  a  heavy  atone. 
One  hurried  gaah  with  a  lianty  knife,  — 

And  then  the  deed  waa  done  : 
There  wan  notliing  lying  at  my  feet 

But  lifeless  llesli  and  bone  I 


"  Notliing  Imt  lifeleHH  llenh  and  hone, 

'i'lial  r.oiild  not  do  nie  ill  ; 
And  yet  1  feared  iiiin  all  the  umv. 

For  lying  there  ho  still  ; 
'I'here  WHS  a  manhood  in  liia  look 

That  muriler  eouhl  not  kill  I 

"And,  lo  !  tin;  universal  air 

.Seemeil  lit  with  ghastly  lliime,  — 

Ten  thousand  thoimand  dreailful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  hiaiiii:  ; 

I  took  the  dead  man  liy  his  hand, 
And  ealled  upon  his  name. 

"  0  (iod  I  it  made  ine  i|Uake  to  HCO 

•Siieli  sense  within  the  slain  ; 
I5ut,  when  I  touehed  the  lilelesH  clay, 

The  Mood  gushed  out  iiniain  ! 
I'Vii'  every  elot  a  hiirning  sjiot 

Was  scoreliing  in  my  lirain  I 

"My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal. 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 
My  wrelehed,  wretehed  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil's  priee. 
A  dozen  times  I  groaned,  —  the  ilead 

Had  never  groaned  hut  twii:e. 

"And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
l''roni  the  heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice,  — the  awful  voice 
Of  the  lilood-avenging  sprite  : 

'Thou  guilty  man  I  take  up  thy  dwid, 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight  I ' 

"  And  I  took  the  dreary  body  np. 

And  eaat  it  in  a  stream,  - 
The  sluggish  water  black  as  ink. 

The  depth  was  so  i/xtreine  ; 
My  gentle  boy,  remember,  this 

is  nothing  but  a  ilreain  ! 

"  Down  went  tin:  e'orn.'  willi  a  hollow  plunge, 

And  vanished  in  tin-  po<d  ; 
Anon  1  eleaiised  my  bloody  hands. 

And  washed  my  forehead  cool. 
And  sat  among  the  iirehins  young, 

Tliat  evening,  in  the  scliool. 

"O  Heaven  !   to  think  of  their  white  souls. 

Ami  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 
1  could  not  share  in  childish  player, 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn  ; 
Like  a  devil  of  the:  pit  I  seemed. 

Mid  holy  chenibim  ! 

"And  Peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 
lliit  Oiiilt  was  my  grim  ehambeiUin, 

That  lighted  nie  to  bed, 


-{? 


a- 


81: 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


-a 


And  drew  my  miduiglit  eiivtaius  vound 
With  tingere  bloody  it'd  ! 

"  All  "..iglit  1  lay  in  agony. 

In  anguish  daik  and  deep  ; 
Aly  I'cveitnl  eyes  1  ilaii^l  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep  ; 
For  Sin  had  lenden'd  unto  her 

The  keys  of  hell  to  keep  ! 

"All  night  1  lay  in  agony. 

From  weary  chime  to  ehime  ; 
With  one  besetting  horrid  hint 

That  racked  me  all  the  time,  — 
A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 

Fierce  impulse  unto  crime,  — 

"  One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 

All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ! 
Stronger  and  stronger  e\ery  pulse 

Did  that  temptation  crave,  — 
Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  dead  mau  in  his  grave  ! 

"  Heavily  I  ivse  up,  as  soou 
As  light  was  in  the  sky, 

And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild,  misgiving  eye  ; 
And  1  saw  the  dead  in  the  river-bed, 

For  the  faithless  stivum  was  dry. 

"  Merrily  ixwe  the  lark,  and  shook 

The  dew-drop  from  its  wing  ; 
But  I  never  marked  its  morning  flight, 

I  never  lieaixl  it  sing. 
For  I  was  stooping  once  again 

Under  the  horrid  thing. 

"  With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

1  took  him  up  and  ran  ; 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  Ix'gan,  — 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  nuiixlered  man  ! 


"  And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 
But  my  thought  was  otherwheiv  ; 

As  soou  as  the  midday  task  was  done, 
In  secret  1  was  there,  — 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

"Then  down  1  cast  me  on  my  face. 

And  lirst  begiin  to  weep. 
For  1  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earih  refused  toTvcei),  — 
t)r  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep, 

"So  wills  the  fierc'o  avenging  sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 
Ay,  tho\igh  he  's  buried  in  a  cave. 

And  tredden  down  with  stone.s. 
And  yeai-s  have  rotted  otl"  his  llesh,  — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones  ! 

"  0  Ood  !  that  horrid,  honid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Agiiin  —  again,  with  dizzy  brain. 

The  human  life  I  take  ; 
And  my  red  right  hami  grows  raging  hot. 

Like  I'liinmer's  at  the  stake. 

"  .Vnd  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 
Will  wave  or  mold  allow  ; 

The  horrid  thing  pui-sues  my  soul,  — 
It  stands  lH<lbre  me  now  !  " 

The  fearful  boy  looked  up,  and  saw- 
Hugo  drejis  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin's  eyelids  kissed. 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  freim  Lynn 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist  ; 
And  Kugene  Aram  walked  between. 

With  gTvcs  upon  his  wrist. 

Thomas  Ho 


fr- 


-^ 


JlrCb       o'^U,U>.>T,cJirLY        ■m.a^'-fi-'  d       A..>«-      /^""^      hj!^-r-     o-fv^  . 
<?>-      ^-r-^»-c      A-iy      ^ -r-oA^C-tuJt^       ^rv-TTL-     iA-ey-r     ^-rf^oLa     c'tOo^f— , 


^/Li/o  ^UT!^  /^c^c^   OCuO  ^coiv,t*A-^J^'O^Zr' 


-^ 


r 


-^ 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  MASTER, 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE,  AND  WHAT  HE 
HATH  LEFT  US. 

To  draw  no  env}-,  Shakespeare,  ou  thy  name. 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 
AVhile  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man  nor  Muse  can  prai.se  too  much. 
'T  is  true,  and  all  men'.s  suffrage.    But  these  ways 
AVere  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise  ; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  the.se  would  light, 
'Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 
Or  blind  affection,  wliich  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urges  all  by  chance  : 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed. 

Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 

I  therefore  will  begin  :  Soul  of  the  age  ! 

Tlie  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage  ! 

My  Shakespeare,  rise  !    I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  further  off,  to  make  thee  room  : 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb. 

And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live. 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 

I  mean  with  great  but  disproportioned  Muses  : 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers. 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line. 

And  though  thou  had  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honour  thee  1  will  not  seek 

For  names  ;  but  call  forth  thundering  Eschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 

To  live  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread, 

And  shake  a  stage  ;  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all,  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  tliou  hast  one  to  show. 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ! 

And  all  the  Muses  .still  were  in  their  prime. 


Wlien,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  wai-m 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury,  to  charm  ! 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  liis  designs. 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines  ! 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As,  since,  slie  will  vouclisale  no  other  wit. 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Ari.stophane.s, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please  : 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie. 

As  they  were  not  of  nature's  f:iraily. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  nature  all  ;  thy  art, 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  mu.st  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion  ;  and,  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat 

(Such  a.s  thine  are)  ami  strike  the  .second  heat 

Upon  the  iMuse.s'  anvil  ;  turn  the  same. 

And  him.self  witli  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame  ; 

Or  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  .scorn  ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made  as  well  as  boiii. 

And  such  wert  thou  !    Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's    mind   and   manners  brightly 

shines 
In  his  well  turned  and  trae  filed  lines  : 
In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance. 
As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear. 
And  make  those  Mights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James  ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  con.stellation  there  ! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage. 
Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage 
AVhich  since  thy  flight  from  hence  hath  mourned 

like  night. 
And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light  ! 

BEN  JO.NSOS. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 
Deeper  than  ocean,  or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathomed  centre.     Like  that  ark. 
Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  high. 


fS-^- 


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& 


■a 


814 


PERSONAL  JVEMS. 


O'er  the  drowned  hills,  the  human  fnmily, 
And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind, 
So,  in  the  comjiass  of  the  single  niiud, 
The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 
That  make  all  worlds.     Great  jioet,  "t  was  thy 

art 
To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  he 
■Whate'cr  love,  hate,  ambition,  destiny. 
Or  the  tirni  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart 
Can   make  of  man.      Yet   thou  wert   still   the 

same, 
Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


ON  A  BUST  OF  DAUTE, 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
AVhom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim. 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song  ! 
Tliere  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 
Perpetual  care,  and  scorn,  abide  — 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng, 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faitliful  if  this  wan  image  he, 

No  dream  his  life  was  —  but  a  fight; 

t'ould  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 

To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

■\Vho  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 

Of  beauty,  veiled  with  lieaveuly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  llame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumie's  cavern  close. 
The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin. 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within. 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 
Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
"Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 
Kcjit  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggjird  look 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  coTupauion  save  his  book, 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade; 
AVhero,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest. 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  jirayed 
The  convent's  charity  \Tas  rest. 

Peace  dwells  not  here  —  this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 
The  marble  man  of  manv  woes. 


Such  was  his  Uiien  when  first  arose 
The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine  — 
When  hell  lie  peopled  with  his  foes, 
The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

"War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  eartli; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth; 
Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 
Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  time. 

0  time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  o\vn, 
The  only  rigliteous  judge  art  thou; 
That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone. 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now. 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow; 
His  words  are  jiarcel  of  mankind. 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 
The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 

Thomas  William  Parsons 


ANNE    HATHAWAY. 

,  OF  MV  EVE  AND  DELIGHT  OF  MY 


Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  gi-ace  your  song, 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay. 
Listen  to  mine  Anne  Hathaway! 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phtebus  might  wondering  stop  to  hear. 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay. 
And  nature  charm,  Anne  hath  a  way; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway ; 
To  breathe  delight  Anne  hath  a  way. 

When  Envy's  breath  and  rancorous  tooth 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth. 

And  merit  to  distress  betray. 

To  soothe  the  heart  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair. 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day. 

Thou  know'st,  fond  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway; 
To  make  grief  bliss,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  orient  list. 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst. 
The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay; 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Anne  Hathaway  ! 
She  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye. 
Their  various  lustres  to  defy,  — 


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[fl- 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


815 


r^ 


Tlie  jewels  she,  and  tlie  foil  they, 
So  sweet  to  look  Anue  hath  u  way  ; 

She  hatli  a  way, 

Anne  Hatliaway  ; 
To  shame  bright  gems,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

But  were  it  to  nij-  faiiev  given 

To  nite  her  charms,  I  'il  call  them  heaven  ] 

l'"cir  thoiigli  a  mortal  maile  of  clay. 

Angels  must  love  Anno  Hathaway  ; 

Slic  hath  a  way  so  to  control, 

To  rapture,  the  imprisoned  soul. 

And  sweetest  heaven  on  earth  display, 

Tliat  to  lie  Iienven  Anne  hath  a  way  ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway  ; 
To  ho  heaven's  self,  Anne  hath  a  way. 


CINDER  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN  MILTON 


TiliU';E  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
(ireece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  fh'st  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed  ; 
The  next  in  majesty  ;  in  both  the  last. 
Tlic  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go  ; 
To  make  a  tldrd,  she  joined  the  former  two. 
John  Drvden. 


TO  MILTON. 

Jlii.TON  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  : 
Englanil  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  feu 
Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen. 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower. 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     Wo  are  selfish  men  ; 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart  : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea ; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  eheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  iliii  lay. 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  THE  MEMORY   OF  BEN  JONSON. 

The  Mu.se's  fairest  light  in  no  dark  time. 
The  wonder  of  a  learned  age  ;  the  line 
Which  none  can  pa.s3  !  the  most  proportioned 
wit,  — 


To  nature,  the  liest  judge  of  what  was  fit ; 

The  df.lir.l,    pl.MIM.sl,    l,i-l,r.|,    ,lr;liv.t    lirll   ; 
The    voir,.    li,„,t    ,.,   |m„<1    !,V    rnnM'lllill-  111,  11    ; 

The  soul  winri,  misunvd  l.rsl  1,.  all  wril  .said 
By  others,  and  which  mosE  reijuital  made  ; 
Tuned  to  the  highest  key  of  ancient  Rome, 
Keturning  all  her  music  with  his  own  ; 
In  whom,  with  nature,  study  claimed  a  part. 
And  yet  who  to  luniself  owed  all  his  ait  : 
Here  lies  Ben  Jonson  !  every  age  will  look 
With  sorrow  here,  with  wonder  on  his  book. 

JOH.N  CLEVELA.ND. 


iurely  without  much  i 


f&-- 


ODE  TO  BEN  JONSON. 

An  Ben  ! 
Say  how  or  when 
Shall  we,  thy  guests, 
ileet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun  ; 
Where  we  such  clusters  had 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  ; 
And  yet  eacli  versc'  of  thine 
Outdid  the  meat,  outdid  the  frolic  wine. 

My  Ben  ! 

Or  come  again, 

Or  senil  to  us 
Thy  wit's  great  overplus  ; 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it, 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend  : 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 

That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  sucli  a  wit,  the  world  should  have  no  mor«. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


PRAYER  TO  BEN  JONSON. 

WiiKN  I  a  vei-.se  shall  make, 
Know  I  have  prayed  thee. 
For  old  religion's  sake. 
Saint  Ben,  to  aid  me. 

Make  the  way  smooth  for  me, 
When  I,  thyHerrick, 
Honoring  thee,  on  my  knee 
Offer  my  lyric. 

Candles  1  '11  give  to  thee. 
And  a  new  altar  ; 
And  thou.  Saint  Ben,  shalt  be 
Writ  in  my  psalter. 


Robert  Herrick. 


^ 


[& 


816 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


-a 


UKN   JONSONS    COMMON  PI. Al'H   ROOK. 

His  U'nniinj;  siu-li,  im  imtlior,  oUl  or  innv, 
Escnpi'ii  his  niiiliiif;  tliiil  dcsoivoil  his  viow  ; 
Ami  such  his  juilgiiii'nt,  si>  oxiu't  his  tjusto, 
or  whiil  was  host  in  books,  or  whiit  hooks  host, 
Tlml  luul  ho  joiiK'il  thoso  iiotos  his  liilwi-s  took 
From  t'lifh   most    imiisinl   mui   )iii>isi>-iiosi'rviug 

hook, 
Ami    >'oiil(l   till'   wovUl    of   llmt   ohoioo  tivnsuTO 

boast. 
It  lu'od  not  I'liii"  thonuli  «Il  tho  n<st  were  lost, 

LUCIUS  Cakv  (LOKU  1-alxlam>). 


PRAXITELES, 


\v.\vs(!i>quiliir\  rnris,  Anohises.  and  Adonis - 

thivo, 
Thive  only,  did  me  ever  naked  see  ; 
l!ut  this  i'n>.\iteles  —  when,  whero,  did  ho  f 


SlU  PHIUP  SIDNEY. 

A  swiir,  attmetive  kind  of  grace, 
.\  fidl  nssumneo  given  by  looks, 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face. 

The  lineaments  of  Uospel  books  ! 
1  trow,  that  eouiiteiianee  eannot  lie 
"Whose  thotiglits  lU'e  legible  in  the  oyo. 

Was  ever  eye  did  see  that  laee, 

Was  ever  ear  did  hear  that  tongue, 
Was  ever  utiud  did  mind  his  graee, 
That  ever  thought  the  travel  long  ? 
But  eyes  and  ears,  and  every  tliouglit, 
Were  with  his  sweet  jierfeetions  eaiight. 

MATruHW  ROVDEN. 


©-- 


F.rrrAru  on  the  countess  of  Pembroke. 

UnukkniCvVTII  this  marble  hearse 
l,ies  the  subjeet  of  all  verse, 
Sydney's  sister,  —  Pemhi-oke's  mother. 
Peath,  elx^  thou  hast  slaiu  another 
Fair  and  wise  and  good  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee  ! 

Slarhle  \nles  let  no  mail  raise 
To  her  name  in  after  days  ; 
Some  kind  woman,  born  as  she, 
Keading  tliis,  like  Niohe 
Shall  turn  marble,  and  Ixn'ome 
BotJi  her  mourner  luid  bar  tomb. 

Bfn  Jonson. 


Kl'lT.MMl   ON    F.lJZAllKTH   L.    H. 

Woi'i  n.si-  thou  heare  what  nnm  can  say 

In  a  little  f  —  ivader,  .stay  ! 

I'nd.'rneath  this  ston.'  doth  lyo 

As  much  beauty  as  eovdd  dye,  — 

Wliii'h  in  life  did  harbor  give 

To  more  vertue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Kli/abeth,  — 

The  other,  let  it  slee).  with  death  : 

Fitter  where  it  dved  to  toll. 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.      Farewell  ! 

HKN  Jonson. 


CRORCe  VU-l-lURS.  POKR  Ol'  IH'CKINGHAM.     l6Sa. 

SoMK  of  their  ehiefs  wore  prinees  of  the  land  ; 
In  the  tirst  rank  of  those  did  Zimri  stand  ; 
A  man  so  various,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Xot  one,  but  all  mankind's  ejutome  : 
Still' in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong; 
Was  everything  by  starts;,  and  nothing  long  ; 
Hut,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 
Was  ehymist,  tiddler,  statesman,  and  buH'oon  ; 
Then  lUl  t'orwomou,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thiidcing. 
Blest  madman,  who  ei>\dd  every  hour  employ. 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  ! 
luiiliug  and  praising  wi'ro  his  usual  themes  ; 
And  both,  to  show  his  jiulgment,  in  extremes  : 
So  over-violent  or  over-civil. 
That  every  man  with  liiin  was  goit  or  devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  iioculiar  art ; 
Nothing  went  nuiYwanled  but  desert. 
Bcggi\ivd  by  fools,  whom  still  ho  found  too  late; 
Ho  iiad  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
Ho  laughed  himself  from  court,  then  sovight  relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  nc'or  be  chief ; 
For,  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Alisaloin,  ami  wise  Achitophel. 
Thus,  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft. 
He  left  no  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 

JOHN  DRVDILN. 


CHAK1.es  XII. 

On  what  foundations  stands  the  warrior's  pridi 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide 
A  frame  of  adamant,  «  soul  of  tiiv, 
Ko  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labors  tiro ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Uneonqueivd  loiil  of  pleasure  and  of  jjoiu. 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  scepters  yield, 


^ 


[tr- 


I'KHHiJXAL   I'OKM.S. 


8J7 


-a 


War  doundu  the  trump,  he  nj»Iii)S  to  the  field  ; 
IJchold  ourrouiiiling  king*  their  [wwer  cornbitic, 
And  one  capitiilat';,  and  one  reoijjn  ; 
I'eaee  coiirtH  hi8  liand,  hut  opna/Li  her  eharnm  in 

vain  ; 
"  I'liink  nothin;^  gainwi,"  he  erieH,    "till  naught 

rrjmain, 
On  MoHcow'o  walls  till  Gothic  utan'lardH  fly, 
And  all  Yxt  mine  beneath  the  polar  Hky." 
Tin;  inareh  beginH  in  military  utate, 
And  nation*)  on  his  eye  HUBpend'^il  wait ; 
Stern  famine  guanls  the  W)litary  eoast, 
And  wintiir  barriea<les  the  realnw  of  froot. 
He  eome»,  nor  want  nor  k<A<1  hi»  course  delay; 
Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  Pultiiwa'«  day  ! 
Till;  van')ui<ihed  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands, 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  laniU  ; 
Condemned  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait. 
While  lailies  interpose  and  slaves  deliat*;, 
lint  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error  mend  ? 
Did  no  Hul)Vert':d  empire  murk  his  end  f 
l>id  rival  nionarclis  give  the  faUil  wound, 
<)r  hostile  millions  [jress  him  U)  the  ground  ? 
Hi/i  fall  was  destined  to  a  liarren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  <lubious  hand  ; 
He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale. 
To  jwint  a  moral  or  adom  a  tale. 

SAHUCL  J0HN50M, 


OLIVER  CEOMWELL. 

How  sliall  I  then  begin,  or  where  conclude, 

To  draw  a  fame  so  truly  circular  I 
For  in  a  round  what  order  fan  U;  «how(;d. 

Where  all  the  [larts  so  cjual  jwrfect  are  ( 

His  grandeur  he  derived  from  Heaven  alone  ; 

For  he  was  great,  ere  fortune  ma<le  liirn  so  : 
And  wars,  like  mists  that  rise  against  the  sun, 

llafJe  him  but  greater  seem,  not  greater  grow. 

Xo  borrowed  Ixiys  his  temples  did  ml'jm, 
Hut  tij  our  crown  he  di'l  fresh  jewels  bring  ; 

Nor  was  his  virtue  ]X)m>wA  soon  as  Ix<m, 
With  the  too  early  thoughts  of  lji;ing  king. 

Fortune  —  that  easy  mistress  to  the  young, 
liut  to  her  ancient  servants  coy  and  hard  — 

Him  at  that  age  her  favorit';s  rankcl  among, 
When  she  her  best-love<l  Pompiy  did  discard. 

He,  private,  marked  the  lault  of  others'  sway 
And  K<;t  as  sea-marks  for  himself  to  shun  : 

Not  like  rash  monarchs,  who  their  youth  betray 
By  acts  their  age  too  late  would  wish  undone. 


y- 


.Swift  and  rcmllmH  througli  the  land  he  j«st, 
Like  that  Ixdd  Greek  who  ilid  the  F,;ist  subdue. 

And  made  U)  l»attles  suf;h  heroic  haste. 
As  if  on  wings  of  victory  he  (lew. 

He  fought,  secure  of  fortune  as  of  fame  : 
Still,  by  new  majis,  the  island  might  tx;  shown. 

Of  TOnf£Uests,  which  he  strewed  where'er  he  ram<;. 
Thick  as  the  galaxy  with  slai-s  is  n(>v,n. 

Xor  was  he  like  those  stars  which  only  shine. 
When  ti)  jralc  mariners  they  st<jnns  jiortend  : 

He  ha<l  his  calmer  influence,  and  his  mien 
Did  love  and  majesty  together  blend. 

'T  is  true,  his  count';nance  did  Imprint  an  awe  ; 

And  naturally  all  wjuls  to  his  did  Ixiw, 
As  wands  of  divination  downward  draw. 

And  jKjiiit  U)  Isxis  where  wivereign  gold  doth 
grow. 

For  from  all  temjK;rs  he  r;ould  service  draw  ; 

The  worth  of  i«u;h,  with  its  alloy,  he  knew  ; 
And,  as  the  confiilant  of  .N'aturc,  siiw 

How  she  complexions  did  divide  and  brew. 

Or  he  their  single  virtues  did  survey, 
By  intuition,  in  his  own  large  breast, 

Where  all  the  rich  id(«i«  of  them  lay, 
Tliat  were  the  rule  and  measure  to  the  r>wt. 

Such  was  our  prince  ;  yet  ownwl  a  soul  alx>ve 
The  highest  acts  it  wjuld  produce  to  show  : 

Thus  [xxjr  mechanic  arts  in  publii;  move, 
Whilst  tlie  deep  Bc<;rets  l>eyond  practi';/;  go. 

Nor  died  he  when  his  ebbing  fame  went  less, 
But  when  fresh  kurels  cMnrtiA  him  Vj  live  : 

He  w^mcl  but  to  prevent  wjme  new  »ui;<x;ss, 
As  if  alxive  what  triumplis  earth  wuld  give. 

His  latest  victories  still  thickest  came, 
As,  near  the  cent<;r,  motion  doth  increase;  ; 

Till  he,  iiKHHeA  down  by  his  own  weighty  name. 
Did,  like  the  vestal,  under  sfioils  i\ivj-mv:. 

JOItU  DV.VIjiiU. 


TO  THE  LOED-GENERAL  CEOMWELL, 

CiioMWBf.r,,  ourchief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud. 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Ouidcl  by  faith  and  matchlc-ss  fortitude, 
To  jieacc  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ]Ariv/<A ; 
And  on  the  nr;<;k  of  crowned  fortune  proud 
Hast  rcare/J  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pur- 
sued, 
Wliile  Darwen  stri;am,  with  blood  of  .Scots  iin- 
Vmed, 


►-y-' 


a- 


818 


PEHSONAL  POEMS. 


-a 


Aiul  Dunlwv  (leW  wsomuls  thy  praises  loud, 
Auil  Woivoster's  liiureate  wnnith.     Yet  much  re- 

lUiUllS 

To  comniei-  still ;  Teaee  hath  her  victories 
No  less  iviiowned  than  War  :  new  foes  arise, 
Thivattninj;  to  l>iiul  our  soulswith  secular  chains : 
lli'll>  us  to  siivo  I'lt'c  conscieuco  lixuu  the  jww 
lU  liireUng  wolves,  whose  j;i«[h1  is  their  maw. 

MILTON. 


SPORUS.-LOKD  IIERVEY. 


FKOM  THE  "rROLOGUB  TO  ^ 


LEr  Sjiorns  ti'enible.  — A.*  What?  that  thing 
of  silk, 
SjKUUs,  that  mere  white  cuul  of  asses'  milk  ? 
Satiiv  of  sense,  alas  !  can  Sporus  feel  ? 
Who  breaks  a  butterfly  ujK>n  a  wheel  / 

1'.+  Yet  let  me  tlap  this  bug  with  giUlwl  wings. 
This  jwinteil  chiUl  of  ilirt  that  stinks  and  stings  ; 
Whose  h[xzz  the  witty  and  the  fair  annoys. 
Yet  wit  iu''er  tastes,  and  beanty  ne'er  eiyoys  : 
So  well-bred  sjwniels  civilly  delight 
In  mvimbling  of  the  giiuie  they  daro  not  bite. 
Ktorual  smiles  his  emptiness  lietmy. 
As  shallow  streiuns  run  dimpling  all  the  way. 
Whether  in  tlorid  imfKitence  he  speaks. 
And,  as  the  pivuipterbi'eathes,  the  puppet  sijueaks. 
Or  at  the  ear  of  Kve,  familiar  toad. 
Half  fixith,  half  venom,  spits  himself  abroad. 
In  puns,  or  politics,  or  tales,  or  lies. 
Or  spite,  or  smut,  or  rhymes,  or  blasphemies  ; 
His  wit  all  seesaw,  l>etween  that  and  this. 
Now  high,  now  low,  now  master  \\\\  now  miss. 
And  he  himself  one  vile  antithesis. 
.\iupliibious  thing  !  that,  acting  either  part, 
'riie  tvitling  head,  or  the  corrupted  heart, 
Fi>p  at  the  toilet,  flatterer  at  the  boanl, 
Now  tritvs  a  lady,  and  now  struts  a  loitl. 
Kve's  tempter  thus  the  rabbins  have  exprest, 
-V  cherub's  face,  a  reptile  all  the  rest ; 
Heauty  that  shocks  you,  jwrts  that  none  will  trust, 
AVit  that  can  creep,  and  pride  that  licks  the  dnst. 

.\LE.XANDEK  POPE. 


00,  — SHADWELL,  THE  DRAMATIST. 

Now  stop  your  noses,  readei's,  all  and  some. 
For  here  's  a  tun  of  midnight  work  to  come. 
Og,  fivni  a  tivason-t«vern  rolling  home  ; 
Round  as  a  gloW,  and  liquored  every  chink, 
tniodly  and  great  he  sails  Whind  his  link  : 
With  alt  this  bulk  there  's  nothing  lost  in  Og, 
For  every  inch  that  is  not  fool  is  rogue  ; 


fB- 


A  monstixius  nu»ss  of  foul,  corrnpteil  matter, 
As  iJl  the  devils  had  spewed  to  make  the  batter. 
The  midwife  laid  her  hand  on  his  thick  skull. 
With  this  prophetic  blessing,  —  "  Be  thou  dull  ; 
Drink,  swear,  and  mar,  forliear  no  lewd  delight 
Fit  for  thy  bulk  ;  do  anything  but  write  : 
Thou  art  of  lasting  make,  like  thoughtless  men  ; 
A  strejig  mitivity  —  but  for  the  pen  ! 
Eiit  opium,  mingle  arsenic  in  thy  drink. 
Still  thou  mayst  live,  avoiding  pen  and  ink." 
1  see,  1  see,  't  is  counsel  given  in  vain. 
For  treason  Uitchod  i«  rhynu>  will  be  thy  liane ; 
Rhyme  is  the  rock  on  which  thou  art  to  wreck, 
'T  is  fatal  to  thy  fame  and  to  thy  neck  ; 
Why  sliould  thy  meter  good  King  David  blast  ? 
.\  jwabu  of  his  will  surely  be  thy  last. 
-V  double  noose  tJiou  on  thy  neck  dost  pull 
For  writing  treason  and  for  writing  dull. 
To  die  for  faction  is  a  common  evil. 
But  to  be  hanged  for  nonsense  is  the  devil. 

JOM.N  DRVDBN. 


SMOLLETT. 

Whence  could  arise  the  mighty  critic  spleen, 
The  muse  a  tritler,  and  her  theme  so  mean  ? 
What  had  1  done  that  angry  heaven  shonld  send 
The  bitterest  foe  where  most  1  wislied  a  frientl  ! 
Oft  hath  my  tongue  Iwn  wanton  at  this  name, 
And  haileil  the  honore  of  thy  matchless  fame. 
For  me  let  hoary  Fielding  bite  the  ground. 
So  nobler  Hckle  stands  sujvrbly  liound  ; 
From  Livy's  temples  tear  the  historic  crown, 
Which  with  more  justice  blooms  upon  thy  own. 
Comjwiwl  with  thee,  K'  all  life-writei-s  dumb. 
But  he  who  wix>te  the  life  of  Tommy  Thumb. 
Who  ever  read  the  Regicide  but  swore 
The  author  wrote  as  man  ne'er  wrote  before  ? 
Othei-s  for  plots  and  underplots  may  call. 
Here  's  the  right  uu'thod,  —  have  no  plot  at  all ! 
JOHN  Churchill. 


FROM  THE  "PROLOCOE  TO  THE  S.\TIRBS. 

Peace  to  ah  such  I  but  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kiiuUes,  and  fair  fame  inspire's  ; 
Blest  with  ejich  talent  and  each  art  to  please. 
And  born  to  write,  convei«e,  and  live  with  ease  : 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone. 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  bixithor  near  the  throne, 
Yiew  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes. 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise  ; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer. 
And,  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer  ; 
AVilling  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike. 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike  ; 


©- 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


819 


■a 


^- 


Alike  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend  ; 
Dreading  even  fooLs,  by  flatterers  Ijesieged, 
And  so  obliging  that  lie  ne'er  obliged  ; 
Like  C'at<j,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  Ui  )iis  own  applause  ; 
AV^hilst  wits  and  templars  every  sentence  raise. 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise  :  — 
Who  but  must  laugli,  if  such  a  one  there  be  ? 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticos  were  he  ? 

ALtXAKDEK  POPH- 


THE  PRINCESS  CHAKLOTTE. 

FKOM  '-CHILDE  HAROLD." 

Hai'.k'.  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voiiic  proceeds, 
A  long,  low,  distant  murmur  of  diead  sound, 
.Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immclicable  wound  ; 
Tlirough  storm  and  darknes's  yawns  the  rend- 
ing giouiid. 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  dis- 
crowned. 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no 
relief. 

.Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead  ? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
.Some  less  majestic,  less  )jelove<l  bea4  ? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  h<:art  still  bled, 
The  motlier  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  Ijoy, 
Death  hushed  that  pang  forever :  with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  jMomised  joy 
Which  filled  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seemed 
to  cloy. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety.  —  Can  it  be, 
0  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  a^lored  ! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee. 
And  rree<lom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to 

hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  :  for  she  had  poured 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  he3;<l 
Beheld  her  Iris.  —  Thou,  too,  lonely  lord. 
And  desolate  consort,  —  vainly  wert  thou  wed  ! 
The  husljand  of  a  year !  the  father  of  the  dead  '. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made  ; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes  ;  in  the  dust 
The  fair-liaired  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid. 
The  love  of  millions  I     How  we  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her  '.  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deemed 
Our  children  should  obevher  child,  and  blessed 


Her  and  lier  hojjed-for  seed,  whose  promise 
seemed 
Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes :  —  't  was  but  a 
meteor  l.)eamed. 

Woe  unto  tis,  not  her ;  for  she  sleejjs  well  : 
The  fickle  reek  of  jxipular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  c^iunsel,  the  false  oracle. 
Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'erstung 
Nations  have  anned  in  madness,  the  strange  fate 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath 

flung 
Against  their  blind  omuiiwtcncc  a  weight 
Within  the  opjKising  scale,  which  crushes  soon 

or  late,  — 

These  might  have  Ijecn  her  destiny  ;  but  no. 
Our  hearts  deny  it  :  and  s<j  young,  so  fair. 
Good  without  eflort,  gr<iat  without  a  foe  ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother,  —  and  now  t/urnJ 
How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  teai  ' 
From  thy  sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  linked  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair. 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  eaith<|uake's,  and  op- 

prest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could 

love  thee  best. 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON. 

'T  IS  done,  —  but  yesterday  a  king  ! 

And  armed  with  kings  to  strive,  — 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing  ; 

.So  abject,  —  yet  alive  ! 
Is  this  tlie  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
WTio  strewed  our  earth  with  hostile  bonee. 

And  can  he  thus  survive  ? 
Since  he,  miscalled  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man  !  why  scourge  thy  kind 

Who  bowe<l  so  low  the  knee  ? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind. 

Thou  taught' St  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  umjuestioned,  — power  to  save,  — 
Thine  only  gift  hath  Ijeen  the  grave 

To  those  tliat  worshiped  thee  ; 
Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness  '. 

Thanks  for  that  lesson,  —  it  will  teach 

To  after  warriors  more 
Than  high  philosojjhy  can  preach. 

And  vainly  preached  before. 
That  spell  ujjon  the  minds  of  m«i 


-tr 


f 


820 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


-*-a 


L 


Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  saber  sway, 
With  fronts  of  brass  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triumph  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife  ; 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life  ; 
The  sword,  the  scepter,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seemed  made  but  to  obey, 

Wlierewith  renown  was  rife,  — 
All  quelled  !  —  Dark  spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory ! 

The  desolator  desolate  ! 

The  victor  overthrown  ! 
The  arliiter  of  others'  fate 

A  suppliant  for  his  o\vn  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope. 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince,  or  live  a  slave,  — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave  ! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak 

Dreamed  not  of  the  rebound  ; 
Chained  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke,  — 

Alone,  —  how  looked  he  round  ! 
Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength. 
An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length. 

And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 
He  fell,  the  forest-prowlers'  prey  ; 
But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away ! 

The  Roman,  when  his  burning  heart 

Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger,  dared  depart. 

In  savage  grandeur,  home. 
He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne. 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom  ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandoned  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway 
Had  lost  its  quickening  speU, 

Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 
An  empire  for  a  cell ; 

A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 

A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 
His  dotage  trifled  well  : 

Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 

A  bigot's  shrine  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou,  —  from  thy  reluctant  hand 
The  thunderbolt  is  wrung,  — 

Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 
To  which  thy  weakness  clung. 


All  evil  spirit  as  thou  art. 

It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean  ! 

And  Earth  liath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

AVho  thus  can  hoard  his  own  ! 
And  monarchs  bowed  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thanked  him  for  a  throne  ! 
Fair  Freedom  !  we  may  hold  thee  dear, 
WTien  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
0,  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lui'e  mankind  ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  WTit  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain  ; 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more. 

Or  deepen  eveiy  stain. 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honor  dies. 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise. 

To  shame  the  world  again  ; 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night  ? 

Weighed  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay ; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away : 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  spark  should  animate, 

To  dazzle  and  dismay  ; 
Nor  deemed  Contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour  ? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she  too  bend,  —  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despaii-, 

Thou  throneless  homicide  ? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem  ; 
'T  is  worth  thy  vanished  diadem  ! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea  ; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile,  — 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee  ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all-idle  hand, 
In  loitering  mood,  upon  the  sand, 

That  earth  is  now  as  free  ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferred  his  byword  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timour  !  in  his  captive's  cage,  — 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine. 


--S 


e- 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


821 


-a 


Wliile  brooding  in  thy  prisoned  rage  ? 

But  one,  —  "The  world  was  mine  ! " 
Unless,  like  him  of  Babylon, 
AU  sense  is  with  thy  scepter  gone, 

Life  wUl  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  poured  so  widely  forth,  — 
So  long  obeyed,  so  little  worth ! 

Or,  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven, 

AVilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven. 

His  vulture  and  his  rock  ! 
Foredoomed  by  God,  by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst. 

The  veiy  fiend's  arch  mock  : 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  prWe, 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died  ! 

Lord  Byron. 


u 


NAPOLEON. 

FROM  "CHILDE  HAROLD." 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men. 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixed 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixed. 
Extreme  in  all  things !  hadstthou  been  betwixt. 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been  ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall  :  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  reassume  the  imperial  mien. 
And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of  the 
scene  ! 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou  ! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than 

now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  Fame, 
Who  wooed  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself  :  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert, 
Who  deemed  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst 

assert. 

O  more  or  less  than  man  —  in  high  or  low, 
Battling  witli  nations,  flying  from  the  field  ; 
Now  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool, 

now 
More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield : 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  re- 
build, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skilled. 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of 
war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  lofti- 
est star. 


Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brooked  the  turning 

tide 
With  that  untaught  iimato  philosophy. 
Which,  be  it  «-isdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by. 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast 

smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  aU-enduring  eye,  — 
When  Fortune  fled  her  spoiled  and  favorite 

child. 
He  stood  unbowed  beneath  the  ills  upon  him 

piled. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes  ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steeled  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts ;  't  was  wise  to  feel, 

not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turned  unto  thine  overthrow  ; 
'T  is  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose  ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who 

choose. 

If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  rock. 
Thou  haiist  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  alone. 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  helped  to  brave  th« 

shock  ; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  paved 

thy  throne. 
Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone  ; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
Like  stem  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men  ; 
For  sceptered  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane  ;  there  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire  ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core. 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men 

mad 
By  their  contagion  !     Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs. 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  theirs !     One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  tlie  lust  to  shine 

or  rule. 


-S 


a- 


822 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  wliereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  hist, 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife, 
Tliat  slioiihl  their  days,  surviving  perils  past, 
Welt  to  calm  twilight,  thoy  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineuess,  and  so  die  ; 
E\  en  as  a  llame,  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
\\'\\h  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by, 
Wliich  cats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

Ilo  who  ascends  to  nuuintain-tops  shall  (ind 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and 

snow  ; 
lie  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Tliough  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 
And  fir  beneath  the  earth  and  oceiui  spread, 
liuund  liim  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
Andthus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  sumnuts 

led. 


e 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   THE   DUKE   OF  REICH- 
STADT  (NAFOLEON  II.). 

Heiu  of  that  name 
■Which  shook  witli  sudden  teiror  the  far  earth ! 
Child  ofstnuige  destinies  e'en  from  thy  birth. 
When   kings   luid    princes  round   thy   cradle 
came. 
And  gave  their  crowns,  as  playthings,  to  thine 

hand,  — 
Thine  lieritage  the  spoils  of  many  a  land  ! 

IIow  were  the  schemes 
Of  hnmnn  foresight  battled  in  thy  fate, 
Thou  victim  of  a  parent's  lofty  state  ! 

Wliat  glorious  visions  tilled  thy  father's  dreams, 
AVhen  first  ho  gazed  upon  thy  infant  face. 
And  deemed  himself  the  Kodolph  of  his  race ! 

Scarce  had  thine  eyes 
l^chchi  the  light  of  day.  when  thon  wert  Ixmnd 
With  ])owcr's  vain  symbols,  and  thy  yomig  brow 
crowned 

With  Kome's  imperial  diadem,  — the  prize 
From  priestly  princes  by  thy  proud  sire  won. 
To  deck  the  pillow  of  his  cradled  son. 

Yet  where  is  now 
The  sword  that  ilaslied  as  with  a  meteor  light. 
And  led  on  half  the  world  to  stirring  fight, 

Kidding  whole  seas  of  blood  and  carnage  flow? 
Alas  !  when  foiled  on  his  last  battle  plain. 
Its  shattered  fragments  forged  thy  father's  chain. 


Far  worse  thy  fate 
Thau  that  which  doomed   him   to   the   barren 

rock  ; 
Through  half  the  universe  was  felt  the  shock. 

When  down  he  toppled  from  his  high  estate  ; 
And  the  proud  thought  of  still  acknowledged 

power 
Could  cheer  him  e'ou  in  that  disastrous  hour. 

Hut  thou,  poor  boy, 
Hadst  no  such  dreams  to  cheer  the  lagging  hours ; 
Thy  chain   still  galled,   though  wi'cathcd  with 
fairest  flowei-s ; 

Thou  had'st  no  images  of  by -past  joy. 
No  visions  of  anticipated  fame, 
To  bear  thee  through  a  life  of  sloth  and  shame. 

And  where  was  she 
Whose  proudest  title  was  Napoleon's  wife  '/ 
She  who  first  gave,  and  should  have  watched  thy 
life, 

'I'rcbling  a  mother's  tenderness  for  thee? 
Despoiled  heir  of  empire  I  on  her  breast 
Did  thy  young  head  repose  in  its  unrest  ? 

No  !  round  her  heart 
Children  of  luunbler,  happier  lineage  twined; 
Thou  couldst  but  bring  dark  memories  to  nund, 

or  ]iageants  where  she  bore  a  heartless  jiart : 
She  who  shared  not  her  monarch-husband's  doon\ 
Cared  little  lor  her  first-born's  living  tomb. 

Thou  art  at  rest, 
I  'hild  of  Ambition's  martyr  !    Life  had  been 
To  thee  no  blessing,  but  a  dreary  scene 

Of  doubt  and  drcail  and  suffering  at  the  best ; 
For  thou  wert  one  whose  path  in  these  dark 

times 
Must  lead  to  sorrows,  —  it  might  be  to  crimes. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 
The  idle  sword  has  worn  its  sheath  away, 
The  spirit  has  consumed  its  bonds  of  clay  ; 

And  they  who  with  vain  tyranny  con\]ircst 
Thy  soul's  high  yearnings,  now  forget  their  fear, 
.\nd  fling  Ambition's  purple  o'er  thy  bier. 

EMMA  C.  UMia-RV. 


POPTTLAE   RECOLLECTIONS   OF  BONAPARTE. 

A  Kr.NnF.KING  OF  BtKANGER'S    "SOUVENIRS   IH'    IM-.urLE." 

TiiF.Y  '11  talk  of  him  for  yeai-s  to  come. 
In  cottage  chronicle  and  tivle  ; 

When,  for  aught  else,  renown  is  dumb, 
His  legend  shall  prevail  ! 

When  in  the  hamlet's  honored  chair 
Shall  sit  some  aged  dame. 

Teaching  to  lowly  clown  and  villager 


--EP 


[0- 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


-n 


823 


h 


That  narrative  of  fame. 
"'T  is  true,"  they  'II  say,  "  his  gorgeous  throne 

France  bled  to  raise  ; 
But  he  was  all  our  own  !  " 

"  Mother,  say  something  in  his  praise,  — 

O,  speak  of  him  always  !  " 

"  I  saw  him  pass,  — his  was  a  host 

C'jiuiUi-ss  beyond  your  young  Imaginings  — 
My  ibildn'n,  he  could  boast 

A  train  of  conquered  kings  ! 
And  when  he  came  this  road, 

'T  was  on  my  bridal  day, 
He  wore,  for  near  to  him  I  stood. 

Cocked  hat  and  surcoat  gray. 
I  lilushed  ;  he  said,  '  lie  of  good  cheer  I 
Couragi',  my  dear  ! ' 

Tliat  was  his  very  woril." 

"  Mother  !  (J,  then,  this  really  occurred, 
And  you  his  voice  could  hear." 

"  A  year  rolled  on,  when  next  at  Paris  I, 

Lone  woman  that  1  am, 
.S.'iw  him  pass  by, 

i;irt  witli  his  peers  to  kneel  at  Notre  Dame, 
I  knew,  liy  merry  chime  and  signal  gun, 
(Jiid  granted  him  a  son. 

And  O,  I  wept  for  joy  ! 
Fur  why  not  weep  when  warnor  men  diil. 
Who  gazed  upon  that  sight  so  splendid. 

And  blessed  the  imperial  boy  ? 
Never  ilid  noonday  sun  shine  out  so  bright  ! 
0,  what  a  sight !  " 

"  Mother,  for  you  that  must  have  been 

A  glorious  scene." 

"  lint  when  all  Europe's  gathered  strength 
r.urst  o'er  the  French  frontier  at  length, 

"1"  will  scarcely  be  believed 

What  wonders,  single-handed,  he  achieved  ; 

Such  general  ne'er  lived  ! 
One  livening  on  my  threshold  stood 

A  guest,  —  't  was  he  !     Of  warriors  few 

111-  had  a  toil-worn  retinue. 
Ill'  Mung  himself  into  this  chair  of  wood. 

Muttering,  meantime,  with  fearful  air, 

'  (Quelle  guerre  !     0,  quelle  guerre  !  '  " 

"  Mother  !  and  did  our  emperor  sit  there, 

Upon  that  very  chair  1" 

"  Hi:  said,    'Give  me  some  food.' 

liiown  loaf  I  gave,  and  homely  wine. 
And  made  the  kindling  fire-blocks  shine 

To  dry  his  cloak  with  wet  bedewed. 
Soon  by  the  bonny  blaze  he  slejit, 
Tlien  waking  chid  me,  —  for  1  wejit ; 

'  Courage  ! '  he  cried,   '  I  '11  strike  for  all 

Under  the  sacred  wall 
Of  France's  noble  capital  1' 


Those  were  his  words  :  I  've  treasured  up 

With  pride  that  same  wine-cup  ; 
And  for  its  weight  in  gold 
It  never  shall  be  sold  !  " 

"  Mother,  on  that  proud  relic  let  us  ga/e. 

0,  keep  that  cup  always  !  " 

"  But  through  some  fatal  witchery 

He,  whom  a  pope  had  crowned  and  blest, 
Perished,  my  sons,  by  foulest  treachery, 

Cast  on  an  isle  far  in  the  lonely  West  '. 
Long  time  sad  rumors  were  afloat,  — 

The  fatal  tidings  we  would  spurn. 
Still  hoping  from  that  isle  remote 

Once  more  our  hero  would  return. 
But  when  the  dark  announcement  drew 

Tears  from  the  virtuous  and  the  brave, 
When  the  sad  whLsijer  proved  too  true, 

A  Hood  of  grief  I  to  his  memory  gave. 
Peace  to  the  glorious  dead  ! " 

"  Mother,  may  God  his  fullest  blessing  shed 

Upon  your  aged  head  !  " 

Francis  .Maho.vv  (Father  prout). 


FROM  "ODE  FROM  THli  FRENCH. 

TiiEitE,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest. 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest. 
Strewed  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagli-'s  burning  crest  — 
(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her. 
Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest  — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  brea-st?) 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  lied  along  the  plain  :  — 
There  be  sure  Murat  was  charging  ! 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again  ! 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 

TUB  DUKE  OF  Wl^LLINGTON. 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel  ; 

The  day  was  just  begun  ; 
And  through  the  window-panes,   on  floor  and 
panel. 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pinnon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships  ; 
And,  from  the  frowningrampart,  the  black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and   Romney,   Hastings,   Hithe,   and 
Dover, 
Were  all  alert  that  day. 


^ 


\Br- 


S'2-l 


rSIiSONAL  POEMS. 


b 


'I'o  800  tlio  Fivuoli  wiiv-sloiiinoi's  siiooiliii^  ovor 
Wlu'ii  tho  l'i>j!  olouit'il  Hwuy, 

Sulloii  mill  siloiil,  Kiul  Uko  oouolmut  lions, 

Tlioiv  Oiumoii,  thiwi};!!  tlio  \\\^\\\, 
lloKlinj{  lhoi\'  l>iv«tli,  liiul  waloliod  in  itiim  do- 
liiuioo 
Tlio  soii-oivist  oi'luwito  ; 

Aiul  MOW  tliov  iwuvd,  :\t  ilnimtviit,  I'lVlil  tJloir 
stittioiis 

l.^u  ovoiy  oitiulol  ; 
V'.:\ol\  i\ii»\\wiiij;  «ioli.  Hitl\  wioiniiii;  siiUitidiims, 

Tlmt  nil  wos  woll  I 

Aiul  ildwii  ll<o  (•'iMisi,  M  Isikiiij!  up  tlio  lmi\lon, 

Koplirtl  tl\o  (listtinl  iVwts  — 
As  if  (i>  sumuiou  I"imi\i  his  sloop  tho  wnniou 

Aiiil  li>i\l  of  tho  CiiH(Ui>  Ports, 

Uini  sliall  uo  smisl\iiio  fivm  tlio  tioUls  ofswrnv, 

No  (Inim-lvjil  l'i\>iu  tlio  WivU, 
N>>  moniiiij;i;iii\  liviu  llio  l>luok  I'oits'  oml>i-,isui\>, 

Awakoii  w itii  tlioir  cuU  ! 

No  moiv.  sm'WYiiijt  with  iiii  oyo  iin|^iiliiil 

Tlio  loiij;  liiio  of  tho  iwist, 
Shall  tho  ij:\iiut  tijsiiix'  of  tho  oUl  tioUl  in:i\-shill 

Ho  siHMi  mvu  his  lHV>t  ! 

For  in  I  ho  uijjht.  vniswn,  a  sinijlo  Wiirrioi'. 

In  soniK'i'  hainoss  niailtHl, 
Pn-aihsl  of  man,  ami  sniiiamrtl  tho  0(>sti\\wi', 

Tho  n\\ni>rtit  w^ill  has  soalwl  ! 

llo  (vissihI  inti<  tho  ohamlyr  of  tho  shviw,  — 

Tho  ilavk  anil  silont  ivom  ; 
An>l,  as  ho  onton><l,  darkor  i!ix>w,  and  iUH<\H<r 

Tho  silonoo  ami  tho  gloom, 

llo  ilivl  not  (viusp  tv>  jwrloy,  or  dissomWe, 

I  hit  smotv  tho  wai\lo>i  hiwr — 
Ah.  what  »  hlow  !  that  mailo  all  Knjslf'iul  tiyrnVJo 

Anil  siwin  fivni  shoiv  to  slioiv. 

Mo,anwliilo,  without,  tho  smly  oajinon  waitixl, 
Tho  snn  >\v«'  hrijslit  o"oi'hi\ul,  — 

Nothinj;  in  Natmv's  asjuvt  inti^natt^l 
That  a  grwit  man  was  ili>ail  ! 

HCNKV  w,M\s«vKvn  Li.\\>»-nu.ow, 


MIRAUKAr. 

Not  oti  Ivloiv  has   jvsiplinl   <\>rth  sont  up  so 

ilivp  auil  wiilo  a  jtiwm. 
As  whon  tho  \\vi\l  swvpt  ovvr  Franco.  "Tho  Ufo 

of  MiraboAU  is  tlowu  ! " 


Kivm  its  Olio  lioarl  a  iialioii  wailoil,  lor  woll  Iho 

slui'tloil  sonsp  iliviiu-il 
A  (jivator  powor  hail  (loil  away  than  iiii};hl  that 

now  ivniainoil  Ih'IiiiuI. 

Tho  soalhoil  ami  liajjjpiixl  faoo.  ami  look  so  hrif»ht 

with  swoi\l-liko  thoiij;lit 
llail  hoon  to  many  a  million  houit.s  (ho  all  ho- 

twoon  thomsolvos  aiul  iian};lil  ; 
Ami  so  thoy  stooil  aghast  aiiil  (nilo,  as  if  tlioy 

saw  tho  a.-iiiv  sky 
Oonio  shattoriiig  ilown,   ami  show  In'yonil   tho 

Mack  ami  liaiv  inlinity. 

For  ho.  whilo  all  mon  pooivil  ami  jpiroil  upon  tho 

fiitmv's  ompty  sivioo. 
llavl  stivujjth  to  bid  aliovo  tho  void  llio  oiiu'lo 

unvoil  its  faoo  ; 
And  whoii  his  voioo  ooiihl  rulo  no  moiv,  a  thiokor 

woijjht  of  darkiioss  loll. 
And  IoiiiIkhI  in  its  sopnloliral  >-!iiilt  tho  wojiriod 

maslor  of  tho  spoil, 

(,>  wastod  stiviigtli  !  O  light  and  oalm.  ami  hot- 
tor  lio|H>s  so  vainly  givon  !  — 

l.iko  rain  mnni  tho  horhloss  ••sini  jKiiuvd  down  hy 
too  iH'iiigiiant  hoavon.- 

\Yo  soo  not  stai-s  liko  oloiuls  iH'tiwsod,  ami  onisli 
in  aimloss  thniidor-iwals. 

Hut  man's  laI>^'  soul,  tho  star  snpix'mo.  in  guido- 
U>ss  whirl  how  oft  it  iwls  ! 

Tho  mountain  htvirs  tho  torivnt  dash,  hut  iwks 

will  not  liko  wator  run  ; 
No  wijilo's  talons  WMid  awsiy  tlioso  oyos  that  joy- 

ons  drink  tho  sun  ; 
Yet  man,  by  choitv  and  pnrpiv!i>  woiik,  upon  his 

own  dovotod  hoad 
Csills  down  tho  Hash,  as  if  its  rin>s  a  oivwn  of 

lH>)»ivl\il  glory  shod. 

Alas !  —  >n>t  wliowfow  mourn  f  Tho  law  is  holior 

than  a  s;vgv's  pwyor  ; 
Tho  giHlliko  (Hiwor  l>ostow<Hl  on  mon  domauds  of 

thorn  a  givlliko  cai\< ; 
.\ud  nobhvst  giftJi,  if  l>asol,v  usisl.  will  stoniliost 

a\\'Ug<>  tho  wivnji. 
And  grind  with  slavish  jwii^s  tho  slavo  whom 

ouiv  tlioy  mado  divinoly  stixuig. 

Tho  lamp  th!>t,  mid  tho  s,ior»Hl  ooll,  on  hi-avonly 

forms  its  glory  slnnls. 
I'utondiHl  diivs,  and  in  tlio  gKvun  a  jhusoiious 

vsHXM-  glimmoring  spt>>;ids. 
It  shiuos  ami  tlaixvs.  and  nH'linjj  ghi^sts  onormous 

thivugh  tho  twilight  swvll. 
Till  o'or  tho  withoivd  world  and  Inxart  rings  loud 

Aud  slow  tho  dooming  knoll. 


-ff 


[& 


PEUHONAL  I'OEMH. 


82 


.-C] 


No  mini;  I   )i<:iir  a  nation 'h  dlmut  around  tl«;    In  every  BfM  Wicath  th«  wniling  sun, 

hero'!)  tr'Kfl  |)r<;V!»ilin;{,  St*;*  wlicrf;  the  f!i>ringi(  of  living  wat'.-re  lie  ; 

No  Jn//r(!  I  hear  aUiVc  hijj  U/mh  a  nation')*  fiCTC;    fJiim-jni  awhilfc  they  al^p,  till,  tijai:lu-A  by  the«, 


tlj- 


UiwiUleri-A  wailing ; 
1  otaH'i  anii/1  the  tiilent  niglit,  an'l  think  of  man 

and  all  liiy,  win; 
With  fear  and  pity,  grief  and  awe,  when   /  re- 

inerntxjr  Miral;eau. 

I',ll:i  Wiu/M 


TO    MAUAMK   L»K   HKVION^, 

II.AVirif,  Bl.tKO  MAIC!!  Blyl'l'. 

Vor;  ehann  when  you  talk,  walk,  or  move, 
Still  more  on  thix  ihiy  than  another  : 

When  hlindfj*!  —  you  're  tfiken  for  lyjve  j 
When  tlie  Uimhige  i»  off — for  hiH  mother  ! 

hll  Hfjiflkl'.VU,. 


TO  WOUmwOii'lH. 

'I'/i/.-.c.  ill  a  Htrain  to  rea/1  among  the  hilln, 
The  old  anil  full  of  voieeit ;  —  by  the  kdutiji 

Of  ft<;me  free  ctieain,  whoite  gladdening  [irewaice 
filk 
The  fiolitude  with  wjund  ;  for  in  its  eoiir* 

Kven  Hueh  U  thy  deep  Hong,  that  wieiri!*  a  jrart 

Of  thf*:  high  wv:W;H,  a  fountJtin  from  their  heart. 

Or  ito  ealm  Bpirit  fitly  may  he  taken 
To  the  alill  hrea»t  in  Bunny  garden  Ixjwertt, 

Where  vernal  windji  e!W!h  tree's  low  toncH  awaken, 
And  bud  and  tjell  with  ehangcn  mark  the  houro. 

Then  let  thy  thoughti  tj*  with  me,  while  the  day 

Hinkn  with  a  golden  and  Kerene  decay. 

Or  by  Home  hearth  where  happy  faf;«s  meet, 

When  night  hath  hushed  the  woodft,  with  all 

their  birdx. 

There,  from  nome  gentle  voi(;e,  that  lay  were  gwcet 

AH!intl(|ue  muHJe,  linked  with  hou»ehold  wordtt ; 

While,  m  pleanwl  murmurH,  woman'o  lip  might 

move, 
And  the  raided  eye  of  childhood  ohine  in  love. 

Or  where  the  Hhadowa  of  dark  wdemn  yew« 
I'rood  Hilently  o'er  Hfimc  lone  burial-ground. 

Thy  verm;  hath  power  that  brightly  might  dilfiwc 
A  breath,  a  kindling,  a*  of  Hpriiig,  around, 

Krom  ito  own  glow  of  hope  and  courage  high, 
And  Hte;ulfa»t  faith's  vict<iriouB  constancy. 

True  bard  and  holy  !  —  Thou  art  e'en  «»  one 
Who,  by  Home  «ecret  gift  of  ooul  or  eye, 


bright  healthful  wavcit  flow  forth  to  (:ach  gla'i 
wanderer  fre<;. 


ON  A  POETEAIT  Oe  WOKDHWOETH, 


WoKDKWoiiTll  uj^on  Jlelvellyn  !     I>!t  the  cloud 
Kbb  audibly  ah/ng  the  mountain-wind. 
Then  br<aik  again-^t  the  rv;k,  and  show  >x:hind 
The  lowland  valleys  (heating  up  t«  crowd 
The  (f;/!*;  with  U«iuty.    //«:,  with  forehead  lx>we<l 
And  humble-lidde'l  eyist,  aa  one  inclin<«l 
U<;fore  tlic  sovran  thought  of  his  own  mind, 
And  very  m<;<:k  with  inspirations  proud,  — 
Tak(»t  here  hi.s  rightful  pl;i/y:  aj)  jioet-priest 
By  the  high-altar,  singing  prayer  and  prayer 
To  the  higluir  iliaivenit.     A  noble  vioion  free. 
Our  Hayiion'ii  luind  hiMi  flung  out  from  the 

mi«t ! 
No  {(ortrait  thia,  with  AiMilemii:  air,  — 
Tlii«  in  the  [Kiet  and  hiji  jKjrtry. 

LUZAhliUI   IJAKKETT  BROWKIHC. 


EOTJ88EAU  AND  COWPHE. 


FkfjU  '"IlUi 


KoCBHEAi;  could  weep;  ye»,  withahcartofstone, 
The  impir^u-t  s'jphi.st  could  re(;line  Upside 
The  pure  ami  [Kiacefu]  lata;,  and  muw;  alone 
On  all  itx  lovelines*  at  eventide  — 
On  its  small  ninning  waves,  in  [lurfile  dycl, 
I'enrsith  bright  eloudd  on  all  the  glowing  sky. 
On  the  whit<:  flailn  that  o'er  its  ^nivmi  glide. 
And  on  Hurrounding  mountains  wihl  ami  high. 
Till  tears  unbid/icn gushed  from  his  cnchan  tcl  eye. 

But  his  were  not  the  tears  of  feeling  fine 
Of  grief  or  love  ;  at  fancy's  flash  they  flowed, 
Ijike  bumingdrops  from  some  proud  lonely  pine 
Bylightningfirwl ;  his  heart  with  piissionglowwl 
Till  it  consumed  his  life,  and  yet  he  showed 
A  chilling  coldness  Ijoth  to  friend  and  foe; 
As  Ktna,  with  its  cent<:r  an  abode 
Of  wasting  fire,  chills  with  the  icy  snow 
Of  all  its  desert  brow  the  living  world  Vdow. 

Was  he  but  justly  wretched  from  his  crimes? 
Tlien  why  was  Cowper's  anguish  oft  as  keen. 
With  all  the  Heaven-lxini  virtue  that  sublimes 
Genius  and  feeling,  and  hi  things  unseen 
Lifts  the  pure  heart  through  clouds,  that  roll 
between 


-^ 


[Q- 


82G 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


■•ijj 


h 


Thii  oiirtli  ami  skios,  to  iliukon  Imiimii  liopo  ( 
Or  \\\wwUiw  iliil  tluiM'  ilomis  thus  iiitcrvoiio 
Til  ivmli'i'  viiiu  failli's  litlwl  t.'li's,'o|,(., 
And  Iwvvo  liim  in  tliiok  j;U)Oin  liis  wciiiv  way  to 

He,  too,  ooulil  jjivo  liimsolf  to  iiuisiiij;  iloop  ; 
Uy  till'  calm  lako,  at  cvouinj;,  lu'  louUl  staiul, 
l.oiu'ly  anil  sad,  to  si<o  tlio  nioonli{;ht  sUu'i> 
On  all  its  bivast,  by  not  an  instvt  liinnod. 
And  lioai-  low  voices  on  the  t'ar-oll' strand, 
Or,  thi'oiijih  the  still  and  dewy  atmosphere, 
The  pipe'ssoritones,wakedliysoniejj<Mitle  hand, 
l''rom  tVontinj;  shoiv  and  woody  island  near 
In  echoes  niiicU  reliirned  loore  mellow  and  more 
clear. 

And  he  conldcherislnvild  and  mournful  divanis. 
In  the  pine  };ivve,  when  low  the  lull  moon,  fair, 
Shot  under  lofty  tops  her  level  beams. 
Stretching  the  shades  of  trunks  erect  and  Imre, 
lu  stripes  drawn  parallel  with  onler  rare. 
As  of  some  temple  vast  or  colonnade. 
While  on  given  turf,  made  smooth  without  his 

care, 
lie  wandeivd  o'or  its  stripes  of  light  and  shade. 
And  heanl  the  dying  day-bree/.o  all  the  boughs 

pervade. 

'T  was  thvis,  in  mitnre's  Moom  and  solitude, 
Ho  nursed  his  grief  till  nothing  could  assuago  ; 
"r  was  thus  his  tondor  spirit  was  subdued, 
Till  in  lilb's  toils  it  eouUl  no  moiv  engago  ; 
And  his  had  been  a  useless  pilgrimage. 
Had  he  been  gifted  with  no  sacred  powei', 
T'o  send  his  thoughts  to  every  future  age  ; 
But  ho  is  gone  where  grief  will  not  ilcvour, 
Wlioro  beauty  will  not  lade,  and  skies  will  never 
lower. 

To  that  bright  world  wheiv  t  hings  ofea  rtli  appear 
Stripped  of  false  charms,  my  fancy  often  (lies, 
To  ask  liiiu  thero  what  life  is  happiest  hei-e  ; 
And,  as  he  points  aiwiud  him.  anil  ivplies 
With  glowing  lii>s.  my  heart  within  nu'  dies, 
.\nd  conscience  whispoi-s  of  a  divadl'id  Ivar. 
When,  in  some  scene  wlieiv  every  beauty  lies, 
A  soft  sweet  pensiveness  Ivgins  to  nuir 
Th»  joys  of  social  life,  and  with  its  claims  to  war. 

CARLOS  Wn,cox, 


No  mow  these  simple  tlowors  Mong 
To  Scottish  maid  and  lover  ; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song. 
Thev  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 


In  suules  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 

The  minstrel  and  the  heather. 
The  ilealhlcss  singer  and  the  llowers 

He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  hi'athcr-bells  and  Uobcrt  liurns  ! 

The  moorland  Ihwcr  and  pca.<ant  ! 
How,  at  their  mcution,  memory  turns 

llor  pagi's  old  and  pleasant  ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  agivin  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning. 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  nuirniiig  : 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 

Krom  olf  the  wings  of  pleasuiv. 
The  sky,  that  llci'kcd  the  ground  of  toil 

With  gxddcn  threads  of  Icisuiv. 

I  call  lo  mind  the  slimmer  day. 

The  early  harvest  mowing. 
The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 

And  llowci-s  with  bivezes  blowing. 

1  lienr  the  blackbiitl  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying  ; 
And.  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

1  sovight  the  maple's  shadow. 
And  sang  with  Uurus  the  hours  away. 

Forgetful  of  the  meadow  ! 

Hees  hunnned,  birds  twittered,  overhead 

1  heard  the  sipiirrels  leaping  ; 
The  good  dog  listened  while  I  Riad, 

And  waggi'd  his  tail  in  keeping. 

1  watched  him  while  in  sportive  niooil 
I  read  "The  Twa  Uogs' "  story, 

And  half  believed  he  undei'stood 
'I'he  iHiot's  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs  !  —  The  golden  lunu^ 

(iivw  brighter  for  that  singing, 
Fivm  bivok  and  bird  ami  meadow  tlowei's 

A  deaixn-  weloomo  bringing. 

New  light  on  hoino-socn  Natuix>  b«imed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 
And  daily  lil'o  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

1  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  rt<piuiiig  dobtor  : 


4? 


a- 


PEltHONAL  I'OKMH. 


827 


-a 


^- 


TImt  Nature  givcH  lii;r  liaii'Jmaid,  Art, 
'I'lii!  tIii;)ii(;H  of  itwrjet  diitcourijilig  ; 

'I'lic;  ti.inler  iilyl»  of  tliB  Ijeart 
III  ijviiiy  tongue  rchcarHiiig. 

Wliy  ilream  of  lainbi  of  gold  and  pearl. 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
W'lii'U  faniir-T  l)oy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  tlierc  already  I 

I  «aw  tliroiigh  all  familiar  thiiij;^ 

'J'lie  ronianw  iimlerlying  ; 
The  joyB  and  griefn  that  plume  the  wingn 

Of  Kaney  Hkyward  flying. 

I  Haw  the  «ame  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  oweet  fall  of  even, 
That  roue  on  woodi^d  '-'raigie-bura, 

And  (tank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I  matehed  with  Scotland'H  heathery  hills 
The  Bweiit-brier  and  the  elover  ; 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rillH, 
Their  wc>od-hyninB  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  jiornp,  as  he  ha<l  Been, 

I  Haw  the  Man  upriwing  ; 
No  longer  eonirnon  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  Ood'»  l^jitizing. 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly  ; 
The  liible  at  his  Cott<;r'H  hearth 

Had  rnaile  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 
liroke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling. 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

No  inward  answer  gaining  ; 
Ni)  heart  h.id  1  to  see  or  hear 

The  di»cord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
Hiff  worth,  in  vain  Viwailings  ; 

.Sweet  .Sf)ul  of  .Song  !  —  I  own  my  debt 
Uncanceled  by  his  (iiilings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  nl^ld  line 
Which  tells  his  lapsi;  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine, 
Or  want/jn  ones  of  Iieauty  ; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  U-twecn 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  lovwl  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 


Not  hii)  the  w>ng  whose  thunderous  cliime 

Eternal  wdioes  render,  — 
The  mouniful  Tus<:an'H  haunU^l  rhyme. 

And  Milf/jn's  starry  splendor  ; 

IJut  who  bin  human  heart  has  laid 

To  Nature's  bosom  nearer '( 
Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 

To  love  a  tribuU;  dearer  ? 

Through  all  hw  tuneful  art,  how  strong 

The  human  feeling  gushes  ! 
The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 

Is  warm  with  smiles  and  Idushes  ! 

Give  letten^l  pomp  \a)  Uieth  of  Time, 
Ho  "  iJonny  Doon  "  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  epic's  stJit'dy  rhyme, 
But  s|«ire  hijj  "  Highland  Mary"  ! 

;oiiM  i,u.nir<t.KAi'  wuiniiiu.. 


8toi',  mortal  !     Here  thy  brother  li'Mi,  — 

The  jjoet  of  the  p'ior. 
Hi«  IxK^ks  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  mea/low  and  the  rn'^'jr  ; 
His  tca/diers  were  the  ti^rn  heart's  wail, 

The  tyrant,  and  the  slave, 
The  street,  tlio  fa<;toiy,  the  jail, 

The  iialiuK,  — and  the  grave  ! 
Sin  rnet  thy  brother  everywhere  ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blamed  ? 
From  jiassion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care 

He  no  exemption  claimed. 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  fe/blest  worm. 

He  fearwl  to  s<:orn  or  hat<; ; 
I'ut,  honoring  in  a  [leaxant's  form 

The  c'jual  of  the  great. 
He  bless<;d  the  st<;ward,  whow;  wealth  mak(« 

The  poor  man's  little  more  ; 
Yet  loathed  the  haughty  wret/;h  that  takes 

From  plundered  lalmr's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  hea<l  to  plan, 

A  heart  U)  feel  and  ilare,  — 
Tell  man's  worst  fw;B,  here  lies  the  man 

Who  drew  them  hh  they  are. 

lliifiutiznu  ELMorr. 


BURNH. 


Hi«  i«  tliat  language  of  the  heart 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  sfjeak, — 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 


^ 


11- 


828 


I'KKSONAL  rOKMS. 


An.l  his  IhnI  imisio  ti>  wlnwo  toiio 

riu>  ooimnoii  luilso  i>r  iiiiiii  ki'i-jw  tiiii<>, 

li\  .lit  tM'  oivollo's  miitli  or  uukiu, 
hi  iHilil  of  fimvu.v  olimo. 

'rhiMii>«li  oniv  nml  (Mill  mul  wsml  mul  woo, 
Willi  wimiuls  Hull  only  iloalli  ooiiUl  lioul, 

'IViUuvs  tlio  (loor  nlono  oim  know. 
Till'  (iiMiul  iiloiio  oim  fool, 

He  ko)!!  liU  )iom\i|y  iiml  Inith, 
lli.i  iiiili'|«<iivl(>iit  lon^iit'  iiikI  |xmi, 

Aiul  luovvil,  ill  luiuiliooil  us  in  youlli, 
I'liilo  of  liis  roUow-iuou, 

Sti\>n^  st'iiso,  tlooji  IWliiij;,  jmssious  !>ti\>iifj, 

A  liiilo  of  lymut  iiiiil  ol'  kimvo, 
A  lo\  1'  ol'  li^liI,  II  si'oni  of  wiMiift, 

01  lowiiixl  mill  of  sl«vii  i 

A  kiinl,  tn\<>  lioiiil,  a  sjiiiit  liij;''. 

Tliiil  ooiiUl  iiol  foni'  nml  woiiKl  not  Imw, 
Will'  wiittoii  ill  Ills  iiiiiiily  i\vo 

Villi  oil  Ills  iiiiiiily  lnvw, 

rp.iiso  to  llii<  Imixl  !  his  \vv>i\l»  niv  iliivi'ii, 
l.iko  llowoi'-sooils  l\v  Iho  f«v  winds  sown, 

\Vlii-i\''i'i'  K'Hi-iilli  I  ho  sky  of  hwivou 
'I'lio  lvii\ls  of  finno  hiivo  llown. 

I'liiiso  to  tho  iiiiin  I  11  nutioii  stooil 
lii>siilo  his  oolliii  with  wol  oyiis,  — 

lloi'  l'i\ivi',  ln-r  l>l':^lll^l^ll.  hov  j^>ihI, — 
As  wlii-ii  ii  lovoil  Olio  ilios. 

Ami  still,  :is  on  liis  fniioml  ilny. 

Mon  stanil  his  lolil  «iith-i'oiioh  luviuul. 
With  tho  uinto  honiiij^'  llmt  wo  i<iiy 

To  I'onsooiiitoil  mvmiil. 

Aiiil  i-onsoi'itiliHl  fjiviuul  it  is, — 
'I'lio  liist,  tho  hiiUowwl  hotno  of  ono 

Who  livos  uiHui  till  niomoi'iiw, 
'riioiijtli  with  tho  bviviinl  goiio. 

8iioU  jjiiu'W  as  his  iux>  \iil^i;i'in\  shrimvs, 
Shvinos  to  no  ishIo  or  oixh>iI  ivniinoil,  — 

Tho  Poli<hiim  vuhvt,  tho  IVUisthuvs, 
Tho  MoiVrts,  of  tho  iniml. 

Vn-illRKKNH  HAIIKCK. 


UOlsVUr  lU'KNS, 

VKviM  A  "MUMOKlAl    OOU." 

tSr  r,  not  lV\o  lafo's  iwvjjh  work  wvi  iKixight 

Kor  him.  tho  loast  oxoniption  ; 
At  his  ain  task  ho  ivunt\r  wiwight  ; 
Uo  stnii^lii,  suirvit,  I'olt,  and  tlioiijjht. 


ICsohowin'  iiiiiio,  mill  sliiiiiktir  naii};ht. 

Till  IVatli  l>i>oiiglil  him  ix'iloiniitioii. 
Nao  thoiiiloss  iMiiil  tliituigli  l.ifo  ho  sought, 

.hist  wlioiv  lio  was,  hooiitoivil  ; 
llo  iloalt  his  Mows,  wlioiv  ilhois  foiifjhi. 

Thoiv  wlioiv  tho  hattlo  .•ouloioil  I 
Knio  oiiily  iliiwii,  ahiiil  I  ho  i>lo\v, 

I'litil  tho  sun  was  sottiii'  : 
Tlio  moiniu'  an'  tho  o'onin'  ilow 

His  lit  light  manly  wottin'. 

A  tlioiiKhtl\r.  stoopiii'  hnl  ho  givw. 

As  though  honoath  somo  Imnlon  ; 
.\  kill  o'  mooils,  wha  hiinlly  know 

His  lifo  u  Uiiio  or  gnoixlon  ! 
Tliongli  now  mx  I  lion,  wlion  saiily  pivst, 

Uo  sjuvk'  in  sio  hot  fashion  ; 
Soino  wrung  to  man  or  tmist  ii'ilii'st, 

Kinillit  to  hninin'  imssion. 
A  swavlliy.  woll  knit  oliiol  ho  lonkoil, 

\Vi'  hlaok  ooii  ooalliko  Imrniii' ; 
Willi  iiovor  .slight  nor  insult  hi'ookwl, 

Nor  truo  man's  lo'o  was  sinunin' ; 

To  him  ilonioil  tho  soliolar's  lonk, 

To  kon  tlio  ivilo  o'  siig<'s  ; 
Ihit  |iirtial  Natiiiv  .sinwiil  lior  liouk 

Tho  wiilor,  wi'  bright  (vigos  ; 
A'  sights  ami  sonn's  that  oaino  ftiio  hor 

To  him  hail  lialio  nioanin' ; 
llo  was  hor  ilaily  woi-sliipor, 

■Mhhmi  tho  I'liiiMw  loaiiin" ; 
Ho  saw  hor  i'  tho  wimpUn'  Imrn, 

An"  i'  Uio  hlnoo'o'il  wonimi  ; 
1^110  nioiiso  ami  lark  liinl  taot  to  loarii 

Sii'thin'  'twas  a'niaist  hnnian  ; 

In  him,  llio  i>nir  ilnnil>  Ivaslios  fan' 

A  ,inilg\>  an'  a  ilofomlor  ! 
Tlioir  wrangs  to  light,  his  was  tho  han'. 

To  stato,  his  voioo  sao  tomior  1 
An'  whon  ho  tanlil  his  ain  trno  lo'js 

Tho  stoniiw  swni'il  to  lislon  j 
Tho  llowoi's  aivnn'  him  siH'iiuil  to  know, 

An'  Willi  wi"  ti'ai'-iliiuvs  gliston  : 
Tho  vory  Imiilios  stillinl  tlioir  sangs. 

As  "noatli  tlioni  ho  walkiHl  oiMonin' ; 
An'  soonioil  to  latoh  his  waos  ami  wrnngsi, 

Thoir  notos  to  his  attunin" ; 
S!>o  that,  rtltliongh  his  snn  wont  doun, 

liofoiv  ho  (vaohoil  twa-siMixs 
His  nainoinilka  tongno  is  fonu", 

His  sangs  on  ilka  shor»< : 
"SwiH>t  .\l1on"  glidos  whori'  wators  onrl. 
An'  '"  lionnio  Hihmi  "  rins  nnm'  tho  warl'. 

'Tis  trno,  ho  aft  forgi>l  hiinsoV, 

An'  soiltsl  (iiiilo's  i\>Ih-s  aivnn'  him  ; 
Alas  !  ho  konn'il  his  wtvaknoss  wvll  : 


U^U 


tB- 


FERHONAL  POEMS. 


-^ 


829 


Nor  lo'<«l  the  cJoairuj  that  lx>un<i  him  ! 
Could  he  lia'e  held  his  purjxw;  true, 

Nor  on  iause  currents  drilt<«i, 
Hui  sky  had  lx;'!n  scrcner  blue, 

Nor  wad  its  win's  »a<!  6hift<«L 
His  nobler  uw;s,  liad  he  kenned, 

Or  livi^l  Hian's  yeara  allottwl. 
There  's  nioiiy  a  line  in  [(assion  penned, 

Aiblins,  he  might  liave  blotted  : 

liut,  ah  !  we  'II  pleail  na«  niair  liis  cause  ; 
We  lo'c  him  still  for  wliat  he  was  ! 
He  was  but  man,  man  Iwm  o'  woman, 
Ha<l  he  Uv.n  mair,  he  'd  i;a  Wn  human. 
An'  till  we  ivx  his  like  agen. 
We  '11  dra])  but  How'rs,  and  cast  nae  stanc ! 
J.  E,  Rankin. 


& 


RHAD  AT  A  CELEBKATION  OP  HIS  lilHJtWAY,  JAN.  1877. 

Tub  voice  of  a  wondrous  Sfjr  ! 

The  voice  of  a  wjuI  that  is  strong ! 
As  ti-ue  as  Love,  arul  as  swift  as  Fear 

1  n  the  mazes  of  marvelous  song. 

Fai'  over  the  mountains  l.>are, 

lU-A  heather,  and  ridges  of  sea. 
It  flows  in  the  pulse  of  the  living  air. 

And  throl«  in  the  veins  of  the  free. 

It  wliisi)ers  in  Summer's  breath. 

It  lisps  on  the  creamy  shore. 
It  sings  in  the  Iij>s  that  smile  at  death 

In  the  storm  and  cataract's  roar. 

It  murmurs  in  brae  and  birk, 

It  pleads  in  the  ilaisy'seye. 
Where  liands  are  toughened  by  honest  work, 

And  Wirns  in  their  cradles  lie  ; 

In  cjttage,  and  kirk,  and  Ijower, 

In  hall,  in  court,  artd  in  mart. 
In  the  chirp  of  the  mavis,  the  liawtbom  flower, 

And  the  maiden's  simple  h<;art. 

It  croons  in  the  blaze  of  the  inn. 
Where  the  drouthy  neigliljors  bide. 

It  shrieks  in  the  gliastly  glare  and  din, 
Where  the  witx;he»  dance  and  ride. 

Its  mirth  is  a  temfjest  of  glee, 

Its  grief  is  the  smart  of  fire, 
Its  solemn  strain  is  the  trump  of  the  sea. 

Its  chorus  the  world's  desire  ! 

I  listen,  and  brooklet  and  wold. 
Wild  bird  and  the  liarkling  wood. 


Arc  breathing  s<jcrct»  l>efore  untold 
Of  the  iterUxt  and  jassionless  Good. 

I  list  to  the  Voice  as  it  fli^is. 

And  sings  to  the  lamls  and  the  years. 
And  the  light  is  clearer  in  Freefiom's  eyes, 

And  Poverty  wi[)es  his  tears. 

I  s(«  that  the  I'w-'t's  h'aiit 

Is  brother  to  all  who  f<*l, 
Tljat  the  t<;nder  touch  of  its  artless  art 

Is  stronger  than  rivets  of  steel. 

I  see  how  tljat  man  is  great 

li<a.aiu»e  he  is  simply  inan  ; 
Tliat  the  minions  of  grandeur  and  state 

On  manhoo<l  <an  fasten  no  ban. 

I  see  liow  to  f)eopl<«  and  times 

The  life  of  the  singer  leaps  on. 
And  gLa/ldens  the  wel<y<ming  climes. 

Like  spring-bui-sts  of  blossom  and  sun. 

I  ache  with  the  stress  of  the  strain,  — 
Its  rnusic  and  wildness  and  heat ; 

Yet  presse<l  on  the  h<«irt  of  my  pain 
Are  the  lips  of  its  prophecy  sweet. 

And  singing,  myself,  I  go  — 

L'n'X/nscious  of  frown  or  of  rod  — 

To  the  work  whose  choruses  flow 
With  the  joy  and  the  praises  of  God. 

HoKATio  N.  Fowes& 


A  BAED'S  EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a  whirn-inspire'l  fwl, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool  ; 

I./;t  him  draw  near. 
And  owre  this  grassy  h'iap  sing  d'jol. 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 

Who,  not/dess,  steahi  the  crowd  among. 

That  weekly  this  area  tlirong  ; 

O,  jtHHH  Wit  by  ; 
But,  with  a  frater-f<*Iing  strong, 

Here  heave  a  sigh ! 

Is  there  a  man  whose  ju'lgrnent  clear 
Can  others  t«ach  the  course  to  steer. 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  rnarl  career. 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 
Here  pause,  and,  through  the  starting  tear, 

Survey  this  grave. 

Tlie  jKwr  inhabitant  Ijelow 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know. 


-^ 


\£r 


830 


PERSONAL  FUEMS. 


fh 


Aiul  keeuly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 
Anil  sober  Hume  ; 

But  thougLtlesa  follies  laid  liini  low, 

And  stained  his  name  ! 

Header,  attend,  —  whether  thy  soul 
Soai's  fancy's  llights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkly  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  ciiutious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 

Robert  Uurns. 


ELEGY  ON  CAPTAIN  MATTHEW  HENDERSON. 

He  's  gane,  he  's  gane  !  be  's  frae  us  torn. 
The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  l.iorn  ! 
Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sel'  shall  mourn 

]5y  wood  and  wild, 
Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled. 

Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o'  the  starns. 
That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns  ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns,  * 

Where  echo  slumbers ! 

Come  join,  yo  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns. 

My  wailing  numbei's  ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 
Ye  hazelly  sliaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wimplin'  down  your  glens, 

\y{'  toddlin'  din. 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin  ! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea, 
Y'e  stately  fo.\gloves  fair  to  see  ; 
Y'e  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie 

In  scented  bowera ; 
Y'e  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o'  flowers. 

At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a  diamond  at  his  head, 
At  even,  when  bt^ans  their  fragrance  shed, 

r  the  rustling  gale. 
Ye  niaukins  whiddin  through  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail. 

.Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood  ; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  tlie  heather  bud  ; 
Ye  curlews  calling  through  a  clud  ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood  ; 
Ho  's  gane  forever  1 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals, 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels  ; 


e--^ 


Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 
Circling  the  lake  ; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  ipiagmire  reels, 
Kair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn,  clamoring  craiks  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flowering  clover  gay  ; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  eauld  shore, 
Tell  thae  far  warlds  wha  lies  in  clay, 
Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bower, 
In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tower, 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glower, 

Sets  up  her  horn. 
Wail  thro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn. 

0  rivers,  forests,  hills  and  plains  ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains  : 
13ut  now,  what  else  for  me  remaius 

But  tales  of  wo  ? 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,  Spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year  I 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  keep  a  tear  : 
Thou,  Simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  head. 
Thy  gay,  green  flowery  tresses  shear, 

For  him  that 's  dead  ! 

Thou,  Autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hail". 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 
Thou,  Winter,  hurling  through  the  air 

The  roaring  blast, 
Wide  o'er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we  've  lost. 

Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light ! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 
.■\iid  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright. 

My  JIatthew  mourn  ! 
For  thro'  your  orbs  he  's  ta'en  his  flight, 

Ne'er  to  return. 

O  Henderson,  the  man  !  the  brother  ! 
And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  forever  ! 
And  hast  thou  crost  that  unknown  river. 

Life's  dreary  bound  ! 
Like  thee  where  shall  I  find  another. 
The  world  around  ! 

Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,  ye  great. 
In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state  ! 
r.ut  by  thy  honest  turf  I  '11  wait. 

Thou  man  of  worth  I 
And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow's  fate 
E'er  lay  in  earth. 

Robert  burns. 


^ 


a- 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


-^ 


831 


iCOURSi:  OF  ' 


t& 


Take  one  example  —  to  our  pui-pose  quite. 
A  man  of  rank,  anil  of  capacious  soul, 
Who  riches  luid,  and  fame,  beyond  desire, 
An  heir  of  llattery,  to  titles  liorn, 
And  reputation,  and  luxurious  life  : 
Yet,  not  content  with  ancestorial  uame. 
Or  to  be  known  because  his  fathers  were. 
He  on  this  height  hereditary  stood. 
And,  gazing  higher,  purposed  in  his  heart 
To  take  another  step.     Above  him  seemed. 
Alone,  the  mount  of  song,  the  lofty  seat 
Of  canonized  bards;  and  thitherward, 
By  nature  taught,  and  inn-anl  melody. 
In  prime  of  youth,  he  bent  his  eagle  eye. 
No  cost  w,is  spared.     What  books  he  wished,  he 

read  ; 
What  sage  to  hear,  he  heard  ;  what  scenes  to  see. 
He  saw.    And  ih-st,  in  rambling  school-boy  days, 
IJritannia's  mountain-walks,  and  heath-girt  lakes. 
And  story-telling  glens,  and  founts,  and  brooks, 
And  maids,  as  dew-drops  pure  and  fair,  his  soul 
Willi  grandeur  tilled,  and  melody,  and  love. 
Then  travel  came,  and  took  him  where  he  wished : 
He  cities  saw,  and  courts,  and  princely  pomp  ; 
And  mused  alone  on  ancient  mountain-brows  ; 
Aud  mused  on  battle- lields,  where  valor  fought 
In  other  days  ;  and  mused  on  ruins  gray 
With  years  ;  and  drank  from  old  and  fabulous 

wells, 
And  plu(.-ked  the  vine  that  first-born  prophets 

plucked  ; 
And  mused  on  famous  tombs,  and  on  the  wave 
Of  ocean  mused,  and  on  the  desert  waste  ; 
The  heavens  and  cartli  of  every  country  saw  : 
Wlierc'cr  the  old  inspiring  Genii  dwelt, 
AuL,'lit  that  could  rouse,  expand,  refine  the  soul, 
'I'hither  lie  went,  and  meditated  there. 

He  touched  his  harp,  and  nations  heard  en- 
tranced. 
As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source. 
Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flowed. 
And  opeiied  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart. 
Where  Fancy  halted,  weary  in  her  flight. 
In  other  men,  his  fresh  as  morning  rose. 
And  soared  untrodden  heights,   and  seemed  at 

home. 
Where  angels  bashful  looked.     Others,  though 

great. 
Beneath  theirargument  .seemed  struggling ;  whiles 
He,  from  above  descending,  stooped  to  touch 
The  loftiest  thought ;  and  proudly  stooped,  as 

though 
It  scarce  deserved  his  verse.     With  Nature's  self 
He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  gloriou.s  majesty. 


He  laid  his  hand  upon   "the  Ocean's  mane," 
And  played  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks  ; 
Stood  on  the  Alps,  stood  on  the  Apennines, 
Aiid  with  tlie  tliunder  talked  as  friend  to  friend  ; 
And  wove  his  garland  of  the  lightning's  wing, 
In  sportive  twist,  —  the  lightning's  liery  wing, 
Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  the  dreadful  God, 
Marching  upon  the  .storm  in  vengeance,  seemed  ; 
Then  turned,  and  with  the  grasshopper,  who  sung 
His  evening  song  beneath  his  feet,  conversed. 
Suns,  moons,  and  stars,  and  clouds  his  sisters 

were  ; 
Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and  winds,  and 

storms 
His  brothers,  younger  brothers,  whom  he  scarce 
As  equals  deemed.     Ml  passions  of  all  men. 
The  wild  and  tame,  the  gentle  and  severe  ; 
All  tliouglits,  all  maxims,  sacred  and  profane  ; 
All  creeds  ;  all  seasons,  time,  eternity  ; 
All  that  was  hated,  aud  all  that  \v;iit  dear  ; 
All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was  feared,  by  man,  — 
He  tossed  about,  as  tempest-withered  leaves  ; 
Then,  smiling,  looked  upon  the  wreck  he  made. 
With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cowering  blood. 
And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  tenderness  ; 
Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not  weep  himself ; 
But  back  into  his  soul  retired,  alone, 
Dark,  sullen,  proud,  gazing  contemptuously 
On  hearts  and  passions  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
So  Ocean,  from  the  plains  his  waves  had  late 
To  desolation  swept,  retire<l  in  pride. 
Exulting  in  the  glory  of  his  might. 
And  seemed  to  mock  the  ruin  he  had  wi'ought. 

As  some  fierce  comet  of  tremendous  size. 
To  which  the  stars  diii  rev(U'eiice  as  it  jiassed, 
.So  he,  through  learning  and  through  fancy,  took 
His  flights  sulilime,  and  on  the  loftiest  top 
Of  Fame's  dread  ninuntnin  sat;   nut  soiled  and 

worn, 
As  if  he  from  the  earth  had  laborcil  up, 
But  as  some  bird  of  heavenly  plum.age  fair 
He  looke<l,  which  down  from  higher  regionscamc?. 
And  perched  it  thcu'c,  to  see  what  lay  beneath. 
Tile  nations  gazed,  and  wondered  much  and 
pr.aised. 
Critics  before  him  fell  in  humble  ])light ; 
Confounded  fell  ;  and  made  debasing  signs 
To   catch  his  eye  ;   and  stretched  and   swelled 

themselves 
To  bursting  nigh,  to  utter  bulky  words 
Of  .admiration  va.st  ;  and  many  too. 
Many  that  aimed  to  imitate  his  flight, 
With  weaker  wing,  unearthly  fluttering  made. 
And  gave  abundant  sjiort  to  after  days. 

Great  man  !  the  nations  gazed  and  wondered 
much, 
And  praised  ;  and  many  called  his  evil  good. 
Wits  wrote  in  favor  of  his  wickedness  ; 


-ff 


[fh- 


832 


rEltSONAL  PUliMS. 


t^- 


Ami  lciii«H  (0  ilo  liiui  Imiior  look  M\y:ht. 

TlitiM  lull  oftitli's,  IliiUciy,  lionor,  I'aioo  ; 

Hcvoiiil  ili'sim,  lu'yiinil  aiiiliitioii,  full, 

lie  (HihI,        lie  iliod  ol'  wlmt  /     01'  wivloliwliuws  ; 

liriink  I'vcry  ciiii  of  joy.  lii'iml  ovory  li'uiiii) 

or    liinio  ;   'ilniiiU    oiirly,    a,v|.ly    .liank  ;    .liuiik 

ilmiixlils 
'I'IkiI  lonimon  iiiilUoiiH  luij^'lil  lmv<'  iiucin'lu'il,    - 

ll.rii  ai.'.l 
Ol'  lliirsl,  l.iviius,.  tluTo  wiiN  n.>  inuri.  I<i  iliink. 
llisK'"l.l.'ss,  Niituro,  woo.',l,  .■niluiicwl,  i.iijoyi',1, 
I'Vll  I'roui  lii.s  iiniis,  ulilioncil  ;  his  imsaioua  ilioil  ; 
nii'il,  nil  lull  ilri'.ny,  solitary  I'li'lo  ; 
Aii.l  111!  Ids  synipuiliios  ill  lu'liij;  clioa. 
As  soiiio  ill  Kiiiaoil  l«iiU,  wi'll  liiiiM  iiiul  tall, 
Wliirh  ]iii>;ry  lidi's  I'lisl  oiil  on  ili'sini  sluirc, 
Ana  tlii'ii,  ivtiiiiig,  lol'l  il  llioiv  to  rot. 
Ana  iiioKlc'i- ill  llio  wimls  una  niins  ol'liouvi'ii; 
So  111',  I'nl,  I'liiin  llio  syni|iatliios  of  lil'o, 
Ana  oast,  iislioiv  IVoni  iilcasiiio's  luiisti'i'ons  8urf!;o, 
A  waiuliM'inj;,  wi'iiry,  worn,  ana  wi'i'ti'lira  Uiiii);, 
A  s.'on'lu'a  aiul  arsolalo  aii.l  Maslnl  sonl, 
A  gloomy  wilcli'nioss  of  ayiii^;  tlunifjlit, 
lu'pinca,   aiul   j^roanca,   ami  witlu'U'a  I'loin  llio 

oaitli. 
Mis  fji'oaniilK's  lilloa  llir  luiul  liis  iniiiil.oi's  lilloa  ; 
Aiul  yol    lio  soonioa  asliainoa    to   i^roaii.  -     I'oor 

Asliaiii«l  to  asU,  aiul  yol  lio  niva.'d  liolp. 


TO  OAMPUKLL. 

'riu'F.  hii\l  aiuI  sini|il<',  —  as  tlio  nioo 
or  liou\-on-lioni  pools  always  aio, 

W'lion  sloo|iiiij;  iVoiu  thoir  slany  ]il!ii'o 
'I'lioy  'iv  oliiiaron  noav,  tlunigli  gods  al'ai'. 


OAMl'-BKLL. 


I'oMH  I'roin  my  liisl,  ay,  oomo  I 

'I'lio  Iwlllo  aawii  is  nif^li  ; 
Aiul  tlu>  soivamiiii;  Inimp  aiul  llio  lluiiulorinj; 
annu 

Aro  oalliiig  thoo  to  die  I 

Viglil  as  thy  latlioi'  fought ; 

Kail  as  thy  I'athov  I'oll  ; 
Thy  task  is  lam-liI  ;  thy  sliroua  is  wivught  ; 

8o  t'oiwaia'aiul  faivwoU  ! 

'IVn  yo  mv  so.'oiul,  toll  ! 

hill-  high  I  ho  llamlvan's  light, 
Aiul  sing  llio  hymn  lor  a  purUxl  soul 

Uonoath  llui  silent  niglil  1 


Tlio  wroatli  upon  his  liima, 

'I'lio  oross  upon  his  broiist, 
Lot  Iho  piayor  ho  siiiil  aiul  tlio  toar  ho  slunl, 

So,        tako  him  lohis  lost  I 

Call  yo  my  wliolo,  -     ay,  oall 

i'lio  Im-a  of  Into  aiul  lay  ; 
Aiul  lot  him  groot  tlio  sahlo  pall 

With  a  noMo  song  lo-aay. 

Ilo,  oall  him  liy  his  iianio  ! 

No  litlor  haiul  may  oravo 
To  light  tlio  Ihimo  of  a  sohlior's  faino 

On  Iho  turf  of  a  sohlior's  grivvo. 

WINVllkor  mackwortii  rRAIllX 


TO  THOMAS   MOOUK. 

My  lioal  is  on  tho  slioro, 

Aiul  my  hark  is  on  Iho  soa  ; 
Hut  hoforo  1  go,  T,.iii  Mooro, 

lloro  'saaoiihlo  lioallh  to  llioo  I 

lloro  's  a  sigh  to  tho,so  who  lovo  mo, 
Aiul  a  smilo  to  tlioso  who  hnt«  ; 

Aiul,  wlialovor  sky  's  ahovo  mo, 
lloro  's  a  hoart  ior  ovory  I'alo  I 

Though  Iho  oooun  roar  arouiul  nio, 
Yot  it  still  shall  boar  mo  on  ; 

Though  a  aosorl  shoiiUl  surrouna  mo, 
It  iialh  springs  thai  may  W  won. 

W'oro  'I  tho  last  arop  in  tho  woU, 

As  I  gasjioa  upon  Iho  hi'ink, 
Kro  my  liiinling  spirit  loll, 

•T  ii  to  thoo  that  1  wouhl  arink. 

With  that  walor,  as  this  wiiio, 

Tho  lilialion  1  wouhl  pour 
.Shouia  ho,  -  -  IVaoo  with  tliino  aiul  inino, 

Aiul  a  hoallh  to  thoo,  Tom  Mooro  I 

1  OKU  llVRON. 


llUKiAL  OF  SIU  JOHN  MOOUK. 

Not  a  drum  was  honnl,  not  a  fuuonil  iioto, 
As  his  oorso  to  tlio  nuiipart  wo  liurriod  ; 

Not  a  .sohlior  liisohargoa  his  farowoU  shot 
O'or  tho  giiivo  whoiv  our  lioiv  wo  buried. 

Wo  hurioa  him  aarkly.  at  deaa  of  night, 
Tlio  soas  with  our  bayonets  turning  ; 

Uy  tlio  stniggling  moonboains'  misty  light, 
And  the  laiitorn  dimly  burning. 


-ff 


ttr- 


I'KUHONAL  I'OKMH. 


:^ 


833 


No  liHclcHM  codiii  ciicloHul  hlB  \iviimi. 

Nor  in  Hhcct  nor  in  diiiond  wo  wounil  liixn  ; 

JJut  III!  Iiiy,  like  II  warrior  taking  hi»  rcHl, 
Willi  iiix  initrtiul  cloak  around  liiin. 

Few  and  nliort  wi:rc  tlio  prttyijr»  wo  »aid, 
Anil  wi)  Biioke  not  u  word  ol'  Borrow  ; 

liut  WI!  BtcaillaBlly  gaziid  on  tlio  fa<;i;  of  iho  dea<l, 
And  wi;  Ijittcrly  thought  ol'  the  morrow. 

Wo  thought,  OH  wo  hollowoil  hi«  narrow  bod, 
And  Bnioothud  down  hiH  lonoly  pillow, 

Tliat  thii  foi)  and  the  Btranger  would  troad  o'er 
hiB  l.ea/1. 
And  we  far  away  on  the  hillow  I 

Lightly  they  'II  talk  of  the  B[iirit  that  'b  gone, 
And  o'er  hiB  i.old  aHhen  uphraid  lilni  ; 

Hut  little  he  '11  reek,  if  they  let  him  Bleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Hriton  lian  laid  him  I 

IJut  half  of  our  heavy  t'lBk  waH  done, 

When  the  eloek  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  tlie  distant  and  random  gun 
That  tho  foo  woh  Bullenly  firing. 

Hlowly  and  »(ully  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  lield  of  hi»  fame  froBh  and  gory  I 

Wo  curved  not  a  lino,  and  wo  raiBcd  not  a  Htonc, 
liut  wo  left  him  alono  in  hix  glory. 

CHAhLKU  WOI-PH. 


TO  JOHN  LAMB,  ESQ.,*    OF  THE   80UT11-8EA 
HOUSE. 

./oiiN,  you  were  lignring  in  the  gay  career 
Of  hlooniing  manhood  with  a  young  man's  joy, 
When  I  waB  yet  a  little  peeviBh  boy  — 
'i'hough  time  haH  made  the  difference  iliBappear 
lietwixt  our  agoB,  which  thmmubUMil  so  great  — 
And  still  by  rightful  custom  you  retain 
Much  of  the  old  authoritative  strain. 
And  k«!p  the  elder  brother  up  in  state. 
0,  you  do  well  in  this  !     'T  is  man's  worst  dewl 
To  let  the  "  things  that  have  been"  run  to  wasto. 
And  in  the  unmeaning  present  sink  the  past ; 
In  whose  dim  glass  even  now  I  faintly  read 
Old  buried  fonns,  and  faces  long  ago. 
Which  you,  and  I,  and  one  more,  only  know. 
CiiAKLKB  Lam 


KMMKT'H  EWTAPH. 

(koherl  I!mmct,  llic  cclcbriitcl  IrUti  rry.lutl'.Hl*!,  nt  lilit  UU\  for 
lilifli  ireawn,  which  rcoullcl  In  lili  c/nvli.l|/<ti  uml  mriMinn,  Sep. 
tctiiher  'Ml,  iHvi.  iiuiio  an  ^Mucnt  mi'l  {Mlhetl'.  ilcfcin.;,  con- 
cluflln((  with  tlicM;  worth :  "  t,et  there  ho  no  ln«crl|,ll/jii  u(K/n  niy 
I'rtnh.  I.«t  n/j  iiwn  write  my  epitnph.  lx:t  my  clurocter  and  my 
iiw^lvctj  rcfxyv:  In  security  nn'l  pca'.e  till  f/llicr  tlnicft  an/I  other 
mm  '..in  ih.  them  Justice.  Then  ttull  my  ctmrAeter  he  vlmllcale'J  ( 
then  tfuty  my  epttiiph  l,e  written.  I  tiMve  done."  It  wa«  Imnic- 
'llMtely  upon  tnvUnti  thl»  «pee<:h  ttiat   the  follf/wlni;  hnet  were 

"  Lkv  no  man  write  my  ejjitajili ;  let  my  grave 
I'o  uninscribed,  and  let  my  memory  rent 
Till  other  times  are  come,  and  other  men, 
Who  then  may  do  mo  justice." 

liminet,  no  I 
No  withering  curse  hath  drieil  my  sjiirit  uji, 
That  I  should  now  Ixj  silent,  —  tlial  my  soul 
Should  from  the  stirring  inspiration  shrink. 
Now  when  it  shakes  her,  and  withhold  her  voice, 
Of  that  diviiiest  impulse  nevermore 
Worthy,  if  impious  I  withheld  it  now. 
Hardening  my  heart.      Hero,  here  in  this  freo 

Isle, 
To  which  in  thy  young  virtue's  oning  zeal 
Thou  wert  so  jxjrilouit  an  enemy. 
Here  in  free  England  shall  an  Knglish  hand 
IJuild  thy  imperishable  monument ; 
O,  to  thino  own  misfortune  and  to  ours, 
liy  thino  own  deailly  error  so  beguiled. 
Here  in  freo  Kngland  shall  an  English  voice 
I{ii.ise  up  thy  mourning-song.      For  thou  hast 

paid 
Tho  bitti;r  [icnalty  of  that  miwleed  ; 
.Justice  hath  done  her  unrelenting  part. 
If  she  in  truth  be  Justice  who  driv™  on. 
Bloody  and  blind,  the  chariot-wheels  of  death. 


ON  MI8H  MARIA  TEEE, 


^^- 


On  this  Tree  when  a  nightingale  settles  and  sings 
Tho  Tree  will  return  her  a»  good  a»  she  brings. 
Hbnry  LyriKiii-i.. 
•  Elder  Irfollicr  of  the  poet 


Ho  young,  so  glowing  for  the  general  good, 
0,  what  a  lovely  manhood  had  been  thine. 
When  all  tho  violent  workings  of  thy  youth 
Had  passed  away,  hadst  thou  been  wisidy  sj/ared, 
Left  to  the  slow  and  certain  influences 
Of  silent  feeling  and  maturing  thought ! 
How  hful  that  heart,  —that  noble  heart  of  thine. 
Which  even  now  hiul  snapped  one  sjiell,  which 

ls;at 
Witli  such  bravo  indignation  at  the  shame 
And  guilt  of  France,  and  of  her  miscreant  lord,— 
How  had  it  clung  to  England  I  With  what  love, 
What  pure  and  perfect  love,  retimied  to  her, 
Now  worthy  of  thy  love,  the  chamiiion  now 
For  freedom,  — yea,  the  only  champion  now. 
And  soon  to  Ix;  the  avenger.      liut  the  blow 
Hath  ffillen,  tho  undiseriminating  blow, 
That  for  its  portion  to  the  grave  consigned 
Youth,  Genius,  generous  Virtue.    0,  grief,  griefl 
0,  sorrow  and  roproardi  I     Have  ye  U)  Icani, 
iJeaf  U)  the  past,  and  U)  tho  futuro  blind, 
Ye  who  thus  irremissihly  exact 


^ 


[& 


834 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


-a 


The  forfeit  life,  how  lightly  life  is  stnkml, 
Whi'ii  ill  disteiiii>eieil  times  the  feverish  mind 
To  strong  delusion  yields  i    Have  ye  to  learn 
With  wlmt  11  deep  iind  spirit-stirring  voice 
Pity  doth  call  lievengo  ?     Have  ye  no  hearts 
To  feel  and  understand  how  Jterey  tames 
The  rebel  nature,  maddened  by  old  wrongs, 
And  binds  it  in  the  gentle  bunds  of  love, 
When  steel  luul  adamant  were  weak  to  hold 
That  Samson-strength  subdued  ! 

Let  no  man  write 
Thy  epitaph  !    Emmot,  niiy  ;  thou  slialt  not  go 
Without  thy  funeral  strain  !   0  young  and  good. 
And  wise,  though  erring  hero,  thou  shalt  not  go 
I'lilioMored  or  unsung.      And  better  thus 
lieueath  that  undiseriminating  stroke, 
Ik'tter  to  fall,  than  to  have  lived  to  mourn, 
As  sure  thou  wouldst,  in  misery  and  remorse, 
Thine  own  disastrous  triumph  ;  to  liave  seen, 
If  the  Almighty  at  that  awful  hour 
Had  turned  away  his  faee,  wild  Ignorance 
Let   loose,    and    frantie    Vengeance,    and    dark 

zeal, 
And  nil  bud  passions  tyrannous,  and  the  lives 
t>f  rerseeution  once  again  ablaze. 
How  had  it  sunk  into  thy  sold  to  see, 
Last  curse  of  all,  the  rtilHau  slaves  of  l''ranoe 
lu  tliy  dear  native  country  lording  it  ! 
How  happier  thus,  in  that  heroic  mood 
That  takes  away  the  sting  of  death,  to  die, 
liy  all  the  good  and  all  the  wise  foigiven ! 
Yea,  in  all  ages  by  the  wise  and  good 
To  be  remembereil,  mourned,  and  honored  still ! 

ROBERT   SOUTHnv 


© 


DEATH-BED  OF  BOMBA,  KINO  OF  NAPLES, 


Cdfi.K  I  pass  those  lounging  sentries,  through 

the  aloe-boi\lercd  entries,  up  tllo  sweep  of 

sipialid  stair. 
On  through  chamber  after  ehamlwr,  where  the 

sunshine's  gold  and  amber  turn  decay  to 

beauty  ran', 
I  should  reach  a  guarded  portal,  where  for  strife 

of  issue  mortal,  face  to  faee  two  kings  are 

met : 
One  the  grisly  King  of  Terrors  ;  one  n  Bourbon, 

with  his  errors,  late  to  conscience-clearing 

set. 
Well  his  fevered  pulse  may  flutter,  and  the  priests 

their   mass   may  mutter  with  such   fervor 

as  they  may : 
Cross  and  chrism,    niul  genuilection,  mop  and 

mow,   and  interjection,   will  not  frighten 

Death  away. 


By  the  dying  despot  sitting,  at  the  hard  heart's 

portals  hitting,  shocking  the  dull  brain  to 

work. 
Death  makes  clear  what  life  has  hidden,  chides 

what  life  has  left  unchidden,  iiuickous  truth 

life  tried  to  liurkc. 
Ho  but   ruled  within   his  borders  after   H(dy 

Church's  orders,  did  what  Austria  bade  him 

do; 
By  their  guidance  Hogged  and  tortured  ;  high- 
born men  and  gently  nurtured  ■•haincd  with 

crime's  felonious  crew. 
What  if  summer  fevers  gripped  them,  what  if 

winter    freezings    nipped    them,    till    they 

rotted  in  their  chains  ? 
He  had  word  of  Pope  and  Kaiser  ;  none  could 

holier  be  or  wiser  ;  theirs  the  counsel,  his 

the  reins. 
So  ho  pleads  excuses  eager,  cliitchiug,  with  his 

fingers  meagi'V,   at  the   bcdclnlhes    as    he 

speaks  ; 
Hut   King  Death  sits  grimly  grinning  at  the 

Bourbon's  cobweb-spinning,  —  as  each  cob- 
web-cable bivaks. 
And  the  poor  soul,  from  life's  eylot,  rudderless, 

without  a  pilot,  drifteth  slowly  down  the 

dark  : 
While  mid  rolling  incense  vapor,  chanted  dirge, 

and  flaring  taper,  lies  the  body,  stiff  and 

stark. 


O,   BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME  I 


0,  iu:e.\tu1'  not  his  name  I  let  it  sleopin  the  shade. 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid  ; 
Sail,  silent,  and  dark  bo  the  tears  that  we  shed. 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  gmve  o'er  liis 
head." 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence 

it  weeps. 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  whore  he 

sleejis  ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  thoughin  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 
Thomas  Mooke. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

DIED  IN  NRW  VORK.  SEPTEHBKR,  iSao. 

GiiEEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 
Fiiend  of  my  better  days ! 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thoo  but  to  praise. 


-^ 


fl- 


FEBSONAL  POEMS. 


835 


-a 


Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  wcej), 
And  long,  where  thou  art  lying. 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven,^ 
IJke  tliine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

Tljeie  should  a  wreath  he  woven 
To  ttU  the  world  their  worth  ; 

Aiirl  I,  wlio  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  lian<l  in  mine, 
Who  shared  tliy  joy  and  sorrow. 

Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine, 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow. 
But  1  've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  nieinory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Xor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  nionms  a  njan  like  thee. 

F1TZ-GKEE.VE  IIALLECK. 


fQ^. 


TO  TOUtJSAINT  L'OUVERTfrRE. 

'I'orsKAi.sT  !  the  most  unhapjiy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tend  his  plow 
Wiihin  thy  hearing,  or  thy  hcail  be  now 
I'illowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den, 
II  miserable  chieftain  I  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not ;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  : 
Though  fallen  thysfdf,  never  to  rise  again. 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  lj<;hind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and 

skies  : 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  ;  thou  hast  great  allies  ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies. 
And  love,  and  man's  uncon')Uerable  mind. 

William  Word.'^worth. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSirPH  STURGE. 

I  .s  the  fair  land  o'erwatchedby  Ischia's  mountains. 

Across  the  charmfed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's  silver  foun- 
tains 

Perpetual  holiday, 

A  "king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 
His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 


And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with  gums  to 
sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while  all  Naples  thrills  with  mute  thanks- 
giving, 

The  court  of  England's  queen 
For  the  dea'l  monster  s<i  abhorred  while  living 

In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that  feigning; 

By  lone  Edgbiist'jn's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  in  the  sky's  sad  raining. 

Bare-headed  and  wet-eyed ! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  lalxtr, 

.Save  the  low  funeral  treail. 
Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to  his  neighbor 

The  good  dced-s  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no  minster's  chant  of  the  immortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 
No  mitered  priest  swung  back  the  heavenly  jKjrtals 

To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  .Sickness  framed  their  tearful  faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door. 
And  pniyers  went  up  from  all  the  dark  by-places 

And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The  [Killid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 

The  vagrant  of  the  street, 
Tlie  human  'lice  wherewith  in  games  of  battle 

The  lords  of  earth  compete. 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no  outward 
draping. 

All  swelled  the  long  lament. 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble,  shaping 

HLs  viewless  monument ! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and  splendor, 

In  the  long  heretofore, 
A  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true,  and  tfmder. 

Has  P^ngland's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old  steeples 

No  crash  of  bra/en  wail, 
The  murmurous  woe  of  kindreds,  tongues,  and 
peoples 

.Swi'pt  in  on  every  gale. 

It  came  from  Holstein's  birclien-belted  meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shadows 

Of  Occidental  palms  ; 

From  the  locked  roa<lstea<Is  of  the  Bothnian 
peasants, 
And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 


& 


tp- 


836 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


■^ 


y- 


AVhew  wtu-'s  worn  victiius  saw  his  geutle  presence 
Come  sailing,  Christ -like,  in, 

To  seek  the  lost,  to  luiilil  the  old  waste  places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
or  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  En<;land's  daisies 

The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  {jood  man's  heautiful  example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  saered  erypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  voeal  with  God's  law ; 

And  lieanl  with  tender  ear  the  spirit  sighing 

As  fivni  its  prison  cell, 
rr.iying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  eryiug 

Of  .lonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  pei-sunsion. 

But  a  tine  sense  of  right, 
And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each  occasion 

Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

Hisfaith  and  works,  like  streams  that  intermingle, 

In  the  same  channel  niu  ; 
The  crystal  cloarncs.s  of  an  eye  kept  single 

Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  Tery  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 

He  joined  to  courage  stixnig. 
And  love  ontreaching  unto  all  God's  creatures 

AVith  stuixly  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender  as  woman  ;  manliness  and  meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied, 
That  they  who  judged  him  by  his  strength  or 
weakness 

Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed  him,  but  his  zeal  seemed 
nourished 

By  failure  and  by  fall  ; 
Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he  cherished, 

And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

.\ud  now  he  rests  :  his  greatness  and  his  sweetness 

No  morel  shall  seem  at  strife ; 
And  death  has  molded  into  calm  completeness 

The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song-biiils  warble. 

His  dust  to  dust  is  laid. 
In  Nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of  marble 

To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  me  ringing ; 

Beneath  its  smoky  vale, 
Haixi  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swinging 

Its  clamorons  iron  flail. 


Hut  ivnnd  his  grave  are  quietude  and  beauty. 
And  the  sweet  heaven  above,  — 

The  titling  symlwls  of  a  life  of  duty 
Transfigureul  into  love ! 

John  Grbbnlbav  wmniuK. 


TO  THE  MEMORY    OF  THOMAS   HOOD, 

Take  Iwck  into  thy  bosom,  eaith. 

This  joyous.  May-eyed  morrow. 
The  gentlest  child  that  ever  mirth 

liave  to  be  reared  by  sorrow  ! 
"1"  is  hard  —  while  rays  half  green,  half  gold. 

Through  vernal  Iniwei's  are  burning, 
.•\uil  streams  their  diamond  mirrora  hold 

To  Summer's  face  returning  — 
To  say  we  're^  thankful  that  his  sleep 

Shall  nevermore  be  lighter, 
In  whose  sweet-tongued  comi«inionship 

Stream,  bower,  and  beam  grew  brighter ! 

But  all  the  more  intensely  true 

His  soul  gave  out  each  feature 
Of  elemental  love,  —  each  hue 

And  grace  of  golden  natui'o,  — 
The  deeper  still  Inineath  it  all 

l.urked  the  keen  jags  of  anguish ; 
The  more  the  hmrels  clasped  his  bi\)w 

Their  poison  maile  it  languish. 
Seemed  it  that,  like  the  nightingale 

tif  his  own  mournful  singing. 
The  tendere'r  would  his  .song  prevail 

While  most  the  thorn  was  stinging. 

So  never  to  the  desert -worn 

IMd  fount  laing  freshness  deeper 
Thnn  that  his  placid  rest  this  morn 

Has  brought  the  shrouded  sleeper. 
That  rest  may  lap  his  wi'ary  head 

^\■here  eluiVnels  choke  the  city. 
Or  wherei,  mid  woodlands,  by  his  bod 

The  wren  shall  wake  its  ditty  ; 
Hut  near  or  far,  while  evening's  star 

Is  dear  to  hearts  regretting, 
.\TOund  that  spot  admiring  thought 

Shall  hover,  niiforgetting. 

Baktholomew  Simmons. 


A  VOICE,   AND  NOTHING  ELSE. 

'  I  WONPEB  if  Brougham  thinks  as  much  as  he 
talks," 
Said  a  punster,  perusing  a  trial  : 
'  I  vow,  since  his  lordship  was  made   Baron 
Vaux, 
He  's  Iweu  FniiO!  etprtelerea  nihil!' 


ANON^'MOUS. 


-ff 


a- 


PERSONAL  POEMH. 


837 


-a 


MACAULAY. 

'J'iiK  iJnKiiiiy  rliymer's  measured  snore 
Kails  lieavy  on  our  ears  no  more  ; 
And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 
'i'lie  dear  delights  of  womankind, 
Who  wage  their  l)attles  like  their  loves, 
In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves. 
Anil  have  achieved  the  crowning  work 
When  they  have  trussed  and  skewered  a  Turk. 
Aiiotlier  comes  with  stouter  tread, 
And  stalks  among  the  statelier  dead. 
He  rushes  on,  and  hails  by  turns 
High-crested  Scott,  broati -breasted  Burns; 
And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 
Will  lag  behind,  what  Romans  were, 
When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 
Sliouted,  and  sliook  the  towers  of  Mars. 

Walter  savage  Landor. 


y- 


SONNETS  TO  GEORGE  SAND. 
A  DESIKE. 

Thou  large-brained  woman  and  large-heartcdman, 
.Self-called  George  Sand  !  who.se  soul  amid  the 

lions 
Of  thy  tumultuous  senses,  moans  defiance. 
And  answers  roar  for  roar,  as  spirits  can, 
I  would  some  mild  miraculous  thunder  ran 
Above  the  applauded  circus,  in  appliance 
Of  thine  own  nobler  nature's  strength  and  sci- 
ence, 
Drawing  two  pinions,  white  as  wings  of  swan, 
Fiom  thy  strong  shoulders,  to  amaze  the  place 
With  holier  light !  that  thou  to  woman's  claim. 
And  man's,  might  join  beside  the  angel's  grace 
Oi  a  pure  genius  sanctified  from  blame  ; 
Till   child   and   maiden   pressed  to  thine  em- 
brace. 
To  ki.ss  upon  thy  lips  a  stainless  fame. 


A  RECOGNITION. 

TmiE  genius,  but  true  woman  !  dost  deny 
Thy  woman's  nature  with  a  manly  scorn, 
And  break  away  the  gauds  and  armlets  worn 
By  weaker  women  in  captivity  ? 
Ah,  vain  denial  !  that  revolted  cry 
Is  sobbed  in  by  a  woman's  voice  forlorn  ; 
Thy  woman's  hair,  my  sister,  all  unshorn. 
Floats  back  disheveled  strength  in  agony. 
Disproving  thy  man's  name  ;  and  while  before 
The  world  thou  burnest  in  a  poet-fire, 
We  see.  thy  woman-heart  beat  evermore 


Through  the  large  flame.     Beat  purer,    heart, 

and  higher. 
Till  God  unsex  thee  on  the  heavenly  shore. 
Where  tmincamate  spirits  purely  aspire. 

ELlZAbEIH   BAKKEIT  BKOWNINO. 


HEINE'S    GRAVE. 

"Henki  Heine"  —  't  is  here  ! 

The  black  tombstone,  the  name 

Carved  there  —  no  more  !  and  the  smooth, 

Swarded  alleys,  the  limes 

Touched  with  yellow  by  hot 

Summer,  but  under  them  still 

In  Septemter's  blight  afternoon 

Shadow  and  verdure  and  cool  ! 

Trim  Montmartre  !  the  faint 

Munnur  of  Paris  outside  ; 

Crisp  everlasting-flowers. 

Yellow  and  bUck  on  the  graves. 

Half  blind,  palsied,  in  pain, 
Hither  to  come,  from  the  streets' 
Uproar,  surely  not  loath 
Wast  thou,  Heine,  —  to  lie 
Quiet !  to  ask  for  closed 
Shutters,  and  darkened  room. 
And  cool  drinks,  and  an  eased 
Posture,  and  opium,  no  more  ! 
Hither  to  come,  and  to  sleep 
Under  the  wings  of  IJenowu. 

Ah  !  not  little,  when  jiain 
Is  most  rjuelling,  and  man 
Easily  quelled,  and  the  fine 
Temper  of  genius  alive 
Quickest  to  ill,  is  the  praise 
Not  to  have  yielded  to  ]»ain  ! 
No  small  boast  for  a  weak 
Son  of  mankind,  to  the  earth 
Pinned  liy  the  thunder,  to  rear 
His  bolt-scathed  front  to  the  stars, 
And,  undaunted,  retort 
'Gainst  thick-crashing,  insane. 
Tyrannous  temjx-sts  of  hale. 
Arrowy  lightnings  of  soul ! 

Hark  !  through  tlie  alley  resounds 
Mocking  laughter  !    A  film 
Creeps  o'er  the  sunshine  ;  a  breeze 
Ruffles  the  warm  afternoon, 
Saddens  my  soul  with  its  chill 
Gibing  of  spirits  in  scorn 
Shakes  every  leaf  of  the  grove, 
Mars  the  benignant  refmse 
Of  this  amiable  home  of  the  dead. 


-^ 


(&"' 


838 


PEKSONAL  POEMS. 


-a 


& 


Hitter  spirits  !  ye  claim 

lleiue  ?  —  Alas,  he  is  join's  ! 

Only  a  moment  1  longoil 

Heiv  in  the  (jniet  to  snatch 

Kivni  siu-h  mates  the  outworn 

foot,  ami  steep  him  in  culm. 

Only  a  moment  !     1  knew 

Whose  ho  was  who  is  hei'e 

liuried  ;  I  knew  he  was  yours  ! 

Ah,  1  knew  that  1  saw 

Here  no  sepuhher  built 

In  the  laviivUHl  mck,  o'er  the  Uuo 

Naples  Imy,  for  a  sweet 

Tender  Virgil  !  no  tomb 

On  Ravenna  s;uuls,  in  the  shade 

Of  Kavenna  pines,  lor  a  high 

Austeiv  Panto  !  no  grave 

By  the  Avon  side,  in  the  bright 

Stratford  meadows,  for  thee, 

Shakespeare  !  loveliest  of  souls. 

Peerless  in  nidiauce,  in  joy. 

What  so  hai'sli  and  malign, 
Heine  !  distills  from  thy  life. 
Poisons  the  peace  of  thy  grave  ? 

Charm  is  the  glory  which  makes 

t<ong  of  the  jioot  divine  ; 

Love  is  the  fountain  of  charm. 

How  without  charm  wilt  thou  draw, 

Poet,  the  world  to  thy  way  ' 

Not  by  the  lightnings  of  wit, 

Not  by  the  thunder  of  scorn  ! 

These  to  the  world,  too,  are  given  ; 

Wit  it  possesses,  and  scorn,  — 

Charm  is  the  poet's  alone. 

Jlolloir  and  dull  are  thi!  great, 

And  artists  envious,  and  the  mob  profane. 

Wo  know  all  this,  we  know  ! 

Oam'st  thou  from  heaven,  0  child 

or  light  !  but  this  to  declare  ? 

Alas  !  to  help  us  forget 

Such  barren  knowledge  awhile, 

God  gave  the  poet  his  song. 

Therefore  a  secret  unrest 

Tortured  tlice,  brilliant  and  bold  ! 

Tlicrefore  triumpli  itself 

Tasted  amiss  to  tliy  soul. 

Therefore,  with  blood  of  thy  foes. 

Trickled  in  silence  thine  own. 

Therefore  the  victor's  heart 

Broke  on  the  field  of  his  fame. 

Ah  !  as  of  old  from  the  pomp 

Of  Italian  Milan,  the  fair 

Flower  of  marble  of  white 

Southern  palaces,  —  steps 

Boixlered  by  statues,  and  walks 

Terniced,  and  orange  bowers 


Heavy  with  fragrance,  —  the  blond 
German  Kaiser  full  oft 
Longed  himself  Ixick  to  the  fields, 
Kivei's,  and  high-reiofed  towns 
C>f  his  native  Germany  ;  so, 
So,  how  often  !  fivm  hot 
Paris  drawing-rooms,  and  lamps 
Blazing,  and  brilliant  crowds. 
Starred  and  jeweled,  of  men 
Famous,  of  women  the  queens 
Of  dazzling  convei^e,  and  fumes 
Of  praise,  —  hot,  heady  fumes,  to  the  poor  brain 
That  mount,  that  madden  !  —  how  oft 
Heine's  spirit,  outworn. 
Longed  itself  out  of  tlie  din 
Back  to  the  tranquil,  the  cool. 
Far  German  home  of  his  yonth  ! 
See  :  in  the  May  afternoon. 
O'er  the  fresh  short  turf  of  the  Hartz, 
A  youth,  with  the  foot  of  youth, 
Heine  !  thou  climbest  again. 
Up,  through  the  tall  dark  tirs 
Warming  their  heads  in  the  sun. 
Checkering  the  grass  with  their  shade, 
Up,  by  the  stream  with  its  huge 
Moss-hung  bowldei's  and  thin 
Musical  water  half-hid, 
Up  o'er  the  rock-strewn  slope. 
With  the  sinking  sun,  and  tlie  air 
Chill,  and  the  shadows  now- 
Long  on  the  gray  hillside, 
To  the  stone-roofed  hut  at  the  top. 

Or,  yet  later,  in  watch 
On  the  roof  of  the  Brocken  tower 
Thou  stiuidest,  gJizing  !  to  see 
The  broad  ivd  sun,  over  field, 
Forest  and  city  and  spire 
And  mist-tracked  stream  of  the  wide, 
Wide  Gernum  laud,  going  down 
In  a  Imnk  of  vapors,  —  agjiin 
Standest !  at  nightJ'all,  alone  ; 
Or,  next  morning,  with  limbs 
Kested  by  slumber,  and  heart 
Freshened  and  light  Mith  the  Jlay, 
O'er  the  gracious  spurs  coming  down 
Of  the  lower  Hartz,  among  oak.s. 
And  beechen  coverts,  and  copse 
Of  hazels  green  in  whose  depth 
Use,  the  fairy  transformed, 
In  a  thousand  water-breaks  light 
Pours  her  petulant  youth,  — 
Climbing  the  rock  which  juts 
O'er  the  valley,  the  dizzily  pere'hed 
Kock  !  to  its  Iron  Cross 
Once  more  thou  cUng'st  ;  to  the  Cross 
Clingest  !  with  smiles,  with  a  sigh. 


-^ 


a- 


FEliSONAL  POEMS. 


839 


-a 


e-.- 


But  something  piouipts  iric  :  Not  thus 
Take  leave  of  Heine,  not  thus 
Sixjak  the  last  word  at  his  gi'ave  ! 
Not  in  ]jity  and  not 
With  half-censure,  —  with  awe 
Hail,  as  it  passes  from  earth, 
Seattering  liglitnings,  that  soul  1 

The  sjjirit  of  the  world, 
IJeholding  the  absurdity  of  men,  — 
'I'heir  vaunts,  their  feats,  —  let  a  sardonic  smile 
Kor  one  short  moment  wander  o'er  his  lips. 
Tlmt  umilc  was  Ucine  !  for  its  earthly  hour 
The  strange  guest  sparkled  ;  now  't  is  passed 
away. 

That  was  Heine  !  and  we, 
Myriads  who  live,  who  liavi:  lived. 
What  are  we  all,  but  a  mood, 
A  single  mood,  of  the  life 
Of  the  Being  in  whom  we  exist. 
Who  alone  is  all  things  in  one. 
Spirit,  who  fiUest  us  all  1 
.Sjurit,  who  utterest  in  ea<;h 
New-coming  son  of  mankind 
Such  of  thy  thoughts  as  thou  wilt ! 
0  thou,  one  of  whose  moods, 
liitter  and  strange,  was  the  life 
Of  Heine,  —  his  strange,  alas  ! 
His  bitter  life,  —  may  a  life 
<>tlier  and  milder  be  mine  ! 
Mayst  thou  a  mood  more  .serene. 
Happier,  have  uttered  in  mine  ! 
.Mayst  thou  the  rajiture  of  jieaee 
Deep  have  embreathcd  at  its  core  ! 
Made  it  a  ray  of  thy  thought, 
Made  it  a  beat  of  thy  joy  ! 


A  WELCOME  TO   "BOZ," 


CoMK  as  artist,  come  as  guest. 
Welcome  to  the  expectant  West, 
Hero  of  the  charmed  pen, 
Loved  of  children,  loved  of  men. 
We  have  felt  thy  spell  for  years  ; 
Oft  with  lauglit(!r,  oft  with  tears. 
Thou  hast  touched  the  tcnderest  part 
Of  our  inmost,  hidden  lieart. 
We  have  fixed  our  eager  gaze 
On  thy  pages  nights  and  days. 
Wishing,  as  we  turned  tliem  o'er, 
Like  i>oor  Oliver,  for  "more," 
And  the  creatures  of  thy  brain 
In  our  memory  remain. 
Till  througli  them  we  seem  to  be 
Old  acquaintances  of  thee. 


Much  we  hold  it  thee  to  greet, 

Gladly  sit  we  at  thy  feet ; 

On  thy  features  we  would  look, 

As  upon  a  living  book, 

And  thy  voice  would  grateful  hear. 

Glad  to  feel  that  Boz  were  near, 

That  his  veritable  soul 

Held  us  by  direct  control : 

Therefore,  author  loved  the  best. 

Welcome,  welcome  to  the  West. 

In  immortal  WifUer's  name, 
By  the  rare  Micawber's  fame. 
By  the  flogging  wreaked  on  Squeere, 
By  Job  Trotter's  fluent  teare. 
By  the  beadle  Bumble's  fate 
At  the  hands  of  shrewish  mate. 
By  the  famous  Pickwick  Club, 
By  tlie  dream  of  Gabriel  Grubb, 
In  the  name  of  Snodgrass'  muse, 
Tupman's  amorous  interviews. 
Winkle's  ludicrous  misha))s. 
And  the  fat  boy's  countless  naps ; 
By  lien  Allen  and  Bob  Sawyer, 
By  .Miss  Sally  Brass,  the  lawyer, 
In  the  name  of  Newman  Noggs, 
River  Thames,  and  London  fogs, 
Ricluird  Swiveller's  exrass, 
Feasting  with  the  Marchioness, 
By  .Tack  BuiLsby's  oracles. 
By  the  chime  of  ChrLstmas  bells. 
By  the  crirket  on  the  hearth. 
By  the  sound  of  childish  mirth. 
By  spread  tables  and  good  cheer, 
Wayside  inns  and  pots  of  beer. 
Hostess  plump  and  jolly  host. 
Coaches  for  the  turnpike  post. 
Chambermaid  in  love  with  Boots, 
Toodlcs,  Traildles,  Tapley,  Toots, 
Betsey  Trotwooil,  Mister  Dick, 
Susan  Nipper,  Mi.stress  Chick, 
Sncvellieci,  Lilyvick, 
Mantalini's  predilections 
To  transfer  his  warm  affections, 
By  poor  Bamaby  and  Grip, 
Flor:i.  Dora,  Di,  and  Gip, 
Pern,  liingle,  Pinch  and  Pip,  — 
Welcome,  long-expected  guest, 
Welcome  to  the  grateful  West. 

In  the  name  of  gentle  Nell, 

Child  of  light,  beloved  well,  — 

Weeping,  did  we  not  behold 

Roses  on  her  bosom  cold  ? 

Better  we  for  every  tear 

Shed  lieside  her  snowy  bier,  — 

By  the  mournful  group  that  played 

Round  the  grave  where  Smike  was  laid, 


& 


a^- 


-^ 


8-40 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


By  the  life  of  Tiny  Tim, 
And  the  lesson  tauglit  by  him, 
Asking  in  his  plaintive  tone 
God  to  "bless  us  every  one," 
By  the  sounding  waves  that  bore 
Little  Paul  to  Heaven's  shore, 
By  thy  yearning  for  the  human 
Good  iu  every  man  and  woman. 
By  each  noble  deed  and  word 
That  thy  story-books  record, 
And  each  noble  sentiment 
Dickens  to  the  world  hath  lent, 
By  the  effort  thou  hast  made 
Truth  and  true  reform  to  aid. 
By  thy  hope  of  man's  relief 
Finally  from  want  and  grief, 
By  thy  never-failing  trust 
That  the  God  of  love  is  just,  — 
We  would  meet  and  welcome  thee. 
Preacher  of  humanity  : 
■Welcome  fills  the  throbbing  breast 
Of  the  sympathetic  West 


W.  H.  \'ENABLE 


And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 
Theii-  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles 
shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  tire  ; 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ?  — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell  ! 

Lost  is  that  camp  !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 

With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  intwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly,  — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine. 

^        ''  BRET  HARTE. 


[y 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  di'iftiug, 

The  river  sang  below  ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ;  I 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless 
leisure, 

To  bear  the  tale  anew  ; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered 
faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell. 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "  Little  Xell." 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  lie  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall : 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows. 

Listened  in  every  sjiray, 
\Vhile  the  whole  camp,  with  "  Nell,"  on  English 
meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

Victor  in  poesy  !     Victor  in  romance  ! 

Cloud-weaver  of  phantasmal  hopes  and  fears ! 
French  of  the  French  aud  lord  of  human 
teal's ! 
Child  lover,  bard,  whose  fame-lit  laurels  glance. 
Darkening  the  wreaths  of  all  that  would  ad- 
vance 
Beyond  our  strait  their  claim  to  be  thy  peers  ! 
Weird  Titan,  by  thy  wintry  weight  of  years 
As  yet  unbroken  !     Stormy  voice  of  France, 
AVho  does  not  love  our  England,  so  they  say ; 
1  know  not !  England,  France,  all  men  to  be. 
Will  make  one  people,  ere  man's  race  be 
run  ; 
And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day. 

Yield  thee  full  thanks  for  thy  full  courtesy 
To  younger  England  in  the  boy,  my  -son. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


DANIEL  BOONE. 


FROM  "  DON  JUAN." 


Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer. 
Who  passes  for  in  life  and  death  most  lucky. 

Of  the  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare,  ^ 
The  General  Boone,  backwoodsman  of  Ken- 
tucky, 

AVas  happiest  amongst  mortals  anywhere  ; 
For,  killing  nothing  but  a  bear  or  buck,  he 

Enjoyed  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 

Of  his  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze. 


[& 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


841 


,-a 


Crime  came  not  near  him,  she  is  not  the  child 
Of  solitude  ;  Health  shrank  not  fi'om  him,  for 

Her  home  is  in  the  rarely  trodden  wdd. 
Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  and  death  be  more 

Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  heguUed 
By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor. 

In  cities  caged.     The  present  case  in  point  I 

Cite  is,  that  Boone  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety; 

And,  what 's  still  stranger,  left  behind  a  name 
For  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng, 

Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  good  fame. 

Without  which  glory  's  but  a  tavern  song,  — 

Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame. 

Which  hate  nor  envy  o'er  could  tinge  with 
wrong  ; 

An  active  hermit,  even  in  age  the  child 

Of  nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  run  wild. 

'T  is  true  he  shrank  from  men,  even  of  his  nation ; 

When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  ti'ees, 
He  moved  some  hundred  miles  off,  for  a  station 

Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease  ; 
The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is  that  you  neithw'  can  be  pleased  nor  please  ; 
But  where  he  met  the  individual  man. 
He  showed  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

He  was  not  all  alone  ;  around  him  grew 
A  sylvan  tribe  of  children  of  the  chase, 

Whose  young,  unwakened  world  wa.s  ever  new ; 
Nor  sword  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a  trace 

(In  her  unwrinkled  brow,  nor  could  you  view 
A  frown  on  nature's  or  on  human  face  : 

The  freeborn  forest  found  and  kept  them  free. 

And  fresli  as  is  a  torrent  or  a  tree. 

And  tall,  and  strong,  and  swift  of  foot,  were  they. 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions. 

Because  their  thouglits  had  never  been  the  prey 
Of  care  or  gain  :  the  green  woods  were  their 
portions  ; 

Xo  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  gray ; 
No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions  ; 

Simple  they  were,  not  savage  ;  and  their  rifles. 

Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slumbers, 
And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil ; 

Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers  ; 
Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her  soil. 

The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendor  which  en- 
cumbers. 
With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil  : 

Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 

Of  this  unsighmg  people  of  the  woods. 


WASHINGTON. 


FROM  "  UNDHR  THE  ELM," 
1875,  ON  THE  HUNDREDT 
TON'S  TAKING  COMMAND  ( 


LEAD  AT  CAMBRIDGE.  JULY  3, 
ANNIVERSARY  OF  WASHING- 
f  THE  AMERICAN  ARMY. 


Bene.^th  our  consecrated  elm 

A  i^entury  ago  he  stood. 

Famed  vaguely  for  that  old  fight  in  the  wood. 

Which  redly  foamed  round  him  but  could  not 

overwhelm 
The  life  foredoomed  to  wield  our  rough-hewn 

helm. 
From  colleges,  where  now  the  gown 
To  arms  had  yielded,  from  the  town. 
Our  rude  self-summoned  levies  flocked  to  see 
The  new-come  chiefs  and  wonder  which  W'as  he. 
No  need  to  question  long  ;  close-lipped  and  tall, 
Long  ti'aincd  in  murder-brooding  forests  lone 
To  bridle  others'  clamors  and  his  own, 
Firmly  erect,  he  towered  above  them  all, 
The  incarnate  discipline  that  was  to  free 
With  iron  curb  that  armeil  democracy. 

Haughty  they  said  he  was,  at  first,  severe. 
But  owned,  as  all  men  own,  the  steady  hand 
Upon  the  bridle,  patient  to  command. 
Prized,  as  all  prize,  the  justice  pure  from  fear. 
And  learned  to  honor  first,  then  love  him,  then 

revere. 
Such  power  there  is  in  clear-eyed  self-restraint, 
And  i)urpose  clean  as  light  from  every  selfish 

taint. 

Musing  beneath  the  legendaiy  tree. 

The  years  between  furl  off :  I  seem  to  see 

The  sun-flecks,  shaken  the  stirred  foliage  through, 

Dapple  with  gold  his  sober  buff  and  blue. 

And  weave  prophetic  aureoles  round  tlie  head 

That  shines  our  beacon  now,  nor  darkens  with  the 

dead. 
0  man  of  silent  mood, 
A  stranger  among  strangers  then, 
How  art  thou  since  renowned   the  Cheat,  tho 

Good, 
Familiar  as  the  day  in  all  tlie  homes  of  men  ! 
The  winged  years,  that  winnow  praise  and  blame, 
Blow  many  names  out :  they  but  fan  to  flame 
The  self-renewing  splendors  of  thy  fame. 

0,  for  a  drop  of  that  terse  Roman's  ink 

Who  gave  Agricola  dateless  length  of  days. 

To  celebrate  him  fitly,  neither  swerve 

To  phrase  unkempt,  nor  pass  discretion's  brink. 

With  him  so  statuelike  in  sad  reserve. 

So  diflident  to  claim,  so  forvvard  to  deserve  ! 

Nor  need  I  shun  due  influence  of  his  fame 

Who,  mortal  among  mortals,  seemed  as  now 

The  equestrian  shape  with  unimpassioned  brow, 

That  paces  silent  on  through  vistas  of  acclaim, 


[fi- 


842 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


-^ 


& 


Wliat  figure  more  immovably  august 

Tlian   that  grave  strength  so  jjatient   and   so 

pure, 
Calm  in  good  fortune,  when  it  wavered,  sure, 
That  soul  serene,  impenetrably  just, 
Modeled  on  classic  lines,  so  simple  they  endure  ! 
That  soul  so  softly  radiant  and  so  white 
The  track  it  left  seems  less  of  tire  than  light. 
Cold  but  to  such  as  love  distemperature  ? 
And  if  pure  light,  as  some  deem,  be  the  force 
That  drives  rejoicing  planets  on  their  course. 
Why  for  his   power  benign  seek   an   impurer 

source  ? 
His  was  the  true  enthusiasm  that  burns  long. 
Domestically  bright. 
Fed  from  itself  and  shy  of  human  sight. 
The  hidden  force  that  makes  a  lifetime  strong, 
And  not  the  short-lived  fuel  of  a  song. 
Passionless,  say  you  ?     What  is  passion  for 
But  to  sublime  our  natures  and  control 
To  front  heroic  toils  with  late  return. 
Or  none,  or  such  as  shames  the  conqueror  ? 
That  fire  was  fed  with  substance  of  the  soul, 
And  not  with  holiday  stubble,  that  could  burn 
Tluough  seven  slow  years  of  unadvancing  war, 
K(]ual  when  fields  were  lost  or  fields  were  won. 
With  lireath  of  popular  applause  or  blame, 
Nor  fanned  nor  damped,  umiuenchably  the  same, 
Too  inward  to  be  reached  by  flaws  of  idle  fame. 

Soldier  and  statesman,  rarest  unison  ; 
High-poised  example  of  great  duties  done 
Simply  as  breathing,  a  world's  honors  worn 
As  life's  indifferent  gifts  to  all  men  born  ; 
Dumb  for  himself,  unless  it  were  to  God, 
But  for  his  barefoot  soldiers  eloquent, 
Tramping  the  snow  to  coral  where  they  trod, 
Held  by  his  awe  in  hollow-eyed  content ; 
Modest,  yet  firm  as  Nature's  self;  unblamed 
Save  by  the  men  his  nobler  temper  shamed  ; 
Not  honored  then  or  now  because  he  wooed 
The  popular  voice,  but  that  he  still  withstood  ; 
Broad-minded,  higher-soul ed,  there  is  but  one 
Who  was  all  this,  and  ours,  and  all  men's,  — 
Washington. 

Jlinds  strong  by  fits,  irregularly  gi'eat, 

That  Hash  and  darken  like  revolving  lights. 

Catch  more  the  vulgar  eye  imsehooled  to  wait 

On  the  long  curve  of  patient  days  and  nights. 

Rounding  a  whole  life  to  the  circle  fair 

Of  orbed  completeness  ;  and  this  balanced  soul, 

So  simple  in  its  grandeur,  coldly  bare 

Of  draperies  theatric,  standing  there 

In  perfect  symmetr}'  of  self-control. 

Seems  not  so  great  at  first,  but  greater  grows 

Still  as  we  look,  and  by  experience  learn 

How  grand  this  quiet  is,  how  nobly  stern 


The  discipline  that  wTought  through  lifelong 

throes 
This  energetic  passion  of  repose. 

A  nature  too  decorous  and  severe. 

Too  self-respectful  in  its  griefs  and  joys 

For  ardent  girls  and  boys. 

Who  find  no  genius  in  a  mind  so  clear 

That  its  grave  depths  seem  obvious  and  near. 

Nor  a  soul  great  that  made  so  little  noise. 

They  feel  no  force  in  that  calm,  cadenced  phrase. 

The  habitual  full-dress  of  his  well-bred  mind. 

That  seems  to  pace  the  minuet's  courtly  maze 

And  tell  of  ampler  leisures,  roomier  length  of 

days. 
His  broad-built  brain,  to  self  so  little  kind 
That  no  tumultuary  blood  could  blind. 
Formed  to  control  men,  not  amaze, 
Looms  not  like  those  that  borrow  height  of  haze  : 
It  was  a  world  of  statelier  movement  then 
Than  this  we  fret  in,  he  a  denizen 
Of  that  ideal  Rome  that  made  a  man  for  men. 

Placid  completeness,  life  without  a  fall 

From  faith  or  highest  aims,  truth's  breachless 

wall, 
Surely  if  any  fame  can  bear  the  touch. 
His  will  say  "  Here  !  "  at  the  last  trumpet's  call, 
The  unexpressive  man  whose  life  expressed  so 

much. 

jAftlES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

By  broad  Potomac's  silent  shore 
Better  than  Trajan  lowly  lies, 
Gilding  her  green  declivities 

With  glory  now  and  evermore ; 
Art  to  his  fame  no  aid  hath  lent ; 
His  couutry  is  his  monument. 

AN'ONVMOUS. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  RED  JACKET, 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TUSCARORAS. 

Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  Pioneer  of  mind, 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind  ; 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate-hall  of  nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven- wi'ought, 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought ; 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con.. 


-g 


p 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


-^ 


843 


&* 


He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlighteued  people  ever  known  ; 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 
In  Paris,  full  of  song  and  dance  and  laugh  ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There  's  not  a  bailiff  or  an  epitaph  ; 

And  furthermore,  in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine  ; 

And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner. 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zambia  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me.  King  of  Tuscarora  ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now. 
In  all  itsmedaleil,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its   eye's   dark   beauty,    and    its    thoughtful 
brow,  — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic  ; 

Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings,  — 
Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  democratic, 

Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  kings  ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  bom.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  stibject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely  :  if  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make   Red  Jacket  gi-ace    an   English 
rhyme. 

Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  tliine  own  land  ;  and  on  lier  herald  roll 

As  bravely  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Cceui-  de  Lion's  of  a  wan'ior's  soul. 

Thy  garb,  though  Austria's  bosom-star  would 

frighten 

That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine. 

And  George  the   Fourth  wore,  at  his  court  at 

Brighton, 

A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  tbine,  — 

Yet 't  is  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather. 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and  flood. 

As  Kob  Roy's  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whaler's  ? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 
As  earth's  first  kings,  — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors. 

Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty  ?  —  Thine   has   with  thy   youth   de- 
parted ; 
But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years. 


And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted, 
Are —     But  I  rhyme  for  smiles  and  not  for 
tears. 

Is  eloquence  ?  —  Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 

The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 
And   there  's  one   rare,   strange  virtue   in   thy 


The  secret  of  their  mastery,  —  they  are  short. 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding. 
The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 

Of  winning,  fettering,  molding,  wielding,  band- 
ing 
The  hearts  of  millions  tiU  they  move  as  one,  — 

Thou  hast  it.  At  thy  bidding  meu  have  crowded 
The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 

And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulcliei-s,  have  shrouded 
With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark  p;Jl. 

i  Who  will  believe,  —  not  I  ;  for  in  deceiving 

Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream  : 
I  cannot  spare  the  lu.xury  of  believing 
That  aU  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem,  — 

Who  will  lielieve  that,  with  a  smile  whose  bless- 
ing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,   sootlie  a  dying 
hour  ; 
With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing. 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower  ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air,  — 
Thou  art,  in  sober  tnith,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair  ! 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  foun- 
tain, 
Deadlier   than  that  where   bathe.s  the   upas- 
tree  ; 
And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's   slee])  compared   B-ith 
thee  ! 

And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's. 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions,  — 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow,  all  save 
fear. 

Love  —  for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars  ; 

Hatred  —  of  missionaries  and  cold  water  ; 
Pride  —  in  thy  rifle-  trophies  and  thy  scars  ; 

Hope  —  that  thy  wrongs  may  be  by  the  Great 
Spii'it 
Remembered  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone 


'^ 


[&-- 


844 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


---a 


Sorrow — tlmt  noiio  aro  U'ft  tlieo  to  inherit 
Tliy  iiiuiu',  thy  I'mne,  thy  imssions,  ami  thy 
tliroiii'  I 


DANIKL  WEBSTER. 

Wiii'.N,  strii'ki'ii  liy  tho  I'roi'ziiig  blast, 

A  Malicm'.s  liviiii;  pillars  I'all, 
llow  rirh  thi'  slurioil  paj^o,  how  vast, 

A  word,  a  wlusju'r,  can  n^call  ! 

No  uu'dal  litis  its  Ircltoil  lai'p, 

Nor  spi'akiiij;  inarMn  rlicats  your  I'yo  ; 

Yot,  whili'  thoso  iiic'tiirod  linos  1  tnur, 
A  livinj;  imaf(v  jiasst's  by  : 

A  root  bi'iuatli  thi'  Imnintain  iiiiu's  ; 

The  oloistcrs  of  a  hill-fjirt  (ilain  ; 
Tlir  IVoiit  ol'lilV's  iMnlmtlliHl  lini'S  ; 

A  uumiul  bosiiU'  tho  hoaviiij;  main. 

Thi'so  art'  tho  sconos  ;  a  boy  ajipoars  ; 

Si't  lit'o's  round  dial  in  tho  sun, 
Count  tho  swill  ^u^•  of  sevonty  years, 

1 1  is  triuno  is  dust ;  his  task  is  dono. 

Vol  pause  uiKin  the  noontide  hour, 
Kre  the  deoliniuf;  sun  has  laid 

His  bleaehing  iiiys  on  manhood's  power. 
And  look  u]'on  the  mighty  shade. 

No  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide. 
No  ehangi'  nuerown  his  brow  ;  behoUl ! 

Park,  ealm,  largo-liouted,  lightuiug-oyed, 
Earth  has  no  dotible  from  its  mold  ! 

Ero  from  the  Holds  by  valor  won 
The  bnttlo-snioke  had  iwlled  nway. 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun. 
Mis  eyes  wore  opened  on  the  day. 

His  land  was  but  n  shelving  strip 

Hlaek  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free ; 

He  lived  to  see  its  bauneis  dip 
'I'lu'ir  fringes  in  tho  western  sea. 

Tlie  liouudless  |u-airies  learned  his  name. 
His  words  the  nuumtain  eohoes  knew  ; 

Tho  northern  breezes  swept  his  fame 
From  iey  lake  to  warm  bayou. 

In  toil  lie  lived  ;  in  peaeo  he  died  ; 

"When  life's  full  oyele  was  oompleto. 
Put  otf  his  robes  of  power  and  pride. 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  foot 


His  rest  is  by  the  storni-swopt  waves. 
Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  stronniing  caves 
t>f  oeean,  throbbing  nt  his  side. 

Death's  oold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill  ; 

It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 

And  leaves  the  snnunit  brighli'r  still. 

In  vain  tlie  envious  tongue  upbraids  ; 

His  name  a  nation's  heart  .shall  keep. 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 

On  the  blue  tablet  of  tho  deep  I 

OLIVBR  M'RNDBLL  HOLMHS 


ICUAliOD. 

OANUtL  WlUlSTim.     1850. 

So  falli'u  !  so  lost  I  the  light  withdrawn 

Whioh  onee  ho  wore  ! 
The  glorv  Irom  liis  grav  hairs  gone 

Fore\-orniore  ! 

Kevilo  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snaro  for  all ! 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Holit  his  fall ! 

0,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  ho  who  might 
Have  lighted  nji  and  led  his  ago 

Falls  baek  in  night ! 

Seorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fi<'nd-goadod,  down  tho  endless  dark. 

From  hope  and  heaven  < 

Let  not  the  laud,  onee  proud  of  him. 

Insult  him  now  ; 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  .shauu-  his  dim, 

Dishonoied  brow. 

l!ut  lot  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

Fi-om  sea  to  hike, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead. 

In  sadness  make. 

(■•f  all  wo  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  renniins,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  ohains. 

All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  groat  eyes 

The  soul  has  lied  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  wlu'U  honor  dies, 

Tho  unm  is  dead  ! 


-^ 


[5- 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


845 


-a 


Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  duyH 

To  his  deud  I'auic  ; 
Walk  liaekwaid,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 

juiiN  GiiiiiiVLiiAP  Winn 


c&- 


THE  DEAD   CZAK   NICHOLAS. 

Lay  him  lieiieath  his  snows, 

The  great  Norse  giant  who  in  these  last  days 

Troubled  the  nations,     (jather  decently 

The  imperial  robes  about  him.    'T  is  but  man,  — 

This  demi-god.     Or  rather  it  was  man, 

And  is--  a  little  dust,  that  will  eorrujit 

As  fast  as  any  nameless  dust  which  sleeps 

'Neath  Ahna's  grass  or  Balaklava's  vine's. 

No  vineyard  grave  for  liim.     No  quiet  tomb 
By  river  margin,  wliere  across  the  seas 
Children's  fond  thoughts  and  women's  memories 

come, 
Like  angels,  to  sit  by  the  sepuleher. 
Saying  :  "All  these  were  men  who  knew  to  count, 
Front-faced,  the  cost  of  honor,  nor  did  shrink 
From  its  full  payment ;  coming  here  to  die, 
They  died  —  like  men." 

But  this  man  ?  Ah  !  for  him 
Funereal  state,  and  ceremonial  grand, 
The  stone-engraved  sarcophagus,  and  tliiMi 
Oblivion. 

Nay,  oblivion  were  as  bliss 
To  that  fieri'c  howl  which  rolls  from  land  to  land 
Exulting,  — •  "Art  thou  falleir,  Lucifci-, 
Son  of  the  morning '! "  or  condemning,     ■  "  Thus 
Perish  the  wicked  !"  or  blaspheming,  —  "  Here 
Lies  our  Belshazzar,  our  Sennacherib, 
Our  Pharaoh,  —  he  whose  heart  God  hardened, 
So  that  he  wouhl  not  let  the  jMiople  go." 

Self-glorifying  sinners  !     Why,  this  man 
Was  but  like  other  men,  —  you,  Leviti!  small. 
Who  shut  your  saintly  ears,  and  prate  of  hell 
And  heretics,  beeaiLse  outside  church-doors, 
Your  church-doors,  congregations  poor  and  small 
Praise  Heaven  in  their  own  way  ;  yon,  autocrat 
Of  all  the  hamlets,  who  add  field  to  field 
And  house  to  house,  whose  slavisli  chililren  cower 
Before  your  tyrant  footstep  ;  you,  foul-tongucd 
Fanatic  or  ambitious  egotist, 
Who  think  Ood  stoops  from  his  high  majesty 
To  lay  his  finger  on  your  puny  head. 
And  crown  it,  tluit  you  henceforth  may  parailc 
Your    maggotship    throughout   the   wondering 
world,  — 
I  am  the  Lord's  anointed  ! " 


Fools  and  blin<l  ! 
This  czar,  this  emperor,  this  disthrondd  corpse. 
Lying  so  straightly  in  an  icy  calm 
Grander  than  sovereignty,  was  but  as  ye,  — 
No  better  and  no  worse  :  Heaven  mend  us  all  I 

Carry  him  forth  and  bury  him.     Death's  peace 

Hest  on  his  memory  !     Mercy  by  his  bier 

Sits  silent,  or  says  only  these  few  words,  — 

"  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  'mongst  ye  all 

Cast  the  first  stone." 

Dinah  .Mulock  craik. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 


LlI'K  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravtdy  in  the  closi-t  as  the  field, 
So  liountifui  is  Fate  ; 
Bui  then  to  stand  beside  her. 
When  craven  churls  deride  her. 
To  front  a  lie  irj  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man. 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds. 
Who  stand  8ell'-[ioised  on  manhood's  solid 
earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  liis  birth, 
Fi.'d  from  within  with  all  the  strength  bo  needs. 

Such  was  111',  onr  ,\Iartyr-Chief, 
Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led. 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wejit  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief  : 
Foigive  me,  if  from  jiresent  things  1  tuiri 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wTcatli  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote. 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Kejieating  us  by  rote  : 
For  him  her  Ohl-World  molds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainteil  shaped  a  hero  new. 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  ami  true 

How  Ixjautiful  to  sec 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed. 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  n(!vcr  loved  to  lead  ; 
Oni'  whose  meek  Hock  the  people  joycl  to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth. 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 
They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  8ure-foot<'d  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 


^ 


[p-„ 


84G 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


■a 


x\ud  supple-teniperwi  will 
That  bent  liko  in'ilect  stwl  to  spring  again  aud 
thrust. 
His  was  uo  lonely  mountain-peak  of  niiml, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapoi's  bliml ; 
Broad  pniirie  rather,  genial,  level-lined. 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  hunum  kind, 
Yet  also  uigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

N  othing  of  Europe  here. 
Or,  then,  of  Kurope  fronting  mornwiU'd  still, 
Eiv  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
t'ould  Nature's  oipial  scheme  deface  ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race. 
And  one  of  I'hitaroh's  uieu  talked  with  us  face 
to  face. 
1  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late  ; 
And  some  inuative  weakness  there  must  bo 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Snch  as  the  Ihvseut  gives,  and  cannot  wait. 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  tirmly  he  : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime. 
Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour. 
But  at  last  silence  comes  ; 
These  all  ai-e  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Onr  children  slnUl  behold  his  fame, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man. 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  prsiise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

JAWKS  RCSSBLL  LOVVKU- 


fr 


ABRAHAM  UNCOLN.* 

FOULLV  ASSASSINATED  APRIL  14.  1865. 

You  lay  «  wreath  ou  ranulered  Lincoln's  bier, 
Yon,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 

Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British  sneer, 
Hislength  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  brist- 
ling hair. 

His  garb  uncouth,  his  In'aring  ill  at  ease. 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  deboiuiir. 

Of  jiower  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please  ; 

}'(>K,  whose  smart  jx'n  backed  up  the  pencil's 
laugh, 
Judging  each  step  as  tlwugh  the  way  were  plain, 

•  This  Irlbute  appeared  in  the  Loiulon  '*  l^^nch."  which,  up  to 
the  time  of  the  assassin.itiou  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  had  ridiculed  and 
Aligned  hiiu  with  all  its  wcll-kuown  powers  of  pen  and  pencil. 


Keckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph 
Of  chief  s  perplexity,  or  people's  j«uu  : 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  beivre  for  wiuding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mournere  at  his  head  and  feet. 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room  for  i/ou  ? 

Yes  :  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  frem  my  sneer. 
To  lame  my  pencil,  and  confute  my  pen  ; 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 
This  rail-splitter  a  true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learned  to  rue. 
Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose  ; 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem  more 
true  ; 
How,  iron-like,  his  temper  gitsw  by  blows. 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful,  he  could  be  ; 

How,  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill,  the  same  ; 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he. 

Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work,  —  such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and  hand,  — 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there  's  a  task  to  do, 
Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good  grace 
command  ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden 
grow. 

That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  his  will. 
If  but  that  will  wo  can  arrive  to  know. 

Nor  tamper  with  tlie  weights  of  good  and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 

That  he  felt  clear  was  Lilierty's  and  Eight's, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 

His  warfare  with    rude   Xatuit's   thwarting 
mights ; 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil. 

The  iron-bark,  that  turns  the  lumberer's  ax. 

The  rapid,  tliat  o'erbeai-s  the  boatman's  toil. 
The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer's  tracks, 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear,  — 

Such  were  the  deeds  that  helped  his  youth  to 

train  : 

Rough  culture,  but  such  trees  large  fruit  may 

bear, 

If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do. 

And  lived  to  do  it :  four  long-sutl'ering  years' 

Ill-fate,  ill-fcoliiig,  ill-report,  lived  through. 
And  tlieii  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to  cheers, 


-E? 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


847 


^-a 


The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

Aud  took  both  with  the  same  unwaveringmood; 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling  days, 
And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he 
stood, 

A  i'elon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  liim. 

Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger  prest, 

And  those  perjilexcd  and  patient  eyes  were  dim, 
Tliose  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were  laid  to 
rest  ! 

The  words  of  mercy  were  ujjon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  jien, 

When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men. 

Tlie  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame  : 

Sore  heait,  so  sto|iped  wlien  it  at  last  beat  high  ; 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came  1 

A  deed  accurst !    Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
Hy  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  tliey  bore  ; 

But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands  darkly 
out. 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 
Whate'critsgi-ounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven  ; 

And  witli  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a  life 
With  much  to  piaise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 

TOM  Taylor. 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON. 

"  Some  time  afterward,  it  w.-is  reported  to  me  hy  the  city  officers 
that  they  had  ferreted  out  the  paper  and  its  editor  :  that  his  office 
was  an  obscure  hole,  his  only  visible  auxiliary  a  ne^o  boy,  and  his 
supporters  a  few  very  insignilicant  persons  of  all  colors." — Letter 

0/  H,  G.  Otis. 

In  a  small  chamber,  friendless  and  unseen, 
Toiled  o'er  his  types  one  poor,  unlearned  young 
man ; 

The  place  was  dark,  unfumitured,  and  mean  : 
Yet  there  the  freedom  of  a  race  began. 

Help  came  but  slowly  ;  surely  no  man  yet 
Put  lever  to  the  heavy  world  with  less  : 

What  need  of  help  ?  He  knew  how  types  were  set, 
He  had  a  dauntless  spirit,  and  a  press. 

Such  earnest  natures  are  the  fiery  pith. 

The  compact  nucleus,  round  which  systems 
grow : 

Mass  after  mass  becomes  inspired  therewith, 
And  whirls  impregnate  with  the  central  glow. 


0  Truth  !  0  Freedom  !  how  are  ye  still  Ixim 
In  the  rude  stable,  in  the  manger  nursed  ! 

What  humble  hands  unbar  those  gates  of  morn 
Through  which  the  splendors  of  the  New  Day 
burst ! 

What !  shall  one  monk,  scarce  known  beyond  his 
cell. 
Front  Home's  far-reaching  bolts,  and  scorn  her 
frown  ? 
Brave   Luther  answered  Yes ;    that  thunder's 
swell 
Rocked  Europe,   and  discharmed  the  triple 
crown. 

Whatever  can  be  known  of  earth  we  know, 
Sneered  Europe's  wise  men,  in  their  snail-shells 
curled  ; 

No  !  said  one  man  in  Genoa,  and  that  No 
Out  of  the  dark  created  this  New  World. 

Who  is  it  will  not  dare  himself  to  trust? 

Wlio  is  it  hath  not  strength  to  stand  alone? 
Who  is  it  thwarts  and  bilks  the  inward  Must  ? 

He  and  his  works,  like  sand,  from  earth  arc 
blown. 

Men  of  a  thousand  shifts  and  wiles,  look  here  ! 

See  one  straightforward  con.science  put  in  pawn 
To  win  a  world  ;  see  the  obedient  sphere 

By  bravery's  simple  gravitation  drawn  1 

Shall  we  not  heed  the  lesson  taught  of  old, 
And  by  the  Present's  lips  repeated  still, 

In  our  own  single  manhood  to  be  bold, 

Fortressed  in  conscience  and  impregnable  will  ! 

We  stride  the  river  daily  at  its  spring. 

Nor,  in  our  childish  thouglitlessness,  foresee 

What  myriad  vassal  streams  shall  tribute  bring, 
How  like  an  ecjual  it  shall  greet  the  sea. 

0  small  beginnings,  ye  are  great  and  sti'ong. 
Based  on  a  faithful  heart  and  weariless  brain  ! 

Ye  build  the  future  fair,  ye  conquer  wrong. 
Ye  earn  the  crown,  and  wear  it  not  in  vain. 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  OLD  ADMIRAL. 

ADMIRAL  STEWART,  U.  S.  N. 

Gone  at  last. 

That  brave  old  hero  of  the  past! 
His  spirit  has  a  second  birth. 

An  unknown,  grander  life  ; 
All  of  him  that  was  earth 

Lies  mute  and  cold, 


-^ 


^ 


Like  a  wrinkled  slieath  and  old, 
Thrown  off  forever  ffoin  the  shimmering  blade 
Tliat  has  good  entrance  made 

Upon  some  distant,  glorious  strife. 

From  another  generation, 

A  simpler  age,  to  ours  Old  Ironsides  came  ; 
The  morn  and  noontide  of  the  nation 

Alike  he  knew,  nor  yet  outlived  his  fame,  — 
O,  not  outlived  his  fame  ! 
The  dauntless  men  whose   service  guards  oui' 
shore 

Lengthen  still  their  glory-roll 

With  his  name  to  lead  the  scroll, 
As  a  flagship  at  her  fore 

Carries  the  Union,  with  its  azure  and  the  stars, 
Symbol  of  times  that  are  no  more 

And  the  old  heroic  wars. 

He  was  the  one 

Whom  Death  had  spared  alone 

Of  all  the  captains  of  that  lusty  age, 
Who  sought  the  foeman  where  he  lay. 
On  sea  or  sheltering  bay. 

Nor  till  the  prize  was  theirs  repressed  their 
rage. 
They  are  gone,  —  all  gone  : 

They  rest  witli  glory  and  the  undying  Powers  ; 

Only  their  name  and  fame,  and  what  they 
saved,  are  ours  ! 

It  was  fifty  years  ago, 
Upon  the  Gallic  Sea, 
He  bore  the  banner  of  the  free, 
And    fought    the  fight  whereof   our    children 
know,  — 
The  deathful,  despei'ate  fight ! 
Under  the  fair  moon's  light 
The  frigate  squared,  and  yawed  to  left  and  right. 

Every  broadside  swept  to  deatli  a  score  ! 
Roundly  played  her  guns  and  weU,  till  their 
fiery  ensigns  fell, 
Neither  foe  replying  more. 
All  in  silence,  when  the  night-breeze  cleared  the 
air. 
Old  Ironsides  rested  there, 
Locked  in  between  the  twain,  and  drenched  with 
blood. 
Then  homeward,  like  an  eagle  with  her  prey  ! 
O,  it  was  a  gallant  fray,  — 
That  fight  in  Biscay  Bay  ! 
Fearless  the  captain  stood,  in  his  youthful  hardi- 
hood : 
He  was  the  boldest  of  them  aU, 
Our  brave  old  Admiral ! 

And  still  our  heroes  bleed, 
Tauglit  by  that  olden  deed. 
Whether  of  iron  or  of  oak 


The  ships  we  marshal  at  our  country's  need, 
Still  speak  their  cannon  now  as  then  they 
spoke  ; 

Still  floats  our  unstruck  banner  from  the  mast 
As  in  the  stormy  past. 

Lay  him  in  the  ground  : 

Let  him  rest  whei-e  the  ancient  river  rolls  ; 
Let  him  sleep  beueatli  the  shadow  and  the  sound 

Of  the  bell  whose  proclamation,  as  it  tolls. 
Is  of  Freedom  and  the  gift  our  fathers  g.ave. 

Lay  him  gently  down  : 

The  clamor  of  the  town 
Will  not  break  the  slumbers  deep,  the  beautiful, 
ripe  sleep. 

Of  this  lion  of  the  wave. 

Will  not  trouble  the  old  Admiral  in  his  grave. 

Earth  to  earth  his  dust  is  laid. 
Methinks  his  stately  shade 

On  the  sliadow  of  a  great  ship  leaves  the  shore ; 
Over  cloudless  western  seas 
Seeks  the  far  Hesperides, 

The  islands  of  the  blest. 
Where  no  turbulent  billows  roar,  — 

Where  is  rest. 
His  ghost  upon  the  shadowy  quarter  stands 
Nearing  the  deathless  lands. 

There  all  his  martial    mates,   renewed  and 
strong. 

Await  his  coming  long. 

I  see  the  happy  Heroes  rise 

With  gratulation  in  their  eyes  : 
"Welcome,  old  comrade,"  Lawj-ence  cries  ; 
"  Ah,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  1 
Who  win  the  glory  and  the  scars  ? 

How  floats  the  skyey  flag,  —  how   many 
stars  ? 

Still  speak  they  of  Decatur's  name  ? 

Of  Bainbridge's  and  Perry's  fame  ? 

Of  me,  who  earliest  came  ? 
Make  ready,  all  : 
Room  for  the  Admiral  ! 

Come,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  ! " 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


A  LIGHT  is  out  in  Italy, 

A  golden  tongue  of  purest  fiame. 
We  watched  it  burning,  long  and  lone, 

And  every  watcher  knew  its  name, 
And  knew  from  whence  its  fervor  came  : 

Tliat  one  rare  light  of  Italy. 
Which  put  self-seeking  souls  to  shame  ! 

This  light  which  burnt  for  Italy 

Through  aU  the  blackness  of  her  night, 


-S 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


849 


She  doubted,  once  upon  a  time. 
Because  it  took  away  her  sight. 

She  looked  and  said,  "There  is  no  light  ! " 
It  was  thine  eyes,  poor  Italy  ! 

That  knew  not  dark  apart  from  bright. 

This  flame  which  burnt  for  Italy, 
It  would  not  let  her  haters  sleep. 

They  blew  at  it  with  angry  breath, 
And  only  fed  its  upward  leap, 

And  only  made  it  hot  and  deep. 
Its  burning  showed  us  Italy, 

And  all  the  hopes  she  had  to  keep. 

This  light  is  out  in  Italy, 

Her  eyes  shall  seek  for  it  in  vain  ! 

For  her  sweet  sake  it  spent  itself. 
Too  early  flickering  to  its  wane,  — 

Too  long  blown  over  by  her  pain. 
Bow  down  and  weep,  0  Italy, 

Thou  canst  not  kindle  it  again  ! 

Laura  c.  Redden  (Howard  Glvndon). 


6 


JOHN  C.  FREMONT. 

Tht  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 

A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  statesman's  tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  common  sense, 

To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  consequence. 

O,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his  horn 

At  Roncesvalles  has  a  blast  been  blown 

Far-heard,  wide-echoed,  startling  as  thine  own, 

Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope  forlorn  ! 

It  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for  the  time. 

To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offense 

To  that  Dark  Power  whose  undei'lying  crime 

Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbulence. 

But,  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 

The  ground  for  truth's  seed,   or  forerun  their 

years 
Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts  make 
A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level  spears, 
Still  take  thou  com-age !    God  has  spoken  through 

thee, 
Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free  ! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the  slave's  dull 

ear 
Turns  from  the  rice-swamp  stealthily  to  hear. 
Who  would  recall  them  now  must  first  arrest 
The  winds  that  blow  down  from  the  free  North- 
west, 
Ruffling  the  Gulf ;  or  like  a  scroll  roll  back 
The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 
Such  words  fulfill  their  prophecy,  and  lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


HAWTHORNE. 


How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  coidd  not  chase  away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms, 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manse. 

The  historic  river  flowed  ; 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange  ; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  i'ace  1  looked  for  was  not  there. 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute  ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air. 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now   I   look   back,   and  meadow,  manse,  and 
stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines ; 
I  only  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream  — 

The  hilltop  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  Lis  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone. 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast. 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
'Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah  !  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain  ! 

Henrv  wadsworth  Longfellow. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FLETCHER  HAKPER. 

No  soldier,  statesman,  hierophant,  or  king  ; 

None  of  the  heroes  that  you  poets  sing ; 

A  toiler  ever  since  his  days  began. 

Simple,  though  shrewd,  just-judging,  man  toman  • 

God-fearing,  learned  in  life's  hard-taught  school  ; 

By  long  obedience  lessoned  how  to  rule 


-^ 


[fi- 


850 


FEESOXAL  POEMS. 


-a 


Through  muiiy  uii  u:irly  sliuggle  k'd  to  f'aid 
That  erowu  of  prospt-rous  fortune,  —  to  be  kind. 
Lay  ou  his  breast  these  English  daisies  sweet ! 
Good  ivst  to  tlie  gray  head  and  the  tired  feet 
That  walked  this  world  for  seventy  steadfast  years! 
Bury  liini  with  fond  blessings  and  few  teai's, 
Or  only  of  roinembrance,  not  regret. 
On  his  full  life  the  eternal  seal  is  set. 
Unbroken  till  the  resurrection  day. 
So  let  his  children's  children  go  their  way, 
Go  and  do  likewise,  leaving  'neath  this  sod 
An  honest  man,  "  the  noblest  work  of  God." 

DINAH  MULOCK  CRAIK, 


& 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ. 


It  was  fifty  years  ago. 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A  child  iu  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee. 
Saying,  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod. 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

AVho  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail. 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvelous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child. 

And  will  not  let  him  go. 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  do  Vaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 

The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old. 
And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 

From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark  ! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  : 
It  is  grooving  late  and  dark. 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  ! " 

Henry  wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ. 

On  the  isle  of  Penikese, 
Einged  about  by  sapphire  seas, 
Fanned  by  breezes  salt  and  cool, 
Stood  the  Master  with  his  school. 
Over  sails  that  not  in  vain 
Wooed  the  west-wind's  steady  strain, 
Line  of  coast  that  low  and  far 
Stretched  its  undulating  bar. 
Wings  aslant  along  the  rim 
Of  the  waves  they  stooped  to  skim, 
Eoek  and  isle  and  glistening  bay. 
Fell  the  beautiful  white  day. 

Said  the  Master  to  the  youth  : 

"We  have  come  in  search  of  truth. 

Trying  with  uncertain  key 

Door  by  door  of  mystery  ; 

AVe  are  reaching,  through  His  laws, 

To  the  giirment-hem  of  Cause, 

Him,  the  endless,  unbegim. 

The  Unnamable,  the  One, 

Light  of  all  om-  light  the  Source, 

Life  of  life,  and  Force  of  force. 

As  with  fingers  of  the  blind. 

We  are  groping  here  to  find 

What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 

Of  the  Unseen  in  the  seen, 

What  the  Thought  which  underlies 

Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 

What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 

Blight  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death. 

By  past  ett'orts  unavailing, 

Doubt  and  error,  loss  and  failing. 

Of  our  weakness  made  aware, 

On  the  threshold  of  our  task 

Let  us  light  and  guidance  ask. 

Let  us  ])ause  in  silent  prayer  ! " 

Then  the  Master  in  his  place 
Bowed  his  head  a  little  space. 
And  the  leaves  by  soft  airs  stirred, 
Lapse  of  wave  and  cry  of  biixl. 
Left  the  solemn  hush  unbroken 
Of  that  wordless  prayer  unspoken, 
■\\liile  its  wish,  on  earth  unsaid. 
Rose  to  heaven  interpreted. 
As  in  life's  best  hours  we  hear 
By  the  spirit's  finer  ear 
His  low  voice  within  us,  thus 
The  All-Father  heareth  us  ; 
And  his  holy  ear  we  pain 
With  our  noisy  words  and  vain. 
Not  for  him  our  violence. 
Storming  at  the  gates  of  sense, 
His  the  primal  language,  his 
The  eternal  silences  ! 


-^ 


Even  the  careless  heart  was  moved, 
And  tlie  doubting  gave  assent, 
AVitli  a  gesture  reverent, 
To  tlie  Master  well-beloved. 
As  thin  mists  are  glorifiiul 
By  the  light  they  cannot  hide. 
All  who  gazed  upon  him  saw. 
Through  its  veil  of  tender  awe. 
How  his  face  was  still  uplit 
By  the  old  sweet  look  of  it, 
Hopeful,  trustful,  full  of  cheer. 
And  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 
Who  the  secret  may  declare 
Of  that  brief,  unuttered  [iraycr  ? 
Dill  the  shade  before  him  come 
Of  the  inevitable  doom. 
Of  the  end  of  earth  so  near, 
.•\nd  Eternity's  new  year  ? 

In  the  lap  of  sheltering  seas 
Rests  the  isle  of  Penikese  ; 
But  the  lord  of  the  domain 
Comes  not  to  his  own  again  : 
Where  the  eyes  that  follow  fail. 
On  a  vaster  sea  his  sail 
Drifts  beyond  our  beck  and  liail ! 
Other  lips  within  its  bound 
Shall  the  laws  of  life  expound  ; 
Other  eyes  from  rock  and  shell 
Read  the  world's  old  riddles  well ; 
But  when  breezes  light  and  bland 
Blow  from  Summer's  blossomed  land. 
When  the  air  is  glad  with  wings, 
And  the  blithe  song-spaiTow  sings, 
Many  an  eye  with  his  still  face 
Shall  the  living  ones  displace, 
JIany  an  ear  the  word  shall  seek 
He  alone  could  fitly  speak. 
And  one  name  forevermore 
Shall  be  uttered  o'er  and  o'er 
By  the  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
By  the  curlew's  whistle  sent 
Down  the  cool,  sea-scented  air  ; 
In  all  voices  known  to  her 
Nature  own  her  worshiper. 
Half  in  triumph,  half  lament. 
Thither  love  shall  tearful  turn, 
Frii-uilship  pause  uncovered  there. 
And  the  wisest  reverence  leani 
From  the  Master's  silent  prayer. 

John  creenlbaf  whitiier. 


6 


TO    HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 

ON  HIS  niRTHDAV,  S7TH  FEURUARV,   1867. 

I  NEED  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song, 
Wliere  limpid  verse  to  limpid  verse  succeeds 


Smooth  as  our  Charles,    when,   fearing  lest  he 

wrong 
The  new  moon's  mirrored  skilf,  he  slides  .along. 
Full  without  noise,  and  whispers  in  his  reeds. 

With  loving  breath  of  all  the  winds  his  name 
Is  blown  about  the  world,  but  to  his  friends 
A  sweeter  secret  hides  behind  his  fame, 
And  Love  steals  shyly  through  the  loud  acclaim 
To  murmur  a  God  bless  yciu !  and  there  ends. 

As  I  muse  backward  up  the  checkered  years, 

Wherein  so  mucli  was  given,  so  much  was  lost, 
Blessings  in  both  kinds,  such  as  cheap<Mi  tears  — 
But  hush  !  tins  is  :iot  for  profaner  ears  ; 
Let  them  drink  molten  pearls  nor  dream  tlie 
cost. 

Some  suck  up  poison  from  a  sorrow's  core. 
As  naught  but  nightshade  gi'ew  upon  earth's 
ground  ; 
Love  turned  all  his  to  heart's-ease,  and  the  more 
Fate  tried  his  bastions,  she  but  forced  a  door. 
Leading  to  sweeter  manhood  and  more  sound, 

Even  as  a  wind-waved  fountain's  swaying  shade 
Seems  of  mixed  race,  a  gray  wraith  shot  with 
sun, 
So  through  his  trial  faith  translucent  rayed. 
Till  darkness,  half  disnatured  so,  betrayed 
A  heart  of  sunshine  that  would  fain  o'errun. 

Surely  if  skill  in  song  the  shears  may  stay. 

And  of  its  purpose  cheat  the  charmed  abyss. 
If  our  poor  life  be  lengthened  by  a  lay. 
He  shall  not  go,  although  his  presence  may. 
And  the  ne.xt  age  in  praise  shall  double  this. 

Long  days  be  his,  and  each  as  lusty-sweet 
As  gracious  natures  find  his  song  to  be  ; 
May  Age  steal  on  with  softly  cadenced  feet 
Falling  in  music,  as  for  hira  were  meet 
Whose  choicest  verse  is  harsher-toned  than  he ! 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


BAYARD. 


[Lieutenant  Bayard  Wilkeson.  commanding  Battery  G. 
Fourth  U.  S.  Artillery,  was  mort.illy  wounded  by  a  cannon-ball  in 
llic  first  day's  battle  at  Gettysburg.  He  had  asked  for  water,  and 
when  they  put  into  his  hand  a  canteen  filled  with  the  scarce  fluid, 
a  mantiled  Connecticut  soldier  lyin^,'  near  cried.  "  Lieutenant,  for 
God's  sake,  yive  me  a  drink,"  The  dying  officer  passed  the  can, 
teen  untasted  to  the  .soldier,  who  drained  it  of  its  last  drop.  The 
hero,  whose  life  was  crowned  by  this  act  of  chivalry,  was  only 
nineteen  years  of  age.  The  Government  honored  itself  by  civin^ 
him  three  brevet  promotions  after  death  for  >;alhinlry  in  dilferenl 
actions.] 

Borne  by  the  soldiers  he  had  led  to  liattle 
On  that  ill-omened  and  disastrous  day, 


-S 


fl- 


852 


PEliSONAL  POEMS. 


-it) 


Left,  torn  niul  cnisluul,  uiitoiulml  lunl  iiiiiucUhI, 
Hia  brovo  lilo  oM'iiij;  with  tlio  hoiii-s  nwiiy  ; 

Aivund  liim  liumiui  agony  niiil  tori-or, 
rmms  at  t'lvti',  iiiul  I'vii's  of  imiii  and  woo, 
Tilt'  liuiu'iittitions  ol"  tho  sliriuking  siiirit 
At  tho  glim  coming  of  tho  unseon  foo  ; 

Calmly  ho  lay,  his  wliito  lijis  lookoil  to  smiling, 
As  if  his  soul  as  sontry  stooii  without. 
And  hvm  his  niaivolous  oyos,  alitiady  sliadowod, 
Tho  splondid  counigo  of  liis  race  lookod  out. 

15iit  whon  tho  fioivonoss  of  that  thii'st  foil  on  him, 
'I'hiit  I'omos  whon  lifo  disjwits  itsolf  fivm  oliiy. 
His  failing  sonsns  oaught  a  pitoous  whispor; 
Ho  imt  tho  watov  from  his  liiw  away, 

With  a  di\iuo  and  (lUiv  solt-abi\ogation 
Ihvvo  up  tlio  diiuight  to  ono  his  oouoh  liosidt\ 
And  in  that  aot  of  hmvo,  chivahio  luitionoo, 
With  ono  long  sigh  for  homo,  he,  thirsting,  diod. 

0  stainloss  horo  !  though  thy  lifo  at  dawning 
Fell  into  night,  it  is  not  thoivfore  hist  j 
It  livos  witli  us  in  deeds  of  faith  and  valor. 
In  aims  hy  no  uuhnllowod  impulse  crossed. 

lu'buke  stands  sternly  by  the  bviniming  chalioo 
Whioli  evil  jmssion  tills  our  thii'st  to  slako ; 
Wo  turn  away,  and,  smiling,  whisper  softly, 
"  For  Ikyard's  sake." 

M.\KV  LOl'ISB  RlTTBR. 


FITZ-OREKNE  HALLECK. 


Among  their  graven  shapes  to  whom 

Thy  civic  wi-eatlis  belong, 
0  city  of  his  U>ve  !  make  room 

For  one  whoso  gift  was  song. 

Not  his  the  soldier's  swonl  to  wield, 

Nor  his  the  helm  of  state, 
Nor  glory  of  the  stricken  field. 

Nor  triumph  of  dolxite. 

In  common  ways,  with  common  men, 
He  served  his  race  and  time 

As  well  as  if  his  clerkly  pen 
Had  never  danced  to  rhyme. 


If,  in  tho  tlniuigi'd  and  noisy  mart, 

The  Muses  found  their  son. 
Could  any  say  his  tuiu'l'iil  art 

A  duty  loft  undoiii' ,' 

He  toiled  and  sang  ;  and  year  by  year 
.Men  found  thoir  homes  more  sweet, 

.\ik1  through  a  tenderer  almosphci-e 
Looked  down  tho  brick-wallod  stivot. 

The  (Ireek's  wild  onset  Wall  StiTot  know, 
The  lied  King  walked  Hioadway  ; 

And  Alnwick  Castle's  roses  blew 
From  Palisades  to  15ay. 

Fair  City  by  the  Sea  !  upniise 
His  veil  with  reverent  hands  ; 

And  mingle  with  thy  own  the  praise 
And  pride  of  other  lands. 

Let  (.5i-eoce  his  fiery  lyric  breathe 

Above  her  hero-nins  ; 
And  Scotland,  with  her  holly,  wi-oatho 

'I'ho  llower  he  culled  for  Burns. 

0,  stately  stand  thy  palace  walls. 

Thy  tall  sliiiw  ride  tho  seas  ; 
To-day  thy  poet's  name  ivcalls 

A  prouder  thought  than  these. 

Not  loss  thy  pulse  of  trade  shall  heat. 

Nor  less  thy  tall  tloets  swim. 
That  shaded  sipiaiv  and  dusty  street 

Are  classic  ground  thixnigh  him. 

Alive,  he  loved,  like  all  who  sing, 

The  echoes  of  his  .song  ; 
Too  late  tho  tardy  meed  we  bring, 

Tho  pnuse  delayed  so  long. 

Too  late,  alas  !  —  OS  all  who  knew 

The  living  man,  to-day 
Before  his  unveiled  face,  how  few 

Make  baiv  their  locks  of  gray  ! 

Our  liiw  of  praise  must  soon  lie  dumb, 

Onr  grateful  eyes  be  dim  ; 
0,  brothoi-s  of  the  days  to  come. 

Take  tender  charge  of  him  ! 

New  hands  the  wires  of  song  may  sweep. 

New  voices  challenge  fame  ; 
Hut  let  no  moss  of  years  o'orcreop 

Tho  lines  of  Halleck's  name. 

JOHN  CRBKNLKAF  WlinTIBR. 


6-- 


-^ 


[& 


-a 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


u 


KING   JOHN   AND   THE    ABBOT  OF  CANTER- 
BURY. 


Ak  ancient  story  I  'U  tell  you  anon 
Of  a  notable  prince  that  was  called  King  John  ; 
And  he  ruled  England  with  main  and  with  might, 
For  he  did  great  wrong,  and  maintained  littleright. 

And  I  '11  tell  you  a  story,  a  story  so  nieriy, 
Concerning  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury  ; 
How  for  his  house-keeiiing  and  high  renown. 
They  rode  poste  for  him  to  fair  London  townc. 

An  hundred  men  tlie  king  did  heare  say. 
The  abbot  kept  in  his  house  every  day  ; 
And  fifty  golde  chaynes  without  any  doubt, 
In  velvet  coates  waited  the  abbot  about. 

"  How  now,  father  abbot,  I  heare  it  of  thee, 
Thou  keepest  a  farre  better  house  than  mee  ; 
And  for  thy  house-keeping  and  high  renowne, 
I  feare  thou  work'st  treason  against  my  crown." 

"My  liege,"  quo'  the  abbot,   "I  would  it  were 

knowne 
I  never  spend  nothing,  but  what  is  my  owne  ; 
And  I  trust  your  grace  will  doe  me  no  deere, 
For  spending  of  my  owne  true-gotten  geere." 

"  Yes,  yes,  father  abbot,  thy  fault  it  is  highe, 
And  now  for  the  same  thou  needest  must  dye  ; 
For  except  thou  canst  answer  me  questions  three. 
Thy  head  shall  be  smitten  from  thy  Imdie. 

"And  first,"  quo'  the  king,  "  when  I  'm  in  this 

stead, 
With  my  crowne  of  golde  so  faire  on  my  head, 
Among  all  my  liege-men  so  noble  of  birthe, 
Thou  must  tell  me  to  one    penny   what  I   am 

worthe. 

"  Secondly,  tell  me,  without  any  doubt. 
How  soone  I  may  ride  the  whole  world  about ; 
And  at  the  third  question  thou  must  not  shrink. 
But  tell  me  here  truly  what  I  do  think." 


"  0  these  are  hard  questions  for  my  shallow  witt 
Nor  I  cannot  answer  your  grace  as  yet ; 
But  if  you  will  give  me  but  three  weeks'  space, 
lie  do  my  endeavor  to  answer  your  grace." 

"  Now  three  weeks'  space  to  thee  will  I  give, 
And  that  is  the  longest  time  thou  hast  to  live  ; 
For  if  thou  dost  not  answer  my  questions  three, 
Thy  lands  and  thy  livings  are  forfeit  to  mee." 

Away  rode  the  abbot  all  sad  at  that  word. 
And  he  rode  to  Cambridge,  and  Oxcnford ; 
But  never  a  doctor  there  was  so  wise. 
That  could  with  his  learning  an  answer  devise. 

Then  home  rode  the  abbot  of  comfort  so  cold. 

And  he  met  his  shepheard  a-going  to  fold  : 

"  How  now,   my  lord  abbot,  you  are  welcome 

home  ; 
What  newes  do  you  bring  us  from  good  King 

John  ? " 

' '  Sad  new.s,  sad  news,  shepheard,  I  must  give, 
That  I  have  but  three  days  more  to  live  ; 
For  if  I  do  not  answer  him  questions  three, 
Jly  head  will  be  smitten  from  my  bodie. 

' '  The  first  is  to  tell  him,  there  in  that  stead, 
With  his  crowne  of  golde  so  fair  on  his  head. 
Among  all  his  liege-men  so  noble  of  birth. 
To  within  one  penny  of  what  he  is  worth. 

"  The  seconde,  to  tell  him  without  any  doubt. 
How  soone  he  may  ride  this  whole  world  about ; 
And  at  the  third  question  I  mast  not  shrinke, 
But  tell  him  there  truly  what  he  does  thinke." 

"  Now  cheare  up,  sire  abbot,  did  vou  never  lic.ir 

yet, 

That  a  fool  he  may  learne  a  wise  man  witt  ? 
Lend  me  hor-se,  and  serving-men,  and  your  ap- 
parel. 
And  He  ride  to  London  to  answere  your  quarrel 

"  Nay,  frowne  not,  if  it  hath  bin  told  unto  me, 
I  am  like  your  lordship,  as  ever  may  be  ; 


-S 


[&■ 


-a 


85-i 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


And  if  you  will  but  lend  me  youi-  gowne, 
There  is  none  shall  knowusatfair  London  towne." 

"  Now  hoi-ses  and  serving-men  thou  shalt  have, 
With  sumptuous  array  most  gallant  and  brave, 
AVith  crozier,  and  miter,  and  rochet,  and  cope, 
Fit  to  ajjpear  'lore  oui-  fader  the  pope." 

"Now  welcome,  sireabbot,"  the  king  he  did  say, 
"  'T  is  well  thou  'rt  come  back  to  keepe  thy  day  : 
For  and  if  thou  canst  answer  my  questions  three. 
Thy  life  and  thy  living  both  saved  shall  be. 

"  And  first,  when  thou  seestme  here  in  this  stead, 
With  my  crowne  of  golde  so  fair  on  my  head, 
Among  all  my  liege-men  so  noble  of  birthe, 
Tell  me  to  one  penny  what  I  am  worth." 

"  For  thirty  pence  our  Saviour  was  sold 
Among  the  false  Jewes,  as  1  have  bin  told  : 
And  twenty-nine  is  the  worth  of  thee, 
For  I  thinko  thou  art  one  penny  worser  than  lie." 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  St.  Bittel, 
"I  did  not  think  I  had  been  worth  so  littel ! 

—  Now  secondly  tell  me,  without  any  doubt. 
How  soone  1  may  ride  this  whole  world  about." 

"You  must  rise  with  the  sun,  and  ritie  with  the 

same 
Until  the  next  morning  he  riseth  againe ; 
And  then  your  grace  need  not  make  any  doubt 
But  in  twenty-four  hours  you  '11  ride  it  about." 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  St.  Jone, 
"  1  did  not  think  it  could  be  gone  so  soone  ! 

—  Now  from  the  third  question  thou  must  not 

shrinke. 
But  tell  me  here  truly  what  1  do  thinke." 

"Yea,   that  shall  I  do,   and  make  your  grace 

merry  ; 
You  thinke  1  'm  the  abbot  of  Canterbury  ; 
But  I  'm  his  poor  shepheard,  as  plain  you  may  see, 
That  am  come  to  beg  pardon  for  him  and  for  me." 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  .swore  by  the  Masse, 
"He  make  thee  lord  abbot  this  day  in  his  place !" 
"Now  naye,  my  liege,  be  not  in  such  speede. 
For  alacke  I  can  neither  write  ne  reade." 

"  Four  nobles  a  week,  then  I  will  give  thee. 
For  this  merry  jest  thou  hast  showne  unto  me  ; 
And  tell  the  old  abbot  when  thou  comest  home. 
Thou  hast  brought  him  a  pardon  from  good  King 
,Tohn." 


t&-- 


JOHN  BABLEYCORN.* 

There  was  three  kings  into  the  East, 
Three  kings  both  great  and  liigh. 

And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a  plow  and  plowed  him  down. 

Put  clods  upon  his  head. 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath, 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  showers  began  to  fall  ; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  sore  surprised  them  all. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 
And  he  grew  thick  and  strong. 

His  head  well  armed  wi'  pointed  spears, 
That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  entered  mild, 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale  ; 
His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 

Showed  he  began  to  fail. 

His  color  sickened  more  aud  more. 

He  faded  into  age  ; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

They  've  ta'en  a  weapon  long  and  sharp. 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 
And  tied  him  fast  upon  the  cart. 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 

They  laid  him  domi  upon  his  back, 

And  cudgeled  him  full  sore  ; 
They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm. 

And  turned  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

They  fiUfed  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim. 
They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 

To  work  him  further  woe. 
And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appeared, 

They  tossed  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted,  o'er  a  scorching  flame, 

The  marrow  of  his  hones  ; 
But  a  miller  used  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crushed  him  between  two  stones. 

•  An  Improvement  on  a  very  old  ballad  found  In  a  black-letter 
volume  in  the  Pepys  library.  Cambridge  University. 


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HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


855 


--^ 


f& 


Aiid  tliey  liae  ta'en  his  verj-  heart's  blood, 
And  drank  it  rouud  and  round  ; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise  ; 
For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

'T  will  make  your  courage  rise. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

Each  man  a  glass  in  hand  ; 
And  may  his  great  posterity 

Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland  ! 

ROBERT  BURNS, 


OF  A  CERTAINE  MAN. 

There    was    (not    certaine    when)    a   certaine 

preacher, 
That  never  learned,  and  yet  became  a  teacher. 
Who  having  read  in  Latine  thus  a  text 
Of  erat  quidam  homo,  much  perplext. 
He  seemed  the  same  with  studie  great  to  scan, 
In  English  thus,  Tlitrc  was  a  certaine  man. 
But  now  (ijuotli  he)  good  people,  note  you  this. 
He  saith  there  was,  he  doth  not  say  there  is ; 
For  in  these  dales  of  ours  it  is  most  plaine 
Of  i)romise,  oath,  word,  deed,  no  man  's  certaine  ; 
Yet  by  my  text  you  see  it  comes  to  passe 
That  surely  once  a  certaine  man  there  was : 
But  yet,  I  think,  in  all  your  Bible  no  man 
Can  fiude  this  text,  Tlierc  was  a  certaine  wo- 
man. 

SIR  JOHN  HARRINGTON. 


EPIGRAMS  BY  SIR  JOHN  HARRINGTON. 

OF  TREASON. 

Treason  doth  never  prosper ;  what 's  the  reason  ? 
For  if  it  prosper,  none  dare  call  it  treason. 

OF  FORTUNE. 

Fortune,  men  say,  doth  give  too  much  to  many, 
But  yet  she  never  gave  enough  to  any. 

OF  WRITERS   THAT    CARP   AT   OTHER  MEN'S 
BOOKS. 

The  readers  and  the  hearers  like  my  books, 
But  yet  some  writers  cannot  them  digest ; 
But  what  care  I  ?    For  when  I  make  a  feast, 
I  would  my  guests  should  praise  it,  not  the  cooks. 


A  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DOG. 

I  WAS  a  scholar :  seven  useful  springs 

Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 

Of  crossed  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man  ; 

The  more  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learnt  to  doubt. 

Delight,  my  spaniel,  slept,  whilst  I  baused  leaves. 

Tossed  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 

Of  titled  words  ;  and  still  my  spaniel  slept, 

Whilst  1  wasted  laniii-oil,  baited  my  Hesh, 

Slirunk  up  my  veins  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

And  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabarell, 

Acjuinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 

Of  Antick  Donate  :  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

Still  on  went  I  ;  first,  an  sit  anima  ; 

Then,   an   it  were   mortal.     0   hold,  hold ;   at 

that 
They  're  at  brain  buffets,  fell  by  the  eai-s  amain 
Pell-mell  together  :  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Then,  whether  't  were  corporeal,  local,  iixt. 
Ex  traduce,  but  whether  't  had  free  will 
Or  no,  hot  philosophers 

Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propt ; 
1  .staggered,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part, 
But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observed,  and  pried, 
Stufft  uoting-books  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
At  length  he  waked,  and  yawned ;   and  by  yon 

sky, 
For  aught  I  know,  he  knew  as  much  as  I . 

John  Marston. 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

Beside,  lie  was  a  shrewd  philosopher, 
And  had  read  every  text  and  gloss  over  ; 
Whate'er  the  ci-abbed'st  author  hath. 
He  understood  b'  implicit  faith. 
Whatever  skeptic  could  inqnire  for. 
For  every  why  he  had  a  wherefore  ; 
Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do, 
As  far  as  words  and  tenns  could  go  : 
All  which  he  understood  by  rote. 
And,  as  occasion  .served,  w^ould  quote  ; 
No  matter  whether  right  or  WTong  ; 
They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 
His  notions  fitted  things  so  well 
That  which  wa.s  which  he  could  not  tell ; 
But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 
For  the  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done. 
He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts, 
And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts  ; 
"Wliere  entity  and  quiddity, 
The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,  fly  ; 
■WTiere  truth  in  person  does  appear. 
Like  words  congealed  in  northern  air  : 
He  knew  what 's  what,  and  that 's  as  high 
As  metaphysic  wit  can  fly. 


-^ 


©-: 


856 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-^ 


LOaiC  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

Hk  whs  in  logio  u  jjiTiit  critic, 
Proroiiiully  skiUfd  in  iinalytic  ; 
He  couKl  ili.stingiiish  ami  ilivido 
A  liiiir  'twixt  soutli  lunl  southwest  side  ; 
On  either  wliich  ho  would  dispute, 
Confute,  ehimge  hiinds,  and  still  confute 
He  'd  undeitiike  to  prove,  liy  foix'e 
Of  iir^unient,  a  man  's  no  horso  ; 
He  'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  lord  may  lie  an  owl, 
A  ealf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice. 
And  rooks  coinnuttee-men  and  trustees. 
He  'li  run  in  debt  by  disptitation. 
And  pay  with  rntioeiinition  : 
All  this  by  syllogism  true, 
lu  mood  and  ligure  he  would  do. 


THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING* 

"'Sinn,  lic.ncnly  Muse  I 
Thiii^:s  uuattciuplcd  yd.  iit  prose  or  rliyiiic' 
A  sliilllDK'i  breeches,  aud  chimeras  dire." 

Hai'I'Y  tlie  man  wlio,  void  of  cares  and  strife. 
In  silken  or  in  leather  purse  retains 
A  Splendid  Shilling  :  ho  nor  hears  with  pain 
New  oysters  cried,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale  ; 
But  with  his  friends,  when  nightly  mists  arise. 
To  Juniper's  Magpie,  or  Town-hall  repairs  ; 
AVhere,  mindful  of  the  nymph,  who-so  \vant(ni  eye 
Translixed  his  soul,  ami  kindled  amorous  tlames, 
t'hloe,  or  rhillis,  he  each  circling  glass 
Wishetli  her  health,  and  joy,  ami  eipml  love. 
Meanwhile,  he  smokes,  and  laughs  at  merry  tale, 
Or  pun  ambiguous,  or  conumlrum  ()Uaiut. 
Hut  1,  whom  griping  penury  surrounds, 
.\nd  Hunger,  sure  attendant  upon  Want, 
■\Vith  scanty  otlnls,  and  small  acid  till', 
(Wretched  irpa.st  !)  my  meager  eorp.'ie  sustain  : 
Tlicn  solitary  walk,  or  doze  at  home 
In  garret  vile,  and  w  ith  a  warming  putV 
Kegale  chilled  fingers  :  or  from  tube  as  black 
.\s  winter-ehimney,  or  well-polished  jet, 
K.\hale  inunilungus,  ill-perfuming  scent : 
Not  blacker  tube,  nor  of  a  shorter  size, 
Snuikes  Cambro-liriton  (verseil  in  pedigree, 
Sprung  IVon\  Cadwallador  and  Arthur,  kings 
Full  famous  in  ronumtie  tale')  when  he, 
O'er  many  a  craggy  liill  and  barren  cliU', 
Upon  a  cargo  of  famed  Cestrian  cheese. 
High  overshadowing  rides,  with  a  design 
To  vend  his  wares,  or  at  the  Arvonian  mart, 
Or  Maridnnum,  or  the  ancient  town 
Vclept  Brechinia,  or  whore  Vaga's  stream 


i:u- 


or  the  style  orMiltoiv 


Encircles  Aricouiuiu,  fruitful  soil  ! 

Whence  How  uoctaroous  wines,   that   well   may 

vie 
With  Massic,  Setin,  or  renowned  Falern. 

Thus  do  1  live,  from  pleasure  ipiitc  debarred, 
Nor  taste  the  fruits  that  the  Sun's  genial  rays 
Mature,  jolin-apple,  nor  the  downy  peach, 
Nor  walnut  in  rough-furrowed  coat  secure. 
Nor  medlar,  fruit  delicious  in  tlecay  ; 
Afflictions  groat !  yet  greater  still  remain  : 
My  galligaskins,  that  liave  long  withstood 
The  winter's  fury,  ami  encroaching  frosts. 
By  time  subdued  (what  will  not  time  subdue  !) 
-Vn  horrid  chasm  disclosed  with  oritiee 
Wide,  discontinuous  ;  iit  which  the  winds, 
Eurus  and  Austcr,  and  the  dreadful  force 
Of  Uoreas,  that  congeals  the  Cronian  waves. 
Tumultuous  enter  with  dire,  chilling  blasts. 
Portending  agues.     Thus  a  well-fraught  ship. 
Long  sailed  secure,  or  through  the  ^Egean  deop, 
Or  the  Ionian,  till  cruising  near 
The  Lilybean  shore,  with  hideous  crush 
On  Scylla,  or  Charybdis  (dangerous  rocks  !) 
She  strikes  rebounding;  whence   the  shattered 

oak. 
So  fierce  a  shock  mnible  to  withstand. 
Admits  the  sea  ;  in  at  the  gaping  side 
The  crowding  waves  gush  with  impetuous  rage, 
Kesistless,  overwhelming;  horrors  seize 
The  mariners  ;  Death  in  their  eyes  appears. 
They  stare,  they  lave,  they  pump,   tliey  swear, 

they  pray  : 
(Vain  efforts  !)  still  the  battering  waves  rush  in, 
Imiilacable,  till,  deluged  by  the  foam. 
The  ship  sinks  foundering  in  the  vast  abyss. 


THE  CHAMELEON. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
.■\  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark, 
'  With  eyes  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  post ; 
Yet  rounil  the  world  the  blade  has  been. 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen. 
Keturning  from  his  finishetl  tour. 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before ; 
W'hatever  word  you  chance  to  drop. 
The  traveleil  fool  yotir  mouth  will  stop  ; 
"Sir,  if  my  jtidgmcnt  you  '11  allow  — 
I  "vo  seen  —  and  .sure  I  ought  to  know." 
So  begs  you  'd  pay  a  duo  submission, 
And  acipiiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travelers  of  such  a  cast. 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  passed. 
And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat, 


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857 


a 


Now  talked  of  this,  and  then  of  that, 
Discom-sed  awhile,  'mongst  other  matter, 
Of  the  ehameleon's  form  aud  nature. 
"A  stranger  animal,"  erics  one, 
"Sure  never  lived  beneatli  the  sun  ; 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  ami  long, 
A  fish's  head,  a  serpent's  tongue. 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined  ; 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind  ! 
How  slow  its  pace  !  and  then  its  hue  — 
Wlio  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  ? " 

"Hold  there,"  the  other  i^uick  replies; 
"'T  is  green,  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes. 
As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay. 
And  warmed  it  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 
Stretched  at  its  ease  the  beast  1  viewed. 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 

"I  've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, 
And  must  again  alfirm  it  blue  ; 
At  leisure  I  the  beast  sun-eyerl 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade." 

"'T  is  green,  't  is  green,  .sir,  I  a.ssure  yo." 
"Green  !  "  cries  the  other  in  a  fury  ; 
"  Why,  sir,  d'  ye  think  I  've  lo.st  my  eyes?" 
"'T  were  no  great  loss,"  the  friend  replies  ; 
"  For  if  they  always  servo  you  thus. 
You  '11  find  them  but  of  little  use." 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose. 
From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows : 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third  ; 
To  him  the  (juestion  tlicy  n-fi-rred, 
And  begged  he  '<1  tell  them,  if  hi^  knew. 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 

"Sir.s,"  cries  the  umpire,  "cease  your  potlier  ; 
The  creature  's  neither  one  nor  t'  other. 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night, 
And  viewed  it  o'er  by  candlelight ; 
I  marked  it  well,  't  was  black  as  jet  — 
You  stare  —  but,  sirs,  I  've  got  it  yet. 
And  can  produce  it."     "  I'ray,  sir,  do  ; 
I  '11  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue." 
"And  I  '11  be  sworn,  that  when  you  've  seen 
The  reptile,  you  '11  pronounce  him  green." 
"  Well,  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doulit," 
Replies  the  man,  "  I  '11  turn  him  out ; 
And  whi!n  before  your  eyes  I  've  set  him. 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I  '11  eat  him." 

He  said  ;  and  lull  lieforo  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  and  lo  !  —  't  was  white. 
I'oth  stared  ;  the  man  looked  wondrous  wise  — 
"  My  cliildren,"  the  chameleon  cries 
(Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue), 
"You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong  : 
When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view. 
Think  others  see  as  well  as  you  ; 
Nor  wonder  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eyesight  to  his  own." 

Jambs  Merrick. 


u 


THE  VICAE  OF  BRAY. 

[■•  Tin-  Vi..,ir  .,f  Bray  In  licrkslilrc,  Lngliinil,  was  Sfmon  Allcyn. 
or  All'  11.  in  1  I  i  II  hr  place  from  1540  to  1588.  He  wab  a  Papist 
uti'li  r  I       <  I    1 1  M  y  the  Eighth,  and  a  Protectant  under  U(l- 

warli  II        I    .1  Papist  again  under  Mary,  and  once  more 

bet. (11"  I  I  r  I'  I  :..!  in  the  reign  of  Lliiuihcth.  When  tills  scandal 
to  the  ^iiwii  wa^  rcpf^ached  for  his  versatiUty  of  religious  creeds, 
and  taxed  for  being  a  turn-coat  and  an  Inconstant  changeling,  as 
puller  expresses  It,  he  replied ;  "Not  so,  neither  ;  fur  if  1  changed 
my  religion,  1  am  sure  I  kept  true  to  my  principle,  which  U  to  live 
and  die  the  Vicar  of  Bray."  —  DlSRAULl. 

In  good  King  Charles's  golden  days, 

When  loyalty  no  hann  meant, 
A  zealous  liigh-cliurchman  was  I, 

And  so  1  got  iireferment. 
To  teach  my  flock  1  never  missed  : 

Kings  were  by  <Joil  ap[iointed, 

And  lost  are  those  that  ilare  resist 

Or  touch  the  Loril's  anointed. 

Anil  I/Us  is  law  thai  I'll  maintain 

IJiilil  my  dying  day,  sir. 
That  vjimtsoever  king  slmll  reign, 
Still  I'll  be  Die  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

When  royal  James  |ios.sessed  the  crown. 

And  pojiery  came  in  fashion. 
The  [lenal  laws  1  hooteii  down. 

And  reiul  the  Ueclaration  ; 
The  Church  of  Rome  I  found  would  fit 

Full  well  my  constitution; 
And  I  had  been  a  Jesuit 

But  for  the  llevolution. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

When  Willi.im  was  our  king  declared, 

To  ease  the  nation's  grievance  ; 
With  this  new  wind  about  1  steered. 

And  swore  to  him  alli'giiincc  ; 
Ohl  principles  I  did  revoke, 

.Set  conscience  at  a  distance  ; 
Passive  obedience  was  a  joke, 

A  jest  wa-s  non-resistance. 
And  thii  is  lav;,  etc. 

When  royal  Anne  became  our  queen. 

The  C^hurch  of  Kngland's  glory. 
Another  face  of  things  was  seen. 

And  I  became  a  Tory  ; 
Occasional  confoniiists  base, 

I  blamed  their  moderation  ; 
And  thought  the  Church  in  danger  was. 

By  such  prevarication. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

When  George  in  pudding-time  came  o'er. 
And  moiierate  men  looked  big,  sir. 

My  principles  I  changed  once  more, 
And  BO  became  a  Whig,  sir; 

Anil  thus  prefeiTnent  I  procured 


-^ 


a-: 


858 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


n 


From  our  new  faitli's-defender, 
And  almost  every  day  abjured 
The  Poiio  and  the  Pretender. 
And  Ihis  is  law,  etc. 

The  iUustrious  house  of  Hanover, 

And  Protestant  succession, 
To  these  I  do  allegiance  swear  — 

AVhile  they  can  keep  possession  : 
For  in  my  faith  and  loyalty 

I  nevermore  will  falter. 
And  George  my  lawful  king  shall  be  — 

Until  the  times  do  alter. 
And  this  is  law,  etc. 

ANONYMOUS. 


GOOD  ALE. 

1  CANNOT  eat  but  little  meat,  — 

My  stomach  is  not  good  ; 
But,"  sure,  1  think  that  1  can  drink 

AVith  auy  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  1  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care ; 

I  nothing  am  a-cold,  — 
1  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare  ; 
Both  foot  and  luind  go  cold  ; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Wlvelhcr  U  be  mw  or  old  ! 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fue  ; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead,  — 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
Ko  frost,  nor  snow,  nor  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold,  — 
I  am  so  wrapt,  and  thorowly  lapt 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side,  etc. 

And  Tyb,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek. 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  you  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek  ; 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl. 

Even  as  a  malt-worm  should ; 
And  saith,  "  Sweetheart,  I  took  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old." 
Back  and  side,  etc. 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  %vink, 
Kven  as  good  fellows  should  do ; 

They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 
Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to  ; 

And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured  bowls. 
Or  have  them  lustily  trowled, 


God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 
\\Tiether  they  be  young  or  old  ! 
Back  and  sidt.,  etc. 

JOHN  STILL. 


GLUGGITY  GLUG. 

FROM  "THE  MYRTLE  AND  THE  VINE." 

A  JOLLY  fat  friar  loved  liquor  good  store. 
And  he  had  drunk  stoutly  at  supper  ; 
He  mounted  his  horse  in  the  night  at  the  door. 

And  sat  with  his  face  to  the  crupper : 
"Some  rogue,"  quoth  the  friar,    " (piitc  dead  to 
remorse, 
Some  thief,  whom  a  halter  will  throttle. 
Some  scoundrel  has  cut  otf  the  head  of  my  horse. 
While  I  was  engaged  at  the  bottle. 

Which  went  ghiggity,  gluggity  —  glug 
—  glug  — glug." 

The  tail  of  the  steed  pointed  south  on  the  dale, 

'T  was  the  friar's  road  home,  straight  and  level; 
But,  when  spurred,  a  horse  follows  his  nose,  not 
his  tail. 
So  he  scampered  due  north,  like  a  devil  : 
"  This  new  mode  of  docking,"  the  friar  then  said, 

"  I  perceive  does  n't  make  a  horse  trot  ill  ; 
And  't  is  cheap,  —for  he  never  can  eat  off  his 
head 
■\Vhilo  1  am  engaged  at  the  bottle. 

Which  goes  gluggity,   gluggity  —  glug 
—  glug  — glufe'-" 

The  steed  made  a  stop,  —  in  a  pond  he  had  got. 

He  was  rather  for  drinking  than  grazing  ; 
Quoth  the  friar,  " 'T  is  strange  headless  horses 
should  trot. 
But  to  drink  with  their  tails  is  anuizing !  " 
Turning  round  to  see  whence  this  phenomenon 
rose, 
In  the  pond  fell  this  son  of  a  pottle  ; 
Quoth  he,    "The  head  's  found,  for  1  'm  under 
his  nose,  — 
I  wish  I  were  over  a  bottle. 

Which  goes  gluggit)',  gluggity  —  glug 
—  glug— glug." 

GEORGE  COLMAN.  THE  YOUNGER. 


THE  BROWN  JTJG. 

Dear  Tom,  this  brown  jug  that  now  foams  with 

mild  ale 
(In  which  I  will  drink  to  sweet  Nan  of  the  vale) 
Was  once  Toby  Fillpot,  a  thirsty  old  soul, 
As  e'er  drank  a  bottle,  or  fathomed  a  bowl ; 


[& 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


859 


-a 


U-- 


In  bousiug  about 't  was  his  praise  to  excel, 
And  among  jolly  topers  he  bore  otf  the  bell. 

It  chanced  as  in  dog-days  he  siit  at  his  ease, 
In  his  flower-woven  arbor,  as  gay  as  you  please. 
With  a  friend  and  a  pi|je, puffing  sorrows  away. 
And  with  honest  old  stingo  was  soaking  his  clay. 
His  breath-doors  of  lile  on  a  sudden  were  shut. 
And  he  died  full  as  big  as  a  Dorchester  butt. 

His  body,  when  long  in  the  giound  it  had  lain. 
And  time  into  clay  hiid  resolved  it  again, 
A  potter  found  out  in  its  covert  so  snug, 
And  with  part  of  fat  Toby  he  formed  this  brown 

jug; 

Now  sacred  to  friendship,  to  mirth,  and  mild 

ale, 
So  here  's  to  my  lovely  sweet  Xan  of  the  vale  ! 


JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

John-  Davidson  and  Tib  his  wife 
Sat  toastin'  their  taes  ae  night. 

When  somethin'  started  on  the  fluir 
An'  blinkJ;d  by  their  sight. 

"Guidwife!"    quo'   John,     "did  ye    see 
mouse  ? 
Whar  sorra  was  the  cat  ? " 
"A  mouse?"      "Ay,  a  mouse."      "  Na, 
Guidman, 
It  wasna  a  mouse,  't  was  a  rat." 

"0,  0  Guidwife,  to  think  ye  've  been 

Sae  lang  about  the  house. 
An'  no  to  ken  a  mouse  frae  a  rat ! 

Yon  wasna  a  rat,  but  a  mouse  ! " 

"I  've  seen  mair  mice  than  you,  Guidman, 

An'  what  think  ye  o'  that  ? 
Sae  hand  your  tongue  an'  say  nae  mair,  — 

I  tell  ye  't  was  a  rat." 

"  Me  baud  my  tongue  for  you,  Guidn-ife ! 

I  '11  be  maister  o'  this  house,  — 
I  saw  it  as  plain  as  een  could  see. 

An'  I  tell  ye  't  was  a  moase  !" 

"If  you  're  the  maister  o'  the  house. 

It  's  I  'm  the  mistress  o'  't ; 
An'  I  ken  best  what  's  i'  the  house,  — 

Sae  I  tell  ye  't  was  a  rat." 

"Weel,  weel,  Guidwife,  gae  mak  the  brose, 

An'  ca'  it  what  ye  please. " 
Sae  up  she  gat  an'  made  the  brose, 

While  John  sat  toastin'  his  taes. 


They  suppit  an'  suppit  an'  suppit  the  brose. 

An'  aye  their  lips  played  smack  ; 
They  suppit  an'  suppit  an'  suppit  the  brose 

Till  their  lugs  began  to  crack. 

"  Sic  fules  we  were  to  fa'  out,  Guidwife, 

About  a  mouse. "     "A  what ! 
It  's  a  lee  ye  tell,  an'  I  say  again, 

It  wasna  a  mouse,  't  was  a  rat." 

"  Wad  ye  ca'  me  a  leear  to  my  very  face  ? 

My  faith,  but  ye  craw  croose  !  — 
I  tell  ye,  Tib,  I  never  will  bear  't,  — 

'Twas  a  mouse."    "  'T  was  a  rat"     "  'T  was  a 


Wi'  that  she  stnick  him  ower  the  pow. 

"  Ye  dour  auld  doit,  tak'  that ! 
Gae  to  your  bed,  ye  cankered  sumph  ! 

'T  was  a  rat."     "  T  was  a  mouse  ! "     "'Twas 
a  rat ! " 

She  sent  the  brose-cup  at  his  heels 

As  he  hirpled  ben  the  house  ; 
But  he  shoved  out  his  head  as  he  steckit  the 
door. 

An'  cried,  "  'T  was  a  mouse,  't  was  a  mouse !  " 

Yet  when  the  auld  carle  fell  asleep. 

She  paid  him  back  for  that. 
An'  roared  into  his  sleepin'  lug, 

"  'T  was  a  rat,  't  w,%s  a  rat,  't  was  a  rat  !  " 

The  deil  be  wi'  me,  if  I  think 

It  was  a  beast  at  all. 
Next  mornin',  when  she  sweept  the  floor. 

She  found  wee  Johnie's  ball  ! 

ANO.VYMOUS 


THE  VmTtTOSO.' 


Nugari  solit 


WnrioM  by  silver  Thames's  gentle  stream. 
In  London  toivn  there  dwelt  a  subtle  wight,  — 

A  wight  of  mickle  wealth,  and  mickle  fame. 
Book-learned  and  quaint :  a  Virtuoso  hight. 

Uncommon  things,  and  rare,  were  his  delight ; 
From  musings  deep  his  brain  ne'er  gotten  ease. 

Nor  ceased  he  from  .study,  day  or  night. 
Until  (advancing  onward  by  degrees) 
He  knew  whatever  breeds  on  earth  or  air  ot 


'  In  imitation  of  Spenser's  style  and  s 


-^ 


[&^ 


860 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-^ 


& 


He  many  a  creature  did  anatomize, 

Almost  unpeoijling  water,  air,  and  land  ; 

Beasts,  fishes,  birds,  snails,  caterpillars.  Hies, 
Were  laid  full  low  by  his  relentless  hand, 

That  oft  witli  gory  crimson  was  distaiiied  ; 
Ho  many  a  dog  destroyed,  and  many  a  cat ; 

Of  Ileus  his  bed,  of  frogs  the  marshes  drained, 
Could  tellcn  if  a  mite  were  lean  or  fat, 
And  read  a  lecture  o'er  the  entrails  of  a  gnat. 

lie  knew  the  various  modes  of  ancient  times. 

Their  arts  and  fashions  of  each  ditforent  guise, 
Their  weddings,  funerals,  punishments  for  crimes, 

Their  strength,  their  learning  eke,  and  rarities ; 
Of  old  habiliments,  each  sort  and  size, 

Male,  female,  high  and  low,  to  him  were  known  ; 
Each  gladiator  dress,  and  stage  disguise  ; 

With  learned,  clerkly  idiraso  he;  could  have 
shown 

How  till-  theek  tunic  differed  from  the  Koman 


A  c\irious  medalist,  1  wot,  ho  was. 

And  boasted  many  a  course  of  ancient  coin 

Well  as  his  wife's  he  knewen  every  face. 
From  Julius  Cajsar  down  to  Constantine  : 

For  some  rare  sculpture  ho  would  oft  ypine, 
(As  green-sick  damosels  for  husbands  do  ;) 

And  when  obtainkl,  with  enraptured  eyne. 
He  'd  run  it  o'er  and  o'er  with  greedy  view. 
And  look,  and  look  again,  as  he  would  look  it 
through. 

His  rich  nuiseum,  of  dimensions  fair. 
With  goods  that  spoke  the  owner's  mind  was 
fraught : 

Things  ancient,  curious,  value-worth,  and  rare. 
From  sea  and  land,  from  Greece  and  Rome, 
were  brought, 

Wliirli  he  with  mighty  sums  of  gold  had  bought : 
On  these  all  tides  with  joyous  eyes  he  ])ored  ; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  himself  he  greater  thought, 
When  he  beheld  his  cabinets  thus  stored, 
Than  if  he  'd  been  of  Albion's  wealthy  cities 


THE  HARE  AND  MANY  FRIENDS. 

Fkiend.siiii',  like  love,  is  but  a  name, 
Tnless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame, 
The  cliild,  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 
'T  is  thus  in  friendship  ;  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 

A  hare  who,  in  a  civil  wav, 


Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train 
Who  haunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the  plain ; 
Her  care  was  never  to  oft'end  ; 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 
A.S  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn, 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn. 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  cries, 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath ; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death  ; 
She  doubles,  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round  ; 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way, 
Half  dead  with  fear  she  ga.sping  lay. 

What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  horse  appeared  in  view  ! 

"  Let  me,"  says  she,  "your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 
To  friendship  every  burden  's  light." 

The  horse  replied,  "Poor  honest  puss. 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  theo  thus  : 
Be  comforted,  relief  is  near, 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  tlie  rear." 

She  next  the  stately  bull  implored  ; 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord  : 
"Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offense,  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 
Love  calls  me  hence  ;  a  favorite  cow 
Expects  me  near  yon  barley-mow  ; 
And,  when  a  lady 's  in  the  case. 
You  know,  all  other  things  give  place. 
To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind  ; 
But,  see,  the  goat  is  just  behind." 

The  goat  remarked,  her  pulse  •n'as  high, 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye  : 

"  My  back,"  says  he,  "may  do  you  harm  ; 
The  sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm." 

The  sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wood  sustained  ; 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears  ; 
For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  w-ell  as  hares. 
She  now  the  trotting  calf  addressed, 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 
"Sl}all  I,"  .says  he,  " of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  ease  engage  ? 
Older  and  abler  passed  you  by  ; 
How  strong  are  those  !     How  weak  am  I  ! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence. 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  olfense. 
Excuse  me,  then  ;  you  know  my  heart  ; 
But  dearest  friends,  ala.s  !  must  part. 
How  shall  we  all  lament !    Adieu  ! 
For  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view." 

JOHN  Gay. 


-ff 


fl- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


8G1 


^ 


fe 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

Good  i)eo2)le  all,  of  eveiy  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song  ; 
And  if  you  liud  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  Wiis  a  man, 
(-)f  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran  — 
Whene'er  he  went  to  praj'. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had. 

To  comfort  friend-s  and  foes  : 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad  — 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound. 

And  cur  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But  when  a  picfue  began. 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  jjrivate  ends. 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighoring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran. 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits. 
To  bite  so  good  a  man  ! 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye  : 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad. 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied  :  — 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite. 
The  dog  it  was  that  died  ! 

OLIVER  GOtDSMlTH. 


ELEGY  ON  MADAM  BLAIZE. 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord. 
Lament  for  Madam  Blaize  ; 

Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  passed  her  door, 
And  always  found  her  kind  ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor  — 
Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please. 
With  manner  wondrous  winning  ; 


She  never  followed  wicked  ways  — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silk  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size. 
She  never  slumbered  in  her  pew  — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver. 

By  twenty  beaux,  or  more  ; 
The  king  himself  has  followed  her  — 

When  she  has  walked  before. 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  haugers-on  cut  short  all. 
Her  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead  — 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore  ; 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say. 
That,  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more  — 

She  had  not  died  to-day. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE  NOSE  AlO)  THE  EYES. 

Between  Nose  and  Ej'es  a  strange  contest  arose  • 
The  spectacles  set  tliem,  unhappily,  wrong ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows. 
To  whom  the  .said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause, 
AVith  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of 
learning, 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws,  — 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

"  In  behalf  of  the  Xose,  it  will  quickly  appear 
(And  your  lordship,"  he  said,  ' '  will  undoubt- 
edly find) 
That  the  Nose  has  the  spectacles  always  to  wear. 
Which  amounts  to  possession,   time  out  of 
mind," 

Then,  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court, 
"Your  lordship  observes,  they  are  made  with 
a  straddle, 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is  ;  in  short. 
Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

"Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('T  is  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  hap- 
pen again) 
That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 
Pray,  who  would,  or  who  amid,  wear  spectacles 
then? 


'^ 


e- 


862 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-^ 


"On  the  whole,  it  appears,   and  my  argument 
shows. 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 
That  the  spectacles,  plainly,  were  made  for  the 
Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was,  as  plainly,   intended  for 
tliem." 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how), 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes : 

But  what  were  his  arguments,  few  people  know. 
For  the  court  did  not  think  them  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave,  solemn 
tone. 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but, 
That  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on. 
By  daylight  or  candlelight,  —  Eyes  should  be 
simt. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


B- 


THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE  KNIFE- 
GRINDER.* 

FRIEND    OK   HUMANITY. 

Needy  knife-grinder!  whither  are  you  going? 
Hough  is  the  road ;  your  wheel  is  out  of  order. 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  —  your  hat  has  got  a  hole 
in  't ; 
So  have  your  breeches  ! 

Weary  knife-grinder  !  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
Road,  what  hard  work  't  is  crying  all  day,  'Knives 
and 
Si'issors  to  grind  0  !' 

Tell  me,  knife-giinder,  how  came  you  to  grind 

knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  sf|uire?  or  parson  of  the  parish? 
Or  (lie  attorney  ? 

Wa-s  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 
Covetous  parson  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 
Or  roguish  lawyer  made  you  lose  your  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom 

Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story. 

•  A  burlesque  upon  the  humanitarian  sentiments  of  Southey  in 
his  younpcr  days,  as  well  as  of  the  Sapphic  stanzas  in  which  he 
sometimes  cmbotlicd  them. 


KNIFE-GRINDEK. 

Story !  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir  ; 
Only,  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scufBe. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody  ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice  ; 
Justice  Oldmi.xon  put  mc  in  the  parish 
Stocks  for  a  vagi'ant. 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  ine  sixpence  ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir. 

FRIF.ND   OF   HUMANITY. 

I  give  thee  sixpence  !     I  will  see  thee  damned 

first,  — 
Wretch  !  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to 

vengeance,  — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 
Spiritless  outcast  ! 

(A*;V/t-j  the  knife-grinder,  overturns  his  tvheel,  and  exit 
in  a  transport  o/  republican  enthusiasm  and  universal 
philanthropy  ) 

GEORGE  Canning. 


SAYING  NOT  MEANING. 

Two  gentlemen  their  appetite  had  fed. 
When,  opening  his  toothpick-ca.se,  one  said, 
"  It  was  not  until  lately  that  I  knew 
That  anchovies  on  terra  firma  grew." 
"Grow  ! "  cried  the  other,   " yes,  they  grow,  in- 
deed. 

Like  other  fish,  but  not  upon  the  land  ; 
You  might  as  well  say  grapes  grow  on  a  reed, 

Or  in  the  Strand  ! " 

"  Why,  sir,"  returned  the  irritated  other, 
"  lly  brother. 
When  at  Calcutta 
Beheld  them  bona  fide  growing  ; 

He  would  n't  utter 
A  lie  for  love  or  money,  sir ;  so  in 

This  matter  you  are  thoroughly  mistaken." 
"  Nonsense,  sir !  nonsense  !     I  can  give  no  credit 
To  the  assertion,  —  none  e'er  saw  or  read  it ; 
Your  brother,  like  his  evidence,  should   bo 
shaken." 

"  Be  shaken,  sir!  let  me  observe,  you  are 

Perverse  —  in  short  —  " 
"Sir,"  said  the  other,  sucking  his  cigar. 

And  then  his  port, — 


-^ 


tn 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


863 


:r^ 


"  If  you  will  say  impossibles  are  true, 
You  may  affirm  just  anything  you  please  — 

That  swans  are  (luadrupeds,  and  lions  blue, 
And  elephants  inhabit  Stilton  cheese  ! 

Only  you  must  not/orcc  me  to  believe 

Wliat  's  propagated  merely  to  deceive." 

"Then  you  force  me  to  say,  sir,  you  're  a  fool," 

Returned  the  bragger. 
Language  like  tliis  no  man  can  suffer,  cool  : 
It  made  the  listener  stagger  ; 
So,  thunder-stricken,  he  at  once  replied, 

"The  traveler  lied 
Who  had  the  impudence  to  tell  it  you." 
"  Zounds  !  then  d'  ye  mean  to  swear  before  my 

face 
That  anchovies  dim't  grow  like  cloves  and  mace  ? " 
"Irfo.'" 

Disputants  often  after  hot  debates 

Leave  tlie  contention  as  they  found  it  —  bone, 
And  take  to  duelling  or  thumping  tSles; 

Thinking  by  strength  of  artery  to  atone 
For  strength  of  argument ;  and  he  who  wince.s 
From  force  of  words,  with  force  of  arms  convinces  ! 

With  pistols,  powder,  bullets,  surgeons,  lint, 

Seconds,  and  smelling-bottles,  and  foreboding, 

Our  friends   advanced  ;    and   now  portentous 
loading 
(Their  hearts  already  loaded)  served  to  show 
It  miglit  be  better  they  shook  hands,  —  but  no  ; 

Wheu  each  opines  himself,  though  frightened, 
right. 

Each  i.s,  in  courtesy,  obliged  to  fight ! 
And  they  did  fight :  from  si.K  full-measured  paces 

The  unbeliever  pulled  his  trigger  first ; 
And  fearing,  from  the  braggart's  ugly  faces. 

The  whizzing  lead  had  whizzed  its  veiy  worst, 
Kan  up,  and  with  a  duclislic  fear 

(His  ire  evanishing  like  morning  vapors), 
Found  him  possessed  of  one  remaining  ear. 

Who  in  a  manner  sudden  and  uncouth. 

Had  given,  not  lent,  the  other  ear  to  truth  ; 
For  while  the  surgeon  was  applying  lint, 
He,  wriggling,  cried,   "  The  deuce  is  in  't  — 

Sir  !  I  meant  — -capeks  I  " 

William  Basil  wake. 


t- 


THE  PILGRIMS  AND  THE  PEAS. 

A  BRACE  of  sinners,  for  no  good. 

Were  ordered  to  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine. 
Who  at  Loretto  dwelt,  in  wax,  stone,  wood, 

And  in  a  fair  white  wig  looked  wondrous  fine. 


Fifty  long  miles  had  those  sad  rogues  to  travel, 
With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse  than 

gravel ; 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse. 
The  priest  had  ordered  peas  into  their  shoes  : 
A  nostrum  famous  in  old  popish  times 
For  purifying  .souls  that  stunk  of  crimes  : 

A  sort  of  apostolic  salt. 

Which  popish  parsons  for  its  powers  e.xalt. 
For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet. 
Just  as  our  kitchen  salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day, 
Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray  ; 

But  very  different  was  their  speed,  I  wot  : 
One  of  the  sinners  galloped  on, 
Swift  as  a  bullet  from  a  gun  ; 

The  other  limped,  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 
One  saw  the  Virgin  soon,  Peccavi  cried. 

Had  liis  soul  whitewashed  all  so  clever  ; 
Then  home  again  he  nimbly  hied, 

Made  fit  with  saints  above  to  live  forever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say. 

He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half-way,  — 

Hobbling,   with  outstretched  arms  and  beu<k'd 

knees. 
Cursing  the  souls  and  bodi(-'S  of  the  peas  ; 
His  eyes  in  tears,  his  checks  and  brow  in  sweat, 
Deep  sympathizing  with  his  groaning  feet. 
"How  now,"  the  light-toed,  whitewashed   pil- 
grim broke, 
"  You  lazy  lublier  !" 
"  Ods  curse  it ! "  cried  the  other,  "  't  is  no  joke ; 
My  feet,  once  hard  as  any  rock, 
Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber. 

"Excuse  me.  Virgin  Mary,  that  I  swear, 
As  for  Loretto,  I  shall  not  get  there  ; 
No,  to  the  devil  my  sinful  soul  must  go. 
For  damme  if  I  ha'  n't  lost  every  toe. 
But,  brother  sinner,  pray  exphain 
How  't  is  that  you  are  not  in  pain. 

What  power  hath  worked  awonderforyourtoes, 
Whilst  I  just  like  a  snail  am  crawling, 
Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling, 

Wliilst  not  a  rascal  comes  to  ease  my  woes  ? 

"  How  is  't  that  you  can  like  a  gi'eyhound  go, 
Merry  as  if  that  naught  had  happened,  burn 
ye!" 
"Wliy,"  cried  the  other,  grinning,   "you  must 
know, 
That  just  before  I  ventured  on  my  journey, 
To  walk  a  little  more  at  ease, 
I  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas." 

DR.  woi.cuTT  (Peter  Pindar), 


-tf' 


e- 


864 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


■a 


THE  RAZOR-SELLEB. 

A  FELLOW  ill  a  iiiiii'ket-towii, 

Most  niusieal,  cried  razors  up  and  down, 

And  offered  twelve  for  eighteen  pence  ; 
Wliidi  (■crtaiiily  seemed  wondrous  cheap, 
And,  for  the  money,  (luite  a  heap, 

As  every  man  would  buy,  with  cash  and  sense. 

A  country  bumpkin  the  great  offer  heard,  — 
I'oor  Hodge,  who  sulfercd  by  a  broad  black  beard, 

'I'liat  .seemed  a  shoe-brush  stuck  beneath  liis 
nose  ; 
With  ehei-rfulness  the  eighteen  pence  he  paid, 
And  proudly  to  himself  in  whispers  said, 

"This  rascal  stole  the  razors,  I  suppose. 

"No  matter  if  the  fellow  be  a  knave, 
Provided  that  the  razors  slMve ; 

It  certainly  will  be  a  monstrous  prize." 
So  home  the  clown,  with  his  good  fortune,  went, 
8nuliiig,  in  heart  and  soul  content. 

And  quickly  soaped  himscdf  to  ears  and  eyes. 

lieiiig  Well  lathered  from  a  dish  or  tub, 
Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain  to  grub, 

Just  like  a  hedger  cutting  furze  ; 
'T  was  a  vile  razor  !  —  then  the  rest  lu!  tried,  — 
All  were  impostors.      "Ah!"  Hodge  sighed, 

"  1  wish  my  eighteen  pence  wilhin  my  purse." 

In  vain  to  chase  his  licard,  and  bring  the  graces, 
He  cut,  and  dug,  and  winced,  and  staiii]ied, 
and  swore  ; 
Brought  blood,   and  danced,   blasphemed,   and 
made  wry  faces, 
And  cursed  each  razor's  body  o'er  and  o'er  : 

His  muzzle  formed  of  opposilicm  stuff, 
Fii-m  as  a  Foxite,  would  not  lose  its  rulT  ; 

So  kept  it,  —  laughing  at  the  steel  and  suds. 
Hodge,  in  a  passion,  stretched  his  angry  jaws. 
Vowing  the  direst  vengeance  with  clenched  claws. 

On  the  vile  cheat  that  sold  the  goods. 
"Razors!  a  moan,  (confounded  dog. 
Not  (it  to  scrape  a  hog  !  " 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow, — found  him, — and 

liegun  : 
"P'rhaps,  Master  Razor-rogue,  to  you  'tis  fun, 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives. 
You  rascal  !  for  an  hour  have  I  been  grubbing, 
Giving  my  crying  whiskers  here  a  scrubbing. 

With  razors  just  like  oyster-knives. 
Sirrah  !  I  tell  you  you  're  a  knave, 
To  cry  up  razors  that  can't  shave  I" 


h 


"Friend,"   cpiotb   the  razor-man, 
knave  ; 


'  I  'm  not  a 


As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 
Upon  my  soul,  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  shave." 

"  Not  think  they  'd  shavn  !"  quoth  Hodge,  with 
wondering  eyes. 
And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell  ; 
"What  were  they  made  for,  then,  you  dog?" 
he  cries. 
"Made,"  quotli  the  fellow  with  a  .smile, — 
"  to  sell." 

Dr.  Wolcott  (Peter  pi.ndar). 


EPIGRAMS  BY  S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

COLOGNE. 
In  Koln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones. 
And  pavcuiinls  fiuiL,'!  d  with  murderous  stones, 
And  raj;s,  idhI  ll:l^^,  iunl  hideous  wonches,  — 
I  counted  iwiKjiiil  .siviuty  stenches, 
All  wcll-dclined  and  several  stinks  ! 
Ye  nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks, 
The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 
Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne ; 
But  tell  me,  nymjihs  !  what  power  divine 
Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ? 


Sly  Beelzebub  took  all  occasions 

To  try  .lob's  eonstaucy  and  patience. 

Ha  took  his  honor,  took  his  health ; 

He  took  his  children,  took  his  wealth. 

His  servants,  oxen,  horses,  cows  — 

But  cunning  Satan  did  not  take  his  si^ouse. 

But  Heaven,  that  brings  out  good  from  evil. 

And  loves  to  disappoint  the  devil, 

Had  iiredetermined  to  restore 

Twofold  all  he  had  before  ; 

His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows  — 

Short-sighted  devil,  not  to  take  his  spouse  ! 


HoAR.sB  Maivius  reads  his  hobbling  verse 

To  all,  and  at  all  times. 
And  finds  them  both  divinely  smooth, 

His  voice  as  well  as  rhymes. 

Yet  folks  say  Ma'vius  is  no  ass ; 

But  Mievius  makes  it  clear 
That  he  's  a  monster  of  an  aas,  — 

An  ass  without  an  ear  ! 


Swans  sing  before  they  die, —  'twere  no  bad  thing 
Did  certain  persons  die  before  they  sing. 


-S 


fr-- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


865 


-a 


THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE. 


■chcci  < 


U-- 


"  In  Ihc  parish  of  St.  Neots.  Curnwall,  is 
with  [)|C  robes  of  four  iciiuL.  of  trees,  —  witliy.  oak,  cliu,  and  asll, — 
.-iRd  dedicated  to  St.  Kcync.  The  reported  virtue  of  die  water  i: 
this,  that,  wlicthcr  Iiusbatid  or  wife  lirst  drinl<  thereof,  they  get  tilt 
iii.istcry  thereby."—  ruLLIiR. 

.V  wi.i.Ij  tliere  is  in  the  West  country, 
.\iiil  a  L'lwirei'  one  never  was  seen  ; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  West  country 
IjUt  lias  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  anil  an  elm  tree  stantl  Ijesiile, 
And  behind  does  an  a.sh-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  finni  the  hank  above 
Diiiops  to  the  water  lielow. 

A  traveler  came  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne  ; 

rieasant  it  was  to  his  eye. 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  traveling, 

And  llirrc  was  not  a  cloiiil  in  tin;  sky. 

Hi:  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he. 
And  he  sat  down  npon  the  bank. 

Under  the  willow-lree. 

There  came  a  ui.iri  IVoin  I  lie  neighboring  town 

At  the  well  to  till  his  |uil, 
On  the  well-side  ho  icst.d  il, 

And  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

"  N'ow  art  thona  bachelor,  stranger  ?  "  ijuoth  he, 

"  For  an  if  thon  hast  a  wife. 
The  happiest  draught  thou  h.ast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

"  Or  has  yourgooil  wiiiiian,  if  mie  yim  have. 

In  Cornwall  ever  b.-m  .' 
For  an  if  she  have,  I  'II  venture  my  life 

She  has  drunk  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"  I  have  left  a  good  wom.an  who  never  was  here," 

The  stranger  he  made  reply  ; 
"  lint  that  my  draught  shouhl  be  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  mo  why." 

"  St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  countryman,"  many  a 
time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  well, 
.\nd  before  the  angel  summoned  her 

.She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"  If  the  husband  of  this  gifte.l  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  lie, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

"  liut  if  the  wife  .should  drink  of  it  first, 
Heaven  help  the  husband  then  !  " 


The  stranger  stooped  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 
And  drank  of  the  waters  again. 

"  You  drank  of  the  well,  1  w'arrant,  betimes  ? ' 

He  to  the  countryman  said. 
But  the  countryman  smiled  an  the  stranger  spake 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

"  1  hastened,  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done. 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch. 
But  i'  faith,  she  had  been  wiser  than  me. 

For  she  took  a  liottle  to  church." 

KOBUKT  SOUTHKV. 


TOBY  TOSSPOT. 

Alas  !  what  pity  't  is  that  regularity, 

Like  Isa^xc  Shove's,  is  such  a  rarity  ! 
But  there  are  swilling  wights  in  London  town, 

Termed  jolly  dogs,  choice  spirits,  alias  swine, 
Who  pour,  in  midnight  revel,  bumpers  down, 

Making  their  throats  a  thoroughfare  for  wine. 

These  spendthrifts,    wdio    life's  pleivsures   thui.- 
run  on. 

Dozing  with  headaches  till  the  afternoon. 
Lose  half  men's  regular  estate  of  sun, 

By  borrowing  too  largely  of  the  moon. 

One  of  this  kidney  —  Toby  Tosspot  hight  — 
Was  coming  from  the  Bedford  late  at  night ; 
And  being  Bacchi  picnus,  full  of  wine, 
.although  he  had  a  tolerable  notion 
Of  aiming  at  progressive  motion, 
'T  was  n't  direct,  —  't  was  serpi^ntine. 
He  worked  with  sinuosities,  along. 
Like  Monsieur  Corkscrew,  worming  through  a 

cork. 
Not  straight,  like  Corkscrew's  Jiro.xy,  stilf  Don 
Prong,  —  a  fork. 

M  length,  with  near  four  bottles  in  his  pate. 
He  saw  the  moon  shining  on  Shove's  brass  plate. 
When  reading,  "  Please  to  ring  the  bell," 

And  being  civil  beyond  measure, 
"  King  it ! "  says  Toby,  —  "  very  well  ; 

1  '11  ring  it  with  a  deal  of  pleasure." 
Toby,  the  kindest  .soul  in  all  the  town. 
Gave  it  a  jerk  that  almost  jerked  it  down. 

He  waited  full  two  minutes,  — no  one  came  ; 

He  waited  full  two  minutes  more  ;  —  and  then 
Says  Toby,  "  If  he  's  deaf,  I  'm  not  to  blame  ; 

I  '11  pull  it  for  the  gentleman  again." 

But  the  first  peal  w'oke  Lsaac  in  a  fright, 

Who,  quick  as  lightning,  popjiing  up  his  head, 
.Sat  on  his  head's  antipodes,  in  bed. 

Pale  as  a  parsnip,  —  bolt  upright. 


^ 


Y    «G0 


HUMOROUS  FOE  MS. 


■& 


k 


At  li'iif^th  ho  wisely  to  hiniself  doth  my,  oahiiing 

liis  i'ejirs,  — 
"'I'lisli  !  'I  is  soiiiu  fool  1ms  raii;^  mill  run  iiwuy  "; 
When  |.ral  I  lie  scchkI  ralllitl  in  liis  cars. 

Shove  jviiii|iud  iiilo  tin:  niidilk!  ol'  the  Moor  ; 

And,  livnililing  at  ciich  breath  ol' air  that  stirred, 
Jlo  groped  down  stairs,  and  opened  the  street 
duor, 

While  Toliy  was  perrornilMg  ]>eal  the  third. 

l.saac  eyed  'i'ohy,  I'earl'idly  askant, 

And  saw  he  was  a  strapiier,  stout  and  tall ; 

Then  put  this  iiuestion,  "  I'ray,  sir,  what  d' ye 
want  f " 
Says  Toby,  "  1  want  nutliin/;,  sir,  at  all." 

"  Want  nothing  !  ,Sir,  you  've  pulled  my  bell,  I 
vow. 

As  if  you  'd  jerk  it  oil'  the  wire." 
(.luiitii  Toby,  gravely  making  him  a  bow, 

"  I  pulled  it,  sir,  at  your  desire." 

"At  mine?"  "Yes,  yours;  1  lio]ie  1  've  done 
it  well. 

High  time  lor  bed,  sir ;  I  was  hastening  to  it ; 
but  if  you  write  up,  '  Please  to  ring  the  bell,' 

Common  politeness  makes  me  atop  and  do  it." 


SIK  MAKMADUKK. 

Sill  Mahmahuku  was  a  hearly  kuiglil,  — 

tlood  man  !  old  man  ! 
lie  's  painted  standing  bolt  U])right, 

Willi  his  hose  rolled  over  his  knee  ; 
His  periwig  's  as  white  as  elialk, 
An>l  on  his  list  he  holds  a  hawk  ; 

And  b,' looks  like  the  lieail 
I  If  an  aneient  I'aiiiily. 

Hisdining-rooiii  was  long  and  wide,  — 

(lood  man  !  old  man  ! 
His  spaniels  lay  by  the  lireside  ; 

And  in  other  parts,  d'  ye  see. 
Cross-bows,  tobaeco-]iipes,  old  hats, 
A  saddle,  his  wife,  and  a  litti-r  of  eats  ; 

And  lie  looked  like  tlie  head 
(Han  ancient  family. 

He  never  turned  the  poor  from  the  gate,  — 

(iood  man  I  old  man  ! 
Hut,  was  always  ready  to  break  the  jiate 

Of  his  eountry's  enemy. 
What  knight  eould  do  a  better  thing 
'i'lian  serve  the  poor  and  fight  for  his  king  ? 

Ami  so  may  every  head 
Of  Rii  aneient  family. 

GlIOKGB  COLMAN  TUB  YOUNCliR. 


THE  FINE  OLD  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN." 

I  'i.l,  sing  you  a  good  old  song, 

Jlade  by  a  good  old  pate. 
Of  a  line  old  English  gentleman 

Who  had  an  old  estate. 
And  who  kept  up  his  old  mansion 

At  a  bountiful  old  rate  ; 
With  a  good  old  porter  to  relieve 

The  old  poor  at  his  gate. 
Like  a  line  old  Kngli.sli  gentleman 

All  of  the  olden  time. 


His  hall  so  old  was  hung  around 

With  pikes  and  guns  and  bows, 
And  swords,  and  good  old  bueklers, 

That  had  stooil  some  tough  old  blows  ; 
'T  was  there  "  his  worship  "  held  his  state 

In  doublet  and  trunk  hose. 
And  ipiall'ed  his  eiip  of  gooil  old  .sack, 

To  warm  his  good  old  nose. 
Like  a  line,  etc. 


When  winter's  cold  brought  frost  and  snow, 

He  opened  house  to  all  ; 
And  though  threeseore  and  ten  his  years. 

He  feally  led  the  ball  ; 
Nor  was  the  houseless  wanderer 

E'er  diiven  from  his  hall  ; 
I''or  while  he  feasted  all  the  great. 

Ho  ne'er  forgot  the  small  ; 
Like  a  line,  etc. 

Hut  time,  though  old,  is  strong  in  flight. 

And  years  roll  swiftly  liy  ; 
And  Autumn's  falling  leaves  iiroclaimed 

This  good  old  man  must  die  ! 
He  laid  him  down  right  tranquilly. 

Cave  up  life's  latest  sigh  ; 
And  mournful  stillness  reigned  around. 

And  tears  bedewed  each  eye. 
For  this  good,  etc. 


Now  surely  this  is  Iwtter  far 

Than  all  the  new  parade 
Of  theatres  and  fancy  balls, 

"  At  home"  ami  masquerade  : 
And  much  more  economical. 

For  all  his  bills  were  paid. 
Tlieii  leave  your  m^w  vagaries  iniitc 

And  take  up  the  old  trade 
Of  a  line  old  English  gentleman, 

All  of  the  olden  time. 


-4J 


a- 


HUMOllOUS  POEMS. 


867 


r^ 


GUY  FAWKES. 


U- 


I  mini;  ii  ilolulul  tragedy, 

(Jiiy  Kawkes,  the  prince  of  sinistcrs, 
Wlio  once  lilew  up  tlio  House  of  I-onls, 

Tile  King  anJ  nil  lii.s  ministers, 
That  is  —  lio  would  liave  blown  tliem  up, 

Ancl  they  'd  have  nil  been  cindered, 
Oi-  seriously  scorched  at  least  — 

If  he  had  not  been  hindered. 


So  stiviight  he  came  froiii  Lainbeth  side 

To  see  the  state  thus  uiiiloiie, 
And  crossing  over  Vauxhall  bridge, 

<  'anie  that  way  into  London  ; 
That  is  —  he  vmiUd  have  come  that  way 

To  per[ietrate  his  guilt,  sir. 
But  a  little  thing  preventeil  him,  — 

The  bridge  was  not  yet  built,  sir. 


Then  in  the  dreary  vaults  he  stole, 

When  all  was  wrapt  in  night,  sir, 
Kesolved  to  fire  tlie  powder-train 

With  jiortable  gas-light,  sir  ; 
That  is,  —  he  would  have  brought  the  gas, 

Within  the  vaults  he  rented. 
But  gas,  you  know,  in  .James's  time, 

It  had  n't  been  invcmted. 


Now  James,  you  know,  King  .lames,  I  mean, 

Was  always  thought  a  sly  fo.>t, 
So  he  bade  them  search  the  aforesaid  vaults, 

And  there  they  found  jioor  (!uy  Kawkes; 
Who  would,  I  'm  sure,  have  blown  them  up. 

Of  that  there  's  little  doubt,  sir, 
Vm  they  never  would  have  found  him  in, 

If  they  had  n't  found  him  out,  sir. 

So  when  they  caught  him  in  the  fact, 

So  very  near  the  Crown's  end. 
They  straightway  sent  to  l5ow  Street  for 

That  brave  old  runner  Townsend  ; 
That  is,  —  they  would  have  sent  for  liim. 

For /car  he  wa.s  no  starter  at,  — 
]\\\i  Townsend  was  n't  living  then. 

He  was  n't  bom  till  arti.T  that. 


And  next  they  put  poor  Guy  to  death. 

For  ages  to  remember, 
And  now  again,  he;  dies  eacli  year, 

The  fifth  day  of  November ;  — 
I  mean  to  say  his  elTlgics, 

For  truth  is  stern  and  steady, 
For  Guy  can  never  die  again, 

Because  he  'g  dead  already. 


Then  let  us  sing,  "Long  live  the  King,"* 

And  bless  his  royal  son,  sir. 
That  is  —  if  he  lias  one  to  liless  — 

If  not,  no  harm  is  done,  sir. 
But  if  he  lia.s,  I  'ni  sure  he  'II  reign, 

So  jirophesies  my  song,  sir. 
And  if  he  don't,  why  then  he  won't, 

And  so  I  can't  be  wrong,  sir. 

ANONYMOUS, 


THE  GOUTY  MERCHANT  AND  THE  bTRANOER. 

In  Broad  Street  building  (on  a  winter  niglil), 

Snug  by  his  jiarlorliic-,  a  gouty  wight 

Sat  all  alone,  vvilh  one  hand  rubbing 

His  feet,  rolled  up  in  lleeey  hose  ; 

With  f  other  he  'd  beneath  his  nose 

Tin:  Public  Ledger,  in  whose  columns  grubbing, 

He  noted  all  the  sales  of  hops. 

Ships,  shops,  and  slojis ; 
Gum,  galls,  and  groceries  ;  ginger,  gin. 
Tar,  tallow,  turmeric,  turpentini',  and  tin  ; 
When  lo  !  a  decent  peraonage  in  black 
Kntered  and  most  politely  said,  — 

"Your  footman,  sir,   has  gone  his  nightly 
track 

To  the  King's  Head, 
And  left  your  door  ajar  ;  which  I 
Observed  in  passing  by, 

And  thought  it  neighborly  to  give  you   no- 


how very  few  get, 


tie 
"Ten  thousand  thanks 
In  time  of  danger. 
Such  kinil  attentions  from  a  stranger  ! 
Assuredly,  that  fellow's  throat  is 
Doomed  to  a  final  drop  at  Newgat<!  ; 
He  knows,  too,  (the  uneonscionable  elf  I) 
That  there  's  no  soul  at  home  except  myself." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  the  stranger  (lookinggiave), 

"Then  he  's  a  double  knave  ; 
He  knows  that  rogues  ami  thieves  by  scores 
Nightly  beset  unguarded  doors  : 
And  see,  how  ca.sily  might  one 

Of  these  domestic  foes, 

Kven  beneath  your  very  nose. 
Perform  his  knavish  tricks  ; 
F.nter  your  room,  as  I  have  done. 
Blow  out  your  candles  —  thus  —  and  thus  — 
Pocket  your  silver  candlesticks. 

And  —  walk  off — thus  "  — 
So  said,  so  done  ;  he  made  no  more  remark, 

Nor  waited  for  replies. 

But  marched  off  with  his  prize, 
Leaving  the  gouty  merchant  in  the  dark. 

HORACI'  SMITH. 


-4 


e-- 


-a 


868 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


ORATOK  PUFF. 


Mil.  Oi;.\ii>u  VvFF  liiul  two  tones  in  )ii.s  voice, 
The  ono  .siiueaking  thus,  and  the  other  down 
so : 
In  each  sentence  he  uttered  lie  gave  you  your 
clioice, 
For  one  lialf  was  li  alt,  and  the  rest  U  belovf. 
0  !  ()  !  Orator  I'uir, 
One  voice  lor  an  orator's  surely  enough.     I 

Hut  he  still  talked  away,  spite  of  coughs  and  I 
of  frowns,  ] 

So  distracting  all  ears  with  his  ups  and  his 
downs. 
That  a  wag  on(^!,  on  hearing  the  orator  say, 
"My  voice  is  for  war  !"  asked,   "Which  of 
them,  pray?" 
0  !  0  !  Orator  Puff,  etc. 

Keeling  hoiucwarils  on(;  evening,  top-heavy  with 
gin, 
And   reliearsiug  his  speech  on  the  weight  of 
tlie  crown, 
He  tripped  near  a  saw-pit,  and  tumbled  right  in, 
"  Sinking  fund  "  the  last  words  as  his  noddle 
came  down. 
0  !  O  !  Orator  Tulf,  etc. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  he  e.vclaimed,  in  his  he-and-she 
tones, 
"  TIkli'  mk  iiiir  !  Ih!/)  iiicniit  /  1  have  broken 
my  bones  !  " 
"Help  you   out?"    .said   a  Paddy   who   p.assed, 

"what  a  bother  ! 
AVhy,  there 's  two  of  you  there  —  can't  you  help 
one  another  ? " 
0  !  O  !  Oiator  Pulf, 
One  voice  for  an  orator's  surely  enough. 

THOMAS  MOOKE. 


MORNING  MEDITATIONS. 

IjF.t  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy. 
How  well  to  rise  while  nights  and  larks  are  fly- 
ing, — 
For  my  part,  getting  up  .seems  not  so  easy 
l?y  half  as  h/ivrj. 

Wliat  if  the  lark  does  carol  in  the  sky, 
Soaring  beyond  the  sight  to  find  him  out,  — 
Wherefore  am  I  to  rise  at  such  a  fly  ? 
I  'm  not  a  trout. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  bees  and  such-like  hums. 
The  smell  of  sweet  herbs  at  the  morniug  prime,  - 
Only  lie  long  enough,  and  bed  becomes 
A  bed  of  timf. 


To  me  Dan  Phoebus  and  his  car  are  naught. 
His  steeds  that  paw  impatiently  about,  — 
Let  them  enjoy,  say  I,  as  horses  ought, 
The  first  turn-out  ! 


Right  beautiful  the  dewy  meads  appear 
Besprinkled  by  the  rosy-fingered  girl ; 
What  then,  —  if  I  prefer  luy  pillow-beer 
To  early  pearl ! 

My  stomach  is  not  ruled  by  other  men's. 
And,  grumbling  for  a  reason,  quaintly  begs 
Wherefore  should  master  rise  before  the  hens 
Have  laid  their  eggs  ? 

Why  from  a  comfortable  pillow  start 
To  see  faint  flushes  in  the  east  awaken  ? 
A  fig,  say  I,  for  any  streaky  part, 
Excepting  bacon. 

An  early  riser  Mr.  Gray  has  drawn, 
Who  used  to  haste  the  dewy  grass  among, 
"  To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn,"  — 
Well,  —  he  died  young. 

With  charwomen  sucli  (larly  hours  agree, 
Aiul  sweeps  that  earn  betimes  their  bit  and  sup  ; 
But  I  'm  no  climbing  boy,  and  need  not  be 
All  up,  —  all  up  ! 

So  here  I  lie,  my  morning  <-alls  deferring, 
Till  something  nearer  to  the  stroke  of  noon  ;  — 
A  man  that 's  fond  precociously  of  sturimj 
Must  be  a  spoon. 

THOMAS  Hood. 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 

Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man, 

A  carpenter  by  trade  ; 
And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 

Tliat  was  a  lady's  maid. 

Rut  as  they  fetched  a  walk  one  day, 

They  met  a  press-gang  crew  ; 
And  Sally  she  did  faint  away. 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words 

Eimugh  to  shock  a  saint. 
That,  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

'T  was  nothing  but  a  feint. 

"Gonu',  girl,"  said  ho,  "hold  up  your  head. 

He  '11  be  as  good  as  me  ; 
For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat 

A  boatswain  he  will  be." 


U^ 


[& 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


869 


-a 


So  wbeii  they  'd  made  theii-  game  of  her, 

And  taken  off  her  elf, 
She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 

A  cuniing  to  herself. 

"  And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone  ?  " 
She  ei'ieil  and  wejit  outright ; 

"Then  I  will  to  the  water-side, 
And  see  him  out  of  sight. " 

A  waterman  came  u])  to  her  ; 

"  Now,  young  woman,"  .said  he, 
"  If  you  weejj  on  so,  you  will  make 

Eye-water  in  the  sea." 

"Alas  !  they  've  taken  my  beau,  Ben, 

To  .sail  with  old  Beuhow"  ; 
And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 

As  if  she  'd  said.  Gee  woe  ! 

Says  he,  "They  've  only  taken  him 
To  the  tender-ship,  you  see." 

"The  tender-ship,"  cried  Sally  Brown,  - 
"  What  a  Iiard-sliip  that  must  be  !  " 

"  0,  would  1  were  a  mermaid  now, 

For  then  I  'd  follow  him  ! 
But  0,  I  "m  not  a  fish-woman. 

And  so  I  cannot  swim. 

"Alas  !  I  was  not  born  beneath 

The  Virgin  and  the  Scales, 
So  I  must  curse  my  cruel  stars. 

And  walk  about  in  Wales." 

Now  Ben  had  sailed  to  manj'  a  place 
That 's  underneath  the  world  ; 

But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home, 
And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 

Rut  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  .she  got  on. 
He  found  she  'd  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian-name  was  John. 

"()  Sally  Brown  !  0  Sally  Brown  ! 

Hiiw  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 
I "  ve  met  with  many  a  breeze  before. 

But  never  .such  a  blow  ! " 

Then,  reading  on  his  'bacco  box, 

H"  heaved  a  heavy  sigh. 
And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  "All 's  Well  ! 
But  could  not,  though  he  tried  ; 


His  head  was  turned,  —  and  so  he  chewed 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  deatli,  which  happened  in  his  berth, 

At  forty-odd  befeU ; 
They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 

The  sexton  tolled  the  beU. 

Thomas  hood. 


I  AM  A  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

FROM  THE  OPERA  OF  "  ROBIN  HOOD." 

I  AM  a  friar  of  orders  gray. 

And  down  in  the  valleys  I  take  my  way  ; 

I  pull  not  blacklierry,  haw,  or  hip,  — 

Good  store  of  venison  (ills  my  scrip  ; 

My  long  bead-roll  1  merrily  chant ; 

Where'er  1  walk  no  money  I  want ; 

And  wdiy  1  'm  so  jihimp  the  reason  I  tell,  — 

Who  leads  a  goo<l  life  is  sure  to  live  well. 
What  baron  or  squire, 
Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  i 

After  supix'r  of  lieaven  I  dream, 
But  that  is  a  pullet  and  clouted  cream  ; 
Myself,  by  denial,  1  mortify  — 
With  a  dainty  bit  of  a  warden-pie  ; 
1  'm  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin,  — 
With  old  sack  wine  I  'm  lined  within  ; 
A  chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song. 
And  the  vesper's  bell  is  my  bowl,  ding  dong. 
What  baron  or  squire. 
Or  knight  of  the  shire. 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 
John  o  Kuf.ff.. 


THE  JACKDAW  OF  RriElMS. 

The  .lackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair  ! 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there  ; 

Many  a  monk,  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight,  and  many  a  s(iuiic. 
With  a  great  many  more  of  lesser  degree,  — 
In  sooth,  a  goodly  company  ; 
And  they  served  the  Lord  Primate  on  bended 
knee. 

Never,  1  ween, 

Was  a  proudei"  .scon. 
Read  of  in  books,  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams. 
Than  the  Cardinal  Lord  Archbishop  of  Rheime  I 

In  and  out, 

Through  the  motley  rout. 
That  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about  : 

Here  and  there. 

Like  a  dog  in  a  fair. 


-*-ff 


a- 


870 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


& 


Over  comfits  and  cates, 

Aud  dislies  and  plates, 
fowl  and  cope,  aud  rocliet  and  pall, 
Mitro  and  crosier,  he  hopped  upon  all. 

With  a  saucy  air, 

He  perched  on  the  chair 
"Where,  in  state,  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  sat, 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red  hat  ; 

And  he  peered  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship's  Grace, 
Willi  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  lie  would  say, 
"  ^\■|■■,  TWO  are  the  gi-eatest  folks  here  to-day  ! " 

And  the  priests,  with  awe, 

As  such  freaks  they  saw, 
S:iid,  "  The  Devil  must  be  in  that  little  Jack- 
daw !  " 

The  frast  was  over,  the  l.oaiil  was  rleared, 
'I'he  llawns  and  the  custards  luul  all  disappeared. 
And  six  little  Singing-hoys,  —  dear  little  souls 
In  nice  clean  faces,  and  nice  white  stoles,  — 

Oanie,  in  order  due. 

Two  by  two, 
Marchinj;  that  grand  refectory  lliri>uf;h  ! 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer, 
Embossed  and  filled  with  water,  as  pure 
As  any  that  flows  betw'ccn  Kheinis  and  Namur, 
Whic:li  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to  catch 
In  a  fine  golden  hand-basin  made  to  match. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown. 
Can  ied  lavender-water  and  eau-de-Cologne  ; 
And  a  nice  little  boy  had  a  nice  cake  of  soap, 
Wnithy  of  washing  the  hands  of  the  Pope  ! 

One  little  boy  more 

A  napkin  bore, 
I  If  the  best  white  diaper,  fringed  with  pink. 
And  a  cardinal's  hat  marked  in  "  permanent  ink." 

The  great  Lord  Cai'dimil  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dressed  all  in  white  ; 

From  his  finger  he  d  raws 

His  costly  turquoise  : 
.\iid,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  .lackilnws, 

Deposits  it  straight 

By  the  side  of  his  plate. 
Wliile  the  nice  little  boys  on  bis  Eminence  wait ; 
Till,  wlii'ii  nobody  's  dreaming  of  any  such  thing, 
That  little  Jackdaw  hops  off  with  the  ring  ! 

There  '3  a  cry  and  a  shout, 
And  a  deuce  of  a  rout, 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they  're  about, 
But  the  monks  have  their  pockets  all  turned  in- 
siile  out ; 
The  friars  are  kneeling. 
And  hunting  and  feeling 
The  carpet,  the  floor,  and  the  walls,  and  the  ceil- 
ing. 


The  Cardinal  drew 

Off  each  plum-colored  shoe, 
And  left  his  red  stockings  exposed  to  the  view  ; 

He  peeps,  and  he  feels 

In  the  toes  and  the  heels. 
They  turn  up  the  dishes,  —  they  turn  u]i  the 

plates,  — 
They  take  uji  the  poker  and  poke  out  the  grates, 

—  They  turn  up  the  rugs. 

They  examine  the  mugs  ; 

But,  no  !  —  no  such  thing,  — 

They  can't  find  THE  lUNc.  ! 
And  the  Abbot   declared   that  "when   nobody 

twigged  it, 
Some  rascal  or  other  had  popped  in  aud  jirigged 


The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look, 
Ho  called  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  Ids  book  ! 
In  holy  anger  and  pious  grief 
He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascally  thief  ! 
Ho  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him  in  bed  ; 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown  of  his 

head  ; 
He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every  night 
He  .should  dream  of  the  Devil,  and  wake  in  a 

fright. 
He  cursed  him   in    eating,  he  cursed  him  in 

drinking. 
He  cureed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing,  in 

winking  ; 
He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in  lying ; 
He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in  Hying  ; 
He  cursed  him  living,  he  cursed  him  dying  !  — 
Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse  ! 
I'ut  what  gave  rise 
To  no  little  surprise. 
Nobody  seemed  one  penny  the  worse  ! 


The  day  w^as  gone. 

The  night  came  on, 
The  nionl<s  and  the  friars  they  .searched  till  dawn  ; 

AVhen  the  sacristan  saw. 

On  crumpled  claw. 
Come  limping  a  poor  little  lame  Jackdaw  ! 

No  longer  gay, 

As  on  yesterday  ; 
His  feathers  all  seemed  to  be  turned  the  wrong 

way  ;  — 
His  pinions  drooped,  — he  could  hardly  stand,  — 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your  hand  ; 

His  eye  so  dim. 

So  wasted  each  limb, 
That,beedle.ss  of  grammar,  they  all  cried,  "That's 

IIIM  !  — 
That 's  the  scamp  that  has  done  this  scaudalous 


tbina 


-^ 


[&-- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


--a 


871 


& 


That '»  till!  tliier  that  has  got  my  Lord  Ouclina 
King  :  " 

Tht-  poor  little  Jackdaw, 

AVheii  the  monks  he  saw, 
Feelily  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw  ; 
Ami  turned  liis  hald  head  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Pray  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way  !  " 

Slower  and  slower 

He  limped  on  before, 
Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  tin'  belfry-door. 

Where  the  first  thing  they  saw. 

Midst  the  sticks  and  the  straw. 
Was  the  iiiXG,  in  the  nest  of  that  little  Jackdav 


Then  the  great  Lord  C'anlinal  called  for  his  book, 
And  olf  that  terrible  curse  he  took  : 

The  mute  expression 

Serveil  in  lieu  of  confession, 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  restitution. 
The  Jackdaw-  got  plenary  absolution  ! 

—  When  those  words  were  heard, 

That  poor  little  bird 
Was  so  changed  in  a  moiiicnt,  't  was  really  ab- 
surd : 

He  grew  slrek  and  fat  ; 

In  addition  to  that, 
A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a  mat ! 

His  tail  waggled  more 

Even  than  before  ; 
But  no  longer  it  wagged  with  an  impudent  air. 
No  longer  he  perched  on  the  Cardinal's  chair  : 

He  hopped  now  about 

M'ith  a  gait  devout  ; 
At  Matins,  at  Vespers,  he  never  was  out ; 
And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds, 
He  always  seemed  telling  the  Confessor's  beads. 
If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore. 
Or  slumbered   in   jiiayer-tinie   and  ha]ipened  to 

That  good  Jackdaw 
Would  give  a  gi'eat  "  Caw  !  " 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  do  .so  any  more  !  " 
While   many  remarked,    as    his   manners   they 

That  they  "  ucvc]-  bad  known  such  a  piou.s  Jack- 
daw !  " 
He  long  lived  (he  Jiridc' 
Of  that  country  .side. 
And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died  ; 
When,  as  words  were  too  faint 
His  merits  to  jiaint. 
The  T'onclave  determined  to  make  1dm  a  Saint. 
And  on  newlv  made  Saints  and    Popes,  as  you 

know, 
Tt  's  the  custom  of  Rome  new  names  to  bestow. 
So  they  canonized  him  by  the  name  of  Jem  Crow ! 
Richard  Harris  Barham 

(Thomas  INGOi.nsBV.  Esq.). 


MISADVEKTURES  AT  MARGATE. 

Mk.  Simi'KINson  (,loqnitur\. 

I  WAS  in  Margate  last  July,  I  walked  upon  the 
pier, 

I  saw  a  little  vulgar  Boy,  —  1  said,  "What  make 
you  liere  ? 

The  gloom  upon  your  youthful  cheek  sjieaks  any- 
thing but  joy"  ; 

Again  I  said,  "  What  make  you  hcie,  you  little 
vulgar  Boy  < " 

He  frowned,  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  —  he  deemed 

1  meant  to  si-olf,  — 
And  when  the  little  heart  is  big,  a  little  "sets  it 

olf." 
He  put  his  linger  in  his  mouth,  his  little  bosom 

rose,  — 
He  had  no  little  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  litth- 

nose  ! 

"Hark  1  don't  you  hear,  my  little  man? — it's 

striking  Nine,"  I  said, 
"An  hour  when  all  good  little  boys  and  girls 

should  be  in  bed. 
Run  home  and  get  your  supi>er,  else  youi'  Ma  «  ill 

scold,  —  0  lie  ! 
It's  very  wrong  indeed  for  little  boys  to  stand 

and  cry  ! " 

The  tear-drop  in  his  little   eye  again  began  to 

spring. 
His  bosom  throbbed  with  agony,  —  he  crie.l  like 

anything  ! 
I  stooped,  and  thus  amidst  his  .sobs  I  heard  him 

muiTOur,  —  "Ah  ! 
I  haven't  got  no  sujijier  .'  and  1  have  n't  got  no 

Ma  !  " 

"My  father,  he  is  on   the  seas, — my  niollu;r 's 

dead  and  gone  ! 
And  I  am  here,  on   this   here  pier,  to  roam  tlic 

world  alone  ; 
I  have  not  had,  this  livelong  day,  one  dmjp  to 

cheer  my  heart. 
Nor  'hrovm'  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread  with,  —  let 

alone  a  tart. 

"  If  there  's  a  soul  will  give  me  food,  or  find  me 
in  employ, 

By  day  or  night,  then  blow  me  tight  .'  "  (he  was 
a  vulgar  I'oy  :) 

"  And  now  I  'm  here,  from  this  here  pier  it  is  my 
fi.\ed  intent 

To  jump  as  Mister  Levi  diil  from  off  the  Monu- 
ment !  " 


"  Cheer  up  I  cheer  up  !  my  little  man,  —  cheer 
up  !  "  I  kindly  said. 


^ 


a-^ 


872 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


' '  You   are  a  naughty  boy  to  take  such  things    I  know  't  was  on  the  mantel-piece  when  1  wenj 

into  your  head ;  I  out  for  beer. 

U  you  should  jumj)  from  oft'  the  pier,  you  'd  surely 

break  your  legs, 
Perhaps  your  neck,  —  then  Bogey  'd  have  you, 

sure  as  eggs  are  eggs  ! 


I  could  not  see  my  Macintosh,  —  it  was  not  to 

be  seen  ! 
Nor  yet  my  best  white  beaver  hat,  broad-brimmed 
]  and  lined  with  gi-een  ; 

'  Come  home  with  me,  my  little  man,  conio  home  ,  My  carpet-bag,  —  my  cruet-stand,  that  holds  my 


with  me  and  sup 
My  landlady  is  Mrs.  Jones,  —  we  must  not  keep 

her  up,  — 
There 's  roast  potatoes  at  the  fire,  —  enough  for 

me  and  you,  — 
Come  home,  you  little  vulgar  Boy,  —  I  lodge  at 

Number  2." 

I  took  him  home  to  Number  2,  the  house  beside 

"The  Foy," 
I  bade  him  wipe  his  dirty  shoes,  —  that  little 

vulgar  Boy,  — 
And  then  1  said  to  Mistress  Jones,  the  kindest  of 

her  sex, 
"  Pray  be  so  good  as  go  and  fetch  a  pint  of  double 
"  X  !  " 


I  sauce  and  soy. 

My  roast  potatoes  !  —  all  are  gone  !  —  and  so  's 
that  vulgar  Boy  ! 

I  rang  the  bell  for  Mrs.  Jones,  for  she  was  down 

below, 
"  0  Mrs.  Jones,  what  do  you  think  ?  —  ain't  this 

a  pretty  go  ? 
That  horrid  little  vulgar  Boy  whom  1  brought 

here  to-night 
He  's  stolen  my  things  and  run  away  ! "     Says 

she,  "  And  sarve  you  riglit  !  " 

Next  morning  I  was  up  betimes,  —  I  sent  the 

Crier  round. 
All  with  las  bell  and  gold-laced  hat,  to  say  I  'd 

give  a  pound 
To  find  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  who  'd  gone  and 

used  me  so  ; 
But  when  the  Crier  cried,  "  0  Yes  ! "  the  people 

cried,  "0  No  !  " 


But  Mrs.  Jones  was  rather  cross,  she  made  a  little 
noise. 

She  saiil  she  "did  not  like  to  wait  on  little  vul- 
gar Boys." 

She  with  her  ajiron  wiped  the  plates,  and,  as  she 
rubbed  the  delf. 

Said  I  might  "go  to  Jericho,  and  fetch  my  beer    I  went  to  "  Jarvis'  Landing-place,"  the  glory  ot 


my.s 


I  did  not  go  to  Jericho,  —  I  went  to  Mr.  Cobb,  — 
I  changed  a  shilling  (which  in  town  the  peoide 

call  a  Bob),  — 
It  was  not  so  much  for  myself  as  for  that  vulgar 

cliild,  — 
And  1  said,  "A  pint  of  double  X,  and  plrase  to 

draw  it  mild  !  " 


ed  on 


fr- 


When  1  came  back  I  gazed  about,  - 

stool  and  chair,  — 
I  could  not  see  my  little  friend,  because  he  was 

not  there  ! 
I  peeped  beneath  the  table-cloth,   beneath  the 

sofa,  too,  — 
I  said,  "You  little  vulgar  Boy!  why,  what's 

become  of  you  ?  " 

I  could  not  see  my  table-spoons,  —  I  looked,  but 

could  not  see 
The  little  fiddle-patterned  ones  I  use  when  1  'm 

at  tea  ; 
i  could  not  see  my  sugar-tongs,  my  silver  watch, 
-  0,  dear ! 


the  town. 
There  was  a  common  sailor-man  a  walking  up 

and  down, 
I  told  my  tale, — he  seemed  to  think  I'll  not 

been  treated  well, 
And  called  me  "  Poor  old  Buffer  '  "  — what  that 

means  I  cannot  tell. 

That  Sailor-man,  he  said  he  'd  seen  that  morning 

on  the  shore 
A  son  of —  something  —  'twas  a  name  1  'd  never 

heard  before,  — 
A   little    "gallows-looking    chap,"-  —  dear   me, 

what  could  he  mean  ?  — 
With  a   "carpet-swab"    and    "  mucking-togs," 

and  a  hat  turned  up  with  gi-ecn. 

He  spoke  about  his   "precious  eyes,"  and  said 

he'd  seen  him   "sheer,"  — 
It 's  very  odd  that  Sailor-men  should  talk  so  very 

queer  ; 
And  then  he  hitched  his  trousers  up,  as  is,  I  'm 

told,  their  use,  — 
It 's  very  odd  that  Sailor-men  should  wear  those 

things  so  loose.  ^ 

^ ff 


t& 


H  UMUliU  U.i  POEMH. 


873 


-a 


I   did  not  understand  him  well,  but  think  he 

meant  to  say 
He  'd  seen  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  that  morning, 

swim  away 
In  Captain  Large's  Royal  George,  about  an  hour 

before. 
And  they  were  now,  as  he  supposed,   "some- 

loheixs  "  about  the  Nore. 

A  landsman  said,  "  I  ticig  the  chap,  he  's  been 
upon  the  Jlill,  — 

And  'cause  he  ijmnmons  so  the  flats,  ve  calls  him 
Veeping  Bill  !  " 

He  said  "he'd  done  me  wervy  brown,"  and 
nicely  "  alotced  the  swaij,"  — 

That 's  French,  I  fancy,  for  a  liat,  or  else  a  car- 
pet-bag. 

1  went  and  told  the  constable  my  property  to 

track  ; 
He  asked  me  if  "  I  did  not  wish  that  1  might  get 

it  back." 
I  answered,  "To  be  sure  I  do  !  —  it 's  what  I  'm 

come  about." 


To  fetch  your  beer  yourself,  but  uuike  the  pot- 
boy bring  your  stout  ! 

And  when  you  go  to  Margate  ne.xt,  just  stoji,  and 
ring  the  bell. 

Give  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Jones,  and  say  1  'm 
pretty  well ! 


THE   YARN   OF  THE   'NANCY  BELL.' 

'T  WAS  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast 
From  Deal  to  Ramsgate  span. 

That  I  found  alone,  on  a  jiiece  of  stone. 
An  elderly  naval  man. 

His  hair  was  weedy,  his  beard  was  long. 
And  weedy  and  long  was  he  ; 

And  1  he.ird  this  wiglit  on  the  .shore  recite, 
In  a  singular  minor  key  : — 


'  0,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 
.  .  And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig. 

He  smiled  and  said,  "Sir.  does  your  mother  know    ^i^^d  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  mi.lshipmite, 
that  you  are  out?"  And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 

Not  knowing  what  to  do,  1  thought  I  'd  hasten  ;  ,,,,„,  ,„,  ^^,^„^  ,,;,  fi.f,  „,„i  ,„  ,<„,„  ,,;,  j,^,;,^ 

back  to  town,  .[.jH  ,  ,.,,^„^.  f,,,,  „f,.,j,,_ 

And  beg  our  own   Lord  Mayor  to  catch  the  boy    p,,^  ,  ^,„„,,,  ,,-^1^^,  thinking  the  man  had  been 

who  d  "done  me  brown,  drinkiiio- 

His  Lordship  very  kindly  said  he  "d  try  and  find 

him  out. 
But  he  "rather  thought  that  there  were  several 

vultrar  boys  alioiit." 


He  sent  for  Mr.  'W'hithair  then,  and  I  described 

"the  swag," 
My  Macintosh,  my  sugar-tongs,  my  spoons,  and 

carpet-bag  ; 
He  promised  that   the   New    Police  should  all 

their  powers  employ. 
But  nevei-  to  this  hour  have  I  beheld  that  vulgar 

liov  ! 


Remember,  then,  what  when  a  boy  I  've  heard 

my  Grandma  tell, 
"  Be  w.vuxed  in  time  by  others'  harm,  and 

you  sh.1ll  do  full  well  i  " 
Don't  link  yourself  with  vulgar  folks,  who  've  got 

no  fixed  abode. 
Tell  lies,  use  naughty  words,  and  say  they  "wish 

they  may  be  blowed !  " 


y-^ 


Don't  take  too  much  of  double  X  ! 
at  night  go  out 


-  and  don't 


And  .so  1  simjily  said  :  — 

"  0  elderly  man,  it 's  little  I  know 
Of  the  duties  of  men  of  the  sea, 

And  I  'II  eat  my  hand  if  I  understand 
How  you  can  possibl)'  be 

"At  once  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold. 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 
-A.nd  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig  I  " 

Then  he  gave  a  hitch  to  his  trousers,  which 

Is  a  trick  all  seamen  larn. 
And  having  got  rid  of  a  thumping  quid 

He  spun  this  painful  yarn  :  — 

"  'Twas  in  the  good  .ship  Nancy  Bell 
That  we  sailed  to  the  Indian  sea, 

And  there  on  a  reef  we  come  to  grief. 
Which  has  often  occurred  to  me. 

"And  pretty  nigh  all  o'  the  crew  was  drowned 
(There  was  seventy-seven  o'  snul)  ; 

And  only  ten  of  the  Nancy's  men 
Said  '  Here '  to  the  muster-roll. 


-^ 


iQ- 


874 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


■a 


"  Thei'e  was  me,  and  the  cook,  and  the  captain 
bold. 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  the  bo'sun  tight  and  a  midsliipnute, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

"  For  a  month  we  'd  neither  wittles  nur  drink. 

Till  a-hungry  we  did  feel, 
So  we  Jrawed  a  lot,  and,  accordin',  shot 

The  captain  for  our  meal. 

"  The  next  lot  fell  to  the  Nancy's  mate. 

And  a  delicate  dish  he  made  ; 
Then  our  appetite  with  the  midshipmite 

We  seven  survivors  stayed. 

"And  then  we  murdered  the  bo'sun  tight, 

And  he  much  resembled  pig  ; 
Then  we  wittled  free,  did  the  cook  and  me. 

On  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

"  Then  only  tlie  cook  and  me  was  left, 
And  the  delicate  cpiestion,  '  Which 

Of  us  two  goes  to  the  kettle  ? '  arose, 
And  we  argued  it  out  as  sich. 

"  For  I  loved  that  cook  as  a  brother,  I  did. 
And  the  cook  he  worshiped  me  ; 

l!ut  wo  'il  both  be  blowed  if  we  'd  eitlier  be  stowed 
In  the  other  chap's  hold,  you  see. 

"  '  I  '11  be  eat  if  you  dines  off  me,'  says  Tom. 

'  Yes,  that,'  says  I,  '  you  '11  be. 
I  'ni  boiled  if  I  die,  my  friend,'  ijuotli  I  ; 

And  '  E.Kactly  so,'  quoth  he. 

"  Says  he  ;   '  Dear  James,  to  murder  mo 

Were  a  foolish  thing  to  do, 
For  don't  you  see  that  you  can't  cook  me, 

While  I  can  —  and  will  —  cook  you  ? ' 

"  8o  he  boDs  the  water,  and  takes  the  salt 

And  the  pepper  in  portions  true 
I  Wliichhe  never  forgot),  andsome  choppedshalot, 

And  some  sage  and  parsley  too. 

"  '  Come  here,'  says  he,  with  a  proper  pride, 
Which  his  smiling  features  tell  ; 

'  'T  will  soothing  be  if  I  let  you  see 
How  extremely  nice  you'll  smell.' 

"And  he  stirred  it  round,  and  round,  and  round, 
And  he  snifl'ed  at  the  foaming  froth  ; 

When  I  ups  with  his  heels,   and  smothers  his 
sr[ueals 
In  the  scum  of  the  boiling  broth. 

"  .\nd  I  eat  that  cook  in  a  week  or  less. 
Anil  ns  I  e.Ttin"  bo 


The  last  of  his  chops,  why  I  almost  drops. 
For  a  wessel  in  sight  I  see. 

"  And  I  never  larf,  and  I  never  smile. 

And  I  never  lark  nor  play  ; 
But  I  sit  and  croak,  and  a  single  joke 

I  have  —  which  is  to  say  ; 

"  0,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig. 

And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite. 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig  !  " 

W.  S.  GILBER 


LITTLE  BILLEE. 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  gorging  Jack,  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee  ; 

Now  when  they  'd  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 
They  'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"I  am  extremely  hungaree," 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"  With  one  another  we  should  n't  agree  ! 

There  's  little  Bill,  he  's  young  and  tender. 
We  're  old  and  tough,  so  let 's  eat  he." 

"  0  Billy  !  we  're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you. 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie. " 

When  Bill  received  this  information. 
He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

"  First  let  me  say  my  catechism 
Which  my  poor  mother  taught  to  me." 

"  Make  haste  !   make  haste  !  "   says  guzzling 
Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top-gallant  mast, 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee, 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  Twelfth  Command- 
ment 
WTien  up  he  jumps  —  "  There  's  land  I  see  ! 

"Jenisalem  and  Madagascar 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee, 
There  's  the  British  flag  a  riding  at  anchor. 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  c'  B." 


— s 


[fi- 


HUMOEOUii  POEMS. 


875 


th 


So  when  they  got  aboard  of  tlic  Admiial's, 
He  liaiiged  fat  Jack  and  Hogged  Jiiiiniee 

Hut  as  lor  little  Hill  he  made  him 
The  Captain  ot  a  Seventy-thi'ee. 

WlLLfAM  MAKtl'UACl;  TllACKl 


SOKROWa  OF  WERTUKK. 

Wehtiiisk  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 

Wiiuld  you  know  how  lirst  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  Ijutter. 

(^^hailotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Weitlier, 

Andr.irall  tlic  wallh  of  lii.li,^ 
W.mld  ilu  nolhiii^  l<.r  (c,  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  iiined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubliled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
Aiid  nn  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

('JKulotte,  having  seen  liis  body 
ISorne  l)efore  lier  on  a  shutter, 

Like  M  well -conducted  person, 

Went  (ui  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


THE   EGGS   AND  THE  HORSES. 


JiillN  DoniilNs  was  so  captivated 
By  Mary  Trueman's  fortune,  face,  and  cap, 
(Witli  ne.Tr  two  thou.sand  ]ioundsthe  hook  was 

lulled,) 

That  in  he  popped  to  matrimony's  (im|i. 

One  small  ingredient  towards  happiness. 
It  seems,  ne'er  occu]iicd  a  single  thought  ; 

For  liis  accomplished  bride 

Appearing  well  supjilied 
'With  (lie  three  cliarnis  of  riches,  beauty,  dress, 

lie  dill  imt,  as  he  ought, 

Tliiidc  of  aught  else  ;  so  no  inquiry  made  he 
As  to  the  temper  of  the  lady. 

And  liere  was  certainly  a  great  omission  ; 
None  should  accept  of  Hymen's  gentle  fetter, 

"  For  wor.se  or  better," 
'Whatever  be  their  prospect  or  condition. 
Without  ac(piaintance  with  each  other's  nature  ; 

For  many  a  mihl  and  quiet  creature 
Of  charming  disposition, 
Alae  !  by  thoughtless  marriage  luis  destroyed  it. 


So  take  advice  ;  let  girls  dress  e'er  s 
Don't  enter  into  wedlock  hastily 
Unless  you  can't  avoiil  it. 


I  tastily, 


Week  followed  week,  and,  it  must  bo  contest, 
The  bridegroom  and  the  bride  had   both  been 

blest  ; 
Month  after  month  had  languidly  transpired, 
Hoth  parties  became  tired  : 
Year  after  year  dragged  on  ; 
Their  happiness  was  gone. 

Ah  !  toolisli  pair  ! 

"  Bear  and  forbear" 

Should  be  the  rule  for  married  folks  to  take. 

But  blind  mankind  (poor  discontented  elves  !) 

Too  often  make 

The  ndsery  of  themselves. 


At  le 


viU  not 


k'th  the  husband  .said,  "Tlii 
do! 
Mary,  I  never  will  be  ruled  by  you  ; 

So,  wife,  d'  ye  see  ? 
To  live  together  as  we  can't  agree. 
Suppose  we  part ! " 
With  woman's  pride, 
Mary  replied  , 

"With  all  my  heart  !" 

.bihn  Dobbins  then  to  Mary's  father  goes, 
And  gives  the  list  of  his  imagined  woes. 

"Dear  son-iudaw  !  "  the  father  .said,  "  I  see 
.•\11  is  quite  true  that  you  've  been  telling  me  ; 
Yet-there  in  marriage  is  s\icli  strange  fatality, 

That  when  as  much  of  life 

You  shall  have  seen 

As  it  has  been 
Jly  lot  to  see,  I  think  you  '11  own  your  wife 
As  good  or  better  than  tlie  geneiality. 

"An  interest  in  your  case  1  really  take. 
And  therefore  gladly  this  agreement  make  : 
An  hund]-eJ  eggs  within  this  ba.sket  lie. 
With  which  your  luck,  to-mori'ow,  you  shall  try 
Also  my  live  best  horses,  with  my  cart  ; 
And  from  the  farm  at  dawn  you  shall  depai't. 
All  round  the  country  go. 
And  be  particular,  I  beg  ; 

Wliere  husbands  rule,  a  horse  bestow. 

Hut  where  the  wives,  an  egg. 
And  if  the  horses  go  befoie  the  eggs, 
I  '11  ease  you  of  your  wife,  —  I  will,  —  I'  fogs  ! ' 

Away  the  married  man  dejiarted, 
Hrisk  and  light-hearU-d  ; 
Not  doubting  tliat,  ofcour.se. 


U-- 


-^ 


0- 


-Fh 


876 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


t& 


Tliu  tirst  five  houses  each  would  take  a  horse. 
At  the  lirst  house  he  kuookej, 
He  felt  a  little  shocked 
To  hear  a  I'eiiiale  voice,  with  aiigiy  roar, 
Scream  out,  —  "Hullo  ! 
Who 's  there  below  ? 
Wliy,  luisband,  are  you  deaf?  go  to  the  door. 
See  who  it  is,  I  beg." 

Our  poor  IVieiid  John 
Trudged  ijuiekly  on, 
liut  first  laid  at  tlu^  door  an  egg. 

I  will  not,  all  his  jiiuriiey  through 
The  discontented  traveler  pursue  ; 
Sulfico  it  here  to  say 
That  when  his  first  day's  task  was  nearly  done, 
He  M  seen  an  hundred  liusbands,  minus  one, 
Anil  eggs  just  ninety-nine  had  given  away. 
"  Ha  !  there's  a  house  where  he  I  seek  must 

dwell," 
At  length  cried  John  ;   "  I  '11  go  and  liug  the 
bell." 

Tlio    servant    came,  —  John    asked    him, 

"Pray, 
Fi'iend,  is  your  master  in  the  way  ? " 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  with  smiling  phiz, 
"  My  luastiT  is  not,  but  my  mistress  is  ; 
Walk  in  that  parlor,  sir,  my  lady  's  in  it  : 
Master  will  be  himself  there  —  in  a  minute." 
The  lady  said  her  husband  then  was  dressing. 
And,  if  his  business  was  not  very  pressing. 
She  would  prefer  that  he  should  wait  until 
His  toilet  was  completed  ; 
Adding,  "Pray,  sir,  be  seated." 
"  Madam,  I  will," 
Said  John,  with  great  politeness  ;   "but  I  own 
That  you  alone 
Can  tell  me  all  I  wish  to  know  ; 
Will  you  do  .so  ? 
Pardon  my  rudeness. 
And  just  liave  the  goodness 
(A  wager  to  decide)  to  tell  me  —  do  — 
Who  governs  in  this  hotise,  — yoitr  spoti.(;e  or 
you  »  " 

"Sir,"  said  the  lady,  with  adoubling  nod, 

"Your  question  's  very  odd  ; 
But  as  I  think  none  otiglit  to  be 
Ashamed  to  do  their  duty  (do  you  see  ?) 
On  that  account  I  scruple  not  to  say 
It  always  is  my  pleasure  to  obey. 
But  here  's  my  husband  (always  sad  without 

mv)'; 
Tal;e  not  my  word,  but  ask  him,  if  you  doubt 
me." 

"Sir,"  said  the  husband,  "'tis  most  true  ; 
I  1  ■remise  you, 


A  more  obedient,  kind,  and  gentle  woman 
Does  not  exist." 
"Give  us  your  fist," 
Said  John,  "  and,  as  the  case  is  something  more 
than  conmion. 
Allow  me  to  present  you  with  a  lieast 
Worth  fifty  guineas  at  the  very  least. 

"There's  Smiler,  sir,  a  beauty,  you  must  own, 

There  's  Prince,  that  handsome  black. 
Ball  the  gray  mare,  and  Saladin  the  roan, 
Besides  old  Dunn  ; 
Come,  sir,  choose  one  ; 
But  take  advice  from  me. 
Let  Prince  be  he  ; 
Why,  sir,  you  '11  look  the  hero  on  his  back. " 

"  I  '11  take  the  black,  and  thank  you  too." 
"Nay,  husband,  that  will  never  do  ; 
You  know,  you  've  often  heard  me  say 
How  much  1  long  to  have  a  gray  ; 
And  this  one  will  exactly  do  for  me." 
"  No,  no,"  said  he, 
"  Friend,  take  the  four  others  back, 
And  only  leave  the  black." 
"Nay,  husband,  I  declare 
I  must  have  the  gray  mare  ; " 
Adding  (with  gentle  force), 
"The  gray  mare  is,  I  'm  sure,  the  better  horse." 

"  Well,  if  it  must  be  so,  —  good  sir. 

The  gray  mare  we  prefer  ; 
So  we  accept  your  gift."     John  made  a  leg  ; 
"Allow  me  to  present  you  with  an  egg  ; 

'T  is  my  last  egg  remaining. 

The  cause  of  my  regaining, 
I  trust,  the  fond  afl'ection  of  my  wife. 
Whom  I  will  love  the  better  all  my  life. 

"  Home  to  content  has  her  kind  father  brought 

me  ; 
I  thank  him  for  the  lesson  he  has  taught  me." 
Anonymous. 


ON  AN  OLD   MUFF. 

Time  has  a  magic  wand  ! 
What  is  this  meets  my  hand. 
Moth-eaten,  moldy,  and 

Covered  with  flu  IT, 
Faded  and  stiff  and  scant  ? 
Can  it  be  ?  no,  it  can't,  — 
Yes,  —  I  declare  't  is  Aunt 

Prudence's  Mufl' ! 

Years  ago  —  twenty-three  I 
Old  Uncle  Barnaby 


-ff 


[Q-- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


877 


-a 


e-^- 


Gave  it  to  Aiiiity  I'., 

Laugliiiij;  aiid  teasing,  — 

"  Pru.  of  Llie  breezy  curls, 

Whisjier  these  solemn  cliurls, 

IVIuU  holds  a  ]ird.l.ij  ijirl'a 

Hand  witltoiU  S'/uccii/if/.'" 

Uncle  was  then  a  lad. 

Gay,  but,  I  grieve  to  add, 

Gone  to  what  'a  calleil  "  the  bad,"  — 

Smoking, — and  worse! 
Sleek  sable  then  was  this 
Muir,  lined  with  pinkinus,— 
Bloom  tu  whiih  lii'aiily  is 

pSeldoni  aveise. 

I  see  in  retrospect 

Aunt,  in  her  best  bedecked, 

Gliding,  with  mien  ere<:t. 

Gravely  to  meeting  : 
Psalm-book,  ami  kercliiet  new, 
Peeped  Ironi  the  Ihill'ol'  I'ru., 
Voung  njen  —  and  [jIous,  too  — 

Giving  he]-  gieeling. 

Pure  was  the  life  she  led 

Then  ;  from  her  Mulf,  't  is  said. 

Tracts  sill!  distributed  ;  — 

Scapegraces  many. 
Seeing  the  grace  they  lacked, 
Followed  hej-  ;  one  attacked 
Prudence,  and  got  his  tract 

Ultener  than  any  ! 

Love  has  a  potent  spell  ! 
Soon  this  bokl  ne'er-<lo-weIl, 
Aunt's  sweet  susceptible 

Heart  undermining, 
Slipped,  so  the  scandal  runs, 
Notes  in  the  pretty  nun's 
Mnir,  —  triple-cornered  ones,  — 

Pink  as  its  lining  ! 

Worse,  even,  soon  the  Jade 
Fled  (to  oblige  her  blade  !) 
Whilst  her  friends  thought  that  they  'd 

Locked  her  up  tightly: 
After  such  sliocking  games. 
Aunt  is  of  wedded  dames 
Gayest,  —  and  now  her  name  's 

Mrs.  Golightly. 

In  female  coniluct  (law 
Sadder  1  never  saw. 
Still  1  've  faitli  in  the  law 
Of  ('ompensation. 


IJnie  uncle  went  astray,  — 
Smoked,  joked,  and  swore  away  ; 
Sworn  by,  ho  's  now,  by  a 
Large  congregation  ! 

Changed  is  the  child  of  sin  ; 
Now  he  's  (he  once  was  thin) 
Grave,  with  a  double  chin,  — 

IJlest  be  his  fat  form  ! 
I  banged  is  the  garb  he  wore  : 
Preacher  was  never  more 
Prizecl  than  is  uncle  for 

Pulpit  or  platfoiin. 

If  all 's  us  hest  befits 
Mortals  of  slemler  wits. 
Then  beg  this  Mud;  anil  its 

Fair  owner  jiardon  ; 
ytll  's  for  Ikn  best,  —  indeed, 
Such  is  my  simple  creed  ; 
Still  I  must  go  and  weed 

Hard  in  my  gardi-n. 

)  Ki:i)l'RICK  LOCKKR. 

THE  WORLD. 

HROM  "THE  jesrriK's  PLEA."* 

[I!  world  's  a  sorry  wcneh,  akin 
To  all  that 's  frail  and  frightful  ; 
le  world  's  as  ugly,  ay,  as  sin,  — 
Anil  almo.st  as  delightful  ! 

world  's  a  merry  world  {pro  km.), 
And  some  are  gay,  and  therefore 
pleases  them,  but  some  copdemn 
The  world  they  do  not  caie  for. 


The  world  's  an  ugly  woild.     Ollend 

Good  people,  how  they  wrangle  ! 
The  manners  that  they  never  mend. 

The  characters  they  mangle  ! 
They  eat  and  drink  and  scheme  and  jilod, 

And  go  to  church  on  .SunilHy ; 
And  many  are  afraid  of  God,  — 

And  more  of  Mrs.  (Jrundy. 

I-lieoliKICK  LOCKER. 


Who  would  cai'e  to  pass  his  life  away 

Of  the  Lotos-land  a  dreamful  denizen,  — 
Lotos-islands  in  a  waveless  bay. 

Sung  by  Alfred  Tennyson  ? 

Who  would  care  to  be  a  dull  new-comer 
Far  across  the  wild  sea's  wide  abysses. 
Where,  about  tlie  earth's  three  thousandth 
summer. 

Passed  divine  Ulysses  ' 


•4 


e- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


--a 


e- 


Eather  give  me  coffee,  art,  a  book. 

From  my  windows  a  delicious  sea-view. 
Southdown  mutton,  somebody  to  cook,  — 
"Music  ?  "  —  I  believe  you. 

Strawberry  icebergs  in  the  summer  time,  — 
But  of  elm-wood  many  a  massive  similiter, 
Good  ghost  stories,  and  a  classic  rhyme, 
For  the  nights  of  winter. 

Now  and  tlien  a  friend  and  some  Sauterne, 

Now  and  then  a  liaunch  of  Highland  venison, 
And  for  Lotos-land  I  '11  never  yearn, 
Malgre  Alfred  Tennyson. 

Mortimer  Collins. 


WOMAN. 

When  Eve  brought  woe  to  all  mankind 
Old  Adam  called  her  im-man  ; 
But  when  she  jOToed  with  love  so  kind, 
He  then  [ironounced  her  woo-man. 
But  now,  with  iblly  and  with  pride, 
Their  husbands'  pockets  trimming, 
The  women  are  so  full  of  whims 
That  men  pronounce  them  icim  men  I 

ANONYMOUS. 


A  CONVERSATIONAL  PLEASANTRY. 

Some  wit  of  old  —  such  wits  of  old  there  were. 
Whose  hints  showed  meaning,  whose  allusions 

care  — 
By  one  brave  stroke  to  mark  all  human  kind. 
Called  clear,  blank  paper  every  infant  mind  ; 
Where  still,  as  opening  sense  her  dictates  wrote, 
Fair  virtue  put  a  seal,  or  vice  a  blot. 

The  thought  was  happy,  pertinent,  and  true  ; 
Methinks  a  genius  might  the  plan  pursue. 
1  (can  you  pardon  my  presumption  ?)  —  I, 
No  wit,  no  genius,  yet  for  once  will  try. 

Various  the  paper  various  wants  produce,  — 
The  wants  of  fasliion,  elegance,  and  use. 
Men  are  as  vaiious  ;  and,  if  right  I  scan. 
Each  sort  of  paper  represents  some  man. 

Pray  note  the  fop,  half  powder  and  half  lace  ; 
Nice,  as  a  bandbo.x  were  his  dwelling-place  ; 
He  's  the  gill-paper,  wliich  apart  you  store. 
And  lock  from  vulgai''"Jmnds  in  the  'scrutoire. 

Mechanics,  servants,  farmers,  and  so  forth, 
Are  cojnj-paper,  of  inferior  worth  : 


Less  prized,  more  useful,  for  your  desk  decreed  ; 
Free  to  all  pens,  and  prompt  at  every  need. 

The  wretch  whom  avarice  bids  to  pinch  and  spare. 
Starve,  cheat,  and  pilfer,  to  enrich  an  heir, 
Is  coarse  brown  paper,  such  as  peddlers  choose 
To  wrap  up  wares,  which  better  men  will  use. 

Take  next  the  miser's  contrast,  who  destroys 
Health,  fame,  and  fortune  in  a  round  of  joys  ; 
Will  any  paper  match  him  ?    Yes,  throughout ; 
He  's  a  true  sinking-paper,  past  all  doubt. 

The  retail  politician's  anxious  thought 

Deems  this  side   always  right,  and   that  stark 

naught ; 
He  foams  with  censure  ;  with  applause  he  raves  ; 
A  dupe  to  rumors,  and  a  tool  of  knaves  ; 
He  '11  want  no  type,  his  weakness  to  proclaim. 
While  such  a  thing  as  foolscap  has  a  name. 

The  hasty  gentleman,  whose  blood  runs  high, 
Who  picks  a  quarrel,  if  you  step  awry. 
Who  can't  a  jest,  a  hint,  or  look  endure, — 
What  is  he  ?  —  what  ?   Touch-paper,  to  be  sure. 

What  are  our  poets,  take  them  as  they  fall. 
Good,  bad,  rich,  poor,  much  read,  not  read  at  all  ? 
They  and  their  works  in  the  same  class  you  '11 

find  ; 
They  are  the  mere  ivastc-2>apcr  of  mankind. 

Observe  the  maiden,  innocently  sweet ! 
She 's  fair,  tvhUe  paper,  an  unsullied  sheet ; 
On  which  the  happy  man  whom  fate  ordains 
May  write  his  name,  and  take  her  for  his  pains. 

One  instance  more,  and  only  one  I  '11  bring  ; 
'T  is  the  great  man  who  scorns  a  little  thing  ; 
Whose  thoughts,  whose  deeds,   whose  maxims, 

are  his  own. 
Formed  on  the  feelings  of  his  heart  alone. 
True,  genuine,  royal  paper  is  his  breast  ; 
Of  all  the  kinds  most  precious,  purest,  best. 

Benjamin  Franklin. 


OLD  GRIMES 

Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  man. 
We  ne'er  shall  see  him  more  ; 

He  used  to  wear  a  long  black  coat. 
All  buttoned  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 

His  feelings  all  were  true  ; 
His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray,  — 
""  He  wore  it  in  a  queue. 


-^ 


m- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


879 


-a 


Whene'er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 
His  breast  with  pity  burned  ; 

Tlie  large  round  head  upon  his  cane 
From  ivory  was  turned. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all ; 

He  knew  no  base  design  ; 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small, 

His  nose  was  aijuiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  vfith  all  mankind. 

In  friendship  he  was  true  ; 
His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind. 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 

He  passed  securely  o'er,  — 
And  never  wore  a  pair  of  boots 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 

But  good  Old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest. 
Nor  fears  misfortune's  frown ; 

He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest,  — 
The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find. 

And  pay  it  its  desert ; 
He  had  no  malice  in  Ids  mind. 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse,  — 

Was  sociable  and  gay  ; 
He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes. 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze. 

He  did  not  bring  to  view, 
Nor  make  a  noise,  town-meeting  days, 

As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 

In  trust  to  fortune's  chances. 
But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 

Thus  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares 

His  peaceful  moments  ran  ; 
And  everybody  said  he  was 

A  fine  old  gentleman. 

ALBERT  G.  Greene. 


t^- 


THE  HEIGHT  OP  THE  RIDICUXOFS. 

I  WROTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 

In  wondrous  merry  mood. 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 

They  were  exceeding  gooil. 


They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die  ; 
Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came  ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him. 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb  ! 

"These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed. 

And,  in  my  humorous  way, 
I  added  (,as  a  trifling  jest), 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  took  the  jiaper,  and  I  watched. 

And  saw  him  peep  within  ; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next  ;  the  grin  grew  lirnad. 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear  ; 
He  read  the  third  ;  a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

Tlie  fourth  ;  he  broke  into  a  roar  ; 

The  fifth  ;  his  waistband  split  ; 
The  sixth  ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man. 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  fuuny  as  I  can. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  ONE-HOSS  SHAY; 

OK,    THE  deacon's   MA.STERPIECE. 


Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day. 

And  then  of  a  sudden,  it  — ah,  but  stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frighteniug  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Sccnndiis  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  aiM  gulp  her  down. 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown. 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 


-^ 


f 


880 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


n 


f& 


It  was  on  the  tun-ible  Kultliquuke-diiy 
That  tho  Deacou  liuished  the  oiio-hoss  ihay. 

Now  in  building  of  cliaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a,  weakest  spot,  — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  iu  spring  or  thill, 

in  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  iloor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbraee, — lurking  still. 

Kind  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that's  tho  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

A  ehaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out. 

Hut  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  iJeacons  do. 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  yeou,") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  tho  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'  ; 
1 1  should  lie  so  built  that  it  could  ii  break  daown  ; 
—  "Kur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "'t's  mighty  plain 
'I'liut  Die  weakos'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain; 
'n'  tlie  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain. 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  in(|uircd  of  the  village  folk 

Wliere  he  could  lind  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n't  be  sjilit  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills  ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  tho  thills  ; 

Tlic  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees ; 

'\'\\v.  pamds  of  whitewood,  that  cuts  like  cheeee. 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  elluni,"  — 

l-ast  of  it»  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell  'em. 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  tlieir  chips. 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Thiur  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 

Slep  ami  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too. 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 

Thoroughbraee  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide  ; 

l!(iot,  top,  daslier,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  iu  the  pit  when  tlie  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 

"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she '11  dew!" 

Do  !   I  tidl  ynii,  I  ralher  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  giew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

DiMcon  and  ileacone.ss  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren,  — where  were  they  ? 

IJut  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthqnake-day  ! 

EioHTERN  iniNDHED  ;  —  it  camc  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiecff  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ;  — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 


Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came  ;  — 
Running  as  usual  ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  airive, 
Aiul  llicn  come  filly,  and  tiin-y-FiVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  hero 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  ipieer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth. 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

Fiiisr  UK  Novum UKii,  — the  Earth(iuako-day.  ^ 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay. 

Hut  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 

There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 

Iliid  made  it  so  liko  in  every  part 

That  there  w;is  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills. 

Anil  the  Iloor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills. 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor. 

And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore. 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

An<l  yet,  as  a  toho/c,  it  is  past  a  doubt 

in  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-live  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  tho  way  ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Iluddup  !  "  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 

'f'lu^  ]iarson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,  — 

Had  got  tojt/th/i/,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  tho —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 

All  at  oni:e  tho  horse  stood  still. 

Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  liko  a  s])ill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half  jiast  nine  by  the  meet'n'-hou.se  clock,  — 
.lust  tlie  hour  of  the  Earthqu.ake  shock  ! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  pai-son  found. 
When  he  got  \\\i  and  stared  around  ? 
The  jmor  old  (diaise  in  a  heap  or  niouiul, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  atid  ground  ' 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce. 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
,Iust  as  bubbles  do  when  thev  burst. 


End  «{ the  w. 
Logic  is  logic 


mderlul  onc-ho; 
That 's  all  1 


I  shay. 


-^ 


t& 


H  UMUliO  US  POEMS. 


881       \ 


& 


RUDOLPH  THE  HEADSMAN. 

lifnoLl'H,  jn'olVssor  of  the  lii'adsman's  trade, 
Alike  was  Cainous  for  his  arm  and  bhide. 
( liie  day  a  prisoner  Justice  Iiad  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 
liare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy- 
browed, 
li'iulolijh  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 
11  i^  falchion  lightened  with  a  sudden  gleam. 
As  llie  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 
He  .sheathed  his  blade  ;  he  turned  as  if  to  go  ; 
Thr  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 
"  Wliy  strikest  not  ?     Perform   thy  murderous 

act," 
The    prisoner   said.       (His   voice   was    slightly 

cracked.) 
"l-riend,  I  /tayc  struck,"  the  artist  straight  re- 
plied ; 
"  AV.iit  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide." 
He  iield  his  snulf-bo.x,  —  "Now  then,  if  you 

please  ! " 
Tlie  pri.soner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze, 
( )]f  liis  head  tumbled,  bowled  along  the  lloor, 
fiuunced  down  the  steps  ;  —  the  prisoner  said  no 
more  ! 

Oli\er  Wendell  Holmes. 


CITY  AND  COUNTRY. 


I  'i  i.M  E  back  to  your  Mother,  ye  children,  for  sliame. 
Who  have  wandered  like  truants  for  riches  and 

fame  ! 
With  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  sprig  in  her  ea|i, 
She  calls  you  to  feast  from  her  bountiful  lap. 

Come  out  from  vour  allevs,  your  courts,  and  yonr 

lanes, 
.\nd  breathe,  like  our  eagles,  theairof  our  plains; 
'I'ake  a  whiff  from  our  fields,  and  your  excellent 

wives 
Will  declare  't  is  all  nonsense  in.suriug  your  lives. 

I  oinc',  you  of  the  law,  who  can  talk,  if  you  please, 
'I'ill  the  man  in  the  moon  will  allow  it's  a  chee.se, 
.\iiil  leave  "  the  old  lady  that  never  tells  lies," 
T"  .slee[i  with  her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes. 

Ve  healers  of  men,  for  .1  moment  decline 
Your  feats  in  the  rhubarb  and  ipecac  line  : 
While  you  shut  up  your  turnjiike,  your  neigh- 
bors can  go 
The  old  roundabout  road  to  the  regions  below. 

You  clerk,  on  whose  ears  are  a  couple  of  pens. 
And  whose  head  is  an  ant-hill  of  units  and  tens, 
Tliougli  I'latd  denies  you,  we  welcome  \'ou  .still 
As  a  leatlierless  biped,  in  spite  of  your  quill. 


Poor  drudge  of  the  city  !  how  happy  he  feels 
With  the  burs  on  his  legs  and  the  grass  at  his 

heels  ! 
No  dodijer  behind  his  bandannas  to  share,  — 
No  con.stable  grumbling,   "You  mustn't  walk 

there  '. " 

In  yonder  gi-cen  meadow,  to  memory  dear. 
He  .slaps  a  mos([uito,  and  brushes  a  tear  ; 
The  dewdrops   hang  round  him  on  blossoms  and 

shoots. 
He  breathes  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth  and  his 

boots. 

There  stands  the  old  sc^hool -house,  hard  by  the 

old  church ; 
That  tree  by  its  side  Iiad  the  flavor  of  birch  ; 
0,  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile  tricks. 
Though  the  prairie  of  youth  liad  so  nuiiiy  "  big 

licks  "  ! 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and  he  .slum [is, 
The  boots  fill  with  water,  as  if  they  were  pumps. 
Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his  bed. 
With  a  glow  in  his  heart,  and  a  cold  in  his  lieiid. 

'T  is  past,  —  he  is  dreaming,  —  I  see  him  again  ; 
The  ledger  returns  as  by  legerdemain  ; 
His  mustache  is  damp  with  an  ea.sterly  flaw, 
And  he  holds  in  his  fingers  an  onuiibus  .straw. 

He  dreams  the  chill  gust  is  a  blossoming  gale. 
That  the  straw  is  a  rose  from  his  dear  native  vale  ; 
And  murmurs,  unconscious  of  sjiaeeand  of  time, 
"  A  1.  —  Extra  .super.  —  Ah  !  is  n't  it  jirinn;  !  " 

0,  what  are  the  prizes  we  iierisli  to  win, 

To  the  first  little  "shiner"  we  caught  with  a  pin  ? 

No  soil  upon  earth  is  so  dear  to  our  eyes 

As  the  soil  we  first  stirred  in  tenestrial  pies  ! 

Then  come  from  all  parties  and  parts  to  our  feast ; 
Though   not  at  the  "A.stor,"  we '11  give  you  at 

least 
A  bite  at  an  apple,  a  seat  on  the  grass. 
And  the  best  of  old  —  water — at  nothing  a  glass  i 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLM«S. 


WHITTLING : 

A  "NATiON.ir,  P(ji:ti;ait.'' 

The  Yankee  boy,  before  he  's  sent  to  school, 
Well  knows  the  mysteries  of  that  magic  tool, 
The  pocket-knife.     To  that  his  wistful  eye 
Turns,  while  he  hears  his  mother's  lullaby  ; 
His  hoarded  cents  he  gladly  gives  to  get  it. 


-3 


£r- 


882 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


--a 


'riirii  KiiivosiuiHtimouiillU'iU'il  I  ill  lu'  iiiu  wlml  il  ; 

Aixl  ill  thu  tiiUiciilum  of  till'  IikI 

N<>  lilllr  |iart  Diiit  iiii|iliiiiu'iil  liiitli  liiul. 

His  poitki'l-kiiirn  111  Uiii  .viiiiMK  wliitllrr  l)rinj,'H 

A  fji'iiwiii^'  knowlril^'i'  of  iimlc'iiiil  tliiii^M. 

I'ri.jiTlili.s,  liiilsir,  Hliil  lliu«rul|il(M'sKl-l, 

His  rhi'slmil  wliiMlK  mill  Ills  nIiIii^Ii'  aiirt, 

lliM'liliT  liopj^ini  »itli  ils  lii,-k,ii.v  III.I, 

ll.s  sluuii  I'xpKi.siiiii  mill  inln;iiniliii;<  wml, 

liisioniMt.ilk  liililK'.  ami  tlii.  ili-qiiM-  timo 

'I'liiit  iiiunmii's  IVoiii  Mm  |miii|ikiii-.sliilk  tioniboiie, 

('iiii»liiiii  111  liMU'li  tlm  liny.     'I'll  tliiisii  .siiccuud 

lli.s  liiiw,  liin  iiniiw  111' II  rniillii'l'dil  siMul, 

II iH  winiliiiill,  iiiiscil  tliii  iiiiHsiiif;  Inrnzn  to  win, 

His  Wiiti'i'-wlitrl,  llmt  tiirii.s  upon  ii  Jiiii  ; 

•  ir,  if  lli.s  fiiUiui'  liVDH  iiiKiu  tliii  Hlioni, 

\  "11  'II  .sou  his  ship,  "  buain  ouils  mion  thu  lloor," 

I'lill    i'if,'H'>"'    "''"'    I'liking    iimst.s,    ami    tiinliiTs 

Hl;uii-Il, 
.\li.l  waillli;'  li.'al'  llii'  wasliliih  lor  a  lallluli. 


'I'lllls 
Kiv  lo 
Mak.' 
.\  plo. 
Maka 
Cut  a 
Or  laa 
Maki! 
l''i'on\ 
Milk  I. 
Ila  '11 


liy  Ills  }^iiiiiiis  mill  liis  Jai'k-kiiiri'  diivi'i 
aij;  lui  'U  .solvo  you  any  laolilnn  ^ivfu  ; 
any  f^inirmi'k  inii.siiml  or  mutt', 
w,  a  I'ouuli,  an  origan  oi'  a  llulo  ; 
villi  a  loi'oniotivn  or  a  oloi'k, 
oiiial.  111'  liuiia  a  lloatiiiK.iloi'k, 
,il  I'oilli  lloauly  I'loMi  a  niarlilo  liloi-k  ;- 
anylliiiin  in  short,  for  sua  or  slioro, 
a  chilli's  latdii  to  a  sovi'iity-four  ;  — 
it,  siiiil  1  I   ■  Ay,  when  ho  uiultirtakt's 

iiiuki'    tliK    lliiiiK    mill    till'  niarliiiio  i 

niaki-i  ir 


.\iiil  wlii'H  lliii  thiiij;  is  mailc,  -     wlu'thur  it  lio 
To  iiiovi'  on  I'artli,  in  air,  or  on  lliu  .sra  ; 
Whclhur  on  wator,  o'or  thii  wavos  to  glide, 
Or  iipoii  lanil  to  roll,  rovolvo,  or  sliilo  ; 
Wlictlu'r  to  wliirl  or  jar,  to  strike  or  riuft, 
NVIii'llmr  it  liii  a  piston  or  a  spriu}?, 
Wlmrl,  piilhiy,  tulie  .sonorous,  wooil  or  lira.ss, 
'I'll.'  Iliiiif;  ili'sigiii'il  shall  suri'ly  I'onio  to  (lass  ; 
l''or,  wlii'ii  his  hainl  's  upon  it,  you  may  know 
That  tlioro  's  f;o  in  it,  and  hu  'U  nmki'  it  j^o. 

John  I'lliKl'etNT. 


B-^- 


'I'lll'!   MOlll'JUN   llKia.K. 

SiiK  sits  ill  a  I'ashiouahlii  piirlor. 

Anil  roi'ks  in  her  easy  •chair  ; 
Slio  is  chill  in  sill^s  ami  sal  ins, 

Ami  jewels  are  in  her  hair  ; 
She  winks  iiiul  KiKK''"* '""'  simpers, 

And  simpers  and  j,'ij,'gli's  and  winks  ; 
And  though  slie  talks  Inil  little, 

'T  is  a  jfood  deal  more  tlian  she  thinks 


Whe  lies  ahull  in  the  morning 

Till  nearly  the  hour  of  noon. 
Then  comes  down  snap|iing  and  snarling 

lleeause  she  was  called  so  soon  ; 
llir  hair  is  still  in  papers, 

llcr  checks  .still  I'ichIi  with  paint,  — 
Uemainsof  her  last  night's  lilushcs, 

llefoie  she  intemled  to  liiiut. 

,She  doles  uiioii  iiieii  uii.slmvcii, 

And  men  with  "  llowing  hair"  ; 
She  's  ehspient  over  mnstaclies. 

They  give  such  a  foreign  air. 
■She  talks  of  Italian  music. 

And  hills  in  love  with  the  moon  ; 
And,  if  a  mouse  were  to  meet  her. 

She  would  sink  away  in  a  swoon. 

Her  feet  are  .so  very  little, 

llcr  hands  are  so  very  wliito, 
llcr  jewels  so  very  heavy. 

And  her  head  so  very  light ; 
llcr  cohii'  is  made  of  cosmetics 

(Though  this  she  never  will  own), 
llcr  liody  is  mo.stly  of  cotton. 

Her  heart  is  wholly  of  slonc 

She  falls  in  love  with  a  l.llow 

Who  swells  with  a  foreign  air  ; 
He  marries  her  lor  her  money. 

She  marries  him  for  his  Imir  1 
One  of  the  very  best  matches,  — 

lloth  me  well  mated  in  life  ; 
She's  got  a  fool  for  a  husband, 

lie  's  got  11  fool  for  a  wife  I 


AIVIKUU'AN   AltlSTOCUACY. 


Ob'  all  the  notable  things  on  earth. 
The  ipieerest  one  is  pride  of  birth 

Anioug  our  "  tierce  deumcraey  "  ! 
A  bridge  across  a  hundred  yimrs. 
Without  a  prop  to  save  it  from  snoors. 
Not  even  a  conjile  of  rotten  ;)i-c)'.'.-,  — 
A  thing  for  laughter,  llecrs,  and  jeers. 
Is  American  aristocracy  ! 

Knglish  and  Irish,  French  and  Spanish, 
(icrmans,  Italians,  Dutch  and  Danish, 
Crossing  their  veins  iiiilil  they  vanish 

In  one  eonglonicratiou  I 
So  subtle  a  tangle  of  bhiod,  indeed. 
No  Ucmldry  Harvey  will  ever  succeed 

In  hnding  the  circulation. 


►-y^ 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


883 


--a 


[&- 


Depend  upon  it,  my  snobbish  friend, 
Your  f'iunily  thread  you  can't  ascend, 
Without  good  reason  to  apprehend 
You  may  find  it  waxed,  at  the  farther  end, 

By  some  plebeian  vocation  ! 
Or,  worse  than  that,  your  boasted  line 
May  end  in  a  loop  of  stronger  twine. 

That  plagued  some  worthy  relation  ! 

John  GoDFREy  Saxh. 


RAILROAD  RHYME. 

Singing  through  the  forests, 

Rattling  over  ridges  ; 
Shooting  under  arches. 

Rumbling  over  bridges  ; 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains, 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale,  — 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Riding  on  the  rail  ! 

Men  of  different  "stations" 

In  the  eye  of  fame. 
Here  are  very  quickly 

Coming  to  the  same  ; 
High  and  lowly  jwople, 

Birds  of  every  feather, 
On  a  eoninion  level. 

Travelling  together. 

Gentleman  in  .shorts. 

Looming  very  tall  ; 
Gentleman  at  large. 

Talking  very  small  ; 
Gentleman  in  tights. 

With  a  loose-ish  mien  ; 
Gentleman  in  gray. 

Looking  rather  green  ; 

Gentleman  quite  old, 

A.sking  for  the  news  ; 
Gentleman  in  black, 

In  a  fit  of  blues  ; 
Gentleman  in  claret, 

Sober  as  a  vicar  ; 
Gentleman  in  tweed, 

Dreadfully  in  liquor  ! 

Stranger  on  the  right 

Looking  veiT  sunny. 
Obviously  reading 

Something  rather  funny. 
Now  the  .smiles  are  thicker,  — 

Wonder  what  they  mean  ! 
Faith,  lie  's  got  the  Knicker- 

Bocker  Magazine  ! 


Stranger  on  the  left 

Closing  up  his  peepers  ; 
Now  he  snores  amain, 

Like  the  Seven  Sleepers  ; 
At  his  feet  a  volume 

Gives  the  exiilanatioii. 
How  the  man  grew  stupid 

From  "Association  !" 

Ancient  maiden  lady 

Anxiously  remarks, 
That  there  must  be  peril 

'Mong  so  many  sparks  ; 
Roguish-looking  fellow, 

Tuniing  to  the  stranger, 
Says  it 's  his  o])inion 

She  is  out  of  danger  ! 

Woman  with  her  baby, 

Sitting  vis'il-vis ; 
Baby  keeps  a-s(|ualling, 

Woman  looks  at  me  ; 
Asks  about  the  distance, 

Says  it 's  tiresome  talking, 
Noises  of  the  ears 

Are  so  very  shocking  ! 

Market-woman,  careful 

Of  the  precious  casket, 
Knowing  eggs  are  eggs, 

Tightly  holds  her  basket ; 
Feeling  that  a  smash. 

If  it  came,  would  surely 
Send  her  eggs  to  pot 

Rather  prematurely. 

Singing  through  the  forests, 

Rattling  over  ridges  ; 
Shooting  under  arches, 

Rumbling  over  bridges  ; 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains, 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale,  — 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant. 

Riding  on  the  rail  ! 

John  Codfrf.v  Saxe- 


WOMANVS  WILL. 

AN  nr-ICRAM. 

Men,  dying,  make  their  wills,  but  wives 

Escape  a  work  so  .sad  ; 
Why  shouM  they  make  what  all  their  lives 

The  gentle  dames  have  had  ? 

JOHN  CODPREV  SAXE. 


^' 


a- 


88i 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


B 


"NOTHING  TO  WEAR." 

Miss  Fi.dua  McFlimsey,  of  Mailison  S(iuare, 
Has  iiiaile  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 
And  her  father  assures  me,   each  time  she  was 

there, 
Tliat  slie  ami  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 
(Not  Ihr  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  In  history, 
But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery) 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks  without  stopping 
In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping,  — 
Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together. 
At  all  hours   of  the   day,   and    in   all  sorts  of 

weather,  — 
For  all  manner  of  things  tliat  a  woman  can  put 
On  the  crown  of  her  head  or  the  solo  of  her  foot, 
Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  fit  round  her 

waist. 
Or  tliat  can  be  sewed  on,  or  i]inncd  on,  or  laced, 
Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow, 
In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below  ; 
For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls ; 
Dresses  for  breakfasts  and  dinners  and  balls  ; 
Dresses  to  sit  in  and  stan<l  in  and  walk  in  ; 
Dresses  to  dance  in  and  Hirt  in  and  talk  in  ; 
Dresses  in  which  to  do  notliing  at  all  ; 
Dresses  for  winter,  spring,  summer,  and  fall  ; 
All  of  them  different  in  color  and  pattern. 
Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  crape,  velvet,  and  satin, 
Brocade,  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material, 
Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal  ; 
In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought 

of. 
Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of, 
From  ten-thousand-francs  robes  to  twenty-sous 

frills  ; 
In  all  (juarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store. 
While  McFliinsey  in  vain  stormed,  scolded,  and 

swore. 
They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills. 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer 

Arago, 
Formed,  McFlimsey  declares,  the  bulk  of  her 

cargo. 
Not  to  mention  a  (juantity  kept  from  the  rest, 
Sullu'ient  to  fill  the  largest-sized  chest, 
Wliii'h  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest, 
But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 
Such  particular  interest,  that  they  invested 
Their  own  proper  persons  in  layers  and  rows 
Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  under-clothes, 
(Uoves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and  such  triHos  as 

those  ; 
Then,  wrapped  in  great  shawls,  like  Circassian 

beauties. 
Gave  good-by  to  the  ship,  and  go-h;/  to  the  duties. 
Her  relations  at  home  all  marveled,  no  doubt, 
Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 


For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride  ; 
But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turned  inside  out. 
And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the  dry -goods 
beside. 
Which,  in  spite  of  collector  and  custom-liouse 

sentry. 
Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 

And  yet,  though  scarce  three  mouths  have  passed 

since  the  day 
This  merchandise   went,    on  twelve  carts,    up 

Broadway, 
This  same  Miss  McFlimsey,  of  Madison  Sijuare, 
The  last  time  we  met  was  in  utter  despair, 
Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  wear  ! 

Nothing  to  wear  !   Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert  —  this,  you  know,  is  between 

us  — 
That  she  's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity. 

Like  Powers'  Greek  Slave,  or  the  Medici  Venus  ; 

But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her  declare. 

When,  at  the  same  moment,  she  had  on  a  dress 

Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent 

less. 
And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  I  should 

guess, 
That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to 

wear  ! 
I  should  mention  just  here,   that  out  of  iliss 

Flora's 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 
I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throw  all 
The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal 
On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections. 
Of  those   fossil  remains  which  she  called  her 

"  affections," 
And  that  rather  decayed,  but  well-known  work 

of  art. 
Which  Miss   Flora  persisted  in   styling  "  her 

heart. " 
So  we  were  engaged.   Our  troth  had  been  plighted. 
Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeam,  by  fountain  or 

grove, 
But  in  a  front  parlor,  most  brilliantly  lighted. 
Beneath  the  gas-fixtures  we  whispered  our  love. 
Without  any  romance  or  raptures  or  sighs. 
Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's  blue  eyes. 
Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly  actions,  ■ 
It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business  transactions. 
With  a  very-  small  sprinkling  of  sentiment,  if  any, 
And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by  Tiffany. 
On  her  rirginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss. 
She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis. 
And  by  way  of  putting  me  cpiite  at  my  ease, 
"  You  know,  I  'm  to  polka  as  much  as  I  please. 
And  ilirt  when  I  like,  —  now,  stop,   don't  you 


spc; 


ik,  — 


-51 


e- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


885 


-a 


fr. 


Aud  you  must  not  come  here  more  than  twice  in 

tlie  week, 
Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball, 
But  always  be  ready  to  come  when  I  call  ; 
So  don't  [irosu  to  me  about  duty  and  stufl'. 
If  we  don't  break   this  ofl',   there  will  be  time 

enough 
For  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  the  bargain  must  be 
That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  perfectly  free. 
For  this  is  a  sort  of  engagement,  you  see. 
Which  is  binding  on  you  but  not  binding  on  uie. " 

Well,  having  thus  wooed  Miss  JIcFlimsey  and 
gained  her. 

With  tlie  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  con- 
tained her, 

I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 

At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 

To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by  night  ; 

And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckups'  grand 
ball,  — 
Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fortnight  or  so, 
And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tiptoe,  — 

I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call. 
And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 

I  found  her,  —  as  ladies  are  apt  to  lie  found, 

When  the  time   intervening   between   the  first 
sound 

Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 

Than  usual,  —  I  found  —  I  won't  say,  I  caught 
her,  — 

Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning 

To  see  if  perhaps  it  did  n't  need  cleaning. 

She  turned  as  I  entered,  —  "Why,  Harry,  you 
sinner, 

I  thought  that  you  weut  to  the  Flashers'  to  din- 
ner ! " 

" So  I  did,"  I  replied  ;   "but  the  dinner  is  swal- 
lowed 
Aud  digested,   I  trust,  for  't  is  now  nine  and 
more, 

So  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  1  followed 
Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to  your 
door; 

And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 

As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 

Your  beauty  and  graces  and  presence  to  lend 

(All  of  which,  when  1  own,  I  hope  no  one  will 
borrow) 

To  the  Stuckups,  whose  party,  you  know,  is  to- 
morrow ? " 

The  fair  Flora  looked  up  with  a  pitiful  air, 
And  answered  quite  promptly,   "Why,  HaiTy, 

moil  chcr, 
I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with  you 

there  ; 
But  really  and  truly  —  1  've  nothing  to  wear." 


"  Nothing  to  wear !  go  just  as  you  are  ; 

Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you  'II  lx>  bv 

far, 
I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 

On  the  Stuckup  horizon"  —  I  stopped —  for 
her  eye. 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery. 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible  battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.  She  made  no  reply. 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose 

(That  pure  Grecian  feature),  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  supjiose 
That  a  laily  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes. 

No   matter   how  fine,   that   she   wears  every 
day!" 

So  I  ventured  again:   "Wear  your  crimson  bro- 
cade " 
(Second  turn-up   of  nose) — "That's  too  dark 

by  a  shade." 
"Your     blue     silk"  — "That 's     too     heavy." 

"Your  pink  "  —  "  That '.s  too  light." 
"Wear   tulle   over    satin" — "1    can't    endure 

white." 
"Your    rose-colored,     then,     the    best    of    the 

batch"  — 
"  I  have  n't  a  thread  of  imint  lace  to  match." 
"  Your  brown  moire  antique"  —  "  Yes,  and  look 

like  a  Quaker." 
"The    pearl-colored" — "I    would,    but    that 

plaguy  dressmaker 
Has  had  it  a  week."  "  Then  that  e.\i|uisite  lilac. 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Sliylock  " 
(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation)  — 
"1  would  n't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 
"Why  not  ?     It 's  my  fancy,  there  's  nothing 

could  strike  it 
As  more  comrnc  il  fiuit"  —  "  Yes,  but,  dear  me  ! 

that  lean 
Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like  it. 
And  1  won't  appear  dressed  likea  chit  of  sixteen." 
"Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  Maza- 
rine, 
That  superb  2>oint  d'aiguille,  that  imperial  green, 
That  zephyr-like  tarleton,  that  rich  (jrenadine"  — 
"  Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen," 
Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 
"Then  wear,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which  quite 

crushed 
Oppo.sition,   "that  gorgeous  toUctle  which  you 

sported 
In  Paris  last  .spring,  at  the  grand  presentation, 
When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of 

the  nation  ; 
And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much 

courted. " 
The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously  tipped  up. 
.\iid  both  the  bright  eves  shot  forth  indignation. 


-^ 


886 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


■a 


On  tlio  wlloU',  do  you  tliiiiU  lie  would  Imvit  uiurli 

to  Hpiirtf, 
If  lui  iimni(!il  11  woiuiiu  witli  uolliirif;  lo  wnn'l 


Ah  idici  humt  Uliou  mih  willi  lUv  (Irrcd  rxidiiumtioM, 
"  1  luivi'  worn  it  tlinn^  tinu^a  nl  Ui«  Iwint  nileulii- 

lioJI, 

And    Ihal  Mud   luont  of  my  ,\ivmvh  ur.;  rippc'd 

ii|,  !'•  Siu.rllml  Mi^dll.  liddnt^  imiiin  Ihiil  il  hl.ould  ii.d 

llnv  I  ,//,/.,, /„«rsuu.rlhiu^,  |uMl.M|i«nilluinisli,  :  1„.  hruitcd 

i.lullc   iiiniM.ul,    lliou^li  ;    liul,    to   uhc  au  nx-     Alinm.l  in  Hoiii'ly,  I  'v<i  iUMlilulnl 

|,iv,ssiiiii  ;  A  I'oiirsi'  cil'  iiuiuiiy,  exUniHivc  and  llimuiigli, 

Mow  Hlril(iu(,'  tluiii  rliwHii!,  it  "Muttlinl  my  liiwli,"  I  Ou  tliiH  vitiil  uulyi'ct,  imd  Hud,  to  my  hoiTor, 


Aui  I  I  ri'oviid  viiry  booh  tlin  IiihI  lu^t  of  oui'  m^HHiou. 
"iMddli'MticltH,  iM  il,  HIV  I  1  wu.idcr  llio  .■1-iliii;,' 
II".'.  ii'l  tail  doHM  aTid  ciuhIi  you       oli  !  yi.ii  ui.'ii 

havo  no  (rrhnu: 
You  wIHhIi,  unruitund,  illilirnil  I'l'iiiduroH, 
Who  si't  youmdvcs  n\>  a.s  iiatlornM  and  prmu'luTH, 
Your  Mlly  lavlciisc.    -  wliy,  wliat  ii  nu^ro  ({"I'tt 

il  ill 
I'liiy,  whal  do  vnu  Ii  now  ol' a  w.nniin'M  ui'iM'sfiilics  f 
1  hav(.  Inid  yun  and  sliouvd  yon  I  'vMiolldnf;  lo 

An. I  il  ':■  i.inl'.'.lly  plain  y.m  n..l  ..nly  .l.>n'l  .iiic, 
Itnl  y..ii  .1 .1  li.-li.'V..  ni.'"  (h.'i.'  Iln-  o..so  w.'ul 

Hiill     hi.Ldl.l). 

"  1   Hn|.|i..s..,  il   y..n  .liu.'.l,  y.m  w.ml.l  call   on.  a 

liiir. 
Onr.'nf^HKvm.'Ulis.'nil,..!,  sir       ys,  ..n  111.,  np.il, ; 
Vlu'vo  a  linilo,  ami  a  in.nisl,.i,   an.l       I   doii'l, 

know  wliiit." 

I  loil.lly  HUggosl,...!  Ilio  w.n.l.s       ll.>ll..nl..l, 
l'ic'k|Kick(.t.,  imd  iiiiunilial,  'railiir,  and  tliii'l', 
As  n.'nllo  nxpii'livi'H  whiidi  niij,dit  H'vo  ivlinl'; 
Kill  lliis  only  prov.'.l  an  a  spark  lo  llm  pow.li.r, 
A II. I    llir    M.nin    I    liii.l  misr.l    .-am.'    lnst.T   ami 

l.iud.r; 

II  l.l.'w  ami  II  luiiii'd,  lliiiml.'r.'.l,  li>;liti'iuid,  ami 

liail...l 
liilii  j.ili.iiiH,  v.'ilw,  piiiiH.uii.,  lill  lau^'imf<ii  ipiili. 

I'ail.'.l 
T.i  rxpicss  111.,  al.iisiv.',  aii.l  lli.ii  ils  anvar.s 
\\\.r..  hrouj<lit  up  nil  iil  omc  l.y  a  lonvul  ol'  li'ivi's, 
And  my  last  faint,  d('.si)airinj;  uttnmpt  at  an  (dm- 
K.rvnliou  was  lost  in  a  tumpost  of  solis. 

W  ,11,  I  I'.'ll  r.irlli..  lady,  ami  IVll  r..r  my  lial,  too, 
lni|.r..v'i-i...l  ..11  III,.  iTown  of  111..  lalliT  a  liltloo, 

III  li.n  ofrxprcssiiif,'  tim  IVfliiiKs  wlii.di  lay 
i.hiil.'  1.10  (Iwp  for  words,  as  Wordsworth  would 


II-  Ihroii-li  111.-  I',.iin  ..fa  Low. 
III.'    .iilrv        1    hai.llv    km.w 


i 


•I'h.'U,  «illi..ul 
Konml    mvs.-lf 

how, 
On  .lo.nsl.'p  ami  sidi'Walk,    past  lamp-i>osl   and 

s.piaro. 
At  honu'  and  up  stairs,  in  my  own  casy-i'lniir  ; 

I'oki'd  my  I'wt  into  slippers,  luy  lire  into  blnzti. 
Ami  said  to  myself,  us  1  Iil,  uiy  cifiiir, 
Siipp.isinf;  »  man  hail  llu'  wwdth  of  Ihn  (Var 

nr  111.,  liussias  loliool,  lorlha  rost  of  his  days. 


Tlmt  tho  fair  Flora's  eusu  Ih  by  no  means  sur- 
prising, 

lliil  that  tlKM'o  exists  the  ({reatcHt  distress 
111  .lur  female  eomnumity,  solely  arisiiif; 

Kroiu  this  nusniipli.'d  destitution  of  dress. 
Whose  unfoilunale  vieliins  are  lllliuj^  the  air 
With  the  pitiful  wail  of  "  Nothing;  to  wi'ar." 
Kesearelios  in  some  of  the  "  Upper  Ten"  distriets 
lieveal  tho  most  painful  and  startling  statisties, 
Of  whiidi  let  me  mention  only  a  few  ; 
In  oni'  sinj<hi  house,  on  Kifth  Avenue, 
'I'hr.'e  youii^'  ladies  were  found,  all  below  tweuly- 

two, 
Who  hav.'  Iii'.ni  lliive  whoh.  we.'ks  wilh.nit  any- 

lllillf,'   II. 'W 

In  Ih.'  way  of  II.hui.t.I  silks,  iiii.l  lliiis  l.'ll  in  Iln' 

liiivh 
Are  luiahle  to  ^o  to  ball,  eoneert,  or  ehnreh. 
In  imollirr  hiisje  mansion,  near  the  same  plaee, 
Was  found  a  di'plorable,  heartroudin(^  ease 
Of  entire  destitution  of  jirnssels  poiiil  In.'... 
In  a  neij;lihoring  bloek  there  was  l.iund.  In  lliree 

ealls, 
Tolal    want,    lonj;    eontiiiu.sl,    of    eam.ds'diair 

shawls  ; 
And  a  sulli'riug  family,  wlnise  ease  exhibits 
The  most  pressing  need  of  real  onnine  tippets  ; 
One  deserving  young  lady  almost  unable 
To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Russian  sable; 
Amdher  confined  to  the  house,  when  it 's  windier 
Than  usual,  beiMinse  her  shawd  isn't  lii.lia. 
Still    iin.ilh.i,    whose   tortnivs    have    b.eu   most 

l.nrili.- 
K.vi'r  siin-e  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer  I'Meilie, 
In  wliiidi  were  iMigulfe.l,  not  friend  or  relation 
(Vm  wdiose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have  found 

eonsolation. 
Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  sei-one  resignation'). 
Hut  tin'  ehoi.'cst  assortment  of    Kreueh  sleeves 

an.l  eollars 
Kv.'r  s.'ut  out  from  raris,   worth    Ihousan.ls  of 

.lollars. 
Anil  all  as  to  style  most  nrherchi'  and  rare. 
Til.' wantofwhieh  leaves  herwithnothiugtowear. 
Ami  renders  her  life  so  ilrear  and  dyspeptic 
That  she 's  ipiite  a  reelnse,  and  almost  a  skeptic  j 
FtU'  she  touchingly  says  tliat  this  sort  of  grief 
Cannot  liml  in  Keligion  the  slightest  relief. 
And  I'hilosophy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 


^ 


e- 


HUMOROmj  POEMS. 


887 


--Eh 


[& 


For  ihe  victim  of  Buch  oveiwlicliiiing  dcHpair. 
Hut  the  (M«l(l(;»t  by  far  of  all  tlipw;  aail  fi-aliin-H 
Is  till!  cnu'lty  i)iucti«''(l  upon  tlic  ])Oor  creatuii« 
liy  liuKbiiii'ls  ami  falliorn,   real   DlucljcanJu  and 

Tinjons, 
Wlio  ri'siht  the  most  toudiing  appealB  nia'le  for 

■lianiundH 
I!y  tlioir  wives  and  their  daughters,  and  leave 

tlicin  for  (hiys 
Unsupplicd  witli  new  jewelry,  fans,  or  houijuetd, 
ICven  laugli  at  their  uiiscries  wlienever  they  liave 

a  ehanee, 
And  deride  tlieir   demands   as  useless  txtrava- 

ganee  ; 
One  ease  ol'  a  bride  was  brought  to  my  view, 
'I'oo  sa<l  for  belief,  liut,  alas !  't  was  too  true, 
Whose  husband  lefused,  as  savage  as  Charon, 
To  [ii-rmit  lier  to  take  more  than  ten  trunks  to 

Sharon. 
The  eonseijuenee  was,  that  when  she  got  tlieie, 
At  the  end  of  thieo  weeks  she  ha/1  nothing  to 

wear. 
And  when  she  pio[iosed  to  finish  the  season 
At  Newfiort,  the  monster  refused  out  and  out, 
For  his  infamous  conduet  alleging  no  reason, 
Kxcept  that  the  watei-s  were  good  for  liis  gout. 
.Sufli  treatment  as  this  was  too  shoeking,  of 

course. 
And  proceedings  are  now  going  on  for  divorce. 

I'ut  why  harrow  tlie  feelings  by  lining  the  cur- 
tain 
From  these  scenes  of  woe  ?    f^iough,  it  is  certain. 
Has  here  been  dlselosed  to  stir  u|)  the  pity 
Of  every  Ijenevolenl  heart  in  the  city, 
And  spur  up  Humanity  into  a  canter 
To  rush  and  relieve  these  sad  cases  instanter. 
Won't  somebody,  moved    by  this  touching  de- 
scription. 
Come  forward  t^j-morrow  and  hca<l  a  subscription  ? 
Won't   some   kind    philanthropist,    weeing  tliat 

aid  is 
.So  needed  at  once  by  tliese  indigent  ladies. 
Take  cliarge   of  the  matter?    Or  won't  Peter 

Cooiier 
The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  splendid  super- 
Structure,  like  th.it  which  to-day  links  hijt  n.irne 
In  the  Union  unending  of  honor  and  fame  ; 
And  found  a  new  charity  just  for  the  care 
Of  these  unhappy  women  with  nothing  to  wear, 
Which,  in  view  of  the  cash  which  would  daily 

be  claimed. 
The  La.;/iiu/-i/ul  Hospital  well  might  be  named? 
Won't  St<!wart,  or  mme  of  our  dry-goods  irn- 

jKirtcrs, 
Take  a  contract  for  clothing  our  wives  and  our 

'laughters '( 
Or,  (o  fuinish  the  cish  to  supply  these  distre^  kh, 


And  life's  jiathway  strew  with  shawls,   collars, 

and  dresses. 
Ere  the;  want  of  them  makes  it  much  rougher 

and  tliornier. 
Won't  some  one  discover  a  new  Califoniia  ? 

0  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 
I'lea.se  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  liroadway, 
From  its  wliirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fiU)hi<in  icn' 

pride. 
And  temples  of  Inule  which  towel-  on  each  si'l', 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune  and 

Guilt 
Tlieir  children  have  gathered,   their  city  have 

built ; 
Where  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 
Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  de- 
spair ; 
llaiw;  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  tlio  fine  liroi- 

dered  skirt, 
I'ick  your  delicate  way  through  <lampness  and 

dirt. 
Grope    through    the   dark    dens,    climb    the 

rickety  stair 
To  the  garret,  where  wreti^hes,  the  young  and 

the  old. 
Half  starved  and  half  naked,  lie  i!rou':hetl  fiom 

the  cold. 
Sec  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet. 
All  bleeding  and  bruised  by  the  stones  of  the 

street ; 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the  deep  groans 

that  swell 
From  the  poor  dying  creature  wlio  writhes  on 

the  floor. 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echws  of 

Hell, 
An  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  (ly  from  the 

door  ; 
Then  home  to  your  wardrolx-s,  and  sjiy,  if  you 

dare,  — 
SiKiiled  children  of  Fashion,  —  you  've  nothing  to 

wear ! 

And  0,  if  perchance  there  sliould  be  a  sphere 
Wliere  all  is  made  right  which  no  puzzles  us  here. 
Where  the  glare  and  the  glitter  and  tinsel  of  'I'imc 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  r<;gion  sublime. 
Where  the  soul,  diocinchanted  of  flesli  and  of 

»(;nBe, 
Unscreened    by  its  trajipiiigs  and   shows  and 

pret<;nse, 
Mutit  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above, 
With  purity,  trutJi,  faith,  meekness,  and  love ; 
0  ilaughters  of  Earth  !  foolish  virgins,  iK'waro  ! 
I.*»t  in  that  upjjer  realm  you  have  nothing  to 

wear  ! 

WILLIAM  Ar.r.p.N  nc'Tii 


--& 


[&- 


888 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-n 


PLAIN  LANGrAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


:  HEATHEN  CHINEE." 


t 


Which  I  wish  to  remark  — 

And  my  language  is  plain  — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  C'liinee  is  peculiar : 

Whicli  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

All  Sin  was  his  name  ; 

And  1  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply  ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike. 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skie.<!, 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise  ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Wliich  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand  : 
It  was  euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand  , 
But  he  smiled,  as  he  sat  by  the  table. 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

"i'ct  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  1  grieve. 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve, 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers. 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

Hut  tlie  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see,  — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me  ; 
.\rid  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor,"  — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

1  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed. 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand, 
Witli  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding 

In  the  game  "he  did  not  understand." 


In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long. 

He  had  twenty-four  jacks,  — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong. 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts. 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper,  • 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers,  —  that 's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark. 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain. 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar,  — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS. 

I   KE.siDE  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is 

Truthful  James  : 
I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit  or  any  sinful  games ; 
And  1  '11  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know 

about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  't  is  not  a  proper 

plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow-man  ; 
And,  if  a  member  don't  agi-ee  with  his  peculiar 

whim. 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  ' '  put  a 
head"  on  him. 

Now,  nothing  could  be  finer,  or  more  beautiful 

to  see. 
Than  the  first  six  montlis'  proiH>ediiigs  of  that 
same  society  ; 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil 

bones 
Tliat  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tene- 
ment of  Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed 

there. 
From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  ex- 
tremely rare  ; 
And  Jones  then  asked  the  Chair  for  a  suspen- 
sion of  the  rules, 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was 
one  of  his  lost  mules. 


Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said 

he  was  at  fault : 
It  seemed   he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's 

family  vault ; 


:i 


[& 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


889 


-a 


He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  cjuiet  Mr.  I 

Browu, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out 

the  town. 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass,  —  at  least,  to  all  intent ;  1 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  ; 

meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any  great 
extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean  of  Angel's  I'aised  a  point  of 

order,  when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the 
abdomen  ; 
And  he   smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and 

curled  up  on  the  floor, 
And  the  sulisequent  proceedings  interested  him 
no  more. 

For  In  less  time  than  I  write  it,  everj-  member 

did  engage 
In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeozoic  age  ; 
And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their 

anger  was  a  sin. 
Till  the  .skull  of  an  old  mammoth  caved  the 
head  of  Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  tliese  improper 

games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain  and  my  name  is 
Truthful  James, 
Anil  1  've  told  in  simple  language  what  I  know 

about  the  row- 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  .Stanislow. 
Bret  harte. 


B-.- 


HER  LETTER. 

I  'm  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 
Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire,  — 
It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France  : 
I  'm  bediamonded  out  of  all  rea.son, 
My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue  : 
In  short,  sir,  "  the  belle  of  the  season  " 
Is  wasting  an  hour  on  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I  've  broken  ; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set ; 

Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits  —  on  the  stairs  —  for  me  yet. 

They  say  he  '11  be  rich,  —  when  he  grows  up, 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed. 

And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 

Three  thousand  miles  otf,  as  vou  read. 


"And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ?" 
"And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York  ?  " 
"And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition. 
With  whom  do  1  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk  ? " 
"  And  isn't  it  nice  to  have  riches 
And  diamonds  and  silks  and  all  that  ? " 
"  And  are  n't  it  a  change  to  the  ditches 
And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat  1 " 

Well,  yes,  —  if  you  saw  us  out  driving 
Each  day  in  the  park,  four-in-hand  ; 
If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 
To  look  supematurally  grand,  — 
If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 
By  IJrady,  and  tinted  at  that,  — 
You  'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 
And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

.\nd  yet,  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 
In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier, 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 
The  "  finest  soiree  of  the  year," 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  chambiry 
And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk,  — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  "The  Yerry," 
And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "The  Fork  "  ; 

Of  Harrison's  bam,  with  its  muster 
Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall ; 
Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  luster 
And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl  ; 
Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fuldle  ; 
Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-d-vis  ; 
And  how  I  once  went  down  the  midille 
With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  McGee  ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 
On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go  ; 
Of  the  few  btiby  peaks  that  were  peei)ing 
From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow  ; 
Of  that  ride,  —  that  to  me  was  the  rarest ; 
Of — the  something  you  said  at  the  gate  : 
Ah,  Joe,  then  I  was  n't  an  heiress 
To  "  the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State." 

Well,  well,  it 's  aU  pa.st ;  yet  it 's  funny 
To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 
I  That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water. 
And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that. 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's  daughter. 
The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness  !  what  nonsense  I  'm  writing  ! 
I  (Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low,j 
I  Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 
i  I  'm  spooning  on  Joseph,  —  heigh-ho  1 


-^ 


fi-- 


S90 


HUMOEUUS  POEMS. 


-a 


And  I  'm  to  be  "finished"  by  travel, 
Wliatever  's  the  meaning  of  that,  — 
0,  wliy  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 
In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat! 

Good  night,  ■ — here  's  the  end  of  my  paper  ; 
( !ood  night,  —  if  the  longitude  please,  — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 
Voar  sun  's  climbing  over  the  trees. 
l)Ut  know,  if  you  have  u't  got  riches. 
And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart 's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches. 
And  you  've  struck  it,  —  on  Poverty  Flat. 

Bret  Harte. 


THE  VEGETABLE  GIRL. 

Behind  a  market  stall  installed, 

I  mark  it  every  day. 
Stands  at  her  stand  the  fairest  gu-1 

I  've  met  within  the  bay  ; 
Her  two  lips  are  of  cherry  red. 

Her  hands  a  pretty  pair, 
"With  such  a  pretty  turn-up  nose. 

And  lovely  reddish  hair. 

'T  is  there  she  stands  from  mom  till  night. 

Her  customers  to  please. 
And  to  appease  their  appetite 

She  sells  them  beans  and  peas. 
Attracted  by  the  glances  from 

The  apple  of  her  eye. 
Anil  by  her  Chili  apples  too. 

Each  passer-by  will  buy. 

Slie  stands  upon  her  little  feet 

Tliroughout  the  livelong  day, 
And  sells  her  celery  and  things  — 

A  big  feat,  by  the  way. 
She  changes  off  her  stock  for  change, 

Attending  to  each  call. 
And  when  she  has  but  one  beet  left, 

She  says,  "  Now  that  beat 's  all  !  " 

MAY  Taylor. 


SONNET  TO  A  CLAM. 

iNr.LOEloi'S  friend  !  most  confident  I  am 

Thy  life  is  one  of  very  little  ease  ; 

Albeit  men  mock  thee  in  their  similes 
And  prate  of  being  ' '  happy  as  a  clam  !  " 
What  though  thy  .shell  protects  thy  fragile  head 

From  the  shai-p  bailiffs  of  the  briny  sea  ? 

T'ny  valves  are,  sure,  no  safety-valves  to  thee, 
^Yhile  rakes  are  free  to  desecrate  thy  bed, 


And  bear  thee  off — as  foeraen  take  their  spoil — 
Far  from  thy  friends  and  family  to  roam  ; 
Forced,  like  a  Hessian,  from  thy  native  home. 

To  meet  destruction  in  a  foreign  broil ! 

Though  thou  art  tender,  yet  thy  humble  bard 
Declares,  0  clam  !  thy  case  is  shocking  hard. 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE. 


THE  NANTUCKET  SKIPPER. 

Many  a  long,  long  year  ago, 

Nantucket  skippers  had  a  plan 
Of  finding  out,  though  "  Ijing  low," 

How  near  New  York  their  schooners  ran. 

They  greased  the  lead  before  it  fell, 

And  then  by  sounding,  through  the  uight. 

Knowing  the  soil  that  stuck  so  well. 
They  always  guessed  their  reckoning  right. 

A  skipper  gray,  whose  eyes  were  dim. 
Could  tell,  by  tasting,  just  the  spot, 

And  so  below  he  'd  "douse  the  glim,"  — 
After,  of  course,  his  "something  hot." 

Snug  in  his  berth,  at  eight  o'clock, 
This  ancient  skipper  might  be  found  ; 

No  matter  how  his  craft  would  rook. 

He  slept,  —  for  skippers'  uaps  are  sound. 

The  watch  on  deck  would  now  and  then 
Run  down  and  v;ake  him,  with  the  lead  ; 

He  'd  up,  and  taste,  and  tell  the  men 
How  many  miles  they  went  ahead. 

One  night 't  was  .Jotham  Marden's  watch, 
A  curious  wag,  — the  peddler's  son  ; 

And  so  he  mused,  (the  wanton  wTetch  !) 
"  To-night  I  '11  have  a  grain  of  fun. 

"We  're  all  a  set  of  stupid  fools, 
To  think  the  skipper  knows,  by  feistuig. 

What  gi-ound  he  's  on  ;  Nantucket  schools 
Don't  teach  such  stuff,  with  all  their  basting ! 

And  so  he  took  the  well-greased  lead. 
And  rubbed  it  o'er  a  box  of  earth 

That  stood  on  deck,  — a  parsnip-bed,  — 
And  then  he  sought  the  skipper's  berth. 

"Where  are  we  now,  sir  ?     Please  to  taste." 
The  skipper  yawned,  put  out  his  tongue. 

Opened  his  eyes  in  wondrous  haste. 
And  then  upon  the  floor  he  sprung  ! 

The  skipper  stormed,  and  tore  his  hair. 

Hauled  on  his  boots,  and  roared  to  Marden, 

"Nantucket 's  sunk,  and  here  we  are 
Right  over  old  Marm  Hackett's  ganlen  ! " 

James  t.  fields 


-^ 


[& 


HU Mono  us  POEMS. 


891    T 


THE  TWINS. 

In  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb, 

I  gi-ew  so  like  my  brother, 
That  folks  got  taking  me  for  him, 

And  each  for  one  anotlier. 
It  jnizzled  aU  our  kith  and  kin, 

It  reached  an  awful  pitch, 
For  one  of  us  was  born  a  twin. 

And  not  a  soul  knew  which. 

One  day  (to  make  the  matter  worse), 

Before  our  names  were  fixed, 
As  we  were  being  washed  by  nurse. 

We  got  completely  mixed. 
And  thus  you  see,  by  Fate's  decree 

(Or  rather  nui'se's  whim), 
My  brother  John  got  cluistene<l  me, 

And  I  got  christened  him. 

This  fatal  likeness  even  dogged 

Jly  footsteps  when  at  school. 
And  I  was  always  getting  flogged,  — 

For  John  turned  out  a  fool. 
I  ]iut  this  question  hojielessly 

To  eveiT  one  I  knew,  — 
Wliat  wnukl  you  do,  if  you  were  me. 

To  prove  that  you  were  you  ? 

Our  close  resemblance  turned  the  tide 

Of  our  domestic  life  ; 
For  somehow  my  intended  bride 

Became  my  brother's  wife. 
In  short,  year  after  year  the  same 

Absurd  mistakes  went  on  ; 
.And  wlien  1  died,  —  the  neighbors  came 

And  buried  brother  John  ! 

HENRY  s.  Leigh. 


& 


THE  RETORT. 

Old  Birch,  who  taught  the  village  school. 

Wedded  a  maid  of  homespun  habit ; 
He  was  as  stubborn  as  a  mule. 

And  she  as  playful  as  a  rabbit. 
Poor  Kate  had  scarce  become  a  wife 

Before  her  husband  sought  to  make  her 
The  pink  of  country  polished  life. 

And  prim  and  fomial  as  a  Quaker. 

One  day  the  tutor  went  abroad. 

And  simple  Katie  sadly  missed  him ; 
When  he  returned,  behind  her  lord 

She  shyly  stole,  and  fondly  kissed  liim. 
The  husband's  anger  rose,  and  red 

Anil  white  his  face  alternate  grew  : 
"Less  freedom,  ma'.nm  ! "  Kate  sighed  and  said, 

"0,  dear !  1  did  n't  knov;  't  wns  you  /" 

George  p.  Morris. 


FERGUSON'S  CAT. 

There  was  a  man  named  Ferguson, 

He  lived  on  Market  Street, 
He  liad  a  speckled  Thomas  cat. 

That  could  n't  well  be  beat. 
He  'cl  catch  more  i-ats  and  mice  and  sich, 

Than  forty  cats  could  eat. 

This  cat  would  come  into  a  room 

And  climb  upon  a  cheer. 
And  there  he  'd  set  and  lick  hisself 

And  purr  so  awful  queer. 
That  Ferguson  would  yell  at  him  ; 

And  then  he  'd  purr-severe. 

And  then  he  'd  climb  the  moonlit  fence. 

And  loaf  around  and  yowl. 
And  spit  and  claw  another  cat 

Alongside  of  the  jowl, 
And  then  they  both  would  shake  tlieir  tail.. 

And  jump  about  and  howl. 

0,  this  liere  cat  of  Ferguson's 

A\'a.-,  fearful  then  to  see  ; 
He  'd  yell  precisely  like  he  w»s 

In  awful  agony  ; 
You'd  think  some  first-class  .stomach-ache 

Had  struck  some  small  baby. 

Ami  all  the  mothers  in  the  street. 

Waked  by  the  horrid  din. 
Would  rise  right  up  and  searcli  tlieir  babes 

To  find  some  worrying  pin ; 
And  still  this  vigorous  cat  would  keep 

A  hollerin'  like  sin. 

And  as  for  Mr.  Ferguson, 

'T  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

And  so  he  hurled  bis  bootjack  out. 
Eight  through  the  midnight  air. 

But  this  vociferous  Thomas  cat, 
Xot  one  cent  did  he  care. 

For  still  he  liowled  and  kept  his  fur 

A  standin'  up  on  end. 
And  his  old  spine  a  doublin'  up 

As  far  as  it  would  bend, 
As  if  his  hopes  for  ha]ipinr  ss 

Did  on  his  lungs  depend. 

But  while  a  curvin'  of  the  spine 

And  waitin'  to  attack 
A  cat  upon  another  fence. 

There  came  an  awful  crack ; 
And  this  here  speckled  Thomas  cat 

'Was  busted  in  the  back. 

When  Ferguson  came  down  next  daj'. 
There  lay  his  old  feline, 


^^ 


&- 


892 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-Ri 


And  not  a  life  was  left  in  him 
Althougli  lie  liiul  had  nine. 

"All  this  here  etiines,"  said  Ferguson, 
"or  ein\  iii'  ol'  the  sjiine." 

N(iw  ;dl  ye  men  wliose  tender  hearts 
'I'his  painliil  tale  does  raek, 

,hist  take  this  moral  to  yourselves, 
All  of  you,  white  and  black, 

Don't  ever  go,  like  this  horo  cat. 
To  gottin'  nji  your  hack 


ANONYMOUS. 


THE   HEN. 

A  i-.\.MiHT.s  hen  's  my  story's  theme, 

Wliieli  ne'er  was  known  to  tiro 
(  H'  laying  egg.s,  Ijut  then  she  'il  scream 
So  loud  o'er  every  egg,  'twould  seem 
The  house  must  bo  on  fire. 


A  turkey-cock,  who  ruled  the  walk, 

A  wiser  bird  and  older. 
Could  bear't  no  more,  so  olTdid  stalk 

Right  to  the  hen,  and  told  her  : 
"Madam,  that  scream,  I  apprehend. 

Adds  notliing  to  the  nnittei  ; 
It  surely  helps  the  egg  no  whit ; 
Then  lay  your  egg,  and  ilone  with  it  ! 
I  [iray  you,  madam,  as  a  friend, 

Cease  that  superfluous  clatter  ! 
You  know  not  how  't  goes  through  my  head.' 
"  Hum[ili  !  very  likely  !  "  madam  said. 
Then,  |)roudly  putting  forth  a  leg,  — 
"  llnedueateil  barnyard  fowl  ! 
You  know,  no  more  than  any  owl, 
The  noble  privilege  and  praise 
Of  authorship  in  modern  days  — 

I  '11  tell  you  why  1  do  it : 
First,  you  i>erceive,  1  lay  the  egg. 

And  then  —  review  it." 

From  the  German  of  Claudius. 


ECCENTRIC 


InclufUng  Scientific,  Philosophical,  and  Professional ;  Macaronic  (a  burlesque  inlcrmixtiire  of  lan^ages);  Dialectic;  Parodies  and 
BurlcMiucs;  Cento  Verses  (Patchwork);  Rccijies ;  Alliteration;  Chain  Verse;  Echo;  Pidpin  English  (the  dialect  In  use  between  ihe 
Cliini'sc  and  the  Eii^Ii^h  and  Americans) ;  Curious  Versification ;  and  Etymological  Excrcitatiun,  —a  list  indicating  the  order  in  which 
the  eK.inn)les  arc  ^jivru, 


DARWIN. 

TiiEUE  was  an  ape  in  the  days  that  wore  earlier ; 
Centuries  passed,  and  his  hair  grew  curlier  ; 
Centuries  more  gave  a  thumb  to  his  wrist, 
Then  ho  was  a  Man  and  a  Positivist. 

MOKIIMER  COLLINS. 


& 


r  A  BANQUET  GIVHN  TO  DR.   SIEMENS,  THE  INVENTOR  o 
THE  GAS-HURNACB. 

1 1'  wo  may  trust  the  great  LaPlaee 
The  solar  system  om;e  was  gas  ; 
And  out  of  this,  together  whirled, 
Appeared  tlie  (ilanets  and  the  world  : 
Then,  through  successive  waves  of  change, 
IMulonie,  chemic,  aqueous,  strange, 
'i'hi'  course  of  progress  slowly  ran 
Through  rocks  and  protoplasm  to  man. 
(.\s  for  the  form,s,  from  protoplasm 
Through  five-toed  horses,  without  chasm, 
1  need  n't  say  that  IIu.\ley  has  'em); 
And  man,  as  wo  could  tell  Lal'lace, 
Is  eliielly  busy  making  gas  1 
Thus  Nature  rounds  her  wondrous  plan, 
.And  ends  it  just  where  it  began  ! 

ROSSITBR  W.   KAVMOND. 


TO  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL. 


■■A  li.iin.iii  skull  lus  Ijeifii  foiiiul  III  C.iliforni.1.  In  the  pliocene 

f"H'i ' I       Mil      1  ull  is  the  remiinnt,  not  only  of  the  e.irlicst  pio- 

ii*"fi  '  til  It.  I'll!  the  oldest  known  human  bcini^.  ...  The 
^kiill  ^^  t  t.iiiii  I  III  I  .hift  one  hundred  nntl  fifty  feet  deep,  two  miles 
fri'iii  \ii  I  lilt  it  ncrtis  County,  by  a  miner  named  JaiiKts  M.it- 
M'ti  '  '  '  Mt  Scribner,  a  merchant, and  he  gave  it  to  Dr. 
J I  lite- State  Ceologlcnl  Survey The  pub- 
It. '>    I      '  I t    II  ,    Mjite  Survey  on  the  Geology  of  C.ilifornia 

•■i.'ti     til  It  M  t    il  oonteinpor.'incotisly  with  the  mastodon,  but 

this  l..>t,il  pr.ivi-.  111. 11  lie  was  here  before  the  mastodon  w.is  known 
to  exist."  —  DiJily  I'aftr. 

"  Si'E.vK,   0  man,  less   recent !      Fragmentary 

fossil  ! 
Primal  jiioneor  of  pliocene  formation. 
Mid  in  lowest  drifts  lielow  the  earliest  stratum 
or  Volraiiic  tufa! 

"Older  than   Ihe  beasts,    the  oldest    Paheothe- 

rium  ; 
Older  than  the  trees,  the  ohiest  Cryptogamia  ; 
Older  than  tlie  hills,  those  infantile  erujitiona 
Of  earth's  epidermis ! 

' '  Ko  —  M  io  —  Plio  —  wliatsoe'er  the  '  cene  '  was 
That  those  vacant  sockets  filled  witli  awe  and 

wonder,  — 
Whether  sliores  Devonian  or  Silurian  beaches, — 
Tell  us  thy  strange  story  ! 


^ 


e- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


893 


■a 


fy^ 


"Or  lias  the  Professor  sliglitly  antedated 
By  some  thousand  years  thy  advent  on  thisplanet, 
(living  thee  an  air  that  's  somewhat  better  fitted 
For  cold-blooded  creatures  ? 

"  Wert  thou  ti'ue  spectator  of  that  mighty  forest 
When  above  thy  head  the  stately  Sigillaria 
Reared  its  columned  trunks  in  that  remote  and 
distant 
Carboniferous  epoch  ? 

"Tell  us  of  that  scene, — the  dim  and  watery 
woodland, 

.Sungless,  silent,  hushed,  with  never  bird  or  in- 
sect. 

Veiled  with  spreading  fronds  and  screened  with 
tall  club-mosses, 
Lyeopodiacea  — 

"When  beside  thee  walked  the  solemn  Plesio- 

saurus, 
And  around  thee  crei>t  the  festive  Ichthyosaurus, 
While  from   time  to  time  above  thee  flew  and 

circled 
Cheeri'iil  Pterodactyls. 

"  Tell  us  of  thy  food,  —  those  half-marine  refec- 
tions, 

T'rinoids  on  tint  shell,  and  Braehipods  na  nrUu- 
rrj^  — 

l.'uttle-fish  to  which  the  plruvrc  of  Victor  Hugo 
Seems  a  periwinkle. 

"  Speak,  thou  awful  vestige  of  the  earth's  crea- 
tion, — 
•Solitary  fragment  of  remains  organic  ! 
Tell  the  womlrous  secrets  of  thy  past  existence,  — 
Speak  !  thou  oldest  primate  !  " 

I'A'cn  as  I  gazed,  a  thrill  of  the  maxilla 
Ami  a  lateral  movement  of  the  condyloid  process. 
With   post-pliocene  sounds  of  healthy  mastica- 
tion, 
Ground  the  teeth  together  ; 

And  from  that  imperfect  dental  exhibition, 
Stained  with  expressed  juices  of  the  weed  Nico- 
tian, 
Came  those   hollow  accents,   blent  with   softer 
nnmrmrs 
Of  expectoration  : 

"  Which  my  name  is  Bowers,  and  my  crust  was 

busted 
Falling  down  a  shaft,  in  Calaveras  County, 
But  I  M  take  it  kindly  if  you  'd  send  the  pieces 
Home  to  old  Missouri !" 

Bret  Harte, 


THK  RISE  OF  SPECIES. 


"THE    I'ARADISIi 


MARESNEST  (JoquUur). 

The  rise  of  Species ;  can  it  be 
You  know  not  how  it  was  ?    Then  hear  from  me. 
Ho !  ye  obsolete  wings  in  the  outset  of  things. 

Which  the  clergy  Creation  miscall. 
There  was  naught  to  perplex  by  shape,  species,  or 
sex ; 

Indeed,  there  was  nothing  at  all. 
But  a  motion  most  comic  of  dust-motes  atomic, 

A  chaos  of  decimal  fractions. 
Of  which  each  under  Fate  was  impelled  to  his 
mate 

By  love  or  the  law  of  attractions. 
So  jarred  the  old  world,  in  blind  particles  hurled. 

And  lov(!  was  the  first  to  attune  it. 
Yet  not  by  prevision,  but  sitnple  collision,  — 

And  this  was  the  cause  of  the  Unit. 
That  such  was  the  feat,  which  evolved  light  and 
heat 

A  thou.sand  analogies  hint ; 
For  instance,  the  spark  from  the  hoof  in  the  dark. 

Or  the  striking  of  tinder  and  Hint. 
Of  the  worlils  thus  begun,  the  fir.st  was  the  Sun, 

Who,  wishing  to  round  oil'  liLs  girth, 
Began  to  perspire  with  great  circles  of  fire,  — 

And  this  was  the  cause  of  the  Earth. 
Soon  desiring  to  pair,  Fiie,  Water,  Earth,  Air, 

To  monogamous  custom  unused. 
All  joined  by  collusion  in  fortunate  fusion, 

.•\nil  .so  the  Spong('  puzzle  produced. 
Now  the  Sponge  had  of  yore  many  attributes  more 

Than  the  powder  to  imbibe  or  expunge, 
And  his  leisure  beguiled  with  the  hope  of  a  child. 

CHORUS. 
0  philoprogenitive  Sponge  ! 

MARKSNF.ST. 

Then  Him  let  us  call  the  finst  Parent  of  all, 
Though  the  clergy  desire  to  hoodwink  us ; 

For  He  gave  to  the  Earth  the  first  animal  birth. 
And  conceived  the  Ornithorhynehus. 

CHOnrs. 
Conceived  the  Ornilhorhyuchu,s. 

MARKSNKST. 
Yes:  who,  as  you  have  heard,  has  a  bill  like  a 
bird. 
But  hair  and  four  legs  like  a  beast. 
And  possessed  in  his  kind  a  more  provident  mind 
Than  you'd  e'er  have  pi'esumeil  from  the  priest ; 
For  he  saw  in  the  distance  the  strife  for  existence. 
That  must  his  grandchildren  betide, 


■^ 


p 


894 


HUMOROUS  FOE  MS. 


--a 


t- 


And  resolved  as  he  could,  for  their  ultimate  good, 

A  remedy  sure  to  i)rovidu. 
With  tluit,  to  ]ire|nire  each  descendant  and  heir 

For  a  dillcrciit  diet  and  clime, 
lie  laid,  as  a  test,  four  eggs  in  his  nest,  — 

But  he  only  laid  two  at  a  time. 
(Ill  I  he  first  ho  sat  still,  and  kept  using  his  bill, 

Thai  the  head  in  his  chicks  might  jirevail  ; 
lire  lie  lialclied  the  next  young,  head  downwards 
he  slung 
From  the  l.ianches,  to  lengthen  his  tail. 
Conceive!  liow  lie  watched,  till  his  cliickens  were 
li.itclied, 
With  wliat  joy  he  ohMcrved  that  each  hrood 
WeiT  iiiililic  at' the  start,    had    their   dwellings 
a|.ail, 
And  distinct  adaptations  for  food. 
Thereafter  each  section  by  Natuic'.s  selection 

I'roceciied  to  husliaud  and  wive, 
Uut   the  truth  can't  be  blinked,  that  the  weak 
grew  extinct, 
Wliile  the  lusty  eoutiiiiuil  to  thrive. 
I''.g^;s  were  laid  as  before,  but  each  tinic  more  and 
more 
Varieties  struggled  and  bred, 
Till  one  end  of  the  scale  din|.peii  his  ancestor's 
tail, 
And  lie-  other  got  rid  of  his  lieail. 
From  the  bill,  in  brief  words,  were  developed  the 
birils. 
Unless  our  tamo  pigeons  and  ducks  lie. 
From  the  tail  and  hind  legs,  in  the  second-laid 

The  apes  and       l'i..fess..r  Huxley. 

ClIOllU.S. 

The  apes  and  I'ldfes.sor  Huxley. 

MAIlKSNKsr. 

Yes;  one  Protoplasm,  connecting  tho  chasm 

'Twixt  mammal  and  reptile  and  roc, 
Witli  millions  of  dozens  of  fungus  first  cousin.s, 

ludiices  the  world  to  one  stock  ; 
,\iid  though  llim  has  a  place  from  tho  Sponge  at 
the  base 
In  variety  farthest  removed, 
.\iid  bus  managed  to  roach  what  ho  calls  luiul  and 
.yxrcl,. 
Vet  his  blood  is  by  laiiguagi-  ajiproved. 
For  instance,  the  tribe  that  contrives  to  imbibe. 
With  tho  friends,  who  boliove  in  them,  ])lunge 
Their  h'uuls  with  mad  pranks  into  railways  and 
banks, 
W'r  term  the  vai'ioty  Siiongo. 
.■\nd  perhaiis  like  our  sire,  as  all  classes  mount 
higher, 
We  shall  merge  into  oneness  again. 


Our  species  absorb  all  tho  rest  in  its  orb, 
And  birds,  boosts,  and  fishes  hv  mou. 


What !  birds,  beasts,  and  lishes  be  mon  ! 

William  John  CoURxHoeE 


THE  PHILOSOPIIKR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER 

A  soi'Ni)  came  booming  through  tho  air,  — 
"  Wliat  is  that  sound  f  "  (|iioth  I. 

My  blue-eyed  pet,  with  golden  hair. 
Made  answer  presently, 

"  I'apa,  you  know  it  very  well,  — 

That  sound  —  it  was  Saint  Fancras  Bell." 

"My  own  Louise,  put  down  tho  cat, 

And  come  and  stand  by  nie; 
1  'm  sad  to  hear  you  talk  like  that, 

Where  's  your  philosophy  ? 
That  sound  —  attend  to  what  I  toll  — 
That  sound  was  not  Saint  I'ancras  Bell. 

"Sound  is  tho  niiino  tho  sago  selects 

For  the  concluding  term 
Of  a  long  series  of  ell'ects. 

Of  which  that  blow  's  the  gorm. 
The  following  brief  nnaly.sLs 
Shows  Hie  iuteipolaiions,  Miss. 

"Tho  lilow  wliiidi,  when  the  clapper  slips, 

Falls  on  your  friend,  tho  Boll, 
Changes  its  circle  to  ellip.se, 

(A  word  you'd  better  spoil,) 
And  then  comes  elasticity, 
Restoring  what  it  used  to  be. 

"Nay,  making  it  a  little  more, 

The  circle  shifts  about, 
As  much  as  it  shrunk  in  before 

The  Bell,  you  see,  swells  out; 
Ami  .so  a  new  ellipse  is  made. 
(Vou  're  not  attending,  1  'm  afraid.) 

"This  change  of  form  disturbs  tho  air, 

AVhieh  in  its  turn  behaves 
In  like  elastic  fashion  there. 

Creating  waves  on  waves  ; 
Which  press  each  other  onward,  dear, 
I'util  the  utmost  finds  your  car. 

"  Within  thai  ear  the  surgeons  find 

.\  tympanum  or  drum. 
Which  has  a  little  bone  behind,  — 

Malleus,  it 's  called  by  some  ; 
Teople  not  proud  of  Latin  grammar 
Humbly  translate  it  as  tho  hammer. 


^ 


rr- 


HUMUROUS  POEMS. 


-^ 


895 


"TIk-  wave's  vibrations  this  transniits 

I  111  to  tlie  incus  bone 
(liirus  means  anvil),  wliicli  it  hits, 

And  this  transfers  the  tone 
'I'o  the  snnill  oa  orbiculare,  — 
Till!  tiniest  bone  that  jjeople  cany. 

"  'J'he  stapes  next  — the  name  recalls 

A  stirniii's  form,  my  daughter- 
Joins  tluce  hall-circular  canals, 

Each  lilleil  with  limpid  water  ; 
Their  curious  lining,  you  '11  observe, 
Made  of  the  auditory  nerve. 

"This  vibrates  next  — and  then  we  lind 

The  mystic  work  is  crowned  ; 
For  then  my  daughter's  gentle  mind 

First  recognizes  sound. 
See  what  a  host  of  causes  swell 
To  mako  up  what  you  call  the  '  liidl.'" 

Awhilo  she  paused,  my  bright  Louise, 

And  jiondered  on  the  case  ; 
Then  settling  that  lie  meant  to  tease. 

She  slajiiied  her  father's  face : 
"You  bad  old  man,  to  sit  and  tell 
Such  gibbei-ygosh  about  a  Bell  !  " 

SniRLEV  BKOOKS 


PHYSICS. 

Tlln  UNCONSCIOUS  POETIZING  OF  A  PlULOSOPIll 

Til  Kim  is  no  force  however  great 
Can  stretch  a  cord  however  fini- 
Into  a  horizontal  line 

'I'liat  shall  bo  accurately  straight. 

William  \vni:\v 

THE  COLLEGIAN  TO  HIS  BRIDE  : 


''iiARMKii,  on  a  given  straight  line, 
And  which  we  will  call  B  C, 
Mei'ting  at  a  common  jmint  A, 
I >iaw  the  lines  A  C,  A  B. 
I 'lit,  my  sweete.st,  so  arrange  it 
That  they  're  ci|ual,  all  the  three  ; 
Then  you  '11  lind  that,  in  the  sequel, 
All  their  angles,  too,  are  equal. 

K(|ual  angles,  so  to  term  them, 
Kach  one  opposite  its  brother  ! 
Ki|nal  joys  and  equal  sorrows, 
Kqniil  hopes,  't  were  sin  to  smother, 
Kqicil,  —  O,  divine  ecstatics,  — 


Basel  , 


1 1  niton's  mathematics  I 


THE   CHEMIST  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

I  i.ovK  thee,  Mary,  and  thou  lovest  nie,  — 

Our  mutual  Hanie  is  like  the  allinity 

That  doth  exist  between  two  siniiile  bodies  : 

1  am  I'otassiuni  to  thine  Oxygen. 

'T  is  little  that  the  holy  marriage  vow 

Shall  shortly  make  ns  one.     That  unity 

Is,  after  all,  but  metaphysical. 

'),  would  that  I,  my  Mary,  were  an  acid, 

A  living  acid  ;  thou  an  alkali 

Endowed  with  human  sense,  that,  lirought  lo 

gether. 
Wo  both  might  coalesce  into  one  salt, 
One  homogeneous  crystal.     O  that  thou 
Wert  Carbon,  and  myself  were  Hydrogen  ; 
We  would  unite  to  form  oleliant  gas. 
Or  common  coal,  or  miiihtha.      Would  to  Heaven 
That  I  were  Phosiihorus,  and  thou  well  l,iine, 
And  we  of  Lime  comiiosed  a  Phosphuret  ! 
I  'd  be  content  to  be  Sulphuric  Acid, 
So  that  thou  might  be  Soda.      In  that  ca.sc 
We  should  be  (Jlauber'a  Salt.     Wert  thou  Mn^'- 

iiesia, 
Instead  we'd  form  that's  named  from  Kpsom. 
C'ouldst  thou  I'otassa  be,  I  Aipia-fortis, 
Our  happy  union  .should  that  compound  form, 
Nitrate  of  Potash,  —otherwi.se  Sallpeli-r. 
And  thiLS,  our  .several  natures  .sweetly  blent. 
We  'd  live  and  love  together,  until  death 
Should  decompose  the  lleshly  tcrlimn  quid. 
Leaving  our  .souls  to  all  eternity 
Amalgamated.     Sweet,  thy  name  is  Briggs 
And  mine  is  .Johnson.     Wlierefore  should  not  we 
Agree  to  form  a  Johnsonate  of  Briggs  ? 
\y<-  will.     The  day,  the  hajijiy  day,  is  nigh. 
When  .Idhnson  shall  with  beauteous  Briggs  com- 
bine. 


^- 


THE  ELECTKICIAN'S  VALENTINE. 

"  Tim;  tendrils  of  my  soul  are  twined 
Willi  thine,  though  many  a  mile  apart  ; 

And  thine  in  close-coiled  circuits  wind 
Around  the  magnet  of  my  heart. 


"Const.'int  as  Daniell,  .strong  as  Crove, 
Seething  through  all  its  dcqiths,  like  Since, 

My  heart  pours  forth  its  tide  of  love. 
And  all  its  circuits  close  in  thee. 

"  O,  tell  me,  when  .along  the  line 
From  my  full  heart  the  current  llow.s. 

What  currents  are  induced  in  thine  ? 
One  click  from  thee  will  end  my  wnes. " 


-^ 


[fl- 


89(3 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


--a 


Tliroiigli  iniiiiy  nii  Oliiu  tlio  Wclior  llcw, 
And  eli(^k(!il  this  iiiiswer  hack  to  rue,  -- 

"  I  am  thy  Farad,  danch  and  lrui\ 
Chanjcd  tu  a  KoU  icith  love  for  thee." 


Anonymous, 


THE   LAWYER'S  INVOCATION  TO  SPRING. 

WiiHiiKAS,  on  certain  bouylis  aird  sjirays 
X(iH  divers  birds  are  heard  to  siug, 

And  suTidrv  (lowers  their  heads  upraise, 
Hail  to  the  coming  on  of  Spring  ! 

The  songs  of  those  said  birds  aro\ise 
The  memory  of  our  youthful  liours, 

As  green  as  those  said  sprays  and  houghs, 
As  fresh  and  sweet  us  those  said  flowers. 

The  birds  aforesaid,  —  happy  pairs,  — 

Love,  'mid  the  aforesaid  boughs,  inshrines 

In  freehold  nests  ;  themsidves,  their  heirs, 
Adniinistriitors,  and  assigns. 

0  busiest  tmi.  orCui.i.l's  ('.mrt, 

Where  lender  phiiulills  actions  bring,  — 

Season  of  frolic  and  of  sport, 

Hall,  as  aforesaid,  eoniing  .Spring  ! 

lllNK\     1',    II.    liKOWNELL. 


TONIS  AD  RESTO  MARE. 

Aiu  :  ■■  0  M.iry.  Iimvi  ,i  si^l:  far  mc" 

0  MAUE  fuva  si  fornn^  ; 

Forino  ure  tonitru  ; 
lambienin  as  anianduni, 

Olet  Hymen  promptu  ; 
Mihi  is  vctas  an  ne  so, 

As  huniano  erebi  ; 
Olet  meeum  marito  to. 

Or  eta  beta  pi. 

.Mas,  piano  more  meretri.x. 

Mi  ardor  vel  uiio  ; 
Inferiam  ure  artis  base, 

Tolevat  mo  ureho. 
Ah  me  ve  ara  silieet, 

Vi  hiudu  vijniu  thus  ? 
Hiatu  as  araiuluni  .sex  — 

lllue  Toni.-us. 

lieu  sed  lieu  vix  en  imago, 

I\ty  missis  mare  sta  ; 
0  cantu  vedit  in  mihi 

Hibernas  nrida  ? 
A  vevi  vafcr  hori  si, 

Mihi  resolves  indu  : 
Totius  olet  Hymen  rum  — 

Aeeepta  tonitru. 


cy-- 


NURSERY  RHYMES. 

JOHN,    JOHN,    TUB    IMTEK's   SON. 

JoHANNKS,  Johannes,  tibicino  natus 
Fugit  porniciter  porcum  furatus, 
Sell  |iorcus  voratus,  Johannes  delatus, 
Kl  plorans  per  vias  est  fur  llagellatus. 

TWINKLE,    TWINKLE,    LITTLE   STAR. 

Mica,  mica,  parva  Stella  ; 
Miror,  ijua-nani  si  tarn  bella  I 
.Spli'iidens  eminus  in  illo, 
Alba  velut  gemma,  cculo. 

DOYS   AND   (HULS,    COME   OUT  TO   PLAY. 

(Iakcons  et  fiUes  venez  toujours, 
I, a  hiiie  e.st  brilliante  eonnne  le  jour, 
Venez  au  bruit  d'un  joyeux  eelat 
Veni'Z  du  bons  eieiirs,  ou  ne  veuez  pas. 

TUUEE   WISE   MEN   OF   GOTHAM. 

Tkes  I'hilosophi  de  Tusculo 
Mare  lurvigarunt  vasculo  : 
Si  vas  id  osset  tutius 
Tibi  eanerem  diutius. 

DING   DONC.    HELL,    THE   C.VT  's    IN    THE   WELL. 

AIANON  afXixoKfiire  •  <pp^ap  Xi^ev,  oDXov  iflivjoi', 
T'riv  yaXcrjn  ■  rta  rijffS'  airioj  d.iJ.ir\aKti]i  ; 

TurOis  'iMawTps,  x^wp*"  Ta"""']  alavXa  dSus  ■ 
ToO  ya\hii>  pv0l<rai.  I'TJTrioi'  CiS'  fixoKOi'. 


THE  COURTIN'. 


God  makes  sech  nights,  all  wliito  an'  still 
Fur  'z  you  ean  look  or  listen  ; 

Moonshine  an'  snow  on  held  an'  hill, 
.Ml  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zcklc  creji'  lip  quite  iinbcknoWM 
An'  [irckcd  in  tliru'  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Iluldy  all  alone, 
'1th  no  one  nigh  to  bender. 

A  liieplace  filled  the  room's  one  side. 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  — 

There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'niit  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  lier  ! 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  ehiny  on  the  dresser. 


-^ 


a-- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


897 


-^ 


y-- 


Agiii  tliL-  (.liinibley  crook-nci:k.s  hung, 

All'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
1'lic  olc  (inivii's  arm  thet  gran'tlier  Youiiy 

Felclicil  hack  from  Concord  husted. 

Tlic  very  room,  coz  she  was  in. 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  slic  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  aijjiles  she  was  peelin". 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  seeh  a  hlessed  eretur, 
A  do^jmsc  hlushiii'  to  a  brook 

-\inl  niode.ster  nor  sweeter. 

lie  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 

Clean  grit  an'  human  natur'  ; 
None  coulil  n't  quicker  jiiti'h  a  ton, 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighten 

He  'd  sjiai-ked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Herl  sijuired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  tliet,  by  spells  — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

Bui  long  o'  her  his  veins  'oiild  run 
All  crinkly  like  curled  niajile, 

Tlie  side  she  bre-shed  felt  full  o'  .sun 
i'^z  a  south  slope  in  Ajj'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  lied  sech  a  swing 

Kz  liisn  in  the  choir  ; 
My  !  when  he  made  Ole  Hundn^d  ring, 

She  /.nowccl  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-l<unnet 

Felt  somehow  thru'  its  ci'own  a  pair 
n'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thct  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  I 
She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 

For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 
Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scrajier,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like  sjiarks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

lie  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  tlie  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 
His  heart  keji'  goin'  pitty-pat, 

lint  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  tliougli  she  wished  him  furder, 

.A.n'  on  her  ajiples  kep'  to  work, 
Piirin'  awav  like  murder. 


"  You  want  to  sec  my  I'a,  1  s'jiose  ? " 
"  W'al  ...  no  ...  I  come  dasignin'"  — 

"To  see  my  Wa  ?     She  's  spriuklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 
Oi-  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yen  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust. 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other. 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuthcr. 

Says  he,  "I  'd  better  call  agin  "  ; 

Says  she,  "Think  likely.  Mister"  ; 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  .  .  .  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  .\la  bimeby  upon  'cm  slips, 

Huldy  sot  [lale  ez  ashes. 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

AVhose  naturs  never  vary. 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

Tlie  blood  clost  roun"  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  exiiressin'. 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

And  gin  'em  both  lier  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Hown  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  iiK'etin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

James  Rt'sseix  Lowell. 


WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS* 

FROM    '■  THE    IJICLOW  TAreRS." 

GuvKNKit  B.  is  a  sensible  man  ; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his  folks  ; 
He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can. 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes  ;  — 
But  .John  I'. 
Hobinson  lie 
Sez  he  wtmt  vote  fer  Guvencr  B. 

My  !  ain't  it  terrible  ?     Wut  shall  we  du  ? 
We  can't  never  choose  }iim  o'  course,  —  thet 's 
flat; 
C.upss  we  shall  hev  to  come  round,  (don't  you?) 

*  Presen-ed  here  because  the  essentia!  humor  of  tlie 
I  satire  has  oiitllvert  its  local  and  temporari-  npplieation. 


-^ 


e-' 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


■^ 


t 


An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all  that ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  ho  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man  : 

He  's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  jilaces  or  pelf  ; 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  jjart  of  his  plan,  — 
He  's  ben  true  to  one  party, — an'  thet  is  him- 
self ;  — 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war;* 

He  don't  vally  principle  more  'n  an  old  cud  ; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer. 
But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an'  blood? 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  village. 
With  good  old  idees  o'  wut 's  right  an'  wut  aint. 
We  kind  o'   thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an' 
pillage, 
An'  thet  eppyletts  worn't  the  best  mark  of  a 
saint ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing 's  an  exploded  idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took, 
An'  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our  coun- 
try ; 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  \xs  the  per  cmitry  ; 
An'  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argimunts  lies  ; 
Sez  they  're  nothin'  on  airth  but  jest /cc,  faw, 
film  : 
And  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  ov  it  ign'ance,  an'  t'other  half  rum  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  it  aint  no  sech  thing  ;  an',  of  course,  so 
must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heerd  in  his  life 
Thet  th'  Apostles  rigged  out  in  their  swaller- 
tail  coats, 
An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  dram  an'  a  fife, 
To  git  some  on  'em  office,  an'  some  on  'em 
votes ; 

•  Written  at  the  time  of  the  MexicaD  war.  which  was  strongly 
opposed  by  the  Anti-slavery  party  as  bein^  unnecessary  and  wrong. 


But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin'  down  in 
Judee. 

Wal,  it 's  a  niarcy  we  've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 
The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  matters,  I 
vow,  — 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise  fellers. 
To  drive  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in  a 
slough ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out 
Gee! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  OBGAU. 

They  've  got  a  bran  new  organ,  Sue, 

For  all  their  fuss  and  search  ; 
They  've  done  just  as  they  said  they  'd  do. 

And  fetched  it  into  church. 
They  're  bound  the  critter  shall  be  .seen, 

And  on  the  preacher's  right. 
They  've  hoisted  up  their  new  machine 

In  everybody's  sight. 
They  've  got  a  chorister  and  choir, 

Ag'in  7)iy  voice  and  vote  ; 
For  it  was  never  my  desire. 

To  praise  the  Lord  by  note  ! 

I  've  been  a  sister  good  an'  true. 

For  five  an'  thirty  year  ; 
I  've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do. 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear  ; 
I  've  sung  the  hymns  both  slow  and  quick. 

Just  as  the  preacher  read  ; 
And  twice,  when  Deacon  Tubbs  was  sick, 

I  took  the  fork  an'  led  ! 
An'  now,  their  bold,  new-fangled  ways 

Is  comin'  all  about  ; 
And  I,  right  in  my  latter  days, 

Am  fairly  crowded  out ! 

To-day,  the  preacher,  good  old  dear. 

With  tears  all  in  his  ej'es. 
Read  —  "I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies. "  — 
I  al'ays  liked  that  blessed  hjmm  — 

I  s'i>ose  I  al'ays  will ; 
It  someliow  gi-atifies  tn;/  whim. 

In  good  old  Ortonville  ; 
But  when  that  choir  got  up  to  sing, 

I  could  n't  catch  a  word  ; 
They  sung  the  most  dog-gonedost  thing 

A  body  ever  heard  ! 


-^4? 


[S-- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


899 


B- 


Some  worldly  cliaps  was  standin'  near, 

An'  when  I  see  them  grin, 
I  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 

And  boldly  waded  in. 
I  thought  I  'd  chase  the  tune  along, 

An'  tried  with  all  my  might  ; 
But  though  my  voice  is  good  an'  strong, 

I  could  n't  steer  it  right. 
AVlien  tliey  was  high,  then  I  was  low. 

An'  also  contra' wise  ; 
And  1  too  fast,  or  they  too  slow. 

To  "mansions  in  the  skies." 

An'  after  every  verse,  you  know. 

They  play  a  little  tune  ; 
I  did  n't  understand,  an'  so 

I  started  in  too  soon. 
I  pitched  it  purty  middlin'  high, 

And  fetched  a  lusty  tone. 
But  0,  alas  !  1  found  that  I 

Was  singin'  there  alone  ! 
They  laughed  a  little,  I  am  told  ; 

But  I  had  done  my  best  ; 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  rolled 

Across  my  peaceful  breast. 

And  Sister  Brown,  —  I  could  but  look,  — 

She  sits  right  front  of  me  ; 
She  never  was  no  singin'  book, 

An'  never  went  to  be  ; 
But  then  she  al'ays  tried  to  do 

The  best  she  could,  she  said  ; 
She  understood  the  time,  right  through. 

An'  kep'  it  with  her  head  ; 
But  when  she  tried  this  mornin',  0, 

I  had  to  laugh,  or  cough  ! 
It  kep'  her  head  a  bobbin'  so. 

It  e'en  a'most  come  off  ! 

An'  Deacon  Tubbs, — he  all  broke  down. 

As  one  might  well  suppose  ; 
He  took  one  look  at  Sister  Brown, 

And  meekly  scratched  his  nose. 
Helookedhishymn-book  through  and  through. 

And  laid  it  on  the  seat, 
And  then  a  pensive  sigh  he  drew, 

And  looked  completely  beat. 
An'  when  they  took  another  bout, 

He  did  n't  even  rise  ; 
But  dravved  his  red  bandanner  out, 

A  n'  wiped  his  weeping  eyes. 

I  've  been  a  sister,  good  an'  true, 

For  five  an'  thirty  year  ; 
I  've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do. 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear  ; 
But  death  will  stop  my  voice,  I  know. 

For  he  is  on  my  track  ; 


And  some  day,  I  '11  to  meetin'  go. 

And  nevermore  come  back. 
And  when  the  folks  get  up  to  sing  — 

Whene'er  that  time  shall  be  — 
I  do  not  want  no  pntctit  thing 

A  squealin'  over  me  ! 

Will  M.  Carleton. 


DOWS   FLAT. 

1856. 

Dow's  Flat.     That 's  its  name. 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?     The  same  ? 
Well,  1  thought  it  was  true. 
For  thar  is  n't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot 
the  place  at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow,  — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass  ; 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass,  — 
Jest  tie  up  your  boss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye 
down  here  in  the  grass. 

You  see  this  yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 
On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 
Why,   ef  he  'd  a'  straddled    thet  fence-rail  the 
demed  tiling  'ed  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  could  n't  pay  rates  ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunneHed  with  Bates  ; 
And  right  on  the  top  of  liis  trouble  kem  his  wife 
and  five  kids  from  the  States. 

It  wa.s  rough,  —  mighty  rough  ; 

But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 
For  a  house,  on  the  sly  ; 
And  the  old  woman,  —  well,  she  did  washing, 
and  took  on  when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green  : 
And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary 
a  drop  to  be  seen. 


Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  would  n't  stay  ; 
And  the  chills  got  about. 


^' 


[&■ 


iiUO 


HU  MO  HO  us  FOE  MS. 


-a 


& 


And  Ills  wil'i!  fell  away  ; 
But  Dow,  ill  Ills  well,  kept  a  peggiu'  in  his  usual 
ridikilous  way. 

One  day,  —  it  was  June,  — 

And  a  year  ago,  jest,  — 
This  Dow  kein  at  noon 
•  To  his  work  like  the  rest. 
With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a 
derringer  hid  in  Ms  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 

And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think  : 
For  the  sun  in  his  eyes,  (jest  like  this,  sir  !)  you 

see,  kinder  made  the  euss  blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play. 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  Happed  on  a  bay  : 
>iot  much  for  a  iiuiu  to  be  leavin',  but  his  all,  — 
as  1  've  licer'd  the  folks  say. 

And  —  that 's  a  peart  boss 

Tliet  you  've  got  —  ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ?  Oh  !  —  Well  then,  Dow  — 

Let 's  see,  —  well,  that  forty-foot  grave  was  n't 

his,  sii',  that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side. 
And  ho  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  tieiiibl,-d  and  cried. 
For  you  see  the  ilerii  euss  had  struck  —  "  AVater  ? " 
—  beg  your  parding,  young  man,  thera 
you  lied  ! 

It  was  gold,  —  in  the  ipiartz. 

And  it  ran  all  alike  ; 
And  1  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  wortli  of  that  strike  ; 
And  that  liouso  with   the   eoopilow  's  his'n,  — 
which  the  same  is  n't  bad  for  a  Pike. 

Thet  's  why  it 's  Dow's  Flat  ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrairiness  : 
For  't  was  imter  the  denied  cuss  was  seekin',  and 
his  luck  made  him  coi'tain  to  miss. 

Thet 's  so.     Thar  's  your  way 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree  ; 
But  —  a  —  look  h'yur,  sny, 


Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 
Well,  then  the  next  time  yoM  're  pasain'  ; 
md  ask  after  Dow,  —  and  thet  'a  me. 


JIM. 

Say  there  !     P'r'aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 
Might  know  Jim  WQd  ? 

Well,  —  no  offense  : 

Thar  ain't  no  sense 
In  gittin'  riled ! 

Jim  was  my  claim 

Up  on  the  liar  : 
That 's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  thar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  ye,  sir  !  you 
Ain't  of  that  crew,  — 

Blest  if  you  are  ! 

Money  ?  —  Not  much  : 
That  ain't  my  kind  ; 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum  ?  —  I  don't  mind, 
Seein'  it 's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him  ?  — 
Jess  'bout  your  size  ; 
Same  kind  of  eyes  ?  — 
Well,  that  is  strange  : 
AVhy  it 's  two  year 
Since  he  come  here. 
Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here  's  to  us  ; 

Kh  ? 
The  deuce  you  say  1 

Dead  ?  — 
That  little  cuss  ? 

What  makes  you  star,  — 

You  over  thar  ? 

Can't  a  man  drop 

'3  glass  in  yer  shop 

But  you  must  rar'  ? 
It  wouldn't  take 
Zkrned  much  to  break 

You  and  your  bar. 

Dead  ! 
Poor  —  little  —  Jim  ! 
—  Why  there  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 


-^ 


[& 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


901 


^ 


Harry  and  Ben,  — 
No-acjcount  men  ; 
Then  to  take  liiia! 

Well,  thai'  —     Good  by,  — 
No  more,  sir,  —  1  — 

Eh? 
What 's  that  you  say  ?  — 
Why,  dern  it  !  —  sho  !  — 
No  ?     Yes !     By  Jo ! 

Sold ! 
Sold !     Why  you  limb, 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim  ! 

BRET  harte. 


BANTY  TIM. 

[Remarks  of  Sergeant  Tilmon  J.  Joy  to  the  White  Man's  Coin- 
niittee.  of  Spunky  Point,  Illinois.] 

I  RECKON  I  git  your  drift,  gents  — 

You  'low  the  boy  sha'n't  stay  ; 
This  is  a  white  man's  counti-y  : 

You  're  Dimocrats,  you  say  : 
And  whereas,  and  seein',  and  wherefore, 

The  times  bein'  all  out  o'  jint. 
The  nigger  has  got  to  mosey 

From  the  limits  o'  Spunky  P'int ! 

Let 's  reason  the  tiling  a  minute  ; 

1  'm  an  old-fashioned  Dimocrat,  too. 
Though  I  laid  my  politics  out  o'  the  way 

For  to  keep  till  the  war  was  through. 
But  I  come  back  here  allowin' 

To  vote  as  I  used  to  do. 
Though  it  gi'avels  me  like  the  devil  to  train 

Along  o'  sich  fools  as  you. 

Now  dog  my  cats  ef  I  kin  see, 

In  all  the  light  of  the  day. 
What  you  've  got  to  do  with  the  question 

Ef  Tim  shall  go  or  stay. 
And  fnrder  than  that  1  give  notice, 

Ef  one  of  you  fetches  the  boy, 
He  kin  check  his  trunks  to  a  warmer  clime 

Than  he  '11  find  in  lllanoy. 

Wliy,  blame  your  hearts,  jist  hear  me! 

You  know  that  ungodly  day 
When  our  left  struck  Vicksburg  Heights,  how 
ripped 

And  torn  and  tattered  we  lay. 
When  the  rest  retreated,  I  stayed  behind. 

Fur  reasons  sufficient  to  nie,  — 
With  a  rib  caved  in,  and  a  leg  on  a  strike, 

1  sprawled  on  that  cursed  glacee. 


Lord  !  how  the  hot  sun  went  for  us. 

And  br'iled  and  blistered  and  burned ! 
How  the  rebel  bullets  whizzed  round  us 

When  a  cuss  in  his  death-gi'ip  turned ! 
Till  along  toward  dusk  1  seen  a  thing 

I  could  n't  believe  for  a  spell : 
That  nigger  —  that  Tim  —was  a-crawlin'  to  mo 

Through  that  fire-proof,  gilt-edged  hell  ! 

The  rebels  seen  him  as  quick  as  me. 

And  the  bullets  buzzed  like  bees  ; 
But  he  jumped  for  me,  and  shouldered  me. 

Though  a  .shot  brought  him  once  to  his  knees  ; 
But  he  staggered  up,  and  packed  inc  oil'. 

With  a  dozen  stumbles  and  falls. 
Till  safe  in  our  lines  he  drapped  us  both, 

His  black  hide  riddled  with  halls. 

So,  my  gentle  gazelles,  thar  's  my  answer, 

And  here  stays  Banty  Tim  : 
He  trumped  Death's  ace  for  me  that  day, 

And  I  'ill  not  goin'  back  on  liini ! 
You  may  rezoloot  till  the  cows  come  home. 

But  ef  one  of  you  tetchcs  the  lioy. 
He  '11  wrastic  his  hash  to-night  in  ludl. 

Or  my  name  's  not  Tilmon  Joy  I 

JOHN  hav. 


HANS  BREITMANN'S  PARTY. 

Hans  Brkitmann  gife  a  barty, 

Dey  had  biano-blayin  ; 
I  felled  in  lofe  mit  a  Merican  frau, 

Her  name  was  Madikla  Yanc. 
She  had  haar  as  ptown  ash  a  pretzel. 

Her  eyes  vas  liimmel-jilue, 
Und  yen  dey  looket  indo  mine, 

Dey  shplit  mine  heart  in  two. 

Hans  Bieitinann  gife  a  barty, 

1  vent  dere  you  '11  pe  ]iound. 
I  valt/ct  niit  iladilda  Yane 

TTnd  vent  shpinnen  round  und  round. 
De  pootiest  Fraueleiii  in  de  House, 

She  vayed  'pout  dwo  hoondred  pounii, 
Und  efery  dime  she  gife  a  shoonip 

She  make  de  vindows  sound. 

Hans  Breitmann  gife  a  barty, 

I  dells  you  it  co.st  him  dear. 
Dey  rolled  in  more  as  sefen  kecks 

Of  foost-rate  Lager  Beer. 
Und  venefer  dey  knocks  de  shpicket  in 

De  Deutschers  gifes  a  cheer. 
I  dinks  dat  so  vine  a  party, 

Nefer  coom  to  a  het  dis  year. 


-3 


f 


902 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


u 


Hans  Breitmann  gife  a  barty  ; 

Dere  all  vas  Souse  und  Brouse. 
Ven  de  sooper  coined  in,  de  gompany 

Did  make  deraaelfs  to  house  ; 
Dey  ate  das  Brot  und  Genay  broost, 

De  Bratwurst  und  Braten  fine, 
Und  vash  der  Abeiidessen  down 

Mit  four  parrels  of  Neckarwela. 

Hans  BrL'itniann  gil'e  a  barty  ; 

We  all  eot  troouk  ash  bigs. 
I  |ioot  mine  mout  to  a  parrel  of  bier, 

(Tnd  emptied  it  oop  mit  a  schwigs. 
Und  denn  1  gissed  Madilda  Yane 

Und  she  shlog  me  on  de  kop, 
Und  de  gompany  fited  mit  daple-lecks 

Dill  de  coonshtable  made  oos  shtop. 

Hans  Breitmann  gife  a  bartj'  — 

Where  ish  dat  barty  now  ! 
Where  ish  de  lofely  golden  cloud 

Dat  float  on  de  moundain's  prow  ? 
Where  ish  do  himmelstrahlende  Stern  — 

De  shtar  of  de  slipirit's  light  ? 

All  gined  afay  mit  de  Lager  Beer  — 

Afay  in  de  Ewigkeit  ! 

Charles  G.  leland. 


RITTER  HUGO. 

Dku  noble  Hitter  Hugo 

Von  Schwillensanfenstein 
Rode  out  mit  shpeer  und  helmet, 

Und  he  coom  to  de  pauks  of  de  Rhine. 

Und  oop  dere  rose  a  meermaid, 

Vot  had  n't  got  nodings  on, 
Unil  she  say,  "0,  Ritter  Hugo, 

Vare  you  goes  mit  yourself  alone  ? " 

Und  he  says,  "  I  ride  in  de  creen-wood, 

Mit  helmet  und  mit  slipeer, 
Till  I  cooms  into  ein  Gasthaus, 

Und  dere  I  drinks  some  peer." 

Und  den  outshpoke  de  maiden, 

Vot  had  n't  got  nodings  on, 
"  T  ton't  dink  mooch  of  beebles 

Dat  goes  mit  demselfs  alone. 

"  You  'd  petter  coom  ilnwu  in  do  wasser, 
Vare  dere  's  heaps  of  dings  to  see, 

Und  hafe  a  shplendid  dinner, 
Und  trafel  along  mit  me. 

"  Dare  you  sees  de  fish  a  schwimmin, 
Und  you  catches  dem  efery  one." 

So  sang  dis  wasser  maiden. 
Vat  had  n't  got  nodings  on. 


"Dare  is  drunks  all  full  mit  money. 

In  ships  dat  vent  down  of  old  ; 
Und  you  helpsh  yourself,  by  duuder  ! 

To  shimmerin  crowns  of  gold. 

"Shoost  look  at  dese  shpoons  und  vatches  ! 

Shoost  look  at  dese  diamond  rings  ! 
Come  down  und  fill  yom'  bockets, 

Und  I  '11  kiss  you  like  eferydings  ! 

"Vat  you  vantsh  mit  your  schnapps  und  your 
lager '/ 

Coom  down  into  der  Rhine  ! 
Dere  ish  pottles  der  Kaiser  Charlemagne, 

Vonce  filled  mit  gold-red  wine  !  " 

Dat  fetched  him,  —  he  shtood  all  shpell-pound, 

She  pulled  his  coat-tails  down. 
She  drawed  him  under  de  wasser, 
Dis  maiden  mit  nodings  on. 

CHARLES  G.  Leland 
(Hans  Breitmann) 
• 

THE  FORLORN  SHEPHERD'S   COMPLAINT. 


AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM  FROM 


V  SOUTH  WALES. 


' '  Vell  !  Here  I  am,  —  no  matter  how  it  suits,  — 
A-keeping  company  witli  them  dumb  Brutes  ! 
Old  I'ark  vos  no  bad  judge,  — confound  his  vig  ! 
Of  vot  vould  break  the  Sperrit  of  a  Prig. 

"  The  Like  of  Me,  to  come  to  New  Sow  Wales 
To  go  a  tagging  after  Vethers'  Tails, 
And  valk  in  Herbage  as  delights  the  Flock, 
But  stinks  of  Sw'eet  Herbs  vorser  nor  the  Dock  ! 

"To  go  to  set  this  solitary  Job 
To  Von  whose  York  vos  always  in  a  Mob  ! 
It 's  out  of  all  our  Lines,  for  sure  I  aiii 
Jack  Shepherd  even  never  kep  a  Lamb  ! 

"  1  ar'nt  ashamed  to  say  I  sit  and  veep 
To  think  of  Seven  Year  of  keepin  Sheep, 
The  spooniest  Beasts  in  Nater,  all  to  Sticks, 
And  not  a  Votch  to  take  for  all  their  Ticks. 

"If  I  fore-seed  how  Transports  vould  turn  out 
To  only  Baa  !   and  Botanize  about, 
I  'd  quite  as  leaf  have  had  the  t'  other  Pull, 
And  come  to  Cotton  as  to  all  this  Vool ! 

"  Von  only  happy  moment  I  have  had 
Since  here  I  come  to  be  a  Fanner's  Cad, 
And  then  I  cotched  a  vild  Beast  in  a  Snooze, 
And  picked  her  pouch  of  three  young  Kangaroos  I 

"Vot  chance  have  I  to  go  to  Race  or  Mill  ? 
Or  show  a  sneaking  kindness  for  a  Till  ? 
And  as  for  Vashings,  on  a  hedge  to  dry, 
I  'd  put  the  Natives'  Linen  in  my  Eye  I 


-^ 


^- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


903 


■-n 


"  If  this  whole  Lot  of  Mutton  I  could  scrag, 
And  find  a  Fence  to  turn  it  into  Swag, 
I  'd  give  it  all  in  Lonnon  Streets  to  stand, 
And  if  I  had  my  pick,  1  'd  say  the  Strand  ! 

"  But  ven  I  goes,  as  may  be  vonce  I  shall, 
To  my  old  Crib,  to  meet  vith  Jack  and  Sal, 
I  've  been  so  gallows  honest  in  this  Place, 
I  sha'  n't  not  like  to  show  my  sheepish  Face. 

"'It's  wery  hard  for  nothing  but  a  Box 
0(  Irish  Blackguard  to  be  keepin'  Flocks 
'Along  naked  Blacks,  sich  Savages  to  bus. 
They  've  nayther  got  a  Pocket  nor  a  Pus. 

"But  folks  may  tell  their  Troubles  till  they're 

sick 
To  dumb  brute  Beasts,  and  so  I  '11  cut  my  Stick  1 
And  vot  's  the  Use  a  Feller's  Eyes  to  pipe 
Vcre  von  can't  borrow  any  Oemman's  Vipe  ?" 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


Whber  'asta  beiin  saw  long  and  mcii  liggin'  'ere 

aloan  ? 
Noorse  ?  thoort  nowt  o'  a  noorse  ;  whoy,  doc-tor  's 

abeiin  an'  agoiin  : 
Says  that  I  moiint  'a  naw  moor  yaiilo  :  but  I  beaut 

a  fool  : 
Git  ma  my  yaale,  for  I  beiint  a-gooin'  to  breiik 

my  rule. 

Doctors,   they   knaws  nowt,    for  a  says  what 's 

nawways  true  : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saiiy  tlie  things  that 

ado. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o'  yaiile  ivry  noight  sin'  I  beiin 

'ere, 
An'   I  've  'ed  my  f|uart  ivry  market-noight  for 

foorty  year. 

Parson  's  a  beiin   loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin  'ere  o' 

my  bed. 
"The  amoighty 's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'i.ssen,  my 

friend  "  a  said. 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  's  toithe  were  due, 

an'  I  gied  it  in  hond  ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  beii.      I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch 

to  lam. 
But  a  cost  oop,  thot  a  did,  'boot  Bessy  Harris's 

bam. 
Thof  a  knaws   I  hallus  vodted  wi'  Scjuoire  an' 

ehoorch  an  staiite. 


An'  i  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin  the 

raiite. 
An'  I  hallus  corned  to  's  ehoorch  afoor  my  Sallv 

wur  dead. 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bumnun'  awiuiy  loike  a  buzrard- 

clock  *  ower  my  yeiid. 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  1  thowt 

a  'ad  summut  to  saiiy. 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said   an'  I 

corned  aw.aiiy. 

Bessy  Harris's  bam !  thaknawsshe  laiiidit  to  mea. 
Howt  a  beiin,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  sheii. 
'Siver,  I  kep  un,  1  kep  un,  my  las.s,  tha  nuin  un- 

derstond  ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un  as  1  'a  done  by  the  loiul. 

But  Parson  a  comes  an'   a  goos,   an'  a  says  it 

easy  an'  freeli, 
"The  amoighty  's  a  taiikin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my 

friend,"  says  'eii. 
I  weiint  saiiy  men  be  loiars,  thof  summun  said  it 

in  'aaste  : 
But  a  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeiik,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd 

Tliornaby  Wiiiiste. 

\y  ya  moind  the  waiiste,  my  lasjs  ?  naw,  naw,  tha 

was  not  born  then  ; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  1  often  'eerd  un  niysscn  : 
Hoiist  loike  a  butter-bump.f  for  I  'eerd  un  nboot 

an  aboot, 
But  I  stubb'd  un  oop  wi'  the  lot,  and  rajived  an' 

rcmbled  un  oot. 

Reaper's  it  wur  ;  fo'  they  fun  un  theer  a  lajiid  on 

'is  faiice 
Doon  i'  the  woUd  'enemies  t  afoor  I  corned  to  the 

plaiicc. 
Noiiks  or  Thimbleby — toner  'ed  shot  un  as  dead 

as  a  naiiil. 
Noaks  wnr  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'aojze  —  but  git 

ma  my  y:uile. 

Dubbut  looiik  at  the  waiiste  :  theer  war  n't  not 

fead  for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  looiik  at  it 

now  — 
War  n't  worth  nowt  a  haiicre,  an'  now  theer  'h 

lots  o'  fead. 
Fourscore  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  doon  in 

seiid. 

Nobbut   a   bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a 

stubb'd  it  at  fall. 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  jilow  thruU 

it  an'  all, 


•  Cockchafer. 


-^ 


T^    904 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


t 


If  godaiiioighty  an'  parsou  'ud   nobbut  let  ma 

alodn, 
Mea,  wi'  liaiite  oouderd  liaiicre  o'  Squoire's  an' 

load  o'  my  oiin. 

Do  godarao/ghty  knaw  what  a  's  doing  a-taakin' 

o'  mca  ? 
I  beant  vvonn  as  saW3  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a 

pea  ; 
An'  Squoire  'nil  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a'  dear  a' 

dear  ! 
And  I  'a  nionaged  for  Squoire  come  Michaelmas 

thirty  year.  • 

A  mowt  'a  taaken  Joanes,  as  'ant  a  'aiipoth  o' 

sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaken  Robins  —  a  niver  mended  a 

fence  : 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taiike  nieii  an'  taiike 

ma  now 
Wi'  aiif  tlie  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thornaby  holms 

to  plow  ! 

Looiik  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  sees  ma  a 

passin'  by, 
Says  to  thessen  naw  doot  "what  a  mon   a  be 

sewer-!y  !  " 
For  they  knaws  what  I  beiin  to  Squoire  sin  fust 

a  corned  to  the  'All ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  my  duty 

by  all., 

Squoire  's  in  Lunnon,  an'  .summun  I  reckons  'ull 
'a  to  wroite. 

For  who 's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  mud- 
dles ma  quoit  ; 

Sartin-sewer  I  beii,  thot  a  weant  niver  give  it  to 
Joanes, 

Noither  a  moiint  to  Robins  — a  niver  rembles 
the  .stoiins. 

■But  summuH  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is 

kittle  o'  steam 
lluzzin'  an'  maazin'   the   blessed  feald.s  wi'  the 

Divil's  oan  team  : 
1  ;in  I  mun  doy  I  niun  doy,  an'  loife  they  say.s  is 

sweet, 
r.ut   gin   I   mun  doy  I  mun   doy,   for  I  couldn 

abcar  to  see  it. 

What  atta  stannin'  theei'  for,  an'  doesn  bring  ma 

the  yaiile  ? 
Doctor 's  a  'tottler,  lass,  and  a  's  hallus  i'  the  owd 

taale  ; 
I  weant  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw 

moor  nor  a  floy  ; 
Git  ma  my  yaale  I  tell  tha,  an'  gin  I  nmn  doy  I 

mun  doy. 

Alfrrd  Tennyson. 


THE    DULE  'S  I'  THIS  BONNET  O'  MINE. 

LANCASHIRE  DIALECT. 

The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine  : 

My  ribbins  '11  never  be  reet  ; 
Here,  Mally,  aw  'd  like  to  be  fine, 

For  Jamie  "11  be  comin'  to-neet  ; 
He  met  nie  i'  th'  lone  t'  other  day 

(Aw  wur  gooin'  for  wayter  to  th'  well). 
An'  he  begged  that  aw  'd  wed  him  i'  May, 

Bi  th'  mass,  if  he  '11  let  me,  aw  will  ! 

Wlien  he  took  my  two  bonds  into  his. 

Good  Lord,  heaw  they  trembled  between  ! 
An'  aw  durst  n't  look  up  in  his  face, 

Becose  on  him  seein'  my  e'en. 
My  cheek  went  as  red  as  a  rose  ; 

There  's  never  a  mortal  con  tell 
Heaw  hapjiy  aw  felt,  —for,  thae  knows, 

One  could  n't  ha'  axed  him  theirsel'. 

But  th'  tale  wur  at  th'  end  o'  my  tung  : 

To  let  it  eawt  would  n't  be  reet. 
For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrung  ; 

So  aw  towd  him  aw  'd  tell  him  to-neet. 
But,  Mally,  thae  knows  very  weel, 

Though  it  is  n't  a  thing  one  should  own, 
Iv  aw'd  th'  pikeiu'  o'  th'  world  to  mysel', 

Aw'd  oather  ha'  Jamie  or  uoan. 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw  've  towd  thae  my  mind  ; 

What  would  to  do  iv  it  wur  thee  ? 
"  Aw  'd  tak  him  just  while  he  'se  inclined. 

An'  a  farrantly  bargain  he  '11  be  ; 
For  Jamie 's  as  greadly  a  lad 

As  ever  stept  ea\vt  into  th'  sun. 
Go  jump  at  thy  chance,  an'  get  wed  ; 

An'  mak  th'  best  o'  th' job  when  it's  done  !" 

Eh,  dear  !  but  it 's  time  to  be  gwon  : 

Aw  should  n't  like  Jamie  to  wait ; 
Aw  connut  for  shame  be  too  soon. 

An'  aw  would  n't  for  th'  wuld  be  too  late. 
Aw  'm  o'  ov  a  tremble  to  th'  heel : 

Dost  think  'at  my  bonnet  '11  do  ? 
"  Be  off,  lass,  — thae  looks  very  weel  ; 

He  wants  noan  o'  th'  bonnet,  thae  foo  !  " 


MR    MOLONY'S  ACCOtTNT  OF  THE  BALL. 


0.  WILL  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news  ? 

Bedad,  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er : 
I  '11  tell  you  all  about  the  ball 

To  the  Naypaulase  Ambassador. 
Begor  !  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate. 


-^ 


e- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


905 


ra 


y- 


At  which  I  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  tlie  splendthor  gi'eat 
Of  tir  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 
"  We  '11  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "  Almack's, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's." 
With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up. 
And  decked  the  walls  and  stairs  and  halls 

With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  Jullien's  band  it  tuck  its  stand 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 
And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chunes. 

And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 
And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I  'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buH'et  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was  ! 

At  ten  before  the  ball-room  door. 

His  moighty  Excellency  was  ; 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd, 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 
His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute. 

Into  the  doorway  followed  him  ; 
And  0  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys. 

As  they  huiTOod  and  hollowed  him  ! 

The  noble  Chair  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump  ;  and  he 
Did  thus  evince  to  that  Black  Prince 

The  w-elcome  of  his  Company. 
0  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys,  you  saw  there,  was  ; 
And  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 

On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther  was  ! 

This  Gineral  gi-eat  then  tuck  his  sate. 

With  all  the  other  ginerals 
(Bedad,  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals)  ; 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Eecloinin  on  his  cushion  was. 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair, 

The  sipieezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

0  Pat,  such  girls,  such  Jukes  and  Earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee  ! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentility  ! 
There  was  Lord  De  L'Huys,  and  the  Portygeese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there. 
And  I  reckonized,  with  much  surprise. 

Our  messmate.  Bob  O'Grady,  there  ; 


There  was  Baroness  Brunow,   that  looked  like 
Juno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there, 
And  Countess  Roullier,  that  looked  peculiar 

Well,  in  her  robes  of  gauze  in  there. 
There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first 

When  only  Mr.  Pips  he  was). 
And  Mick  O'Toole,  the  gi'eat  big  fool. 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fiiigall  and  his  ladies  all, 

And  Lords  Killeeu  and  Duft'erin, 
And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife,  — 

I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 

And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  /  go  there  ? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  ami  Lord  A.  Hay, 

And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  thei-e. 

Yes,  Jukes  and  Earls,  and  diamonds  and  jicarls. 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there  ; 
And  some  beside  (the  rogues  !)  1  spied. 

Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 
0,  there  's  one  I  know,  bedad,  would  show 

As  beautiful  as  any  there  ; 
And  I  'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there  ! 

WILLIAM  .Makepeace  Thackeray. 


WIDOW  MALONE. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 

Olione ! 
Wlio  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 
Alone  ! 
0,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts  : 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score, 
Or  more, 
And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 
In  store  ; 
From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  Cromi 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone  ; 
All  were  coui-ting  the  Widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 

'T  was  known 
That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 
Ohone  ! 
Let  them  ogle  and  sigh. 
They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye, 


--S 


i£r- 


906 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


So  bashful  the  Widow  Maloue, 

Ohone  ! 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

Till  one  Misther  O'Brien,  from  Clare 

(Ho'.v  Quare  ! 
It  '3  little  for  blushing  they  care 
Down  there), 
Put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  — 
Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste,  — 
"0,"  says  he,  "  you  're  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own ! 
0,"  says  he,  "  you  're  my  Molly  Malone  ! " 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye  ! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh,  — 
For  why  ? 
But,  "  Lucius,"  says  she, 
"  Since  you  've  now  made  so  free. 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone." 

There  's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song. 

Not  wrong ; 
And  one  comfort,  it 's  not  veiy  long, 
But  strong,  — 
If  for  widows  you  die, 
Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh  ; 
For  they  're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
0,  they  're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone  ! 
Charles  Lever. 


BACHELOR'S  HAIi. 

Bachelor's  Hall,  what  a  (juare-lookin'  place 
it  is  ! 

Kape  me  from  such  all  the  days  of  my  life  ! 
Sure  but  I  think  what  a  burnin'  disgrace  it  is, 

Niver  at  all  to  be  gettin'  a  wife. 

Pots,  dishes,  pans,  an'  such  grasy  commodities. 
Ashes  and  praty-skins,  kiver  the  floor  ; 

His  cupboard  's  a  storehouse  of  comical  oddities, 
Things  that  had  niver  been  neighbors  before. 

Say  the  old  bachelor,  gloomy  an'  sad  enough, 
Placin'  his  tay-kettle  over  the  fire  ; 

Soon  it  tips  over  —  Saint  Patrick!    he's  mad 
enough. 
If  he  were  prisent,  to  fight  with  the  squire  ! 

He  looks  for  the  platter  —  Grimalkin  is  scourin' 


Sure,  at  a  baste  like  that,  swearin'  's  no  sin  ; 
His  dishcloth  is  missing  ;  the  pigs  are  devourin' 
it  — 
Tunder  and  turf  !   what  a  pickle  he  's  in  ! 

When  his  male  's  over,  the  table  's  left  sittiu'  so  ; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves  if  you  can  ; 
Divil  a  drop  of  hot  water  will  visit  ye,  — 

Och,  let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man  ! 

Now,  like  a  pig  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowiu'. 
Say  the  old  bachelor  kneading  his  dough ; 

Troth,  if  his  bread  he  could  ate  without  swal- 
lowin'. 
How  it  would  favor  his  palate,  ye  know  ! 

Late  in  the  night,  when  he  goes  to  bed  shiverin', 
Niver  a  bit  is  the  bed  made  at  all ; 

He  crapes  like  a  terrapin  under  the  kiverin'  ;  — 
Bad  luck  to  the  pictur  of  Bachelor's  Hall ! 

JOHN  FlNLEY. 


THE  ANNUITY. 

[From  a  little  work,  printed  for  private  distribution,  bearing  the 
unpromising  title  of  "Legal  Lyrics  and  Metrical  Ulustrations  of  the 
Scottish  forms  of  Process  "  ;  but  abounding  in  keen  wit  and  rich 
humor  which  force  themselves  on  the  appreciation  even  of  readers 
who  are  unacquainted  with  the  Scottish  dialect  and  with  the  ex- 
quisitely simple  forms  and  phrases  of  Scottish  law.] 

I  GAED  to  spend  a  week  in  Fife  ; 

An  unco  week  it  proved  to  be  ; 
For  there  I  met  a  waesome  wife 

Lamentin'  her  viduity. 
Her  grief  brak  out  sae  fierce  and  fell, 
I  thought  her  heart  would  burst  the  shell 
And  —  I  was  sae  left  to  mysel' 

I  sell't  her  an  annuity. 

The  bargain  lookit  fair  eneugh,  — 
She  just  was  turned  of  sixty-three ; 

I  couldna  guess  she  'd  prove  sae  teugh* 
By  human  ingenuity. 

But  years  have  come  and  years  have  gane, 

And  there  she  's  yet  as  stieve  +  's  a  stane  ; 

The  limmer  's  growing  young  again 
Since  she  got  her  annuity. 

She  's  crined  J  awa'  to  bone  and  skin. 

But  that  it  seems  is  naught  to  me, 

She  's  like  to  live  —  although  she  's  in 

The  last  stage  of  tenuity. 
She  munches  wi'  her  wizened  gums 
An'  stumps  about  on  legs  o'  thrums  ;  S 
But  comes  —  as  sure  as  Christmas  comes  — 
To  ca'  for  her  annuitv. 


-^ 


f 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


907 


n 


B- 


I  read  the  tables  drawn  with  care 

For  an  Insurance  Company  ; 
Her  chance  of  life  was  stated  there 

Wi'  perfect  perspicuity. 
But  tables  here  or  tables  there, 
She  's  lived  ten  years  beyond  her  share, 
An'  's  like  to  live  a  dozen  mair. 

To  ca'  for  her  annuity. 

Last  Yule  she  had  a  fearful  hoast  *  — 
1  thought  a  kink  +  might  set  me  free,  - 

I  led  her  out  'mang  snaw  and  frost 
Wi'  constant  assiduity  ; 

But  Deil  ma  'care  —  tlie  blast  gaed  by. 

And  missed  the  auld  anatomy  ; 

It  just  cost  me  a  tooth,  forbye  J 
Discharging  her  annuity. 

If  there 's  a  sough  §  of  cholera 

Or  typhus  —  w'lia  sae  gleg  II  as  she  ! 
She  buys  up  baths,  an'  drugs  an'  a' 

In  siccan  superfluity  ! 
She  doesua  need —  she  's  fever  proof — 
The  pest  walked  o'er  her  very  roof,  — 
She  tauld  me  sae  —  an'  then  her  loof  U 
Held  out  for  her  annuity. 

Ae  day  she  fell,  —  her  arm  she  brak  — 
A  compound  fracture  as  could  be  — 

Nae  leech  the  cure  wad  undertak, 
Whate'er  was  the  gratuity. 

It  'a  cured  !  she  handles  't  like  a  flail  — 

It  does  as  well  in  bits  as  hale  — 

But  I  'm  a  liroken  man  mysel', 
Wi'  her  and  her  annuity. 

Her  broozled**  flesh  and  broken  banes 

Are  weel  as  flesh  an'  banes  can  be  ; 
She  beats  the  taeds  tt  that  live  in  stanes 

An'  fatten  in  vacuity. 
They  die  when  they  're  exposed  to  air,  — 
They  cannot  thole  Jt  the  atmosphere,  — 
But  her  !  —  expose  her  anywhere. 
She  lives  for  her  annuity. 

If  mortal  means  could  nick  her  thread, 
Sma'  crime  it  wad  appear  to  me,  — 
Ca  't  murder,  or  ca  't  homicide, 
I'd  justify  't,  — an'  do  it  tae. 
But  how  to  fell  a  withered  Avife 
That 's  carved  out  of  the  tree  of  life  — 
The  timmer  limmer  §§  daurs  the  knife 
To  settle  her  annnitv. 


•  Cou-rh.      t  Paroxysm.      J  Besides.      §  Whisper.      U  Sharp. 
»t  Hand.      ••  Bruised.        tt  Toads.       *;  Endure. 
§§  The  wooden  hussy  dares. 


I  'd  try  a  shot.     But  whar  's  the  mark  ? 

Her  vital  parts  are  hid  frae  me. 
Her  backbone  wanders  through  her  sark 

In  an  unkenned  corkscrewity. 
She  's  palsified  —  an'  shakes  her  head 
Sae  fast  about,  ye  scarce  can  see  't,  — 
It 's  past  the  power  o'  steel  or  lead 

To  settle  her  annuity. 

She  might  be  drowned  ;  but  go  she  '11  not 
Within  a  mile  o'  loch  or  sea  ;  — 

Or  hanged  —  if  cord  could  grip  a  throat 
O'  siccan  exiguity. 

It's  fitter  far  to  hang  the  rope  — 

It  draws  out  like  a  telescoj>e  — 

'T  wad  tak  a  dreadful  length  o'  drop 
To  settle  her  annuity. 

Will  puzion  *  do  't  ?  —  It  has  been  tried  ; 

But  be  't  in  hash  or  fricassee. 
That 's  just  the  dish  she  can't  abide, 

Whatever  kind  of  gout  it  hae. 
It 's  needless  to  assail  her  doubts  — 
She  gangs  by  instinct  —  like  the  brutes  — 
An'  only  eats  an'  drinks  what  suits 

Hersel'  and  her  amuiity. 

The  Bible  says  the  age  o'  man 

Threescore  and  ten  perchance  may  lie. 
She 's  ninety-four.     Let  them  who  can 

Explain  the  incongruity. 
She  should  have  lived  afore  the  flood  — 
She 's  come  of  patriarchal  blooil  — 
She  's  some  old  pag-an  munimilied 
AliVij  for  her  annuity. 

She's  been  embalmed  inside  .ind  out,  — 

She 's  sauted  to  the  last  degree,  — 
There  's  pickle  in  her  very  snout 

Sae  caper-like  an'  cruety. 
Lot's  wife  was  fresh  compared  to  her, 
They  've  kyauized  the  useless  knir  t  — 
She  canuii  decompose  —  nae  mair 
Than  her  accursed  annuity. 

The  waterdrap  wears  out  the  rock 

As  this  eternal  jaud  wears  me  ; 
I  could  withstand  the  single  shock, 

But  not  the  continuity. 
It 's  pay  me  here  —  an'  pay  me  there  — 
An'  pay  me,  pay  me,  evennair,  — 
I  '11  g.^ng  demented  wi'  despair  — 
I  'm  charged  for  her  annuity. 

GEORGE  OUTRAU. 


-ff 


a- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


--a 


SWELL'S  SOLILOQUY. 

I  iiiiN']'  a|i|iw(ivii  tlii.s  linwid  waw  ; 

'I'hiw  clvvnidlul  IiuimimIis  Imwl  my  iiyos  ; 
Ami  j^'UiiH  mill  ilwiiiiis  aju  siii'li  a  liiuv,  — 

Why  ilon'l  lliii  |iawlii'M  ruiiiiiwaiiiisu  f 

Oliaw™,  llat  Iwiiili'l  liii.s  its  cliiiwiiis  ; 

lliil  wliy  imiJil  all  llm  viilj^'ali  cwuwil 
I'aw.HiMt  ill  H|iHWliiif{  iiliirawiiiH, 

III  cullaliii  Hu  (ixhvuiiuily  luud  ? 

Aijil  llii'ii  I  lid  lailiciH,  pwocioiiH  dealis  I  — 
I  iiiauk  llii'  idiaiigi*  on  iiv'wy  bwow ; 

liai  .invii  I      I  wi^lly  haw  my  IWdiH 
Tliiy  wi.llmh  liki'  Ihr  liuwid  wiiw  I 

T.I  luiiili  tliii  (diawiiiiiig  I'w.'Rliiivs  talk, 
Liko  patwoiiH  111'  till'  hldiiily  wiiif,', 

Of  waw  and  all  its  iluwiy  wiiwk, 
It  ilui'sn't  .Hi'i'in  a  |iwa|i|iah  tliiiij.;  I 

I  lalliid  at  Mi.f.  (iwc'tiiui'a  last  nielli., 
'I'll  SIM)  Inn-  niiH-o,  Miss  Mawy  llnrtz, 

And  roniiil  liiM'  makiiif,'  --  rwiiHliinf;  sif;lit  I- 
'I'hr  wc'ddi'sl.  kind  of  llanni'l  .nhirts  I 

<Ui«w.-i',  1  wiwii,  and  .soiighl  llin  ihuv, 
With  I'awyuh  llasliin^,'  IVinn  my  oyoa  1 

1  fan'l  a|i|ivv()Vi'  this  liawiil  waw  ;-- 
Why  diin't  tliii  luuvtiiiH  I'mniiwiimi.sH  'I 


TO  THE   "SEXTANT." 

O  Hex  IAN  r  u(  tlm  imiotin  hmiHi',  wii-li  swooiis 
And  dusts,  or  is  Hnjiposnd  to  I  iind  iiiakus  lirua, 
And  litiis  the  gaas,  and  snnitiiiK's  luavcs  ii  screw 

luoso, 
in  wii'li  Cliso  it  snii'lls  ml  id,  wui.sn  Ihan  lam|i  iln; 
And  wrings  tlm  liol  and  lnlrn  it  wimn  mmi  dyiw, 
til  llicgrii't'orsurvivin  imrdnri's,  and  swimps  paths 
And  I'lir  tlio  si'rvnssiiH  guts  $  lOli  pur  aiinnm, 
Willi  tluini  that  thinks  denr,  lot  'cm  try  it ; 
Criiiii  lip  ln'foru  sturlitu  in  nil  wothors  mid 
Kiihlliii  liriis  when  the  wether  is  ns  cold 
Ah  zirii,  and  like  as  not  green  wood  for  kiudlin 
i  would  n't  he  hired  to  do  it  lor  no  siini, 
lint  I)  Sextant  I   there  are  1  kernioddity 
Wieh  's  more  (han  gold,  wieh  doiiiit  cost  nothin. 
Worth  more  thananythiiig except  thcsoleof  miinl 
i  mean  jiewer  .Ire,  Sextant,  i  mean  power  are  I 
t)  it  is  plenty  out  of  doors,  so  plenty  it  doaiit  no 
What  on  airth  to  dew  with  itself,  lint  llya  about 
Scatteriii  leaves  and  liloin  olT  men's  liatts  I 
in  short,  it 's  jest  as  "  fre  as  are  "  out  doros. 
Hut  0  Scxtiint,  in  our  elinreli  its  scarce  as  liuty. 
Scarce  iis  hank  hills,  when  agints  licgs  for  inisch- 


& 


Wieh  some  say  is  purty  olfteii  (taint  nothin  to 

mu,  wat  1  give  aint  nothin  to  noliody)  but 

(-)  Sextant 
U  shet  5(10  men,  wimniiu,  and  children, 
Speshally  the  latter,  up  in  a  tite  place, 
And  every  1  on  oin  lirethcs  in  and  out,  and  out 

and  in. 
Say  iiO  limes  a  niiiinit,  or  1  milliun  and  a  half 

lireths  an  onr. 
Now  how  long  will  a  chnirh  lid  iif  are  last  at 

that  rate, 
I  ask  yon  —  say  15  minits  —  and  then  Wats  to  bo 

did  t 
Why  then  they  must  brctlic  it  all  ovrr  agin. 
Ami   Ihcn  agin,  ami  so  on  till   each   has  look  it 

down 
At  least  10  times,  and  let  it  uji  agin,  and  wata 

more 
The  same  iiidividoal  don't  have  the  priviledgo 
of  brethin  his  own  lire,  and  no  ones  else, 
Kaeh  one  must  take  whatever  comes  to  him. 
O  Sextant,  doant  you  no  our  lungs  is  hellnsses. 
To  bio  the  tier  of  life,  and  keep  it  troin  goiii  out; 
and  how  can  bellns.ses  bio  without  wind 
And  aint  wind  am  i  i  put  it  to  your  conschens. 
Arc  is  the  same  to  us  as  milk  to  babies. 
Or  water  is  to  lish,  or  pendlums  to  clox, 
Or  roots  and  airbs  unto  an  injun  doctor, 
Or  little  pills  unto  an  omepalh, 
Or  hoys  to  gurls.     Are  is  for  us  to  bretho. 
What  signilies  who  preaches  if  i  cant  bretho  ? 
Wats    I'ol  (      Wats   PoUus  to  sinners   who  are 

lied  ? 
Ded  for  want  of  broth,  why  Sextant,  when  wc  dy. 
Its  only  coz  wc  cant  bretho  no  more,  thats  all. 
Anil  now  0  Sextant,  lot  me  beg  of  you 
To  let  a  little  are  into  our  church. 
(I'owor  are  is  sci-tain  proper  for  the  pi'ws) 
And  do  it  weak  days,  and  Sundays  tew. 
It  aint  inucli  trouble,  only  make  a  hole. 
And  the  are  will  come  of  itself  ; 
(It  Invs  to  come  in  where  it  can  git  warm) 
And  O  how  it  will  rouze  tho  |icoplc  nji. 
And  sperrit  up  the  preacher,  mid  stop  garjia. 
And  yawns  and  figgits,  ns  elTcctooal 
As  wind  on  the  dry  hoims  the  rrolit  tells  of. 

AKAI.I   1  I  \    M.    WlLl.SON 


DEIIORAH    I.KK," 

'T  IS  a  dozen  or  so  of  years  ago, 
Soinewdiore  in  the  West  count ree. 

That  a  nice  girl  lived,  as  ye  Hoosiers  kuow, 
Hy  the  name  of  Tleborah  Leo  ; 

Her  sister  was  loved  by  Edgar  Poo, 
But  Deborah  by  me. 


— ff 


f 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


909 


,-a 


Now  I  was  green,  nml  she  was  green, 

As  a  smniiier's  si[uash  might  be  ; 
And  we  lovwl  as  warmly  as  other  I'lilks,  — 

I  ami  my  lluljorah  Lee,  — 
With  a  lovo  that  tlie  hvsses  of  Housiinlom 

Coveted  lier  iiiid  me. 

]iiit  somehow  it  Imiiin'iied  a  lung  time  ago. 

In  the  agidsh  West  eountree, 
That  a  ehill  Mareh  morning  gave  the  shakes 

To  my  heautilul  Deborah  Lee  ;' 
And  the  grim  stenni-doetor  (drat  him  !)  came. 

And  bore  her  away  from  me,  — 
The  dorlor  and  di;il'h,  old  |.iirlner.s  thi^v,  — 

lii  Ihr  aguisli  WrsI  counlive. 

The  angels  wanted  her  in  heaven 

(Hut  they  never  asked  for  me). 
And  tliat  is  the  reason,  I  rather  gness. 

In  the  aguish  West  eountree, 
That  the  cold  March  wind,  and  the  doctor,  and 
death, 

Took  olf  my  Deborah  Leo  — 

My  beautiful  Deborah  Lee  — 
From  the  warm  sunshine  and  ihe  ojiening  llower. 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 

Oui'  Icive  was  as  strong  as  a  sixdiorse  team, 

Oi-  Ibi^  love  of  folks  older  than  we. 

Or  i>ossibly  wiser  than  we  ; 
I'.ut  death,  with  the  aid  of  doctor  and  stnim. 

Was  rather  too  many  for  ine  ; 
He  closed  the  peepers  and  silenced  Ihr  lnvulh 

or  my  sweetheart  Deborah  Lee, 
And  licr  Wnm  lies  cold  in  the  prairie  mold, 

Silent  ami  cold,  —  ah  mo! 

The  I'liot  of  the  hunter  shall  press  her  grave. 

And  Die  prairiii's  sweet  wild  llowers 
In  their  odorous  beauty  around  it  w^ave 

Through  all  the  sunny  hours,  — 

Tin'  still,  la'ight  summer  hours  ; 
And  the  birds  shall  sing  in  the  tufted  grass, 

And  the  nectardaden  beo, 
AVith  his  dreamy  hum,  on  his  gauze  wings  pass,  — 

She  wakes  no  more  to  me  ; 

Ah,  nevernnire  to  nie  ! 
'J'hough  the  wild  birds  sing  and  the  wild  llowers 
spring. 

She  wakes  no  more  to  mo. 

Yet  oil  in  tho  huah  of  the  dim,  still  night, 

A  vision  of  beauty  I  see 
(;iiding  soft  to  my  bedside,— a  phaidxan  of  light. 

Dear,  beautiful  T)el>orah  Lee, — 

My  briile  that  was  to  be  ; 
And    I    waive   to   mourn   that   the   doctor,   and 


Ami  the  cold  March  wind,  should  sto[i  the  breath 

Of  my  darling  Deborah  Leo,  — 

Adorable  Deborah  Lee,  — 
That  angels  should  want  lier  up  in  heaven 

Before  they  wanted  mo. 


ONLY  SEVEN. 


I  MAKVELED  why  a  simple  child. 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 

Should  utter  groans  so  very  wild 
And  look  as  pale  as  Death. 

Adopting  a  parental  tone, 

1  asked  her  why  she  cried. 
The  damsel  answered,  with  a  groan, 

"1  'vo  got  a  iiain  inside  ! 

"  1  thought  it  would  have  sent  nn^  nnul 

Last  night  about  eleven." 
Said  1,  "  Wluxt  is  it  makes  you  bad  ? 
Mow  many  apples  have  yon  had  'I " 

She  answered,  "  Only  .seven  !  " 

"  Ami  are  you  sure  you  took  no  nun'O, 

My  little  nund  '."  ([Uoth  I. 
"  O,  please,  sir,  mother  gave  me  four, 

I5ul  //i(y  were  in  a  jiie  I  " 

"  If  that 's  the  case,"  1  .stamnuTed  out, 
"  Of  course  you  've  had  eleven." 

The  maiden  answered  with  a  pout, 
"  1  ain't  had  moie  nor  .seven  I " 

I  wondered  hugely  what  she  meant. 
Ami  said,  "  I  'ni  had  at  riildlcs. 

But  1  know  where  little  girls  are  sent 
Fur  telling  taradiddles. 

"Now  if  you  don't  reform,"  said  1, 
"  Vuu  '11  never  gu  tu  heaven  !  " 

But  all  in  vain  ;  each  time  I  try 

Thi'  little  idiot  nnd<es  rejily, 

"  1  ain't  had  nnire  nor  .seven  !  " 

rdsisniier. 

To  boriow  Wunlsworth's  name  was  wrong, 

Or  slightly  ini,sa|iplied  ; 
And  so  1  'd  better  call  my  song, 

"  Lines  after  Aehe-insido. " 

H.  S    I. RICH. 


ty-.- 


.Ira1h. 


'  See  page  W- 


^^ 


e- 


910 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-ii 


y- 


A  TALE  OF   DRURT  LA2fE.* 

FROM   ■•  REJECTED  ADDRESSES." 

"  Thus  he  went  on.  stringing  one  extravagance  upon  another,  in 
the  style  his  boolis  of  chivalry  had  taught  hiin.  and  imitating,  as 
near  as  he  could,  their  very  phrase."  — DON  QUI.XOTE. 

To  be  spoken  by  Mr.  Kemble,  in  a  suit  of  the  Black 
Prince's  armor,  borrowed  from  the  Tower. 

Rest  there  awhile,  my  bearded  lance, 
While  from  green  curtain  1  advance 
To  yon  foot-lights,  no  trivial  dance. 
And  tell  the  iovra  what  sad  mischance 
Did  Drury  Lane  befall. 

As  Chaos,  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 
Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom. 
Started  with  terror  and  surprise 
When  light  first  flashed  upon  her  eyes,  — 
So  London's  sons  in  nightcap  woke. 

In  bedgown  woke  her  dames  ; 
For  shouts  were  heard  mid  fire  and  smoke, 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke,  — 

"  The  playhouse  is  in  flames  !  " 
And,  lo  !  where  Catherine  Street  extends, 
A  fiery  tail  its  luster  lends 

To  every  window-pane  ; 
Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort. 
And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport, 

A  bright  ensanguined  drain  ; 
Meux's  new  Brewhouse  shows  the  light, 
Rowlanil  Hill's  Chapel,  and  the  height 

Where  Patent  Sliot  they  sell ; 
The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 
Partakes  the  ray,  mth  Surgeons'  Hall, 
The  Ticket-Porters'  House  of  Call, 
Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 
W^right's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal. 

And  Richardson's  Hotel. 
Nor  tliese  alone,  but  far  and  wide. 
Across  red  Thames's  gle.iming  tide. 
To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne. 
And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn 
In  borrowed  luster  seemed  to  sham 
The  rose,  or  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 
To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 
Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury's  mound, 

As  from  a  lofty  altar  rise, 
It  seemed  that  nations  did  conspire 
To  ofl"er  to  the  god  of  fire 

Some  vast,  stupendous  sacrifice  ! 
The  summoned  firemen  woke  at  call, 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all  : 
Starting  fiom  short  and  broken  snooze, 
Each  sought  his  ponderous  hobnailed  shoes. 
But  fii'st  his  worsted  hosen  plied  ; 

•  An  imitation  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


Plush  breeches  next,  in  crimson  dyed. 

His  nether  bulk  embraced  ; 
Then  jacket  thick,  of  red  or  blue. 
Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
The  engines  thundered  through  the  street. 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete, 
And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 

Along  the  pavement  paced. 
And  one,  th^  leader  of  the  band. 
From  Charing  Cross  along  the  Strand, 
Like  stag  by  beagles  hunted  hard. 
Ran  till  he  stopped  at  Vin'gar  Yard. 
The  burning  badge  his  shoulder  bore. 
The  belt  and  oil-skin  hat  he  wore. 
The  cane  he  had,  his  men  to  bang. 
Showed  foreman  of  the  British  gang,  — 
His  name  was  Higginbottom.     Now 
'T  is  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  how 

The  others  came  in  view  : 
The  Hand-in-Hand  the  race  begun, 
Then  came  the  Phcenix  and  the  Sun, 
The  Exchange,  where  old  insurers  run, 

The  Eagle,  where  the  new  ; 
With  these  came  Rumford,  Bumford,  Cole, 
Robins  from  Hockley  in  the  Hole, 
Ltiwson  and  Dawson,  cheek  by  jowl, 

Crump  from  St.  Giles's  Pound  : 
Whitford  and  Mitford  joined  the  train, 
Huggins  and  Muggins  from  Chick  Lane, 
And  ( 'lutterbuck,  who  got  a  sprain 

Before  the  plug  was  found. 
Hobson  and  Jobsoii  did  not  sleep, 
But  ah  !  no  trophy  could  they  reap, 
For  both  were  in  tlie  Donjon  Keep 

Of  Bridewell's  gloomy  mound  ! 
E'en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed. 
For  sadder  scene  was  ne'er  disclosed ; 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show. 
Devouring  flames  resistless  glow. 
And  blazing  rafters  downward  go. 
And  never  halloo  "  Heads  below  !  " 

Nor  notice  give  at  all. 
The  firemen  terrified  are  .slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow. 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall. 
Back,  Robins,  back  !  Crump,  stand  aloof! 
Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls  ! 
Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof. 
For,  lo  !  the  blazing  rocking  roof 
Down,  down,  in  thunder  falls  ! 
An  awful  jiause  succeeds  the  stroke, 
And  o'er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 
Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud. 
Concealed  them  from  the  astonished  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  cleared. 
When,  lo  !  amid  the  wreck  upreared, 


-^ 


Gradual  a  moving  head  appeared, 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
'T  was  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 
Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 
"A  lluggius  !  to  the  rescue,  ho  !  " 

And  poured  the  hissing  tide  : 
Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 
And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain, 
For,  rallying  hut  to  fall  again. 

He  tottered,  sunk,  and  died  ! 

Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell, 
To  succor  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 
Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman's  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  to  save ; 
But  ah !  his  reckless  generous  ire 

Served  but  to  share  his  gi-ave ! 
Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams, 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench. 
Destroying  sight,  o'erwhelmed  bun  quite, 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 
Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved. 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved  : 
"Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps! 
You,  Clutterbuek,  come,  stir  your  stumps ! 
Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  < 
A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  !  — 
What  are  they  feared  on  ?  fools !  'od  rot  'em  ! 
Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom. 

Horace  smith. 


ERTISED   CALL  FOR  . 


NATIONAL   ANTHEM. 


A  DiAofrosis  of  our  history  proves 
Our  native  land  a  land  its  native  loves  ; 
Its  birth  a  deed  obstetric  «ithout  peer. 
Its  growth  a  source  of  wonder  far  and  near. 

To  love  it  more,  behold  how  foreign  shores 

Sink  into  nothingness  beside  its  stores. 

Hyde    Park  at    best  —  though    counted    ultra 

grand — ■ 
The  "  Boston  Common  "  of  Victoria's  land  — 


6- 


Thee 
reading  thus  far.  for 
college  of  surgeons  o 


t  be  blamed  for  rejecting  the  above  aftei 
an  "  anthem  "  could  only  be  sung  by  t 
eacon  Street  tea-party. 


NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY    WILLIAM    CULLEN    B . 

The  sun  sinks  softly  to  his  evening  post. 
The  sun  swells  grandly  to  his  morning  crown ; 

Yet  not  a  star  our  flag  of  heaven  has  lost. 
And  not  a  sunset  stripe  with  him  goes  down. 

So  thrones  may  fall ;  and  from  the  dust  of  those 
New  thrones  may  rise,  to  totter  like  the  last ; 

But  still  our  country's  nobler  planet  glows, 
While  the  eternal  stars  of  Heaven  are  fast. 

Upon  finding  that  this  does  not  go  well  to  the  air  of  "  Yankee 
Doodle."  the  committee  feeljustilied  in  declining  it ;  it  being  further- 
more prejudiced  against  it  by  a  suspicion  that  the  poet  has  crowded 
an  advertisement  of  a  paper  which  he  edits  into  the  first  line. 

Next  we  quote  from  a 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY  GENERAL  GEORGE  P.   M -. 

In  the  days  that  tried  our  fathers. 

Many  years  ago. 
Our  fair  land  achieved  her  freedom, 

Blood-bought,  you  know. 
Shall  we  not  defend  her  ever. 

As  we  'd  defend 
That  fair  maiden,  kind  and  tender, 

Calling  us  friend  ? 

Yes  !     Let  all  the  echoes  answer. 

From  hill  and  vale  ; 
Yes  !     Let  other  nations  hearing, 

Joy  in  the  tale. 
Our  Columbia  is  a  lady, 

High-born  and  fair, 
We  have  swoni  allegiance  to  her,  — 

Touch  her  who  dare. 

The  tone  of  this  "  anthem  "  not  being  devotional  enough  to  suit 
the  committee,  it  should  be  printed  on  an  edition  of  linen-cambric 
handkerchiefs  for  ladies  especially. 

Observe  this 


NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 


One  hue  of  our  flag  is  taken 

From  the  cheeks  of  my  blu.^hing  pet, 
And  its  stars  beat  time  and  sjiarkle 

Like  the  studs  on  her  chemisette. 

Its  blue  is  the  ocean  shadow 
That  hides  in  her  dreamy  eyes. 

And  it  conquers  all  men,  like  her. 
And  still  for  a  Union  flies. 


Several  members  of  the 
oo  much  of  the  Anacreon  spice 


find  that  this  "anthem"  has 


-^ 


[& 


912 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-a 


NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 


The  little  brown  sqiiinel  hops  iu  the  corn, 

The  cricket  quaintly  sings ; 
The  emerald  pigeon  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  in  the  river  springs ; 
The  dainty  sunflower  hangs  its  head 

On  the  shore  of  the  summer  sea  ; 
And  better  far  that  I  were  dead. 

If  Maud  did  not  love  me. 

I  love  the  squirrel  that  hops  in  the  com, 

And  the  cricket  that  qxiaintly  sings ; 
And  the  emerald  pigeon  that  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  that  gayly  springs. 
I  love  the  dainty  sunflower,  too. 

And  Maud  with  her  snowy  breast ; 
1  love  them  all ;  but  I  love  — •  I  love  — 

I  love  my  country  best. 

This  is  certainly  very  beautiful,  and  sounds  somewhat  like  Ten- 
nyson. Though  it  may  be  rejected  by  the  committee,  it  can  never 
lose  its  value  as  a  piece  of  excellent  reading  for  children.  It  is 
calculated  to  fill  the  youthful  mind  with  patriotism  and  natural  his- 
tory, beside  touching  the  youthful  heart  with  an  emotion  palpitat- 
ing for  all. 


THE  COCK  AND  THE  BULL.* 

You. see  this  pebble-stone?  It'sathiiig  I  bought 
Of  ^  bit  of  a  chit  of  a  boy  i'  the  mid  o'  the  day  — 
I  like  to  dock  the  smaller  parts-o'-speech. 
As  we  curtail  the  already  cur-tailed  cur 
(You  Piitch  the  paronomasia,  play  o'  words  ?)  — 
Did,  rather,  i'  the  pre-Landseerian  days. 
AVell,  to  my  muttons.     I  purchased  the  concern, 
And  clapt  it  i'  my  poke,  and  gave  for  same 
By  way,  to-wit,  of  barter  or  e.vehange  — 
"Chop"    was   my  snickering   dandiprat's   own 

term  — 
One  shilling  and  fourpence,  current  coin  o'  tlie 

realm. 
0-n-e  one  and  f-o-u-r  four 
Pence,  one  and   fourpence  —  you  are  with  me. 

Sir?  — 
What  hour  it  skills  not :  ten  or  eleven  o'  the  clock. 
Our  il:iy  (unci  what  a  roaring  day  it  was  !) 
In  l''('liiii;ii  V,  riijliteen  sixty-nine, 
Ali'Xiinilrina  N'irtoria,  Fidei 
Hiu  —  lim  —  how  runs  the  jargon?  —  being  on 

til  rone. 

Such,  sir,  are  all  the  facts,  succinctly  put, 
The  basis  or  substratum  —  what  you  will — 
Of  the  impending  eighty  thousand  lines. 
"Not  much  iu  'em  either,"  quoth  perhaps  simple 

Hodge. 
But  there  's  a  superstructure.     M'ait  a  bit. 


& 


Mark  first  the  rationale  of  the  thing  : 
Hear  logic  rival  and  levigate  the  deed. 
That  shilling —  and  for  matter  o'  that,  the  pence — 
I  had  o'  course  upo'  me  —  wi'  me,  say  — 
(Mccum  's  the  Latin,  make  a  note  o'  that) 
When   I   popped    pen    i'    stand,    blew   snout, 

scratched  ear. 
Sniffed —  tch  !  — at  snuff-box  ;  tumbled  up,  he- 
heed. 
Haw-hawed  (not  hee-hawed,  that 's  another  guess 

thing  :) 
Then  fumbled  at,  and  stumbled  out  of,  door, 
I  shoved  the  door  ope  wi'  my  omoplat ; 
And  in  vcstibtilo,  i'  the  entrance-hall, 
Donned  galligaskins,  antigropeloes. 
And  so  forth ;  and,  complete  with  hat  and  gloves, 
One  on  and  one  a-dangle  i'  my  hand. 
And  ombrifuge  (Lord  love  you  !),  case  o'  rain, 
I  flopped  forth,  's  buddikins !  on  my  own  ten  toes, 
(I  do  assure  you  there  be  ten  of  them,) 
And  went  clump-clumping  up  hill  and  down  dale 
To  find  myself  o'  the  sudden  i'  front  o'  the  boy. 
Put  case  I  had  n't  'em  on  me,  could  1  ha'  bought 
This  sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-niight-call  toy. 
This  pebble-thing,  o'  the  boy-thing  ?  Q.  E.  D. 
That 's  proven  without  aid  from  mumping  Pope, 
Sleek  porporate  or  bloated  Cardinal, 
(Is  n't  it,  old  Fatchaps  ?     You  're  in  Euclid  now.) 
So,  having  the  shilling  —  having  i'  fact  a  lot  — 
And  pence  and  halfpence,  ever  so  many  o'  them, 
I  purchased,  as  I  think  I  said  before. 
The  pebble  (lapis,  lapidis,  —  di,  —  dera,  —  de  — 
AVhat  nouns  'crease  short  i'  the  genitive.   Fat- 
chaps,  eh  ?) 
0'  the  boy,  a  bare-legged  beggarly  son  of  a  gun, 
For  one  and  fourpence.     Here  we  are  again. 

Now  Law  steps  in,  big-wigged,   voluminous- 
jawed  ; 
Investigates  and  re-investigates. 
Was  the  transaction  illegal  ?     Law  shakes  head. 
Perpend,  sir,  all  the  bearings  of  the  case. 

At  first  the  coin  was  mine,  the  chattel  his. 
But  now  (by  virtue  of  the  said  exchange 
And  barter)  vice  versa  all  the  coin. 
Per  juris  opcrationem,  vests 
r  the  boy  and  his  assigns  till  ding  o'  doom  ; 
(In  scECula  sceculo-o-o-orum ; 
I  think  I  hear  the  Abbate  mouth  out  that. ) 
To  have  and  hold  the  same  to  him  and  them  .  .  . 
Confer  some  idiot  on  Conveyancing, 
Whereas  the  pebble  and  every  part  thereof, 
And  all  that  appertaineth  thereunto. 
Or  shall,  will,  may,  might,  can,  could,  would,  or 

should, 
(Suhandi  ccetera  —  clap  me  to  the  close  — 
For  what 's  the  good  of  law  in  a  case  o'  the  kind  ?) 


^ 


[& 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


913 


-a 


B- 


Is  mine  to  all  intents  and  puqMses. 

This  settled,  I  resume  the  thread  o'  the  tale. 

Now  for  a  touch  o'  the  vendor's  quality. 
He  says  a  gen'lman  bought  a  pebble  of  him, 
(This  pebble  i'  sooth,   sir,  which  I  hold  i'  my 

hand)  — 
And  paid  for 't,  like  a  gen'lman,  on  the  nail. 
"  Did  I  o'ercharge  him  a  ha'penny  ?     Devil  a  bit. 
FidiUestick's  end  !     Get  out,  you  blazing  ass  ! 
Gabble  o'  the  goose.     Don't  bugaboo-baby  me  I 
Go  double  or  quits  \     Yah  !    tittup  I    what 's  the 

odds?" 
— There's  the  trausaction  viewed,  i'  the  vendor's 

light. 

Next  ask  that  dunipled  hag,  stood  snuffling  by, 
"With  her  three  frowsy-blowsy  brats  o'  babes. 
The  scum  o'  the  kennel,  cream  o'  the  filth-heap 

—Faugh  !. 
Ale,  aie,  aie,  aie  !  hroroTOTOToi^ 
('Stead   which   w-e    blurt    out   Hoiglity-toighty 

nowl  — 
And  the  baktr  und  candlestick-maker,  and  Jack 

and  Gill, 
Bleared  Goody  this  and  queasy  Gaffer  that. 
Ask  the  schoolmaster.     Take  schoolmaster  first. 

He  saw  a  gentleman  purchase  of  a  lad 
A  stone,  and  pay  for  it  riU,  on  the  square, 
And  cany  it  off  per  saUtim,  jauntily. 
Propria  quae  maribits,  gentleman's  property  now 
(Agreeably  to  the  law  explained  above). 
In  proprium  u^uin,  for  his  private  ends. 
The  boy  he  chucked  a  brown  i'  the  air,  and  bit 
r  the  face  the  shilling  :  heaved  a  thumping  stone 
At  a  lean  hen  that  ran  cluck-clucking  by, 
(And  hit  her,  dead  as  nail  i'  post  o'  door, ) 
Then  abiit  —  what 's  the  Ciceronian  phrase  ?  — 
Exccssit,  evasit,  crupit,  —  off  slogs  boy  ; 
Off  in  three  flea-skips.     Haclenus,  so  far, 
So  good,  tam  bene.     Bene,  satis,  male,  — 
Where  was  I  ?  who  said  what  of  one  in  a  quag  ? 
I  dill  (ince  hitch  the  syntax  into  verse : 
J'rl'iii/i  personale,  a  verb  personal, 
i_'nni::fi-ilnf,  —  ay,  "agrees,"  old  Fatchaps  —  cum 
Nominativo,  with  its  nominative, 
Generc,  i'  point  o'  gender,  numero, 
0'  number  et  persona,  and  person.     Ut, 
Instance  :  Sol  ruit,  down  flops  sun,  et,  and. 
Monies  umbrantur,  snuffs  out  mountains.     Pah ! 
Excuse  me,  sir,  I  think  I  'm  going  mad. 
You  see  the  trick  on  't  though,  and  can  yourself 
Continue  the  discourse  ad  libitum. 
It  takes  up  about  eighty  thousand  lines, 
A  thing  imagination  boggles  at : 
And  might,  odds-bobs,  sir  !  in  judicious  hands. 
Extend  from  here  to  Mesopotamy. 

CHARLES   L     CAL\-F_RLr',-. 


On,  on,  my  brown  Arab,  away,  away  ! 
Thou  hast  trotted  o'er  many  a  mile  to-day. 
And  I  t:-ow  right  meager  hath  been  thy  fare 
Since  they  roused  thee  at  dawn  from  thy  straw- 
piled  lair. 
To  tread  with  those  echolcss,  unshod  feet 
Yon  weltering  flats  in  the  noontide  heat. 
Where  no  palm-tree  prott'ers  a  kindly  shade. 
And  the  eye  never  rests  on  a  cool  grass  blade  ; 
And  lank  is  thy  flank,  and  thy  frequent  cough, 
0,  it  goes  to  my  heart  —  but  away,  friend,  ofl" ! 

And  yet,  ah !  what  sculptor  who  saw  thee  stand. 
As  thou  standest  now,  on  thy  native  strand. 
With  the  wild  wind  raffling  thineuncombed  hair, 
And  thy  nostril  upturned  to  the  odorous  air. 
Would  not  woo  thee  to  pause,  till  his  skill  might 

trace 
At  leisure  the  lines  of  that  eager  face  ; 
The  coUarless  neck  and  the  coal-black  paws 
And  the  bit  gi-asped  tight  in  the  massive  jaws  ; 
The  delicate  curve  of  the  legs,  that  seem 
Too  slight  for  their  burden  —  and,  0,  the  gleam 
Of  that  eye,  so  somber  and  yet  so  gay  ! 
Still  away,  my  lithe  Arab,  once  more  away ! 

Nay,  tempt  me  not,  .'Vrab,  again  to  stay  ; 
Since  I  crave  neither  Echo  nor  Fun  to-day. 
For  thy  hand  is  not  Echoless  —  there  they  are, 
Fxin,  Glowworm,  and  Eeho,  and  Evening  Star, 
And  thou  hintest  withal  that  thou  fain  wouldst 

shine. 
As  I  read  them,  these  bulgy  old  boots  of  mine. 
But  I  shrink  from  thee,  Ai-ab  !     Thou  eatest  eel- 
pie. 
Thou  evermore  hast  at  least  one  black  eye  ; 
There  is  brass  on  thy  brow,  and  thy  swarthy  hues 
Are  due  not  to  nature,  but  handling  shoes  ; 
And  the  bit  in  thy  mouth,  I  regi'et  to  see. 
Is  a  bit  of  tobacco-pipe  —  Flee,  child,  flee  ! 

CHARLES  L.  CALVERLEY 


THE  MODERN  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT. 

Behold  the  mansion  reared  by  dsedal  Jack. 

See  the  malt,  stored  in  many  a  plethoric  sack. 
In  the  proud  cirque  of  Ivan's  bivouac. 

Mark  how  the  rat's  felonious  fangs  invade 
The  golden  stores  in  John's  pavilion  laid. 

Anon,  with  velvet  foot  and  Tarquin  strides, 
Subtle  grimalkin  to  his  quarty  glides,  — 
Grimalkin  grim,  that  slew  the  fierce  rodent 
Whose  tooth  insidious  Johann's  sackcloth  rent. 


-3 


e-^- 


■^ 


914 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


\m\  how  llio  lU't'ii-iiioiitlicd  ciiiiiiie  foe's  assault, 
Tliat  VdXL'il  llio  avengrr  of  Uii-  stolon  mult ; 
Stoml  ill  tUu  liallowf.l  invuiiictn  of  tlu!  hall 
That  roBO  coniplelo  at  JiicU'h  cn'Rlivc  call. 

Hero  stalks  tho  imiietuoiis  cow,  with  cniiiii)loil 

honi, 
■Whereon  the  cxaceiliatiiif,'  hoiiml  was  torn, 
Who  baywl  the  fi^line  NlaiinlitiM--l>eaMt,  that  slow 
Tho  rat  ineilacious,  whose  keen  fangs  van  through 
'IMiu  textile  llhers  that  involveil  the  grain 
'i'hat  lay  in  Hans'  iiiviolale  cloniaiii. 

Here  walks  forlorn  the  damsel  crowiieil  with  nio, 
l.aetifovouB  siioils  from  vaeoinu  lUigs  who  drew, 
or  that  oornleuhito  beast  whoso  tortuous  lioru 
Tossed  to  tho  clouds,  in  fierce  vindictive  scorn, 
Tho  harrowing  hound,  wliosc^  braggart  bark  and 

stir 
Arched  llie  litlio  siiineand  ri'ared  the  indignant  fur 
or  |aiss,  that  with  verininieidal  daw 
Struck  till'  weinl  rat,  in  whose  insatiate  maw 
Lay  reeking  uiull,  that  erst  in  Ivan's  courts  wc 

saw. 


Robed  ill  soncacent  garb,  that  sooniod,  in  sooth. 
Too  long  a  prey  to  C'hroues'  iron  tooth, 
Behold  tho  man  whoso  amorous  lips  incline, 
l''nll  with  young  Kros'  osculativo  .sign, 
T.i  the  hull  maiden,  whoso  lac-albic  hands 
Drew  allai-lactic  wealth  from  lacteal  glands 
Of  tho  iuimorlal  bovine,  hy  whoso  horn, 
Oistort,  to  realm  ethereal  was  borne 
The  beast  catuleaii,  vexer  ot  that  sly 
Ulysso.s  nuadruiiodal  who  made  dio 
The  (dd  mordacioUK  rat,  that  dared  devour 
Aiitccedaneous  ale  in  .lohn's  domestic  bower. 

1,0 1  here,  with  liirsulo  lumors  ilolhsl,  succiuct 
Of  sa|iouaceous  locks,  the  priest  who  linked 
In  Hymen's  gohleii  bauds  the  lorn  nnthiirt. 
Whose  means  exiguous  stared  from  many  a  rift. 
Even  as  ho  kissed  tho  virgin  all  forlorn. 
Who  milked  the  cow  with  implicated  horn. 
Who  in  fine  wrath  tho  (sauiiio  torturer  skied, 
That  dared  to  vex  tho  insiilious  muricide. 
Who  let  auroral  elllueuco  through  the  pelt 
Of  tho  sly  rat  that  robbed  (he  palace  .buk  had 
built, 

Tho  loud  eantankoroHS  Shanghai  eomos  at  last, 
Whoso  shouts  aroused  tho  shorn  occlcsinst, 
Who  sealed  the  vows  of  Ilyinon's  sacrament 
To  him  wdio,  robed  in  garinonts  indigent, 
Exosculatos  tho  damsel  laehryinose, 
Tho  emulgator  of  that  horned  briito  morose 
That  tossed  tho  dog  that  wm'riod  the  cat  that  kilt 
Tho  rat  that  ab'  the  mall  that  lay  in  tho  house 
that  .lack  built. 


JONES  AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP. 

SonNi'.,  n  Jim-ber's  Shop.  Barber's  man  rnijfi(j:-d 
in  culling  hair,  making  wigs,  and  oilier  bar- 
beresque  operalions. 

Enter  Jones  meeting  Oii.y  llir.  barber. 

.loNEs.    I  wish  my  hair  cut. 

OiLY.  Pray,  sir,  take  a  seat. 

(Oil,Y  pals  a  chair  for  Jon  KH,  who  sits.  During 
the  following  dialogue  Oii.v  continues  culling 
.loNKs's  hair.) 

Oii.Y.    Wo  've  had  much  wet,  sir. 
JoNKS.  Very  much  Indeed. 

Oii,Y.    And  yet  November's  days  were  fine. 
•loNKS.  "  They  were. 

Oily.     1  liope.lfairweatherinight  have  lasted  us 
Until  the  end. 
,biNKs.  At  one  time  —  so  did  1. 

Oll.v.    Hut  we  have  had  it  very  wet. 
.loNKs.  We  have. 

(A  pause  of  some  ten  tninutcs.) 
On.Y.    I  know  not,  sir,  who  cut  your  hair  last 
time  ; 
Hut  this  1  say,  .sir,  it  was  badly  out: 
No  doubt 't  was  in  the  country. 

,IuNK.s.  No  !  in  town  ! 

Oil.Y.    Indeed  !  I  should  have  fancied  other- 

wise. 
.loNHs.    'T  was  cut  in  town  and  in  this  very 

room . 
Oll.v.    Amazement  !— but    1    now    remember 
w.ll  — 
We  had  an  awkward,  now  provincial  hand, 
A  fellow  frcun  the  country.     Sir,  he  did 
Wore  damage  to  my  business  in  a  week 
Tlmn  all  my  skill  can  in  a  year  repair, 
lb'  must  have  out  your  hair. 

.biNKS  {looking  at  him).    No,  't  was  yinirself. 
Oll.v.     My.seir  ?    Impossible  I     You  must  mis- 
take." 
.loMW.    I  don't  mistake  —  'twas  you  that  cut 
my  hair. 

(.7  hoig  innise,  iiiterriipled  only  by  the  clijiping 
of  the  scissors.) 

Oll.v.    Your  hair  is  very  dry,  sir. 
,1(1N1!S.  Oh  !  indeed. 

Oll.Y.    Our  Vegetable  ICxtract  moistens  it. 
.loNKs.  1  liki'  it  dry. 

Oily.    Hut,  sir,  the  hair  when  dry 
Turns  ipiickly  gray. 

.Tones.  That  color  I  prefer. 

OlI-Y.     Uut   hair,  when  gray,  will   rapidly  fall 


tQ-^- 


And  baldm 
.ToMCs. 


i  will  ensue. 


I  would  be  bald. 


--ff 


[fl- 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


OH 


^^ 


OiLV.    Perhaps  you  mean  to  say  ynu  M  like  a 
wig,  — 
Wo  've  wigs  so  natural  they  can't  bo  told 
From  real  liair. 

JoNK.i.  lle('e[itio!i  1  iletest. 

(Anutliir  iniilxr  nisiir.s,  (/iirnn/  ir/di-h  OiLY  blows 
down  .luMis's  «,v/,  Hint  n  li-  ns  him  from  the 
linen   u-fopper  in  tt'hich  he  has  been  cnveloptiU 
tlurimj  the  process  of  hair-cutting.) 
Oii.Y.    We've  brashes,  soaps,  and   scent  of 

every  kind. 
Jones.    I  see  you  have.     (Pays  6  d.)     1  think 

you  '11  find  tliat  right. 
f)ii.y.    If  there  is  nothing  I  can  show  you,  sir, 
Jon  us.    No;    nothing.     Yet  —  there  may  be 
something,  too, 
That  you  may  show  me. 

Oii.v.  Name  it,  sir. 

JiiNKH.  The  door. 

( )i i.v  {to  his  inan).     That 's  a  rum  customer  at 
any  rate. 
Had  I  cut  him  a.s  short  as  ho  cut  me. 
How  little  liair  upon  his  head  wonhl  be  I 
Hut  if  kind  friends  will  all  our  pains  requite, 
Wo  '11  hojic  for  hotter  luck  another  night. 

[S!iop  bell  rings,  and  curtain  fails, 
ruNcii. 


TO  THE  TERRESTRIAL  GLOBE. 

Roi.i,  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  ! 
Through  jiatldess  realms  of  space 

Holl  on  ! 
Wh.at  lliough  I'm  in  a  sorry  ease? 
What  thoLigli  I  cannot  meet  my  bills? 
Wliat  tliough  1  sudor  toothache's  ills  ? 
What  tliough  I  swallow  countless  jjilla  ? 
Never  you  mind ! 

Holl  on  ! 

Hnllon,  thnu  b;,Il,  roll  on! 
Tluiiugh  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on  ! 
It's  Inie  1  'vo  got  no  shirts  to  wear, 
1 1  's  true  my  butcher's  bill  is  dui'. 
It's  true  my  prospei:ts  all  look  blue, — 
Hut  don't  let  that  unsettle  you  ! 
Never  you  mind  ! 

Roll  on  ! 

[It  rolls  on. 

.  W.    S.   GILUURT. 


She  was  u  phantom  of  delight, 
And  I  was  like  a  I'ool. 


Wordsworth. 
Eastman. 


e-^ 


1  ONLY  knew  she  camt 
Like  troutlots  in  a  ] 


MY  LOVE." 

r:amo  and  went 


Pm-cll. 
Hood. 

3  Verses" ;  p.^tcJiwork, 


One  kiss,  dear  maid,  I  said,  and  sighed,  Coleridge. 

Out  of  those  lips  unshorn  :  LonyfcUow. 

She  sliook  her  ringlets  round  her  head,  Stoddard. 

And  laughed  in  merry  scorn,  Tennyson. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky,  Tennyson. 

Vou  heard  thein,  ()  my  heart ;        Alice  C'ary. 
'Tis  twelveatnight  by  the  castle  clock,  Coleridge. 

lieloved,  wo  must  part.  Alice  Cary. 

"Come  back,  como  back  !"  she  cried  in  grief, 

Campbell. 

"Mycyes  aicdini  witli  tears, — liayard  Taylor. 
How  shall  I  live  througli  all  the  days  !     Osyood. 

All  through  a  hundred  years  ?  "     T.  S.  Perry. 

'Twas  in  the  piimo  of  summer  time  Hood. 

She  blessed  mo  with  her  hand  ;  Iluyt. 

We  strayed  together,  deeply  blest,  Edwards. 

Into  the  dreaming  laml.  Cornwall. 

The  laughing  bridal  roses  blow,  Patinore. 

To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair ;  Bayard  Taylor. 
My  heart  is  breaking  with  my  woo,      Tenny.san. 

Most  lic'autiful  !  most  rare  !  Itead. 

I  clasped  it  on  her  sweet,  cold  hand,   Browninrj. 

The  precious  gohlen  link  !  Smith. 

1  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm,  Coleridije. 

"  Mrink,  pretty  creature,  drink."  IVorcliworth. 

And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve,  Coleridge. 

And  walked  in  Paradise  ;  Ifervey. 

The  fairest  thing  that  over  grew       JFordsworth. 

Atween  me  and  tin'  skies.  Osijood. 

Anonvmous. 


A   RECIPK    FOR  SALAD, 

To  make  this  condiment  your  poet  begs 
Tho  jiounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boiled  eggs  ; 
Two   boiled  potatoes,    passed  through   liitchen 

sieve. 
Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  givi'  ; 
Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl, 
And,  half  suspected,  animate  the  whole  ; 
Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  s|)Oon, 
Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon  ; 
But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault 
To  aild  a  double  (juantity  of  salt ; 
Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  fi'om  Lucca  crown, 
And  twice  with  vinegai',  procured  from  town  ; 
And  lastly,  o'er  tho  Mavored  compound  toss 
A  magic  aoupcon  of  anchovy  sauce. 


^' 


a- 


91G 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


-^ 


fr- 


0  grceii  and  glorious  !     0  herbaceous  treat ! 
'T  would  temjit  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat ; 
Back  to  the  world  he  'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 
And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad-bowl ; 
Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 
"  Fate  cannot  harm  me,  —  I  have  dined  to-day.' 
SYDNEY  Smith. 


ROASTED  SUCKING-PIG. 

Air, —  "Scots  wha  hae,"  etc. 

Cooks  who  'd  roast  a  sucking-pig, 
Purchase  one  not  over  big  ; 
Coarse  ones  are  not  worth  a  fig  ; 

So  a  young  one  buy. 
See  that  he  is  scalded  well 
(That  is  done  by  those  who  sell). 
Therefore  on  that  point  to  dwell 

Wei-e  absurdity. 

Sage  and  bread,  mix  ju.st  enough, 
Salt  and  pepper  quantum  siiff., 
And  the  pig's  interior  stuff, 

With  the  whole  combined. 
To  a  fire  that 's  rather  higli. 
Lay  it  till  completely  dry  ; 
Then  to  every  part  apply 

Cloth,  with  butter  lined. 

Dredge  with  flour  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  the  pig  will  hold  no  more  ; 
Then  do  nothing  else  before 

'T  is  for  ser\'ing  fit. 
Then  scrape  off  the  flour  with  care  ; 
Then  a  buttered  cloth  prepare  ; 
Rub  it  well  ;  then  cut  — •  not  tear  — 

Off  the  head  of  it. 

Then  take  out  and  mix  the  brains 
With  the  gi'avy  it  contains  ; 
While  it  on  the  spit  remains. 

Cut  the  pig  in  two. 
Chop  the  sage  and  chop  the  bread 
Fine  as  very  finest  shred  ; 
O'er  it  melted  butter  spread,  — 

Stinginess  won't  do. 

When  it  in  the  dish  appears. 
Garnish  with  the  jaws  and  ears  ; 
And  when  dinner-hour  nears. 

Ready  let  it  be. 
^^^lo  can  offer  such  a  dish 
May  dispense  with  fowl  and  fish  ; 
And  if  he  a  guest  should  wish. 

Let  him  send  for  me  ! 

PUNCH'S  "  Poetical  Cookery  Book." 


SIEGE  OF  BELGRADE. 

An  Austrian  army,  awfully  arrayed. 

Boldly  hy  battery  besieged  Belgrade. 

Cossack  commanders  cannonading  come, 

Dealing  destruction's  devastating  doom. 

Every  endeavor  engineers  essay. 

For  fame,  for  foi-tune  fighting,  —  furious  fray  ! 

Generals  'gainst  generals  grapple — gracious  God  ! 

How  honors  Heaven  heroic  hardihood  ! 

Infuriate,  indiscriminate  in  ill. 

Kindred  kill  kinsmen,  kinsmen  kindred  kill. 

Labor  low  levels  longest  loftiest  lines  ; 

Men  march  mid  mounds,  mid  moles,  mid  mur- 
derous mines  ; 

Now  noxious,  noisy  numbers  nothing,  naught 

Of  outward  obstacles,  opposuig  ought ; 

Poor  patriots,  partly  purchased,  partly  pressed. 

Quite  quaking,  quickly  "Quarter!  Quarter!" 
quest. 

Reason  returns,  religious  right  redounds, 

Suwarrow  stops  such  sanguinary  sounds. 

Truce  to  thee,  Turkey  !     Triumph  to  thy  train. 

Unwise,  unjust,  unmerciful  Ukraine  ! 

Vanish,  vain  victory  !  vanish,  victory  vain  ! 

Why  wish  we  warfare  ?  Wherefore  welcome 
were 

Xerxes,  Ximenes,  Xanthus,  Xavier  ? 

Yield,  yield,  ve  youths  !  ye  yeomen,  vield  your 
yell! 

Zeus's,  Zarpater's,  Zoroaster's  zeal. 

Attracting  all,  aims  against  acts  appeal ! 


THE  STAMMERING  WIFE. 

W^HEN,  deejily  in  love  with  Miss  Emily  Pryne, 
I  vowed,  if  the  maiden  would  only  be  mine, 

I  would  always  endeavor  to  please  her,  — 
She  blushed  her  consent,  though  the  stuttering 

lass 
Said  never  a  word,  except,  "  You  're  an  ass  — 

An  ass  —  an  ass-iduous  teaser  I  " 

But   when   we   were   married,   1    found   to   iny 

ruth. 
The  stammering  lady  had  spoken  the  truth. 

For  often,  in  obvious  dudgeon. 
She  'd  say,  —  if  I  ventured  to  give  her  a  jog 
In  the  way  of  reproof,  —  "  You  're  a  dog — you 
're  a  dog — 
A  dog  —  a  dog-matic  curmudgeon  !" 

And  once  when  I  said,  "  We  can  hardly  afford 
This  extravagant  style,  with  our  moderate  hoarK, 

And  hinted  we  ought  to  be  wiser. 
She  looked,  I  assure  you,  exceedinglv  blue,  ^ 

^ ff 


f 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


917 


-a 


And  fretfully  cried,  "You 're  a  Jew  —  you're  a 
Jew  — 
A  very  ju-dicious  adviser  ! " 

Again,  when  it  happened  that,  wishing  to  shirk 
Some  rather  unpleasant  and  arduous  work, 

I  begged  her  to  go  to  a  neighbor. 
She  wanted  to  know  why  I  made  such  a  fuss, 
And  saucily  said,  "You'reacus — cus — cus  — 

You  were  always  ac-cus-tomed  to  labor  ! " 

Out  of  temper  at  last  with  the  insolent  dame. 
And  feeling  that  JIadam  was  gi'eatly  to  blame 

To  scold  me  instead  of  caressing, 
I  mimicked  her  speech, — like  a  churl  as  I  am,  — 
And  angrily  said,  "You  're  a  dam — dam — dam 

A  dam-age  instead  of  a  blessing  !  " 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


^- 


Echo. 
Lover. 


Echo. 
Lover. 


Echo. 
Lover. 


Eeho. 
Limer. 


Echo. 
Lover. 


Echo. 

'  Chain- 
■dmi;. 


Nerve  thy  soul  with  doctrines  noble, 
Noble  in  the  walks  of  time. 
Time  that  leads  to  an  eternal, 
An  eternal  life  sublime  ; 
Life  sublime  in  moral  beauty, 
Beauty  that  shall  ever  be  ; 
Ever  be  to  lure  thee  onward. 
Onward  to  tlie  fountain  free  : 
Free  to  everj-  earnest  seeker. 
Seeker  for  the  fount  of  youth, 
Youth  exultant  in  its  beauty. 
Beauty  of  the  living  truth. 


ECHO  AND  THE  LOVER. 

Echo  !  mysterious  nymph,  declare 

Of  what  you  're  made,  and  what  you  are. 

Air  ! 
Mid  airy  cliffs  and  places  high. 
Sweet  Echo  !  listening  love,  you  lie. 

You  lie  ! 
Thou  dost  resuscitate  dead  sound.s,  — 
Hark  !  how  my  voice  revives,  resounds  ! 

Zounds ! 
I  '11  question  thee  before  I  go,  — 
Come,  answer  me  more  apropos  ! 

Poll  !  poh  ! 
TeU  me,  fair  nymph,  if  e'er  you  saw 
So  sweet  a  girl  as  Phoibe  Shaw. 

Pshaw ! 
Say,  what  will  turn  that  frisking  coney 
Into  the  toils  of  matrimony  ? 

Money ! 

verse  ;  each  line  begins  with  the  last  word  of  the  one 


Lover.    Has  Phcebe  not  a  heavenly  brow  ? 

Is  not  her  bosom  white  as  snow  ? 
Echo.  Ass  !  no  ! 

Lover.    Her  eyes  !  was  ever  such  a  pair  ? 

Are  the  stars  brigliter  than  they  are  ? 
Echo.  They  are  ! 

Lover.    Echo,  thou  liest,  but  can't  deceive  me. 
Edw.  Leave  me ! 

Lover.    But  come,  thou  saucy,  pert  romancer, 

Who  is  as  fail'  as  I'hcebo  ?    Answer  ! 
Eclw.  Ann,  sir. 

ANO.NYMOUS. 


ECHO. 

I  A.SKED  of  Echo,  t'  other  day, 

(Whose  words  are  few  and  often  funny,) 
What  to  a  novice  she  could  say 

Of  courtship,  love,  and  matrimony. 

Quoth  Echo,  plainly,  —  "Matter-o'-monoy  1" 

Whom  should  I  marry  ?  —  should  it  be 

A  dashing  damsel,  gay  and  pert, 
A  pattern  of  inconstancy  ; 

Or  selfish,  mercenary  flirt  ? 

Quoth  Echo,  sharply,  —  "  Narj'  flirt  I" 

What  if,  aweary  of  the  strife 
That  long  has  lured  the  dear  deceiver. 

She  promLse  to  amend  her  life, 

An<l  sin  no  more  ;  can  I  believe  her  ? 

Quoth  Echo,  verj-  jjromptly   —  "  Leave  her  I' 

But  if  some  maiden  with  a  heart 
On  me  should  venture  to  bestow  it, 

Pray,  should  I  act  the  wiser  part 
To  take  the  treasure  or  forego  it  ? 
Quoth  Echo,  with  decision,  —  "Go  it!" 

But  what  if,  seemingly  afraid 
To  bind  her  fate  in  Hymen's  fetter, 

She  vow  she  means  to  die  a  maid, 
In  answer  to  my  loving  letter? 
Quoth  Eclio,  rather  coolly,  —  "  Let  her!" 

VHnsit  if,  in  spite  of  her  disdain, 

I  find  ray  heart  intwined  about 
With  Cuj)id's  dear  delicious  chain 

So  closely  that  I  can't  get  out? 

Quoth  Echo,  laughingly,  —  "Get  out !" 

But  if  some  maid  with  beauty  blest. 
As  pure  and  fair  as  Heaven  can  make  her, 

Will  share  my  labor  and  my  rest 
Till  envious  Death  shall  overtake  hor  ? 
Quoth  Echo  {sotto  voce),  —  "  Take  lier !" 

John  (.oofrev  saxe. 


i 


e- 


918 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


n 


TOPSIDE  GALAH  (EXCELSIOR).* 

That  nightee  teem  he  come  chop  chop 
One  young  man  walkee,  no  can  stop  ; 
Colo  maskee,  icee  maskee ; 
He  got  flag  ;  chop  b'long  welly  culio,  see  — 
Topside  Galah ! 

He  too  muchee  foUy ;  one  piecee  eye 
Lookee  sharp — so  fashion — alia  same  mi : 
He  talkee  largee,  talkee  stlong, 
Too  muchee  culio ;  alia  same  gong  — 
Topside  Galah ! 

Inside  any  housee  he  can  see  light, 
Any  piecee  loom  got  fire  all  light ; 
He  look  see  plenty  ice  more  high, 
Inside  he  mouf  he  plenty  cly  — 
Topside  Galah ! 

"  No  can  walkee !"  olo  man  speakee  he  : 
"  Bimeby  lain  come,  no  can  see ; 
Hab  got  water  welly  wide  !  " 
"Maskee,  mi  must  go  topside  —  " 
Topside  Galah ! 

"  Man-man,"  one  galo  talkee  he  ; 
"What  for  you  go  topside  look-see?" 
"Nother  teem,"  he  makee  plenty  cly, 
Maskee,  alia  teem  walkee  plenty  high  — 
Topside  Galah ! 

"Take  care  that  spilum  tlee,  young  man, 
Take  care  that  icee  ! "  he  no  man-man, 
That  coolie  chin-chin  he  good-night ; 
He  talkee,  "mi  can  go  all  light,"  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 

Jobs  pidgin  man  chop  chop  begin. 
Morning-teem  that  Joss  chin-chin, 
No  see  any  man,  he  plenty  fear, 
Cause  some  man  talkee,  he  can  hear,  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 

Young  man  makee  die  ;  one  largee  dog  see 
Too  muchee  bobbery,  findee  he. 
Hand  too  muchee  colo,  inside  can  stop 
Alia  same  piecee  flag,  got  culio  chop,  — 
Topside  Galah 


ANON^'MOUS. 


chi'H  chin,  talk. 

vielly  culio.  very  curious. 

ycsi,  the  Deity. 

yets  fids'"  "">"■  priest- 


NTTRSERY    SONG. 

SiNGEE  songee  sick  a  pence, 

Pockee  muchee  rj'e  ; 
Dozen  two  time  blaokee  bird 

Cookee  in  e  pie. 

When  him  cut-ee  topside 
Birdee  bobbery  sing ; 

Himee  tinkee  nicey  dish 
Setee  foree  king ! 

Kingee  in  e  talkee-room 
Countee  muchee  money ; 

Queeny  in  e  kitchee. 

Chew-chew  breadee  honey. 

Servant  galo  shakee, 
Hangee  washee  clothes ; 

Chop-chop  comee  blaokee  bird, 
Nipee  oflT  her  nose ! 


ANONYMOUS. 


f&- 


chop  rhop,  v&vy  fast. 

fnasltef,  doit't  mind. 

chef  b'lons.  of  a  kind. 

topsicU S'^lah,  hurrah  for  the  height  1 


•  This  and  the  following  piece  are  specimens  oi  Pidgin  English, 
the  dialect  in  use  between  the  Chinese  and  Enghsh  or  Americans, 
e  is  said  to  have  originated  in  the  Chinese  pronunciation 


SNEEZING. 

What  a  moment,  what  a  doubt ! 
All  my  nose  is  inside  out,  — 
All  my  thrilling,  tickling  caustic, 
PjTamid  rhinocerostic, 

AVants  to  sneeze  and  cannot  do  it ! 
How  it  j'earns  me,  thrills  me,  stings  me, 
How  with  rapturous  torment  wrings  me  ! 

Now  says,  "Sneeze,  you  fool,  — get  through 

it."" 

Shee  —  shee  —  oh  !  't  is  most  del-ishi  — 

Ishi  —  ishi  —  most  del-ishi ! 

(Hang  it,  1  shall  sneeze  till  spring  !) 

Snuff  is  a  delicious  thing. 

LEIGH  Hunt. 


TO  MY  NOSE. 

Knows  he  that  never  took  a  pinch, 
Nosey,  the  pleasure  thence  which  flows  ? 
Knows  he  the  titillating  joys 

Which  my  nose  knows  ? 

0  nose,  I  am  as  proud  of  thee 
As  any  mountain  of  its  snows  ; 

1  gaze  on  thee,  and  feel  that  pride 

A  Eoman  knows  ! 


NOCTURNAL  SKETCH. 

BLANK  VERSE  IN  RHYME, 

Even  is  come  ;  and  from  the  dark  Park,  hark, 

The  signal  of  the  setting  sun  —  one  gun  ! 

And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime  time 


& 


^R- 


HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


919 


To  go  and  see  the  Dniry-Lane  Dane  slain,  — 
Or  hear  Othello's  jealous  doubt  spout  out,  — 
Or  Macbeth  raving  at  that  shade-made  blade, 
Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch ; 
Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  stride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span  ; 
Or  in  the  small  Olj-mpic  Pitt  sit  split 
Laughing  at  Liston,  whUe  you  quiz  his  phiz. 

Anon  Night  comes,  and  with  her  wings  brings 

things 
Such  as,  with  his  poetic  tongue.  Young  sung  ; 
The  gas  upblazes  with  its  bright  white  light. 
And  paralytic  watchmen  prowl,  howl,  growl 
About  the  streets,  and  take  up  Pall-Mail  Sal, 
Who,  hasting  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 

Now  thieves  to  enter  for  your  cash,  smash,  crash. 
Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a  deej)  sleep,  creep. 
But,  frightened  by  Policeman  B.  3,  flee, 
And  while  they  're  going,  whisper  low,  "  No  go  !  " 

Now  puss,  when  folks  are  in  their  beds,  treads 

leads, 
And  sleepers,  waking,  gramble,  "Drat  that  eat !" 
Who  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls,  mauls 
Some  feline  foe,  and  screams  in  shrill  ill-will. 

Now  Bulls  of  Bashan,  of  a  prize  size,  rise 
In  ch-ildish  dreams,  and  with  a  roar  gore  poor 
Georgy,  or  Charley,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly  ;  — 
But   Nursemaid    in   a    nightmare    rest,   chest- 
pressed, 
Diearaeth  of  one  of  her  old  flames,  James  Games, 
And  that  she  hears  —  wliat  faith  is  man's  !  — 

Ann's  banns 
And  his,  from  Reverend  Mr.  Pace,  twice,  thrice  ; 
White  ribbons  flourish,  and  a  stout  shout  out. 
That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  those  bows' 
woes  ! 

THOMAS  Hood. 


ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MKETING  ; 

WITH  SLIGHT  ALTERATIONS  BY  A  TEETOTALER. 

Come  !    fill  a  fresh   buuiper,  —  for  why  should 
we  go 

ioijwood 

While  tlie  nootor  stUl  reddens  our  cups  as  they 
flow  ? 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  rich  juioco  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 

Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubicj  shall  run. 


half-ripened  apple; 


their  life-dews  have 


[& 


sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  broath  of  thefiiagrancothoyohoJ  I 


stable-boys  sniokin^i  long-nine 


That  were   g.arnered   by 
thraugh  tho  vinoo. 

scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a  omilo,  and  a  glaDti,  and  a  te»t9t,  and  a  ehcer, 

sfrj'clinine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 

In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down  wnth  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all ! 

{-ong  livo  tl'.o  gtxy  uurvaiit  that  tau^hu  far  xw  nil  ' 

0l1\ER  WE.NDELL  HOLMES 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBDTM. 

[A  farmer's  daughter,  during  the  rage  for  albums,  h-inded  to  the 
author  an  old  account-book  ruled  for  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence, 
and  requested  a  contribution.] 

This  world's  a  scene  as  dark  as  Styx, 

Where  hope  is  scarce  worth 

Our  joys  are  borne  so  fleeting  hence 

That  they  are  dear  at 

And  yet  to  stay  here  most  are  willing 

Although  they  may  not  have  l 

WILLIS  GAVLORD. 


METRICAL  FEET. 

Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short ; 

From  long  to  long  in  solemn  sort 

Slow  Spondee  stalks  ;  strong  foot !  yet  ill  able 

Ever  to  come  up  with  Dactyl  trisyllable. 

Iambics  march  from  short  to  long  ;  — 

With  a  leap  and  a  bound  the  swift   Anapitsts 

throng  ; 
One  syllable  long,  with  one  short  at  each  side. 
Amphibrachys  hastes  with  a  stately  stride  ;  — 
First  and  last  being  long,  middle  short,  Amphi- 

macer 
Strikes  his  thundering  hoofs  like  a  proud  high- 


bred racer. 


SAMUEL  Taylor  Coleridge. 


THE  LOVERS. 

S.\LI.Y  S.\LTER,  she  was  a  young  teacher   who 

taught. 
And  her  friend,  Charley  Cliurch,  was  a  preacher 

who  praught, 
Though  his  enemies  called  him  a  screecher  who 

scraught. 

His  heart,  when  he  saw  her,  kept  sinking  and 

sunk, 
-And  his  e^'e,  meeting  hers,  began  winking,  and 

wunk  ; 
While  she,  in  her  turn,  kept  thinking,  and  thunk. 


-& 


£h- 


920 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


--a 


He  hastened  to  woo  her,  and  sweetly  he  wooed, 
For  his  love  grew  until  to  a  mountain  it  grewed. 
And  what  he  was  longing  to  do  then  he  doed. 

In  secret  he  wanted  to  speak,  and  he  spoke. 
To  seek  with  his  lips  what  his  heart  long  had 

soke  ; 
So  he  managed  to  let  the  truth  leak,  and  it  loke. 

He  asked  her  to  ride  to  the  church,  and  they  rode ; 
They  so  sweetly  did  glide  that  they  both  thought 

they  glode. 
And  they  came  to  the  place  to  be  tied,  and  were 

toed. 

Then  homeward,  he  said,  let  us  drive,  and  they 

drove, 
And  as  soon  as  they  wished  to  arrive,  they  arrove. 
For  whatever  he  could  n't  contrive  she  controve. 

The  kiss  he  was  dying  to  steal,  then  he  stole  ; 
At  the  feet  where  he  wanted  to  kneel  then  he 

knole  ; 
And  he  said,  "  I  feel  better  than  ever  1  fole." 


So  they  to  each  other  kept  clinging,  and  clung. 
While  Time  his  swift  circuit  was  winging,  and 

wung  ; 
And  this  was  the  thing  he  was  bringing  and 

brung  : 

The  man  Sally  wanted  to  catch,  and  had  caught; 
That  she  wanted  from  others  to  snatch,  and  had 

snaught ; 
Was  the  one  she  now  liked  to  scratch,  and  she 

scraught. 

And  Charley's  waim  love  began  freezing,   and 

froze, 
While  he  took  to  teasing,  and  cruelly  toze 
Thegirlhehad  wished  to  be  squeeziug,and  squoze. 

"Wretch!"  he  cried,  when  she  threatened  to 

leave  him,  and  left, 
"How  could  you  deceive  me,  as  you  have  de- 

ceft?" 
And  she  answered,   "  I  promised  to  cleave,  and 

I've  cleft." 

PHOsBE  CARV. 


fy-- 


-^ 


fh^ 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


B^- 


Pagei 

A  baby  was  sleeping S.  Lover    21  | 

A  barking  sound  the  shepherd  hears  ....  IVordswarth  614  ' 
Abou  Hen  Adhein  (may  liJs  tribe  increase  !)   L.  Hunt  686  ' 

Above  the  pines  the  moon Bret  HurU-  840 

A  brace  of  sinners  for  no  good Dr,  H'okott  863 

Abram  and  Zimri  owned  a  field  together C  Cook  685 

A  cliild  sleeps  under  a  rose-bush  fair  /K.  IV.  Caldwell  729  : 
A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun  .  John  U'ilson  6g8  '. 

A  country  life  is  sweet  1 A  nonymons  496  . 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit Celia  Thaxter  446 

A  dew-drop  came,  with  a  spark  oi^ixn\{t.. Anonymous  761 

A  diagnosis  of  our  history  proves R.  H.  Newell  91 1  j 

Adieu,  adieu,  my  native  shore Byron     190  j 

Adieu,  adieu  !  our  dream  of  love 7*.  K.  Hcrvey  185  ! 

A  district  school  not  far  away J.  IV.  Palmer    36  I 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever Burns  183  ' 

A  fair  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree R.  M.  Mines     31  ' 

A  famous  hen  's  my  story's  theme Claudius  S92 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride Thos  Fringle  238 

A  fellow  in  a  market-town Dr.  IVokott  864 

A  flock  of  merry  singing-birds IVilson  Flagg  439 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  hy...  H^^'ords  wo  r lit  680 

Again  the  violet  of  our  early  days Efien.  Elliott  383 

A  girl  who  has  so  many  willful  ways D.  M.  Craik    87  1 

A  good  that  never  satisfies  the  mind Drummond  304  ' 

A  good  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  motn. Anonymous  180  ' 

Ah,  Ben  1  say  how  or  when Hen-ick  815 

Ah,  Chloris,  could  I  now  but  sit Sir  C.  Sed/ey    85  : 

Ah  !  do  not  wanton  witli  those  eyes Ben  Jonson  132 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love  I Dryden    85 

Ah  I  little  they  know  of  true  happiness  ..Mac-Carthy  502  | 

Ah  I  niy  heart  is  weary  waiting Mac-Carthy  380 

Ah,  my  sweet  sweeting Anonymous    64 

Ah!  poor  intoxicated  little  knave J.  IVolcott  731 

Ah,  sunflower  !  weary  of  time Win.  Bla  ';e  426 

Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil  !  Mac-Carthy  151 

Ah,  then,  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded  days  ' 

W.  A  list  OH     37 
All  !  what  is  love?    It  is  a  pretty  thing  .Robt.  Greette    70 

Ah  !  w  hence  yon  glare Shelley  4S4 

Ah  !  who  but  oft  hath  marvelled  why  ....J.G.  Saxe  148 
Ah,  yes,  — the  fight?  Well,  messmates,  well..Ww(j«.  565  ' 
Airs  that  wander  and  murmur  round  ..W.  C.  Bryant  iiz 

PuKvov  alKivov Anonymous  896  I 

A  jolly  fat  friar  loved  liquor  good  store  G-  Caiman,  Jr.  85S 

Alas  for  them  !  their  day  is  o'er Charles  Sprague  735 

Alas,  Fra  Giacomo Robt.  Buchanan  302 

Alas  1  how  light  a  cause  may  move Moore  227 

Alas  I  they  had  been  friends  in  youth Coleridge     59 

Alas  !  what  pity  't  is  that  regularity G.  Coleman  865  j 

Alice  was  a  chieftain's  daughter Mac-Carthy  160  , 

A  lighter  scarf  of  richer  fold .-).  y  Re'piier  787  | 

A  light  is  out  in  Italy   Laura  C  Redden  848  I 

A  little  golden  head  close  to  my  knee  Susan  Coolidge     27  [ 

A  little  life Anonymous  266  1 

A  httle  more  toward  the  light A.  Dobson  715  | 


Page 

A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand Milton  241 

All  day  long  the  storm  of  battle Anonymous  479 

All  day  long  till  the  west  was  red Anonymous  571 

All  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan IVhittier  550 

All  hail  !  thou  noble  land iP'.  Allston  532 

All  hail  to  the  ruins,  the  rocks,  and  the  shores  I 

Montgomery  560 

All  in  our  marriage  garden G.  Massey    37 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored y.  Gay  185 

All  in  the  May-time's  merriest  weather..  .Alice  Cary    99 

All  is  finished  I  and  at  length Longfellow  563 

All  is  not  golde  that  shineth  bright  in  show  ...Anon.  146 
"  .Ml  quiet  along  the  Potomac"  ...Mrs.  E.  L.  Beers  474 

All  the  world  's  a  stage Shakespeare  723 

All  things  in  nature  are  beautiful  types  C  F-  Cratick  361 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights Coleridge  107 

Alone  and  sad  I  sat  me  down yoaguin  Miller  625 

Along  the  frozen  lake  she  comes Anonymous  622 

Although  1  enter  not  . .    Thackeray    67 

A  man  there  came, whence  none  could  tell  AUingham  742 

Amazing,  beauteous  change  1 Doddridge  339 

A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God  {Translation  0/  F.  //. 

Hedge). Martin  Lut/ter  335 

A  milkmaid,  who  poised  a  full  pail y.   Taylor  786 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel 

Longfellow  823 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures .Mice  Cary    38 

Among  their  graven  shapes IVhittier  S52 

Among  thy  fancies  tell  me  this Herrick    78 

A  monk,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o'er 

yane  Taylor  785 

An  ancient  story  I  '11  tell  you Anonymous  ^53 

An  Austrian  army  awfully  arrayed Anonymous  916 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? U\  y.  Mickle  201 

hw^  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home  D.  M.  Moir  26^ 

And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? \Vm   Hotvitt  443 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ? Spenser  337 

And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed  ..Pope  664 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant Tennyson  124 

And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide  IVm-  Morris  1 10 

And  thou  hast  walked  about //.  Smith  661 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? Sir  T.  IVyatt  191 

An  empty  sky,  a  world  of  heather yean  Ingeloiv  1S7 

An  exquisite  invention  this Leigh  Hunt  149 

A  nightingale,  that  all  day  long Cowper  jSh 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky...  Emerson  402 

A  nobie  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died Geo.  Crahbe  f^Ti 

An  old  farm-house  with  meadows  wide*.    M.  Douglas  72S 

A  poL-t  loved  a  star Lord  Lytton  157 

Appeared  the  princess  with  that  merry  child  . .  Taylor  120 

Arbutus  lies  beneath  the  snows W.  W.  Bailey  579 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome Byron  629 

An  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers?  Dekker  495 

Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid Anonymous  327 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood E 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping.. 


"^ 


[fi- 


-Ri 


922 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Aa  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day Moore  544 

A  sentinel  angel  sitting  high  in  glory y.  Hay  234 

A  simple  child Wonlsworth     34 

As  into  blowing  roses  siiniiner  dews  .. .  D.  A.  li'asso/t  714 

As  i[  tell  upon  a  day Ji.  Barn/ieUi  444 

Ask  me  no  more Tennyson  1 20 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here Herrick  424 

As  Mumiiou's  marble  harp  renowned  of  old  Akemide  748 
A  soldier  111' ihe  l.c^ion  lay  dying  in  Algiers  ..A'i'/-/c«  476 

As  once  a  Grecian  maiden  wove Moore  103 

A  song  for  the  plant  of  iny  own  native  Wo^i.-Fosdick  420 
A  song  10  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak..//.  F,  ChorUy  416 
A  sound  came  booming  through  the  air.....S'.  Brooks  894 

As,  rising  on  its  purple  wing Byron  330 

As  sliadows  cast  by  cloud  and  sun W.  C.  Bryant  356 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay A,  if.  Cloiigh  183 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track Moore  i8y 

A  stranger  came  one  night  to  Yussoufs  tent  ..Lowell  684 
Ah  vdiice  1  valked  by  a  dismal  swamp  //.  //.  Brownell  8yo 

A  r.w.illnw  111  the  spring R.  S.  S.  Andros  441 

A    v\ii  I,  .iiii.iciive  kind  of  grace Matihew  Royden  B16 

A    .v.,  I  ,1,  nuler  in  the  dress Herrick  698 

Asv\luii,  1.11  Carmel's  sterile  steep F.H. Bryant  537 

At  Aiiiaihus,  that  from  the  southern  side  Wm.  Morris  113 

At  llannockburn  the  English  lay Burns  513 

At  t-.uly  dawn  I  marked  .them  in  the  sky  Montgomery  444 

*■  A  irm|i]c  lu  riiL-iHl:.lii[p,"  1 1  led  Laura Moore    61 

A  i!inii..iij.l  iiiiU-.  iH'iii  I. Mid  .ue  viQ.,  Barry  Cornwall  447 

Al  muliiiu'.lil,  111  111.  Kii.ii.U-.i  liMit Halleck  524 

Ai 1,  uiiliin  the  .1.1  \\  h.un Anna  B.  Aver  ill  h^Si 

A  Imiu  Ii,  .1  ki-.s  1  tlu  I  h. 11  111  w.ih  snapt Tennyson  124 

At  I'.iir.  11  w.l^,  .11  t)ir  oi-iia  KhiiTG  . . .  Bulwer-Lytion  228 

A  ii.iv.lri  thicui^h  a  (Uisiyroad Chas.  Mackay  697 

Al  I  he  close  of  the  day ,  when  the  hamlet  is  still .  Beattie  674 

Ai  tlie  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon Helen  Hunt  683 

At  Timon's  villa  let  us  pass  a  day Pope  702 

Ave  Maria  t  o'er  the  earth  and  sea Byron  373 

A  violet  in  her  lovely  h.iir Chas.  Swain     68 

A  voice  from  stately  Babylon Anonymous  814 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre A.  Coivley  6gi 

Awake  :  the  starry  midnight  hour-  ..flrtrry  Cornwuii  94 
Aw. ly  !awavl  through  the  sighllcssair..G.  IV.  Culler  761 

A  weary  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro C.  G.  Femier  583 

A  well  tlu-re  is  in  the  West  country Southey  865 

A  wet  sheet  ami  a  tlowing  sea Cunningham  584 

A  rthite  pine  floor  .ind  a  low  ceiled  room.  .-^wcw^wwwJ  498 

A  widow— she  had  only  one  1. F.  Locker  246 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea Longfellow  368 

Ay.  but  I  know Shakespeare  210 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  dowrj  1. . . .  O.  IV.  Holmes  575 
H.Klielor'shall,  what  aquare-lookin'place  it  is  !  Anon.  906 
Haekward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight 

Elisabeth  A  kers  A  Hen  173 

Halow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  I A  nonymous  2-\  1 

Iteantiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead R.  Browning  275 

Heautilnl,  sublime,  and  glorious B.  Barton  559 

Beautiful  was  the  night Longfellow  646 

Hccause  I  breathe  nol  love  to  everieone  ^/>  Ph  Sidney  80 

Hefell  that  in  that  season  on  a  day Chaucer  642 

liefore  1  trust  my  fate  to  thee Miss  Procter    79 

IJcforu  proud  Rome's  imperial  throne B.  Barton  551 

liehold,  the  fairy  cried S/telley  683 

Heliold  the  mansion A  nonvmotts  913 

liehold  the  sea Emerson  562 

Heboid  the  young,  the  rosy  Spring  (  Translation  of 

'J'homas  Afoore) Anacreon  384 

Heboid  this  ruin  I  'T  was  a  skull A  nonymous  736 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms  Moore  123 
Beneath  a  shivering  canopy  reclined. .  .Dr.  F.  Leyden  370 

Beneath  our  consecrated  elm Lotvell  841 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined T^  IVarton  366 

Beside,  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher.  ../)r.  S.  Butler  855 


Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived F.  A.  Kemhle  \ 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes Coivper  \ 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight Longfellozv 

Be  wise  to-day  ;  't  is  madness  to  defer Young  ; 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping H.  Bonar  : 

Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies. /V*Vj/  ■ 
Bird  of  the  wilderness J.  Hogg  \ 


Birds,  the  free  tenants  of  land, 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man. . 
Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he 
Blossom  of  the  almond-trees... 
Blow,  blow,  thou  1 
gulf  all  ? 


Montgomery  . 

Whittier 

Sappho 


id Shakespeare  : 

H.  H.  Brownell  ■ 


Bobolink  I  that  in  the  meadow Thos.  Hill 

Bonnie  wee  thing  !  cannie  wee  thing Bums 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen f.  Hogg 

Home  by  the  soldiers  he  had  led M.  L.  Ritter 

Break,  break,  break Tennyson 

Break,  Kantasy,  from  thy  cave  of  cloud.  .j5«i  Jotison 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead Scott 

Bright  red  is  the  sun  on  the  waves  of  Lough  Sheelin 

Thos.  Davis 
"  Bring  forth  the  horse!"  The  horse  was  brought  Byron 

Buried  to-day Dinah  Mulock  Craik 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee  I Emerson 

Busy,  curious,  thiisty  fly V.  Bourne 

But  chief-surpassing  all  —  a  cuckoo  clock  . .  C.  Bowles 
But  Enoch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again. . . .  Tennyson 


,  like 


But  happy  the\  !  1 
But  Irememhci.  v 
liutlookl  o'erilu- 
But  most  of  all  if 
But  not  frae  life's 
But  now  our  quack 
But  souls  that  ol  I 
But  where  to  fiml 
But  who  the  meUn 


Halleck 

.  !i,i]r"  1  ol  iheir  kind  Thomson 
in  ill.'  In  hi  w. IS  done  Shakespeare 
II  ML  ih.-.ii.Klerstand  /'.  B.  Read 

lis  my  admiration J.  Hurdis 

>ugh  work J.  E.  Rankin 

are  g.imesters Geo.  Crahbe 

,  (twii  L,.uiil  hie  partake..//.  I^lore 
i.ii  h.iii'ii  .(  s|H»t  below  Goldsmith 
>    Ml  nioiii  ,.111  tell? Beattie 


"  But  why  do  you  ^o .  '   .-..ml  ihe  lady  E.  B.  Bro^vning 

By  broad  Potomac's  silent  shore A  nonymous 

By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have  no  cause  Shakespeare 

By  Nebo's lonely  mountain C  F.  Alexander 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river F.M.  Finch 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood Emerson 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone R.  Hoyt 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound Tennyson 

Can  angel  spirits  need  repose Anonymous 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes Burns 

Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer...C  A.  Stevens 

Celiaand  I  the  other  day -^.Matt.  Trior 

Charmer,  on  a  given  straight  line Punch 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches W'  C.  Bennett 

Child  of  the  later  days! Anottymous 

Chloc,  we  must  not  always  be  in  heaven  Dr.  li'akott 

Christ  I  I  am  Christ's  1  and  let  the  name Myers 

Christmas  is  here 'Thackeray 

Clasp  me  a  little  longeron  the  brink Campbell 

Clear,  placid  Leman  I  thy  contrasted  lake Byron 

Clear  the  brown  path  to  meet  his  coulter's  gleam 

O.   IV.  Holmes 

Cleon  hath  a  million  acres C.  Mackay 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! Byron 

Cling  to  thy  home  !  if  there  the  meanest  shed  Leonidas 

Close  his  eyes ;  his  work  is  done  ! G.  H.  Boker 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. T.  Dwight 

Come  a  little  nearer,  doctor B   F.  IVUlson 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  shepherds f.  Hogg 

Come  as  artist IV.  H    Venable 

Come  back  to  your  mother O.  IV.  Holmes 

Come,  brother,  turn  with  me  from  pining  thought 

R.  H  Dana 


u 


-S 


r 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


923 


.^ 


pled  greensward  dancing. .  Oro.  DarUy     31 
t-harves,  as  the  sun  goes  down 

EUzabtth  Akers  Allen  2},i 

tsname Bret  H arte  ^^^ 

T.  Colt-ridge  143 


Come,  ho 


Come  lii 


Come,  dear  children,  let  us  awny M.  A  mold  775  '  Down  the  c 

Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  1...0.  If.  Iloliiies     50     Down  to  Ih 

Come!  fill  a  fresh  bumper O.  H^.  Holmes  919 

Come,  follow,  follow  me Anonymous  763    Dow's  Flat 

Come  from  my  first,  ay,  come  ! tV.  M.  I'racd  S32     Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ? j 

Com.  !,.„   .„„,.  ,.„„   ,nd  dwell... ^arrj.  CornwaV  764  •  Drawn  out  like  lingering  bees Annie  D.  Green     84 

u  ,    ^u       ,    ,      '^/"'=!E°'----f'V--0'"'"  6-8  I  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes Benjomonn,, 

Holy  Ghost  !  thou  fire  divmc  !  C.  Wentworlh  317     Drop,  drop,  slow  tears /'  FUlclier  \i- 

n  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning. .  Davis  100  j  Drunk  and  senseless  in  his  place'.'   ".'.'.'.'.'.  Bret  Harte  Scjl 

nto  the  garden,  Maud Tennyson    <jb     Duncan  Gray  can.'  here  to  woo Burns  1  =2 

let  us  plant  the  apple-tree W.  C.  Bryant  419     Each  day,  when  the  glow  of  sunset 

l.s.en  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free.  .Anonymous  594  [  ^.  ^    ^  Snnsster  27, 

,  and  be  my  love C.  Marlowe  lo^     Early  on  a  sunny  morning Anonymous    8- 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead Tennyson  230     Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us. . .  Lotvell  3S6 

Lome,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fa.ry  song.. ,$■//«*«/,«'•'  7f.4     Karth  Iws  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  Words-worth  b2b 

"""■""    '-■1'"'=  sthepLace .<iliakesl>eare  407     Earth  with  its  dark  .lod  dre.ldful  hills Alice  Cary  356 

I  r.aveler  unknown Chas.  IVesley  334     Echo!  mysterious  nymph Anonymous  917 

.-„.„c>.ve,    cu.neover W.J.IIoppm   .01  ,  E'en  such  is  time  ;  which  takes  on  trust Raleigh  721 

Come,  rest  m  Ihis  bosom ...  Moore  .33  j  England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  Ihee  still. .  Co^^er  5.5 

Lome,  see  the  Dolphm  s  anchor  forged .  j".  Ferguson  500     Ensanguined  man Thomson  704 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceivmg  Ere  last  year's  moon Emily  C.  Judson    20 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  677     Ere  the  twilight  bat  was  flitting D.  M.  Moir  574 

-  -  knot  of  peace  |  Ethereal  minstrel  I  pilgrim  of  the  sky  I . .  Worrfr  j<,„rM  433 

^         .  .  .  -     ,,     -ud  from  the  dark  Park,  hark  /•. //(.orfqi  a 

Lome  to  me,  dearest ^    '•'- —  '  ^' .1- -  1    ...  '  " 

thcr  I 
to  the  river's  reedy  shore F.  B.  Sanborn  755  i  Every 


e.  O  tho 


Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certani  knot  of  peace  j  Ethe; 

Sir  Thilifi  Sidney  677     Even  is  come : 

''''"■^^' 7-  Brennan  204  ]  Every  day  brings  a  ship /£,, 

U.  Gray  198  ,  Everyone,  by  instinct  taught Montgomery  581 

dding,  says  the  proverb T.  IV.  /'arsons  149 


Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace IV.  L.  Bo-wles  366 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little Tennyson  214 

Cooks  who 'd  roast  a  sucking  pig Puiuh  916 

Cooper,  whose  flame  is Halleck  842 


Could  I  pass  those  lounging 
uld  ye  come  back  to  me,  . 


ntries Punch  834 

Miglas,  Douglas 
Diimh  Mulock  Craik  4S0 

Creator  Spirit  by  whose  aid y.  Boyden  31.S 

Cromwell,  I  did  not  ihink  to  shed  a  tear  Shakespeare  243 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men Milton  817 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played y.  Lyly  ,^% 

Cursed  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow I'ofe  702 

Cyriack,  this  three  years'  day Milton  b-ji 

Daddy  Neptune,  one  day,  to  Freedom  did  say 

Thos.  Diltdin  516 
Dark  as  the  clouds  of  ( 
Dark  fell  the  night,  thi 
Dark  is  the  night,  and  fitful  and  drearily 


Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime Moore  618 

Fain  would  1  love,  but  that  I  fear....ZJr.  R.  Hughes  146 

Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house E.  B.  Broivning  147 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see Her  rick  427 

Fairer  than  thee,  beloved Anonymous     76 

Fair  Greece  I  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  I Byron  526 

Fair  insect,  that,  with  thread-like  legs  IV.  C.  Bryant  451 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree Herrick  419 

Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  .> Shakespeare    63 

Fair  ship  that  from  the  Italian  shore Tennyson  2S4 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  Fr.lnce M.  Drayton  456 

False  diamond  set  in  flint! IV.  C.  Bryant  121 

False  world,  thou  ly'st :  thou  canst  not  \mi..Quarles  719 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  1 

Shakespeare  242 

■  ■G.H.  Boker  464     Farewell  I  but  whenever Moore  193 

J.  Sterling  601     "  Farewell !  farewell  I  "  is  often  heard  ...Anonymous  183 
Farewell,  farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter  ! . .  Moore 


^     ,  .  Rev.  IV.  R.  Duryea   lib     Farewell,  life  I  my  senses  swim T  Mood  no. 

Darkness  is  thinning y.  M.  Neale  322     Farewell,  my  sweet  Virginia y   IVekster  ,96 

Daughter  of  God  !  that  sut'st  on  high  Wm.  Tennent  484     Farewell  rewards  and  fairies  I [r   Corbett  774 

Day  rn  melting  purple  dying Maria  Brooks  .97     Farewell  I  thou  art  too  de.-.r  for  my  possessing 

Day  of  vengeance,  without  morrow y.  A  Dix  3.3  Shakesfieare  ,9. 

Day  set  on  Norham  s  castled  steep Scott  622     Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and  m.ly C   Cotton  674 

yes. . . . //.  Smith  421     Farewell  to  Lochabcr,  and  farewell,  my  Jean  Ramsay  189 
E.  B.  Browning  272     Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life  ....  /J  nna  L.  Waring  858 

Father  of  all  I  in  every  age /V/f  333 

Father  !  thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand  Jones  Very  331 
'■'  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun Shakesp. 


Day; 
Dead 


e^ 


that  ope  your  frown 

:  of  them  shot  by  th 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd N.  Cotton 

Dear  friends,  whose  presence  in  the  house.. .  .C/.zr/t<-  35'! 

Dear  hearts,  you  were  wailing  a  year  iia..Chadwick  265  Fea 

Dear  Ned,  no  doubt  you  'II  be  surprised  .Anonymous  157     Fear  not,  O  little  flock  I  the  foe M.  Altenburg  l68 

Dear  lorn,  this  brown  jug F.  Fawkes  i^i  First  lime  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 

D^r  N"hl     «T'  V  ""■'■  ^'■°'' ^■'^  '''''"■"'  5^^  I                                                                          ^-  B.  Browning   ,42 

n        f^l  •*:""  ""S" C.G  Leland  902  Flowers  are  fresh,  and  bushes  green  Lord  .Strang/ord  222 

Deserted  by  the  waning  moon T.  Dibdin  585  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  bracT 

Did  you  hear  ofthe  Widow  Malone,Ohone!..Z,i,,r  90s  Burm  i,o 

Diedown   O  dismal  day,  and  let  me  live.... IJ.  Gray  ^Ita     Flung  to  the  heedless  winds IV.  y.  Fox\a 

Diego  Ordas,  come  to  El  Dorado Anonymous  758    "  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me"  \toore    95 

Diesira:,  dies  ilia  ! Thos.  de  Celano  313     Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you Ben  Jonson     84 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore Tennyson  379     For  aught  that  ever  I  could  read Shakesp -are  206 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ?    Ch.  Rossetti  326  ;  For  England  when  with  favoring  gale C.  Dibdin  585 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead Tennyson  285     Forever  with  the  Lord Montgomery  353 

Down  deep  in  a  hollow  so  damp..^„.  R.  S.  Nichols  7S9     For  Scotland's  and  for  freedom's  right B.  Barton  512 

Down,  down,  Ellen   my  litt  e  one A    y.  Mundy  695  '  Fortune,  men  say Sir  y  Harrington  855 

uown  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak  For  why.  who  writes  such  histories  as  these  .Higgins  683 

Lowell  400  1  Fresh  from  the  fountains  of  the  wood  ..y.  H.  Bryant  410 


-^ 


f 


924 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


■^ 


Friends  !  1  came  here  not  to  talk Miss  Mit/ord  512  j 

Friendship,  like  love John  Gay  860  j 

From  RoUl  to  gray Whittier  553  | 

From  liarmony,  from  heavenly  harmony Dryden  694 

1'  rom  Oberon,  in  fairyland Ben  Jomon  765 

Fn-ni  till.'  desert  I  come  to  thee Bayard  Taylor  134 

From  tl5e  recesses  ola  lowly  spirit J.  Bowriug  337 

From  this  hundred-terraced  height Sidney  Lanier  545 

From  you  1  have  been  absent  in  the  spring 

Shakespeare  203 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow Tennyson  727 

C'.amarra  is  a  dainty  steed Barry  Cornivall  430 

Gnrtjonset  filles,  venei  toujcurs Anonytnons  896 

C  lather  ye  rosebuds  as  ye  may Herrick  727 

c;;iy.  guiltless  pair C.  Spragite  442 

Genteel  in  personage H.  Fielding    76 

Gently  hast  thou  told  thy  message Milton  242 

Get  up,  get  up  !  for  shame  1 Herrick    89 

(;in  a  body  meet  a  body Bitrtis  136 

Girl  in  dark  growth,  yet  glimmering  ...D.  G.  Rossetii  708 

(Jive  me  more  love  or  more  disdain 7'.  Careiv    80 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet.  ...3'/>  W.  Raleigh  324 
Give  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother  Miss  Edwards  255 

Give  place,  ye  lovers Lord  Surrey    65 

"  Give  us  a  song  !  "  the  soldiers  cried  Bayard  Taylor  741 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an*  still Loivcll  896 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth  M.  Howitt  428 

Gi.d  of  the  tliundcr  ! //.//.  Milman  336 

God  pnis)ier  long  our  noble  king R»  Sheale  591 

God  shield  ye,  heralds  of  the  spring /*.  Ronsard  382 

God's  love  and  peace  be  with  thee Whittier    53 

Go,  feel  what  I  have  felt Anonymous  494 

Go  from  me.    Yet  feel  that  I  shall  stand 

E.  B.  Browning  140 

Go,  happy  Rose  !  and,  interwove Herrick    71 

Going  — the  great  round  Sun E.  W.  Jenks  728 

Golden  hair  climbed  up  on  Grandpapa's  knee.  'Anon.    27 
Golden  head  so  lowly  bending.. ^«.  R.  S.  Ho^vland    26 

Gold!  gold  1  gold  I  gold  ! T.  Hood  705 

Go,  lovely  rose! E.  Waller    60 

Gone  at  last E.  C.  Stedman  849 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone Whittier  190 

Good  by,  proud  world,  I  *m  going  home Emerson  719 

Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nightcd  color  off.  ..y/m^rjAwrc  290 

Good  morrow  to  thy  sable  beak Jonnna  Baillie  441 

Good  name  in  man  or  woman,  dear  my  lord 

Shakesfeare  676 

Good  night !  (  Transl.  of  C.  T.  Brooks) ICdrner  504 

Good  people  all  of  every  sort Goldsmith  861 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord Goldsmith  861 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest y.  Sylvester  721 

Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child Mrs^  Sigourney  271 

Great  Monarch  of  the  world,  from  whose  power 

springs Chnrhs   I,  239 

Great  ocean  1  strongest  of  creation's  sons.  ..^.  Pollok  562 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee Halleck  S34 

Green  grow  the  rashes  O Bunts  145 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass Leigh  Hunt  440 

Grief  haih  been  known  to  iwxw ..  Caroline  B.  Southey  79S 

Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man Lowell  897 

Ha  !  bully  for  me  again  when  my  turn  for  picket  is 

over CD.  Shanly  475 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove ! y.  Logan  436 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven .Milton  367 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances  1 Scott  467 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! Shelley  437 

Half  a  league,  half  a  lengue Tennyson  464 

Hnnielin  Town  's  in  Brunswick R.  Brmtming  77S 

Hans  Breitmann  gife  a  barty C.  G.  Leland  901 

Happy  insect  1  ever  blest W,  Harte  448 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be .Abrahant  Cowley  449 

Happy  the  man,  who<;e  wish  and  care    Pofe  176 


Happy  the  man  who,  void J.  Philips  856 

Hark  t  ah,  the  nightingale! M.  Arnold  443 

Hark!  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds  .  -Byron  819 
Hark,  hark  1  the  lark  at  heaven'^gate  sings 

Shakespeare  438 
Hark  1  the  faint  bells  of  the  sunken  city  J.  C  Mangan  752 

Hark  !  —  't  is  a  convent's  bell J.  Pierpont  660 

Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands  G.  W.  Cutter  501 
Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star  Coleridge  338 

Have  other  loveis  —  say  my  love Anonymous  157 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay 

O.  W.  Holmes  879 

Have  you  sent  her  back  her  letters? G.  Arnold  213 

Hal  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crawlin' ferlie? Bums  450 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  the  wind  is  chill Scott  641 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells E.  A.  Poe  657 

Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate  Pope  722 

Heaven,  what  an  age  is  this C.  Cotton  670 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands Tennyson  447 

Heigh-ho  1  daisies  and  buttercups y.  Ingelow    33 

Heir  of  that  name Emma  C  Emlntry  824 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain Scott  272 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free  Coivper  552 

He  is  the  happy  man  whose  life  even  now Cctvper  672 

He  lived  in  "  Farmer  George's"  day Anonytnous  654 

Me,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre  Spenu-r  753 
Hence,  all  ye  vain  Av\\^\\X'&'..  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  235 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy Milton  709 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys Milton  710 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow  .  -Shenstone  656 

*•  Henri  Heine  "  —  't  is  here  ! M.  A  mold  837 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks  and  gnarled  pines  Bfyant  554 
Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling  C.  Dibdin  587 
Here,  Charmlan,  take  my  bracelets....  IV,  W.  Story  138 
Here  have  I  found  at  last  a  home  of  peace.,  y.  Wilson  161 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping Sarah  Roberts  427 

Here  in  this  leafy  place Anonymous  480 

Here  is  a  little  golden  tress Amelia  B.  Welly  275 

Here  is  one  leaf  reserved  for  me Moore    87 

Here  's  the  garden  she  walked  across..^.  Browning    88 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee Herrick    63 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold E.  B.  Browning  529 

Her  house  is  all  of  echo  made Ben  yonson  699 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day T.  B.  A  Idn'ch  293 

Her  window  opens  to  the  bay Whittier  194 

He  's  a  rare  man yean  Ingelow  565 

He  's  ganc,  he  's  gane  ! Bums  830 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek T.  Carew    75 

He  that  many  bokes  rcdys Anonymous  683 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic Dr.  S.  Butler  856 

He  was  of  that  stubborn  crew Dr.  S.  Butler  346 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead Byron  303 

High  walls  and  luige  the  body  may  confine .  Garrison  554 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart Halleck  827 

His  echoing  ax  the  settler  swung A.  B.  Street  649 

Hisleaniing  such,  no  author Lucius  Cary  816 

His  puissant  sword  unto  his  side Dr.  S.  Butler  472 

His  young  bride  stood  beside  his  bed Eliza  Cook  291 

Hoarse  M.xvius read Coleridge  S64 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race ■• Halleck  626 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead Tennyson  286 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise Pope  700 

Ho  !  pretty  page  with  the  dimpled  chin.. . .  Thackeray  153 
Horanovissima,temporapessima  Bernard de  Morlai.x  311 

Horatio,  thou  art  e*en  as  just  a  man Shakespeare    60 

Ho.  sailor  of  the  sea  t .^.  Dobell  570 

How  beautifulis  the  rain! Longfellow  390 

How  beavitiful  it  was Longfellow  849 

How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh. .  .Shelley  376 
How  calm  they  sleep  beneath  the  shade.  .C  Kennedy  305 
How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood 

S.    Woodworth    40 


[tr 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


'-Fn 


925 


sthe 


How  do  1  love  thee  ?     Let 


Campbell  1 34 

Carlos  Wilcox  452 

n  at  Lodore  "i.^Southey  410 
count  the  ways 

E.  B.  Brownjfiff  142 
the  day  been  1  how  bright  was  the  sun  I 

Walls  394 


Iflove  were  what  the  rose  is A.  C.  Swiniitmr    8g 

If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on Sluiktsptare  691 

I  found  hiiii  sitting  by  a  fountain  side 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  688 

I  f  sleep  and  death  be  truly  one Tennyson  285 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps Shelley  yji 

Ifstorcsofdry  and  learniid  lore  wcgain   D.  Webster    60 


fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean  G.  Herbert  683  i  If  that  the  world  and  love  were  young  SirW.  Raleigh  104 


Ho 


V  glorious  fall  the  valiant 

From  the  Greek'o/  Tyrteeits  454 

1  happy  is  he  bom  and  taught Sir  II.  Wotton  674 

f  many  a  time  have  I Lord  Byron  621 

^  many  summers,  love Barry  Cormmll  171 

/  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subji 


If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays Et, 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight A  iionymous    (14 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught . .  Hnnvning  1 4 1 

1  f  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love Bishop  Heber  1 7 1 

If  thou  wilt  case  thine  heart T.  L.  Beddocs  302 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright Scott  624 


Shakespeare  678     1  f  to  be  absent  were  to  be . 


How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair Ben  Jomon    64 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august . .  Yotittg  694 
How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  grcit  man  inherits 

Coleridge  676 
How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 

W.  C.  Bryant  263 

How  shall  I  then  begin y.Dryden  817 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest If.  Collins  505 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day   Grahame  340 
How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  air 

Bloomficld  481      I  ha' 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid Moore  207  :  1  ha' 

How  sweet  the  answer  echo  makes Moore    92'  I  ha' 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon../".  Tennyson  640     I  ha' 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  1  |  I  ha' 

Shakespeare  69 


■  Col.  R.  Lovebu 


194 


derful  is  death  I  Shelley  680  I  I  have  ships  that  went  to  sea  . . . 

"=""'"='>!«  "O"  y'  '■ol'l-  ■  ■^'""'  303  '  I  have  swung  for  ages  to  and  fro 


may  trust  the  great  La  Place  R.  W.  Raymond  892 
II  women  could  be  fair  and  never  fond..  .Www/j'w/i'iu  714 

I  gaed  to  spend  a  week  in  life G.  Outram  906 

I  grew  assured  before  I  asked C.  Patmore  1 1 9 

I  had  sworn  to  be  a  bachelor W.  B.  Terrell    61 

1  had  told  him,  Christmas  morning  A  nnie  C.  Ketchum    27 

I  have  a  lover,  a  little  lover Anvnymous    39 

I  have  a  name,  a  little  name E.  B.  Browning    35 

I  have  a  son,  a  little  son J.  Moultrie     30 

I  have  fancied  sometimes Benj.  F.  Taylor  693 

got  a  newborn  sister Mary  Lamb     i3 

had  playmates Chas.  Lamb  262 

in  memory  a  little  story Alice  Cary  297 

learned  to  look  on  nature Wordsworth  361 

seen  a  nightingale  {  Translation  0/  Thomas 

Roscoe) Estevan  Manuel  de  l-'illegtis  444 

R.B.  Coffin 


there  is  no  living,  none. .  .Shakespeare 
1  watching  for  the  early  buds  to  wake 

Mrs.  Howland  281 


How 

H.'l^h'T.rT  '"1"  '  ;:" '-"",'"^;«  ■■""  >"=  ""■"••■^'"'a  303     1  have  swung  for  ages  to  and  fro..../?.  W.  Raymond  76 

Hush   my  dea  ,  he  st,  1  and  slumber Watts    24     I  have  traced  the  valleys  fair John  Clare    8, 

H   ,h  i    1^  rf    "  "    ',r       ■''"'" ':  ^-  '^'""'  '3'     '  '"="''  'he  trailing  garments  of  the  night  Longfellow  377 

rrrJf  f      r^"^^   ^"*'" Anonymous    20     I  in  these  flowery  me.lds  would  be A  Walton  O20 

am  ^Z  V       T\  ^"' Vj-.f')"'-^'  "^     '  '">'  "=  <>''*"  'o  ^'«1> Anonymous  29, 

an  ?n  Kom  ?'^hff""\ • '"^^  "-J""'  '"  1  '  '""'=<'  <""  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover 

1  am  in  Kome  1    Oft  as  the  morning  ray Rogers  (i2Ci\  'f       T      I 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey .Cow/.er  675  |  I  lent  my  girl  a  book  one  day F^S.  Co'JeZ  lla 

I  like  a  church:  I  like  a  cowl Emerson  673 

I  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase Longfello^v  305 

,      .      ,         ,  ^  .  I  '  '"  present  how  I  did  thrive . ..Shakespeare    8j 

1  arise  from  dreams  of  thee Shtlley  140  1  I  Ml  sing  you  a  good  old  song A  nonymms  865 

1  asked  an  aged  man  wnh  hoary  hairs Marsden  729     I  love,  and  have  some  cause F.  Qtmrles  322 

asked  of  echo,  t  other  day 7-  G.  i^x.  9,7     I  love  at  eventide  to  walk  alone 7oh„  Clare  3,0 

I  br,ng  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers  Shelley  749  '  I  love  contemplating  -  apart Campbell  569 

I  brought  her  home,  ray  bonny  bride.  ..i.  C.  Moulton  17     I  loved  a  lass,  a  fair  one Geo.  Wither  225 

I  cannot,  cannot  say W.C.  Richards  240     I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone ... .  Latutor  279 

I  cannot  eat  but  httle  meat 7- Still  Ssi     I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly P.  P.  Cooke  276 

I  cannot  make  h,m  dead  I y.  Pierpont  267     I  loved  thee  once,  I  Ml  love  no  more . .  ..Sir  R.  Ayton  2,1 

cannot  think  that  thou  shouldst  pass  iviny...  Lowell  .66  1  I  love  it,  I  love  it  1  and  who  shall  dare.  ..Elisa  Cook  403 

care  not,  though  ,t  be ...       y.  Morris  142  j  I  love  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio  I E   B   Browning  ,88 

I  climbed  the  dark  browof  the  mighty  Helvellyn  Scott  613  ;  I  love  thee,  Mary,  and  thou  lovest  me Punch  893 

I  come  froni  haunts  of  coot  and  hero Tennyson  40S  ,  I  love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice O    W.  Holmes  450 

1  come  not  here  to  talk Mary  Russell  Mit/ord  ^12     I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this  N.  P.  Willis     52 

I  d  been  away  from  her  three  years,  —about  that  |  I  love  to  wander  through  the  woodlands  hoary 

,   ,  ,    ^  ,       ,    .  Anonymous  iss  ;  Sarah  //.  Whitman  638 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be.  .^.  -4 .  Procter  328  :  I  'm  a  careless  potato,  and  care  not  a  pin  Anonymous  42. 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  that  fair T.  Carew    75  '  I 

I  don't  appwove  this  liawid  waw Anonymous  908  1  I 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song IV.  Collins  374  ;  I 

If  chance  assigned SirT.  Wyalt     71      I 


4^- 


If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please Gra/ta 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale   Percival  385  \  I  'm 

If  every  man's  internal  care Metastasio  732  ,  I'm 

I  fever  you  should  come  to  Modena Rogers  605  '  I  'm 

If  he  's  capricious,  she'll  be  so C.  Patmore  12  J     In  a 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up E.  C.  Pinkney    76     In  a 

If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing  {Translation  In  a 

o/y.  E.  Taylor) M.Angelo     69     In  a 

If  I  were  told  that  I  must  die  to-morrow.  .S.  Coolidge    34  '  In  V, 


adc  a  posie,  while  the  day  ran  by G.  Ilerl-ert  717 

arveled  why  a  simple  child U.S.  Leigh  906 

et  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land Shelley  661 

1  in  love  with  you,  baby  Louise  I M.  Eytinge    22 

1  in  love  with  neiuhbor  Nelly R.  IS.  Brough     51 

1  sitting  alone  by  the  fire /Sret  Harle  889 

1  sittin'  on  the  style,  Mary Lady  I'ufferin  aSS 

I  wearin  awa',  Jean Lady  Nairn  292 

I  land  for  antiquities  greatly  renowned  JancTaylor  7S,S 

1  small  chamber Lonvell  S47 

lley,  centuries  7t^o....Mary  L.  Bolles  Branch  754 

lley  far  away Thos.  Davis  164 

id  Street  building H.  Smith  St>7 


-^ 


[S- 


926 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


-ct 


4zj    •" 


Indeed  this  very  love  which  is  my  ho^m . . . Broivnifig  140 
1  need  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song. . . .  Lcnvell  851 
III  either  hand  the  hastening  angel  canght  ....Milton  242 
I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away. ..  .A'.  B.  Broxvning  141 
III  facile  natures  fancies  quickly  grow 

From  the  Italian  of  Lrottardo  dtx   Vinti  699 

In  fi)rni  and  feature,  face  and  limb //.  S,  Leigh  8gi 

I  w  good  King  Charles's  golden  days A  uonymous  857 

In  heavy  sleep  the  Caliph  lay y.  F.  Clarke  789 

111  holy  miglit  we  made  the  vow 

From  the  Greek  of  Meleager  1 84 

1 11  Koln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones Coleridge  864 

111  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced Emerson  424 

In  nul.iiu  !iLiti(   rin.  y    Anofiymous  748 

In  Ta  ■tuin' .   LIU  ii  111  Lines  I  trod.  ...J?.  IP'.  Kay  mo  mi  tzq 

In  Sau.i,  I  ',  ni  -nil,  (Hid,  the  Lord G.  H.  Hoker  607 

In  silent  Ijaiicu  .-.yiu'd  met Anofiytnous  64; 

In  shunbcrs  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  \7^y...Dimond  567 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long Anonymous  107 

In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  basin  of 

M  inas Longfeiiotv  645 

I  n  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges   . .  • Longfellow  659 

In  tlie  barn,  the  tenant  cock    f   Cunningham  368 

111  iIiL-  (lays  that  tried  our  fathers H.  //.  Newell  911 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  celestial  peace....//.  B  Stowe  2G1 

In  the  lair  land  o'crwalched IVhittier  835 

111  ihc  hullow  tree  in  the  old  gray  tower 

Barry  Cornwall  447 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress Herrick  311 

In  the  low-raftered  garret y.  T.  Trowbndge  219 

In  the  merry  month  of  May Nicholas  Breton  144 

In  iheir  ragged  regimentals. G.  H.  MacMaster  534 

In  the  region  of  clouds T.  Paine  755 

In  the  silence  of  my  chamber li^.  E-  Aytoun  262 

In  the  spring-time,  chaffinch  gay. . .  IV.  y.  Conrthope  432 

In  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard H.  Sonar  351 

InlhrM,mm,Trv,>n    //.  F.  Spof^ord  S7S 

In  ihr   ^   ill.v    ol   llir    l%L;nitZ Longfellow  626 

In  ilii 1. 1 .  ni.m  can  strength  enjoy Pope  705 

In  v.im  ill.-.  .>i,!  ..nu!  a\cs  were  prepared  W.  Falconer  564 

1  only  knew  she  c.iuie  and  went Anonymous  915 

I  praised  the  speech,  but  cannot  now  .ibide  it 

Sir  yohn  Harrington  465 
I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart ....  ^/>  y.  Suckling    86 

I  reckon  I  git  your  drift,  gents 7-  ^'^y  9°" 

I  remember,  I  remember T.  Hood    40 

I  reside  at  Table  Mountain Bret  Harte  888 

I  said  to  sorrow's  awful  storm Lavinia  Stoddard  358 

I  sal  an  hour  to-day,  John A  mmymous     55 

I  sat  with  Doris,  the  shepherd  maiden.. W.  7-  Mundy    82 

I  saw  him  kiss  your  cheek C.  Patmore  135 

I  saw  him  once  before O.  W.  Holmes  244 

I  saw  thee  when,  as  twilight  fell Ray  Palmer  358 

I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning y.  G.  C.  Brainard    73 

1  sing  a  doleful  tragedy Anonymous  867 

Is  it  indeed  so  !     If  I  lay  here  dead.i*.  B.  Brotvning  141 

Is  it  the  ivilni.  tlir  (-"rna  palm IVhittier  417 

1  sh'|>i  ml  Jirini.  .1  iliat  life  was  Beauty  Anonymous  503 

I  ^Minrinn.'    lioM  ii  1 1. ill  a  sin Ttnnyson  384 

I  soiikIii  iIhc  i.uni,!  al)out.  O  thou  my  God  1 

'P.  Hey  wood  35  J 
1  spr.uigtothe  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he  K.  Browning  470 

Is  there  a  whim -inspired  fool Burns  829 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty Hurtts  257 

Is  there  when  the  winds  are  singing $ianchard    32 

Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  xa^ . ,  Shahfspeare  796 
Is  this  a  fast,  —  to  keep Herrick  334 

I  stood,  one  Sunday  morning R.  M.  Milnts  250 

I I  fortifies  my  soul  to  know A.  H.  Clough  324 

1 1  had  pleased  LkkI  to  form  poor  Ned Southry  255 

I  think  ol  thee  I   my  thoughts  do  twine  and  bud 

E.  B.  Brotvning  141 


I  thought  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err Lo^vell  616 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner  Coleridge  783 

It  is  done  I IVhittier  555 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand Anonymous    76 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree Ben  yottson    65 

it  is  the  miller's  daughter Tennyson   131 

It  kindles  all  ray  soul. .,,From  the  Latin  of  Casimir  335 

It  lies  around  lis  like  a  cloud Harriet  B.  Stowe  350 

It  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace H.  Ttmrod    99 

It  must  be  so.     Plato,  thou  reasonest  well  \.. Addison  734 

It  'a  hardly  in  a  body's  pow'r Burns  671 

It's  we  two,  it 's  we  two  for  aye yean  Ingelow  163 

It  was  n  beauty  that  I  saw Ben  yonson    6j 

It  was  a  dreary  day  in  Padua G-  H.  Boker  806 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 'Phos.  Percy  723 

It  was  a  gallant  sailor  man R.  H.  Stoddard  180 

It  was  a  summer  evening Southey  4S9 

I I  was  fifty  years  ago Longfellotv  508 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago E.  A.  Poe  275 

It  was  midway  in  the  desert  {Trans. )....Freiligrath  7i.'* 

It  was  nothnig  but  a  rose  I  gave  her A nonymous  381 

"It  was  our  wedding  day  " Bayard  Taylor  168 

It  was  the  autumn  of  the  ytzr....  Elizabeth  A.  Allen  207 

It  was  the  wild  midnight Geo.  Croly  506 

It  was  upon  an  April  morn IV-  E.  Aytoun  457 

I  'vc  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west  Motherwell  195 

I  wandered  by  the  brookside R.  M.  Milnes    92 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud Wordsworth  427 

I  was  a  scholar,  seven  useful y.  Marston  855 

I  was  in  Margate  last  July R.H.  Bnrliam  871 

I  weigh  not  fortune's  frown  or  smile y.  Sylvester  667 

I  went  to  the  garden  of  love IVm.  Blake  7 1 3 

I  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  tc\oX\\qt  .  .Swinhurfte  336 

I  will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie  T.  Hood  422 

I  will  paint  her  as  I  see  her E.  B.  Brotvning    44 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies  I Anonymous  276 

I  wish  my  hair  cut Punch  914 

I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk A  nonymous  203 

I  wonder  if  Brougham A  nonymous  836 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends Cozvper  703 

I  wrote  some  lines O.  IV.  Holmes  879 

Jaffar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  Vizier.   .Leigh  Hunt    57 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met Leigh  Hunt    50 

Jingle,  jijigle,  clear  the  way G    IV.  Pettee  622 

Jist  afther  the  war,  in  the  year  ninety-eight    Le  Fanu  519 

Johannes,  Johannes,  tibicine  natus Anonymous  896 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John Bums  173 

John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled E.  C.  Stedman  537 

John  Davidson  and  Tib  his  wife Anonymous  859 

John  Dobbins  was  so  ciptivated R.  S.  S.  S75 

John,  you  were  figuring C.  Lamb  833 

Jorasse  was  in  his  three-and- twentieth  year.  ..Rogers  604 
Judge  not,  the  workings  of  his  brain.  .A.  A.  Procter  740 
Just  in  the  dubious  point,  where  with  the  pool 

Thomson  621 
Just  in  thy  mould  and  beauteous  in  thy  form.  Cooper  585 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king Leigh  Hunt  605 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low.   y.  G.  Saxe  134 

Kiss  me,  though  you  make  believe Alice  Cary  212 

Knows  be  that  never  took  a  pinch A.  A.  Forrester  918 

Know'sl  thou  the  land  where  bloom  ( Translation) 

Felicia  Hemans  537 
Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle  Byron  413 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium T.  B  Macaulay  507 

Last  night,  among  kis  fellow  roughs  .Sir  F.  H   Doyle  475 

Laud  the  first  spring  daisies E    Youl  382 

Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow Shakespeare  664 

Laws,  as  we  read  in  ancient  sages Beattie  705 

Lay  him  beneath  his  snows D.  M.  Craik  845 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom 

y.  H  Newman  326 
Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admired  CiMw/rf-r  639 


-fl 


[fi-- 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


927 


-^ 


Let  . 
Leti 


Lei 


npla 


1  remember  the  days  of  old Moore  518    Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day iriittier  .oj 

be  your  servant S/mi,s/>mr,  494     May  the  Babylonish  curse C/uis.  Lamb  4,, 

""' "'*  -y^PiWPll SoHtluy  833     May,  thou  month  of  rosy  beauty Leigh  Hu.U  385 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning  ..IValUr  i..j 

Men  make  their  wills  — but  wives y.  G.  Saxe  8S3 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed. . .  U^.  C.  Bryant  440 

Mcthinks  it  is  good  to  be  here Herbert  Knowles  309 

Melhinksit  were  no  pain  to  die Gluek  290 

Mica,  mica,  parva  stella Anmymoiis  896 

Mich.icl  bid  sound  the  archangel  trumpet .Wlton  455 

ff.  D.  r/wreati  136  1  Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam 
•  ■  B.  F.  Taylor  202  y    ir    p 

the  armed  Knight A  n„e  A  ske-ive  329     Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  I //  K   U'/'iL  Z\ 

y™"' f,-  "-■'"'<•'■'  302     Miltonl  thou  shotddst  be  living Wordi^varth  8,5 


Let  Sporus  tremble Pofe  818 

Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy..  T.  Hood  868 

Life!  1  know  not  what  thou  art A.  L.  Barbaidd  bji 

Life  is  the  veil  that  hides  eternity A tioiiytiious  730 

Lffe  may  be  given  in  many  ways Linvetl  845 

Light  as  a  (take  o(  foam  upon  the  Wmi.  .Montgomery  58( 

Light-winged  smoke. 

Like  a  foundling  in  s 

Like 

Like 


the  da 

Like  a  tree  beside  the  river G-  Massey 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone (F.  Habinglon    48     M 

Like  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed R.  Greene    64     M 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere T.Lodge    94    M 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star H.  King  301     M. 

Linger  not  long.     Home  is  not  home  without  thee  Mi 

AnonymoHS  199 
Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  \mr  ..Long/ello^v  534 
Listen,  young  heroes  !  your  country  is  calling  Holmes  558 
Lithe  and  long  as   * 

Little  Elliesits  alone E.  B.  Browning 

Four  Years,  little  Two  Years    R.  IV.  Raymond    26 
Gretchcn,  little  Gretchen  wanders Andersen  252 


;  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill Rogers  175 

eyes  have  seen  the  glory y.  IV.  Howe  556 

eyes  he  closed,  but  open  left  the  cell Mi/ton  160 

Flora  McFlimsy IV.  A.  Btitler  S84 

,  moan,  ye  dying  gales  1 Henry  Neele  235 

strange  than  true  :  I  never  may  believe 

Skakes/>eare  667 

than  the  soul  of  ancient  song..^'.  y.  Liffincott  738 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes. . . .  irords-.vartk  667 


Littit 


Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth... 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  cli 


rpent  Irani....  (K  G.Simms  418,  Mother,  mother,  the  winds  are  at  play  Caro/,*- C//ma„  387 

r    K    B  :...      -     Musichathcharmstosoolhethes.avage.. ..CoH^r-cz/f  692 

"  Music  I  "  they  shouted,  echoing  my  demand  Taylor  137 

Little  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few O.  IV.  Holmes  66,     My  banks  lhey°are  "funlhed  with  bees ' Iv.  S/uil"Z  ''7! 

Cow/er  449     My  beautiful,  my  beautiful  I C.  £.  Norton  6u 

"n  I  My  boat  is  on  the  shore Byron  832 

Emerson  365,  My  chaise  the  village  inn  did  gain Anonymous  249 

'°"''' ^^y  My  curse  upon  thy  venomed  stang Biirtts  yoS 

'"'  ■'''"''''■''*■'■  3^5     My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray Earl  0/ Montrose    92 

of  the  day Lamfbell  in  \  "  My  ear-rings,  my  ear-rings  " J.G.Lockkart  n, 

■  .he  «,r„d  page  A'.  .S^^to,  32s     Myeyes!  how  I  love  you Anonymous  150 

D.  M.  Craik     17  j  My  genius  spreads  her  wing Goldsmith  633 

,...K..„  MygcntlePuck,  come  hither Skakesfeare  265 


;  while  you  \\\ 


the  epicun 


Lochiel,  Lochiel  !  b( 

Long  pored  St.  Aust 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  b 

Look  in  my  face  ;  my  name  is  Might-h,i 


T  ,  1,  ,.„  ,j  ,j  u  u  ,j  t  ,  :^'  ?■  '^''"'"'  7^°  My  sirl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair  R.  Buchanan  ,29 
Look  round  our  world  ;  behold  the  cha.n  of  love  /•„/.  362  |  My  God,  I  love  thee  !  not  because  ....St  F.  Xavier  ,2. 
Lord,  I  am  weepmg Sydney  Dobell  .98  '  My  God,  it  is  not  fretfulness H.  Bonar  329 

Lo:^WInst'".ir'mr°"n ^"ony»-o,.si^i     My  hear.  ..ches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains. A',»/.    36 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  call Herriek  323     My  heart  is  there Vl  nonymom  2L 

Lo   whr,,  !L  rTn^lT"'  '''l'"'  \  ^^^f'"-^'""-  338  I  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold liordsroorth  394 

^o  I  !l!        K  ""de  north  and  south  C.  /•,./„,.,,    68  '  My  held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie Motherwell    32 

Loud  -ind  clear'"'                            "'  •.•  ul  °'""  ""  I  ^'^  '"'"'  '  ^"  '"'^'^  P»P"'  "»"«  ""O  »''!" 
i^oua  ana  clear R.  H .  Barham  b%a\  ran 

^!;:f™^!:^."-f'-''^^•^""'- ^  ^^-r.  ss'!  My  n^  is  nke  .he  summer  rose t^'^^^ 

../.  Lodge  148     My  little  love,  do  you  remember...^.  Bulwer-Lytlon  106 
..S.  Daniel    70     My  loved,  my  honored,  much- respected  friend  Bums  348 

'  vehiolesssnn.of  ,     ^"onymous    75     My  love  he  built  me  a  bo,>nie  bower Anonymous  289 

■.nelverlce  "i  "  '■"     ^^^  '°"'  '  ''^'■"°  f="  "''•"  "■""  ^houldsl  die  Lo^uelt  .66 

... I!""' ,•.:•,-•,:  •;,■  •,-.'','""'J'.'"<""     is     My  love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  ^\, . .  A  nonymo,a    66 

lyne    bg     My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is ?,>  Edward  Dyer  665 

7i6  I  My  mule  refreshed,  his  bells Rogers  .,08 

My  name  is  Norval : 


ny  bo 
a  sickness  fu 

It,  love'not 
Jt  me  for  ci 
orns  degre 
chored  clo 


:  lifleth  higl; 

H.  B.  Tho. 

r  afternoon A.  B.  Street  37 


,  th,  iiimr...  CIZ,       71' '  ■•  u       „  ■'■'    ^^^     ">"  "■■""=  '"  '^°"=''  '■  °"  ">=  Grampian  hills  y.  Home  604 

ake  the  K.  ieh  '  -'B^^- -^loom^eld  394  !  My  old  Welch  neighbor  over  ,he  way IVlMier  4,8 

'   „ 'm1  "  5     U-  -  ■  ^_  "  ■^""■.  '°*  I  My  only  l«ve  is  always  near Eredi.  Locker     66 


O^ 


Lowe 

LucViw  golden  Eirl R    ""■'/'  '"Z  '°*  '  ^^  °"'^  '"^^  "  ^'"^>"  "'" ^''"^-  ^"'^'^ 

Mlclldf  l^h  mu'rd  rsle=p.\-;:::-  ■•"'T^.t:;::^  l"s     ^'  ^'r^'^y'""'  -  •'."•  »  f":«  "f  "-S  C  Tychborn  720 

jCjaidenl  with  the  meekbrlwn  eyes.\\\\-fA":5C/r:  1     i  L\:7t.Z^^^^^^^^ 

M.iid  of  Athens,  ere  we  par. ..  «„,„„  ,0    '  «r'  -V  . J .  B.  J\eaa  jsi 

Make  me  no  vows  of  con^t,n.„      .....Byron   184     Mysterious  night !  when  our  first  parent  knew   Imte  375 

Man  s  home  IS  everywhere.     On  ocean's  flood  (mi    a  ..   1      -^aaison  s'< 

1         e     un  ocean  snood  [  Naked  on  p,iren.'s  knees Calidasa     18 

Man's  love  is  of  man-.  Kf.  ,  ,.,•  Stgoumey  69s  Nay  I  if  you  will  not  sit  upon  my  knee.  \V.  IV.  Story  ,,3 
•Ma,  wam'btZlelwe^h^^^^  "'  ^^y-  y""  "-"Bh".  my  friend.. .  .>/,>.  C.  R.  Dorr  26 
M.,n  wants  bu.h.tle  here  below    ....y  Q.Adams  668     Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee .V. /--.  Adams  3,7 

'''"Ilty  404     Needy  knife-grinder!  whither  are  you  going  >C«»«/«^  862 

.by  soul  with  doctrines  noble Anonymous  917 

any  more R.  Browning  222 

wedding,  ever  wooing Thomas  Campbell    80 

O  fair  gazelle Bayard  Taylor  416 


lut  li.tle  hei 
Many  a  green  isle  needs  n 

Manyalong.  long  year  ago y,   T.  Fields  ,890 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave Uhland  2'^6 

Margarita  firs,  possessed j  .  Cowley  144 


;  .hings  .hat  do  a..ain Lord  Su 


Nex.  to  t 


-^ 


a-*- 


i)28 


-^ 


INDEX  UF  FIRST  LINES. 


h 


Nixht  IS  tlie  liciie  for  rent MoHtjiouury  ■}^^^> 

NIkIu  w4^  rtK*>i'>  (It'bceiuliiig ^ojfcrs  408 

Nine  vc^l^  liavc  hiippcd  like  hour-glaBS  »a\M!i. , Lowe/i    53 

No  .ibl)cv's  gluuiu ,,..,iV.£.  ChattMing  753 

No  inurt;  tliube  .simple  (lowers  beluiig li'hittUr  8jb 

Nookoiluiulernentli  steep  hierilu  hills  thiit  n^V!.,AHon  575 
No  single  virtue  we  coulil  nmst  cumnmnd. .  ..y^/:tv/<fN  387 

No  aolclier,  si<tte»maii i;.  i^/.  Craik  84^ 

No  Htir  in  the  nir,  no  stir  in  the  aea Southey  576 

No&un  — no  moon  1 7*.  //<W  397 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note  CA.ii.  iyoi/t  83a 
Not  ..s  >..u  nif.mi.  O  l.-.um-d  man  .^.  D.  F.  tiamiolph  356 
Nothing  hut  leavi-h  ;  the  hpirit grieves/-.  E,  Aktrmnn  333 

Not  in  ihc  laughing  b.nvi-rs Ammymom  246 

Not  nft  hefore  has  peopled  earth yohn  U'l/stm  824 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time 'Jenuysim  644 

Not  onrs  the  vows  of  snch  as  plight B.  Barton    78 

Not  yet,  the  flowers  arc  in  my  path. .,.L.£,  Lamion  334 

No  war  or  battle's  sound Milton  7^4 

Now  came  still  evening  on.  and  twilight  gray  Milton  375 
Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by  //'.  Moi-ris  111 
Now  Mop  ytuo  noses,  veadeis,  all  and  some.  ./^»/</.  «  fiig 
Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger  Milton  384 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  contlict R.  C.  Trtmh  68t> 

Now  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses Moort  413 

Now  went  forth  the  morn Milton  454 

Now  westward  Sol  had  spent  the  richest  beams 

K*  Crashaw  74s 

O,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green C.  l^icl'tens  43S 

(1,  ask  not,  hope  thou  not,  too  much F,  //rmans    58 

dalliN  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife.  .r«>?(*/*'r  6()tj 
1 1  luMiiicons  God  I  uncircumsciibed  treasure  y-  Taylor  330 

(>,  lu-st  of  delights,  as  it  everywhere  is Moort  ua 

O,  bie.iihe  not  his  name  I Moorg  834 

O  Caledonia  I  stern  antl  wild . .  .Scott  514 

O,  cante  ye  owerby  the  Yoke-burn  Ford  James  ff<'g^  505 

O,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone i/'.  C.  Bryant  718 

O,  dinna  ask  me  gin  I  lo*e  ye Dnnlofi  107 

tJ,  don't  be  sorrowful,  darling  !  . . . .  Rgmf>raniit  PeaU  183 

O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea Byron  584 

C\  over  from  the  deeps Ray  Fahner  360 

O  faint,  delicious,  springtime  violet  I  . . .  /K.  //'.  Story  435 

O  faire.st  of  creation,  last  and  best Afi/ton  166 

Df.ill  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer Byron  840 

( >f  all  the  garden  flowers David  M.  Moir  415 

Of  all  ih(*  j-irls  that  are  so  smart Harry  Carry  154 

Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth y,  G.  Saxe  88a 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are..^".  B,  Browning  tj-j 

Of  all  the  torments,  all  the  caa-s li'illiam  n'alsk    89 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw Burns  194 

O  rather,let  me  not  die  young! ..^AnanytftOHS  342 

(^f  heaven  or  hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing.  fK  Morris  666 
O  first  of  human  blessings,  and  supreme  !. ..  Thomson  453 

O  for  a  lodRe  in  son^e  vast  wilderness Coiv/^trr  556 

(^  forest  dells  ami  streams  I  O  Horianlide. .  ..MosvAms  3R3 
O.  formed  by  nature,  and  refined  by  art..,  7*.  TiiM/  i6i 
Oft  have  I  seen,  at  some  cathedral  door. .  Liyn^Arllow  650 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night Moore  337 

Oft  it  has  been  n^y  lot James  Merrick  856 

(1ft  when,  reluming  with  her  loaded  bill Tkotnsou  443 

O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain Bennett  713 

0  (mkI,  melhiuks.  it  were  a  happy  life..  .vVA<i*rjr/(f<i»-(f  177 

1  >  Cod  I  though  sorrow  bo  my  fate  Mary  0/ H ungary  328 

O,  v;o  not  yet,  my  love Tennyson  i86 

O  cooii  painter,  tell  me  true Alice  Cary  17S 

O  h.ippiiu'ss  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  I AV/V  673 

O  hearts  that  never  cease  to  yearn An^nyMons  360 

O  heavens,  if  you  do  love  old  men Shakes^are  715 

0, 1  have  \>assed  a  miserable  night Shakespeare  S09 

O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art  i Rogers  638 

K\  it  is  hard  to  work  for  Ood Frederic  H'.  Fal>er  356 

O,  it  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease Colfritige  750 


O  land,  ol  every  laud  the  best Phabe  Cary  483 

O,  lay  ihy  hand  iii  mine,  dear  I Gerald  Massey  17J 

Old  liirch  who  taught  the  village  school  G.  F  Morris  891 

Old  Orimes  is  dead A,  G.  Green  87B 

Old  man,  God  bless  you  I T/^j^^l  476 

Old  Master  Uroivn  brought  his  ferule  down Anon.     36 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  n  man  of  might C.  Mackay  488 

Old  wine  to  drink  I R,  f/.  Mess0nger  716 

O  linden-trees  I  whose  branches  high  W.  IV,  Caldwell  387 
O  lovely  Mary  Donelly,  it's  you  1  love  Ihc  best  I 

//*  Allin^ham  155 
O,  luve  will  venture  in  where  it  daurua  wccl  be  seen 


O  Marcius,  Marcius, Sliales/eare    60 

O  inare;eva  si  fornie J.  Swi/t  896 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  I Bttrns    go 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home C  Kingsley  577 

O  melancholy  bird,  n  winter's  day Lord  Thurloto  446 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming?  5"/irtXv.v/crt?¥    63 

O  mother  dear.  Jerusalem David  Dickson  332 

O  moilMM  ,.i".,  ni,.  t,i\  i.u,      /r.  C.  Bryant  531 

O.  \^^^  '..>;'  I  1,  1  ,.    ,M,-  1  have Shelley  79S 

O,  iii\   lui,   '.hi,-!!!,-    \^  \\\\A  ^\\\\.,A'  Cnnningham  169 

On  a  lull  ila:iu  K'^'u., .;  liuua N.  Breton    6y 

On  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  (Jod  is  ^hcA  {Transla- 

tioH  0/  Charles  T.  Brooks) Krumtnacher  407 

O  Nancy,  wilt  thon  go  with  me T.  Fercy,  D.  P.  103 

On  came  the  whirlwind—  like  the  last Scott  46a 

Once  in  the  flight  of  ages  past Montgomery  309 

Once  more  upon  the  waters  I  yet  once  more  I  . .  Byron  563 

Once  on  a  golden  at'ternoon A  Himymous  440 

Once,  Paumauok,  when  the  snows  had  melted 

Walt  ll'Aitman  434 

Once  Switierland  was  free  1 7-  X  Rnowles  539 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rividet's  sands  H-'.  C  Bryant  485 

Once  npon  n  midnight  dreary £".  A.  Fee  780 

Once  when  the  days  were  ages R.  H-  Stoddard  733 

On  deck,  beneath  the  awning Thackeray  58S 

One  day,  as  1  was  going  by T-  Hood    39 

One  day  I  wandered  where  the  salt  sea-tide  ,  ..Anon.  701 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  yrksome  way Spenser  753 

One  eve  of  beauty,  when  the  sun Anonymous  699 

One  hue  of  our  Hag  is  taken R.  H.  Newell  qii 

One  more  unlortimate T,  Hood  351 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane 7'.  Hood  590 

One  sweetly  snlenm  thought FMrlv  Cary  337 

One  year  ago,  —  a  ringing  voice H.  B.  Stowe  267 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore.  ./V,V    66 

On  Unden,  when  the  sun  was  low Camplvll  469 

Only  a  woman's  right-hand  glove J.  B.  S.  aia 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows. ., Adelaide  A.  Procter  531 

Cln,  on,  my  brown  Arab CC.  Calverly  913 

t)  no,  no,  —  let  tne  lie John  Fierponi  486 

On  Richmond  Hill  there  lives  a  \jk%%.,.,  James  Vpton    90 
On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark  Spanish  maiden 

ffhittier    42 
On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell.. .  U'illis  436 

On  the  isle  of  Penikese H'hittier  850 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogne Robert  Bro^vning  5^8 

On  this  tree  when  a  nightingale //.  Luttrell  833 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake Percii'at  411 

On  what  foundations  stands  the  warrior's  pride 

i\  Johnson  816 

On  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn 1^'.  C  Bryant  489 

\  O  perfect  Light,  which  shaid  away. A,  Hume  3SS 

O,  pour  upon  my  soul  again W-  Allsion  237 

O.  praise  an'  tanks  I     De  T-ord  he  come  , . .  Wkittier  557 

I  O  reader  1  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see Sontkey  417 

I  O  kosamond,  thon  fair  and  good Fhathe  Cary    55 

I  O  sacred  Head,  now  woimded Paul  Gerhardt  336 

j  O,  saw  yebonnie  Lesley Bh*^s  195 

J  t!)  say.  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light  F  S.  Key  536 


^ 


tfl-- 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


929 


■a 


& 


O  say,  what  ii  tlini  iliing  called  Light C.  CMer  35a 

O  sextant  of  the  meetin-  house A-  Af.  IViUson  908 

O.  SMIR  imlo  my  rovmdelay  I T.  Chatlerlon  281 

O,  snatched  away  in  hcauty's  bloom  ! iiyron  371; 

O  swallow,  swallow,  llying,  (lying  south. .••  Tennyson  120 

O,  that  last  day  in  Lucltiiow  fort Robl.  Lowell  47 1 

O,  that  'swhat  yon  mean  now,  a  bit  of  a  song . .  ilAJr/vj  153 

( )  that  the  chemist's  magic  art Holers  jhj 

O  that  those  lips  h.ul  language Cowper  739 

O  the  banks  of  the  Lee,  tile  banks  of  the  Lee,  .Davh  165 

O  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom  I Maty  llowilt  42.1 

O  the  charge  at  lialaklava  I A.  IS.  Meek  463 

O  the  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright Moore  224 

O,  the  French  are  on  the  say  I AnoHymoiii  518 

O  the  gallant  fisher's  life 7  CluMhill  630 

()  then  I  sec.  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you 

Shttkesfieare  765 

O,  the  pleasant  clays  of  old Frances  Brown  74s 

O,  the  sight  entrancing Moore  i,b% 

O  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow F.  if.  Watson  350 

O,  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes. .  ;*-'.  C.  Bennett  23 
(-)  thou  eternal  One  I  whose  presence  bright  Bowrhi,^  330 
O  Ihou,  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons  of  men  T.  farter  352 

O  thou  of  home  the  guardian  Lar Lowell  1 79 

O  thou,  that,  with  surpassing Milton  805 

CI  thou  vast  Ocean  I Barry  Cornwall  564 

O  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death Milton  241 

O  unseen  spirit  I  now  a  calm  divine. . .  yohn  Sterling  367 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried H'.  C.  Bryant  533 

Our  boat  to  the  waves  go  free  IFm.  Fllery  Clianning  58.; 
Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered 

Campbell  480 
Our  bugles  sound  gayly,  To  horse  and  away  I 

R.  W.  Raymond  a,hb 
Our  Father  Land  I  and  wouldst  thou  know.  .i".  Lover  6c)f, 
Our  fathers'  Cod  I  from  nut  whose  h.and. . . . /r/i/W,-,-  541 
Our  good  steeds  snulT  the  evening  air. /i.  C.  Steitman  .(W. 
Our  life  is  twofold:  sleep  h,ts  its  own  yiax\&.... Byron  6«o 

Our  revels  now  are  ended Shakespeare  790 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air Long/ellow  41)3 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass  . .  A".  I'  Osgood  482 
Outstretched  beneath  the  leafy  .shade  A".  &'C.  Soutluy  345 

Ovit  upon  it.     1  have  loved Sir  John  Suckling  '  66 

Over  the  dumb  cainpagna  sea E.  B.  Brvioning  631 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me... A'.  A.  W.  I'riest  2(15 
Over  the  waters  clear  and  dark ....  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr  759 

O,  wad  that  my  time  were  owro  but D.  M.  Moir  198 

O,  water  for  me  I  liright  water  for  me  I  Ediu.  Johnson  494 

O,  weep  for  Moucontour  I T.  B.  Macaulay  51I1 

O,  when  'I  is  sunnncr  weather W.  L.  Bowles  4.6 

O,  wherefore  come  ye  forth 7".  B.  Macaulay  j  1 7 

O  whistle,  and  I  'II  come  to  you,  my  lad Bums  loi 

O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud?  \V.  Kno.r  301 

O,  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news? Thackeray  90, 

O  wMiterl  wilt  thou  never,  never  go? — David  Gray  404 

O  World  I  O  Life  I  O  Time  I Shelley  243 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel' Burns  708 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day T.  lleywood  369 

Paris,AncliiBc3,and  Adonis,  l\\ree{'Tramlation)  Anon. Hit} 

Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully N.  P.  inilis  793 

Passing  from  Italy  to  Greece John  Ford  744 

Pauline,  by  priile Bulwer-Lytlon  306 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us 

F.  S.  Osgood  503 

Peace  to  all  such  I a.  Pope  818 

Peace  I  what  can  tears  avail  ? Barry  Cornwall  193 

Phillis  is  my  only  joy SirC.  Sedley    65 

Pibroch  ofDonuil  Dim Scott  ^bb 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  tile  beechwood  spray 

T.  IV est  wood    43 

Plato,  anticipating  the  reviewers Long/ello^v  4  13 

Pleasing  't  is.  O  modest  Moon  I U.K.  PVhite  495 


Plumdd  r.inks  of  tall  wild  cherry  7.>A«  T.  Trowbridge  305 
"  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  " 

D.  M.  Craik  502 

ruou-  iIhiu  ihv  words 7.  //.  A'ewman  741 

I'll III.   iHKhiingale M.  T.  fisscher  443 

I'm  III'   III  iiliv  lianie  away IC,  B.  Browning  308 

t^>oi^i  li.,iii  u.uL !  It  Cometh  itot  to  ii\\\.. Anonymous  ,t<i2 
Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares.  ..Sir /I.  Hotton  619 

Uake  the  embers,  blow  the  coals A'.  Browning  805 

Kemove  yon  sktdl  from  out  the  scattered  heaps  Byron  726 
Kest  there  awhile,  my  bearded  lance  .  .Horace  Smith  910 
Kettu'u,  return  I  all  night  my  lamp  is  burning  S.  Doltell  196 

Riding  from  Coleraine Thackeray  0.17 

Killemau,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot C*  D.  Shauly  474 

King  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  8ky Tennyson  725 

Rise,  sleep  no  nuire Barry  Cornwall  t,i8 

"  Rock  of  Ages  " Anonymous  330 

Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep EtnmalVillard  586 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  I IV.S.  Gilbert  915 

"Room  for  the  leper  I  Room  1" N.  P.  Il'illis  648 

R.nisseau  could  weep Carlos  Wiko.x;  835 

Riulolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's.  t>.  //'.  Holmes  881 
Said  I  not  so,  —  that  1  would  sin  no  mote  ?  G.  Herbert  330 

Sally  Salter,  she  was  a  young  teacher l'ha:be  Cary  919 

Saviour,  when  in  dust  to  thee Sir  R.  Grant  J19 

Say,  from  what  golden  quivers  of  the  sky.  .A.  Cowley  367 
S.ty  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again  E.B.Bro^vning  141 

Say  there  !   P'r'aps Bret  Harte  900 

Say,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt ...  A'.  Bloom/ield  431 

Seatetl  one  day  at  the  organ A.  A.  J'rocter  735 

See  how  the  orient  dew A.  Marvell  392 

See,  O,  see  I Lord  Bristol  366 

See,  the  llowery  spring  is  blown John  Dyer  384 

See  yon  robin  on  the  spray Harrison  Weir  43S 

.Shall  I  love  you  like  the  wind,  love  R.  W.  Raymond    78 

Sh.ill  I  tell  you  whom  I  love ? William  Browne     74 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair George  irither  147 

Shame  upon  thee,  sav.^ge  monarch  —  man Tup/er  7.11 

She  bids  yon  on  the  wanton  rushes  lay  you  tlown 

Shakespeare  <>yH 

She  came  along  the  little  lane A'ara  Perry  1  \i 

Shed  no  tear.  O.  shed  no  tear John  Keats  70s 

She  dwelt  among  the  imtroddeil  ways. . .  Wordsworth     49 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing Burns  \bb 

"  She  is  dead  I  "  they  said  to  him A  nonymous  29s 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view //,  Coleridge    88 

She  moves  as  light  across  the  grass /).  M.  Craik    78 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  431 

She  says,  "  The  cock  crows,  —  hark  I  " (Chinese)   186 

She  shrank  from  all,  and  her  silent  mood Landon  394 

She  sits  in  a  fashionable  pailor Stark  883 

She  stonil  alone  amidst  the  April  fields  i.  C.  Moulton  243 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn T.  Hood    49 

She  stood  in  the  harvest  field  at  noon-.i?.  S.  Turner  109 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night Byron    07 

Shi   V.  I    ,L  iiliniiim  of  delight Wordsworth    67 

■'^ 'I"    I'  '    ■■'■ Emerson  74b 

Sliiiii  I    111    il  iiIiiimI  empire  of  the  night. ..  7'/^tf/»j<)»  387 

•^1 Ill  mill  II  luiiiiilance  be  forgot Bums  716 

Slim,    lull  I  III  I  il. 1,1,  good  John  I Pope  706 

Sill  III  I  iilli  il  till'  <  Hints  of  heaven  'Thomas  ll^stwood  373 

SiK-iil  MvMi)ih,  wuli  curious  eye  I John  Dyer  406 

Since  there  \  no  helpe,  --  come  let  us  kisse  .and  i>arlc 

Al.  Drayton  191 

Singee  songee  sick  a  pence Anonymous  918 

Sing,  sweet  iliMi  1,1  ,,  r.i.ll.  .Old  singi  T.  T.  Staddart  611) 

Singing  Ih Il  il 7.  (7  i'».«  883 

Sir  Marm.i.liil  ,   V,  .     ,  h    u\y  knyf^w.  .George  Colman  i66 

Sit  down,  ;..nl  i.oul,  .ui.l  I  mint Barry  Cornwall  333 

Sitting  .all  day  in  a  silver  mist Sarah  ll'oalsey  760 

Six  skeins  .and  three,  six  skeins  and  three  Alice  Cary  1 


-S' 


e-- 


930 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


-^ 


Six  years  had  passed  and  forty  ere  the  six . .  G.  Craibe  244  I  Tell  me  not  in  mournfd  numbers L.r,gMl„^  m 

S  ayer  of  wmter,  art  thou  here  aga.n  ?. . . .  ;F».  Ahrris  379  '  Tell  me  not,  s^eet,  I  am  unkinde R.  l7,wZ  ,T. 

S  eek  coat  eyes  of  fire A  uonymous    24  j  Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred Shui,,feare     7 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee Leigh  H„nt    34    Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds Chas.  Mackay  L 

S      o  on'lntd'ream'  "iu IT'^  ^^  ^1'"'°"  '"     ''"'  ^^^  '--'^  •"  "^  -king  eyes M.  A rnM    o 

bleep  on  !  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile  ! Rogers    88     Thank  Heaven  '  the  crisis  EAP 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed Henry  King  .90    Thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknowti'. '. '.'.'. '.  W. .  muttier  667 

day,  tormentmg  caress.  L.  BariaM  353  !  That  each  who  seems  a  separate  whole Te„„yso„ 


Sleep,  si 

Slumber,  Sleep,  -  they  were  two  brothers Goethe  679 

Sly  Beelzebub  took  all Coleridge  864 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled  . . .  Tennyson  597 

So  fallen  1  so  lost  !  the  light  withdrawn Whittier  844 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath Barry  Cornwall  292 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er Scott  4S1 

So  many  words,  so  much  to  do Tennyson  283 

Somebody  's  courting  somebody A  nonymous  122 

Some  oftheir  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land..  Dryden  816 

Some  of  your  hurts  you  have  cured Emerson  j^b 

Some  say  that  kissing  's  a  sin Anonymous  136 

Some  wit  of  old B.  Franklin  S78 

Some  women  fayne  that  Paris  was .   O.  R.     77 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust Emerson  746 

So  spake  the  Son,  and  into  terror  changed ....  ^////o«  455 
So  the  truth's  out.  I '11  graspit  likeasnake  Z).;i/.Cra,i  21S 
Speak,  O  man,  less  lecent  I     Fragmentary  fossil ! 

Bret  Harte  892 
Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice  W.  C  Bryant  371 

Springe  is  yeomen  in Anonymous  378 

Spring  it  is  chfery T.  Hood  243 

Spring,  the  sweet  spring T.  Nash  384  ]  The  but 

Stabat  mater  dolorosa Jacopone  315  '  The 

St,  Agnes'  Eve, —ah,  bitter  chill  \lit3.s..John  Keats  125 
Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray  W'.  C.  Bryant  402 
Stand  !  the  ground  's  your  own,  my  braves  !  Pierpont  534 
Star  of  the  flowers,  and  flower  of  the  stars  IVilkinson  735 
Star  of  the  mead  !  sweet  daughter  of  the  day  Leyden  426 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee Campbell  37 1 

Stay,  jailer,  stay,  and  hear  my  woe  1 G.  M.  Lewes  256 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake Mrs.  Ofie  248 

Steady,  boys,  steady  ! y.  !V.  ll'atson  477 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines. . .  H^m.  Browne  757  i  The  day  is  ended, 
'idrest. .6"' yo'JK'K  698  I  The  day  returns. 


That  Heaven's  beloved  die  early Eie,^.  'eium  827 

1  hat  I  love  thee,  charming  maid Wm.  Maginn  142 

That  nightee  teem  he  come Anonymous  918 

1  hat  way  look,  my  infant,  lo  ! IV.  Ifords^uorth     25 

I  hat  which  hath  made  them  drunk Shakespeare  ,)q6 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined U  alter     86 

The  angel  of  the  flowers,  one  day Krummacher  423 

The  autumn  is  old T.  Hood  i'^i 

The  baby  sits  in  her  cradle Anonvmons     22 

I'he  baby  sleeps  and  smiles. .  ..Harriet  ]V.  Stillman  22 
The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed  a  %o\i\ ..  Brooks  223 
The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne 

Shakespeare  644 
The  bell  strikes  one  ;  we  take  no  note  of  time  Voting  724 

The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing Anonymous  354 

The  black-haired  gaunt  Paulinus Anonymous  355 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out Z>.  G.  Rossetti  758 

The  blessed  morn  has  come  again Ralph  Hoyt  402 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high Mrs.  Hemans  552 

The  brilliant  black  eye Moore  143 

I'he  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by  Very  361 
the  cheese  weel  stowit  they  be.. Z)o^c// 469 
rested  on  the  breathless  glass. .£>■«<!«  628 

The  careful  hen Thomson  432 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels Byron  409 

The  cock  is  crowing Wordsworth  382 

The  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain's  height  i'.  Smith  403 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last Stedman  740 

The  country  ways  are  full  oi  mut.  .Alexander  Smith  109 
The  cunning  hand  that  carved  this  face  T.  B.  Aldrich  70S 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day T.  Gray  306 

The  day  had  been  a  calm  and  sunny  day  J.  H.  Bryant  400 

„,.„  .    ,  .,-,       ,      ,-      •  ,.,,     The  day  is  ended.     Ere  I  sink  to  sleep W«o«,  351 

bt.ll  to  be  neat,  st.ll  to  bedrest Ben  Jonson  698  I  The  day  returns,  mv  bosom  bums Burns  169 

Stood  the  afflicted  mother  weeping Jacopone  S'S  |  The  dreamy  rhymer's  measured  snore.  IV.  S.  Landor  8,7 

Stop,  mortal  'here  thy  brother  lies Eben.  Elliott  827  j  The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine. .  ..Edwin  IVaugh  ,04 

Straightway  Virginius  led  the  maid.  .  T.  B.  Macaulay  794  1  The  dusky  night  rides  down  the  iVy. Henry  Fielding  6,7 

Ludwig  Hotty  397    The  earth  goes  on,  the  earth  glittering  in  ^aM.Anon.  308 

th  was  formed Milton  363 


Summer  joys 

Sun  of  the  stately  day Bayard  Taylor  546  :  T 

Swans  sing  before  they  die Coleridge  864 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savor  of  content. .  Greene  bbi 
Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain 

Goldsmith  634 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes Herrick    6g 

Sweet  bird  !  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 

IV.  Vrufnmond  43S 
Sweet  birds  that  by  my  window  sing  Edward  Spencer  434 

Sweet  brooklet  ever  gliding Sir  Robert  Grant  701 

Sweet  country  life,  to  such  unknown Herrick  641 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright G.  Herbert  302 

Sweeter  and  sweeter y.  IV.  Palmer    46 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower Wordsworth     49 

Sweet  is  the  pleasure y.  S.  Dwight  503 

Sweet  is  the  voice  that  calls Geo.  A  mold  394 

Sweetly  breathing  vernal  air T.  Carew  383 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade 

Co7vper    50 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave SlieUey  375 

Sword,  on  my  left  side  gleaming Korncr  46S 

Take  back  into  thy  bosom,  earth B.  Simmons  836 

Take  one  example  to  our  purpose  quite  ...   R.  Pollok  831 
Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away 
^  Shakespeare  and  yohn  Fletcher  225 

T         Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  Tennyson  235 


The 


Ider  folk  shook  hands  at  last H'hittier  340 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed  E.  B.  Browning  140 

The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun E.  B.  Browning  299 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life Lady  Carew  741 

The  farmer's  wife  sat  at  the  door Anonymous  272 

The  fire  oflove  in  youthful  blood Earl 0/ Dorset    85 

The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine  oath 

E.  B.  Brotoning  142 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide Shakespeare    64 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river Shelley  136 

The  Frost  looked  forth,  one  still,  clear  night  H.  Gould    44 

The  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose Lamb  451 

The  gale  that  wrecked  you  on  the  sand Emerson  746 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state yas.  Shirley  301 

The  gorse  is  yellow  on  the  heath Charlotte  Smith  442 

The  grass  is  green  on  Bunker  Hill .  . .  yoaquin  Miller  54.) 
The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land.  ./i'.  Browning  n6 
The  groves  were  God's  first  temples...  W.  C.  Btyant  414 
The  half-seen  memories  of  childish  days  A.  De  Vere    6t 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls Moore  51S 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed Scott  185 

The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow Dr.  yenner  389 

The  host  moved  like  the  deep  sea  wave Scott  575 

The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away R   H.  Dana  by; 


e-- 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


931 


.^ 


The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair.  - .  -  Bar  ham  866 
The  jestershook  hishood  and  bells  (LP.  //".  ThoryUmry  729 
The  June  roses  covered  the  hedges  with  blushes 

Mary  Louise  Ritter  I31 
The  keener  tempests  rise  :  and  fuming  dun.  Thomson  401 

The  king  with  all  the  kingly  train John  Wilson  248 

The  kiss,  dear  maid,  thy  lip  has  left Byron  185 

I'lie  laird  o'  Cockpen  he  's  proud  and  he  's  great 

Lady  Nairjt  156 
The  lark  sings  for  joy  in  her  own  loved  land. .  .Anon.  447 
The  latter  rain,  —  it  falls  in  anxious  haste  Jones  Very  395 

The  lion  Is  the  desert's  king F.  Freiligratk  429 

The  little  brown  squirrel  hopsin  the  com  R-H.  Newell  912 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last Lmvell  119 

The  Inst  days  of  my  life  until  to-day.  ..Z>,  G.  Rosseiti  717 
The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale..^zr  J.  Suckling 


n\\o  bii 
nelancholy  days 


nerry  bn 


The  I 


The  I 


The  Mo 


5  sash  . .  T.  B.  Read  505 

me W.C.  Bryant  428 

;  faster  than  their  age 

Sir  Johji  Bo'.vring  550 

e  leaping  Chas.  Kingsley    47 

,  merry  lark  was  up  and  singing.  .Kingsley  270 

lidges  dance  aboon  the  burn R.  Tannahill  371 

light  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love   Angela    66 

listletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall T.  H.  Bayly  606 

loon  had  climbed  the  highest  \i\\\...John  Lowe  280 

lOon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night Byron  374 

loon  it  shines Translation  ofC.   T.  Brooks     20 

loon  's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist 's  on  the  brae 

lore  we  live,  more  brief  appear Campbell  719 

loming  dawned  full  darkly IV.  E.  Aytoun  791 

ng  pearls Will  Chamberlayne  682 

's  kiss,  first  I R.  Browning  137 

The  mourners  came  at  break  of  day  *?«»«//  F  Adams  261 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat T.  O^Hara  540 

The  Muse's  fairest  light  in  no  dark  time  J.  Cleveland  815 

llien  before  all  they  stand,  the  holy  vow Rogers  165 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes Bourdillon  294 

The  night  is  dark  ;  behold  the  Shade  was  deeper 

A  nonytnoits  360 
The  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still  ....J.  IV.  Palmer  266 
Thenight  ismade  forcoolingshade  7-  T.  Trowbridge  563 
The  night  was  dark,  though  sometimes  a  faint  star 

Richard   IV.   Gilder  369 
The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  tnood..  .Cow/er  400 

Then  took  the  generous  host Bayard  Taylor  A,-i2 

The  ocean  at  the  bidding  of  the  moon. . .  C  Tennyson  639 
The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower../.  Ingelow  277 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go Tennyson     56 

The  play  is  done,  —  the  curtain  drops Thackeray  25S 

I'he  picture  fades  :  as  at  a  village  fair Longfellow     20 

The  pines  were  darken  Ramoth  hill Whittier  200 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead John  Rents  449 

The  point  of  honor  has  been  deemed  of  use  .  .Cow/>er  705 

The  quality  of  Mercy  is  not  strained Shakespeare  677 

The  queen  looked  up,  and  said,  a Teymyson  71S 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright.  ./J.  Xorton  392 
The  readers  and  the  hearers.  ..Sir  John  I/arring/on  855 

There  also  was  a  Nun,  a  Prioress Chaucer  642 

There  a  number  of  us  creep IVatls  698 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses.... /P.  ^.  Stoddard    52 
There  are  some  hearts  like  wells  Caroline  S.  Spejtcer  69S 

There  are  who  say  the  lover's  heart T.  K.  Her7>ey  159 

There  came  a  man,  making  his  hasty  moan..Z.  Hunt  684 

ime  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin  j 

Cainpbell  522  \ 

1  the  fane  a  beauteous  creature  stands  ' 

From  the  PorUtguese  0/  Calidasa  695 
a  dungeon  in  whose  dim  drear  light.  .Byron  173 
a  flower,  a  little  flower Montgomery  426 


Then 


Then 


The 


garde 


64 


There  is  a  gentle  nymph Milton  756 

There  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea Rogers  62S 

There  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougaune  Barra 

J.  J.  Callanan  523 
There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  ^nd.^.  Montgomery  505 

There  is  a  pleasure  m  the  pathless  woods Byron  559 

There  is  a  Reaper  whose  name  is  Dt^ixHi.  .Long/ellow  264 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men Shakespeare  700 

There  is  a  time,  just  when  the  frost A  ?ionymous  396 

I'here  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern IValter  Scott  459 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended 

Longfellow  260 

There  is  no  force,  however  great W.  IV/u-ivell  S95 

There  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet  Moore  59 
There  is  no  worldly  pleasure  here  below  Sir  R.  Ayton     74 

There  is  the  hut N.G.  Shepherd  296 

There  lived  a  singer  in  France,  of  old  W.  C  Swinburne  197 

There's  a  city  that  lies H.  S.  Cornwcll  754 

There  's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse 'TJunnas  Noel  257 

There 's  a  legend  that 's  told  of  a  gypsy  who  dwelt 

Francis  MaJioney  344 
There  sat  an  old  man  on  a  rock  ..Fitz-Hugk  Ludlow  716 

There's  beauty  in  the  deep  ! J-  G.  C  Brainerd  572 

There  's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover 

Jean  Ingelo7t>    33 

There  sunk  the  greatest  not  the  worst Byroti  821 

There  the  most  daintie  paradise  on  ground... ^/evwrr  752 

There  was  a  King  in  Thule Goethe  7S5 

There  was  a  man  named  Ferguson Anonymous  891 

Tliere  was  an  ape  in  the  days Mortimer  Collins  S92 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night Byron  460 

There  was  a  time  when  /Etna's  silent  fire ....  Cowper  484 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove. .  Wordsworth  752 
There  was  (not  certaine  when).^/r /f^w  Harrington  855 

There  was  three  kings Burns  854 

There  were  seven  fishers  with  nets  in  their  hands 

Alic<-  Cary  579 
There  were  three  maidens  who  loved  a  king  Z..  Hooper  77 
There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City. . .  Thackeray  874 

There  where  death's  brief  pang Byron  823 

The  ripe  red  berries  of  the  wintergreen />.  Z'.  German  541 

The  Rise  of  Species  :  can  it  be fV.  J  Courthope  983 

The  road  was  lone  :  the  grass  was  dank. .  T.  B.  Read  347 

The  rose  had  been  washed Cowper  423 

The  rose  is  fairest  when  't  is  budding  new Scott  423 

The  rose  looks  out  in  the  valley Gil  Vicente  443 

The  royal  banners  forward  go Fortunatus  319 

Tlie  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  the  eye  . . .  Javtes  575 

The  sea  crashed  over  the  grim  gray  rocks Anon    574 

The  sea.  the  sea,  the  open  sea Barry  Cornwall  583 

The  seraph  AbdieJ,  faithful  found MiUnn  347 

These  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of  Good  Milton  325 
These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 

Tfwmson  377 
The  sea  was  bright,  and  the  bark  rode  well 

Barry  Cortiwall  588 
I'he  shades  of  eve  had  crossed  the  glen.  .S.  Ferguson     48 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway N.  P    Willis  250 

The  sky  is  changed  !  —  and  such  a  change  !. . . .  Byron  634 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming Lowell  264 

The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell Rogers  691 

The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed  Waller  730 
The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise  E.B.Browning  z^i 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high Joseph  Addison  338 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound  W.  R.  Spencer  616 
The  spice-tree  lives  in  the  garden  green  ..J.  Sterling  418 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls Tennyson  41 1 

The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill Scott  614 

Tlie  stag  too,  singled  from  the  herd Thomson  616 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops.  .Byron  629 

i  he  stately  homes  of  England Mrs.  Hemans  180 

riie  storm  is  out :  the  land  is  roused   K'dmer  527 


B- 


li 


fi- 


932 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


-a 


& 


nd  autumn  had  been  so  wet..  ..Soutkey 

The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft Thos.  Davis 

The  sunburnt  mowers  are  in  the  swath,  .il/.  5  Benton 
The  sun  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down  H.  Spofford 
The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the  lofty  Ben  Lomond 

R.  Tannahill 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear Shelley 

The  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air.  ..£".  C.  Stednian 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright Whitiier 

The  sun  sets  in  night Anne  Home  Hunter 

The  sun  shines  bright  in  our  old  Kentucky  home 

Stephen  C.  Foster 
The  sun  sinks  softly  to  his  evening  post  R.  H.  Newell 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day IVhittier 

The  tattoo  beats  ;  the  lights  are  gone. .  T.  J.  Jackson 

The  tendrils  of  my  soul Anonyntoiis 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain 

John  G.  C  Brainerd 
The  timehathlaid  his  mantle  hy. -Cluirles  o/ Orleafts 

The  town  of  Passage Francis  Maiwny 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found.  ..//w/^r  L.  Thrale 
The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by  ..A.  B.  Welby 

The  voice  ofa  wondrous  seer H.  N.  Powers 

The  wanton  troopers,  riding  by A.  Marvell 

The  warm  sun  is  failing Slielley 

The  waters  purled,  the  waters  swelled Goethe 

The  weary  night  \%  o'er  at  last From  the  German 

The  weather  leach  of  the  topsail  shivers Mitchell 

The  wind  blew  wide  the  casement IV.  G-  Sim?ns 

The  wind  it  blew,  and  the  ship  it  flew  G.  MacDonald 

The  winter  being  over Ann  Collins 

The  wisest  of  the  wise W.  S.  Lajidor 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night Emerson 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us Wordsworth 

The  world  is  very  evil From  Latin  of  de  Morlaix 

The  world  's  a  sorry  wench Fred.  Locker 

The  Yankee  boy John  Pierpont 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light  //.   Vaughan 

They  are  dying  !  they  are  dying  ! Mac-Carthy 

They  come  !  the  merry  summer  months.  .Motherwell 

The  year  stood  at  its  equinox C.  G.  Rossetti 

They  '11  talk  of  him  for  years  to  come F.  Mahofiy 

They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp Moore 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love Moore 

They  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair  Nora  Perry 
They  tell  me  I  am  shrewd  with  other  men  J.  /K.  Ho7ve 

They  told  me  I  was  heir Helen  Hunt 

They  've  got  a  bran  new  organ JV.  M.  Carleton 

They  waked  me  from  my  sleep Z..  H.  Sigoumey 

Thine  is  a  strain  to  read F,  Hemans 

Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him 

Sltahespeare 

This  ae  night,  this  ae  night Anonymous 

This  is  the  forest  primeval Longfellow 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl  which  poets  feign Holmes 

This  only  grant  me  that  my  means  may  lie  A,  Cowley 

This  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth Rogers 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land Geo-  Croly 

This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true. . .  .^//7/'i'« 
This  world  's  a  scene  as  dark  as  Styx.  IVillis  Gaylord 

I'hose  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells  ! Moore 

Thou  alabaster  relic  !  while  I  hold Horace  Smith 

Thou  blossom,  bright  with  autumn  dew  W.  C.  Bryant 
Though  the  hills  are  cold  and  snowy....//.  B.  Stowe 

Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly Longfellow 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech C.  P-  Crattch 

I'hough  when  other  maids  stand  by. . . .  Chas.  Swain 
Thou  Grace  Divine,  encircling  all  ...  .Eliza  Scudder 

Thou  liappy,  happy  elf ! T.  Hood 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie 

A .  Cunningliam 
Thou  hidden  love  of  God,  whose  height.  ..J-  Wesley 


Thou  large-brained  woman E.  B.  Browning  837 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray Burns  279 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea  R.  H.  Dana  446 
Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness-.  y<3A«  Keats  750 

Thou  who  dost  dwell  alone Mattlteiv  Arnold  321 

Thou  whose  sweet  youth G.  Herbert  327 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west 

Chas.  Kingsley  576 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born Dryden  815 

Three   students   were   travelling    over   the   Rhine 

( Translation  of  J.  S.  Dwight) Uhland    77 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  Wordsworth  47 
Through  her  forced,  abnormal  quiet.  ..C.  G.  Halpine  10& 
Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream . .  John  Logan  2S0 

Thy  error,  Fremont J.  G.  11  'hittier  849 

Tiger!  tiger!  burning  bright Wjn.  Blake  430 

Time  has  a  magic  wand F.  Locker  876 

Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep  E.  Young  bj-j 

'T  is  a  dozen  or  so  of  years  ago Ano?t.  908 

'T  is  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time  C  G.  Eastman  403 
*T  is  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 

Shakespeare    63 

'T  is  believed  that  this  harp Moore  762 

'T  is  done,  — but  yesterday  a  king  ! Byron  819 

'T  is  midnight's  holy  hour G.  D.  Prentice  7Z6 

'T  is  morning  :  and  the  sun  with  ruddy  orb  ..Cowper  397 
'T  is  much  immortal  beauty  to  admire  Lord  Thurlow  666 

'T  is  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel Byron  376 

•T  is  night ;  within  the  close-shut  cabin  door 

From  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo  577 
'T  is  o'er,  —  in  that  long  sigh  she  past  ^.  H.  Barham  293 
'T  IS  past,  —  the  sultry  tyrant  of  the  South 

A ,  L.  Barbauld  393 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear Byron  689 

'T  is  the  middle  watch  ofa  summer's  night 

J.  R.  Drake  769 

'T  is  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved Byron  206 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear Jean  Ingelow  165 

To  be  no  more  — sad  cure Milton  713 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  —  that  is  the  question  Shakespeare  295 

To  claim  the  Arctic  came  the  sun B.  F.  Taylor  369 

I  To  clothe  the  fiery  thought En 

I  To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily Shakesfiei 

I  To  heaven    approached  a  Sufi    saint  {Translation 

of  Wtlliatn  R.  A  Iger). . .  Dschellaleddin  Rumi  327 
To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
I  W.  C  Bryant  30S 

I  Toiling  in  the  naked  fields John  Clare  503 

I  Toil  on  I  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train  L.H.Sigourney  5S0 

I  Toll  for  the  brave Cowper  564 

I  Toll  not  tlie  bell  of  death  forme Anon.  294 

,  To   make    my   lady's    obsequies   (^Translation   of 

Henry  F.  Ca^y) Charles  of  Orleans  300 

I  To  make  this  condiment  yourpoetbegs  Sidney  Smith  915 

I  To  me  men  are  for  what  they  are R.  M.  Mihtes  700 

ly  fancy  flies Goldsmith  632 

I  that  hoary  wisdom 

Samuel  Johnson  724 
Too  late  I  stayed, —  forgive  the  crime  !  W.  R.Spencer  727 


■  676 


To  prayer  '.  to  prayer  !  —  for  the  i 


To  sea 
T'  othe 
To  the 
To  the 
Touch 
Toussaint ! 
To  weary  hi 


I  Tread  softly,  ■ 
Treason  doth 


breaks 
Henry  Ware,  Jr.  335 

to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er T.  L.  Bcddocs  589 

day,  as  I  was  twining Leigh  Hunt  151 

3und  of  timbrels  sweet H.  H.  Milman  164 

■akeofO'Hara R.  Buchanan  653 

3  gently,  Time  I Barry  Comivall  1S2 

t  unhappy A.  Wadsivorth  835 

mourning  homes H'hitiier  263 

two  is  all  the  praise .  ..G.  Herbert  326 

the  head Carolitu  Bowles  256 

prosper Sir  J.  Harrington  855 


355     Tres  Philosophi  de  Tusculo  . 


-S 


f 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


933 


,-a 


Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short Coleridge 

True  bard  and  simple Moore 

True  genius,  but  true  woman E.  B.  Browning 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel Tennyson 

Turn,  turn,  for  my  cheeks  they  burn Sydney  Dobetl 

*T  was  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago.. .  .G-  Arnold 

'T  was  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won Dryden 

'Twas  in  the  prime  of  summe 
'T  %vas  morn,  and  beautiful  ill. 


r.  Hood  I 

tain's  brow 

IV.  L.  Boivles  ■ 


I  the  shores  that  i 


ly.  S.  Gilbert  ; 
..C-C.  Moore 
ed  in  hell 


'T  was  the  night  before  Ch: 
'Twas  whispered  in  heaver 

Catharitte  Fansftawe 
Two  barks  met  on  the  deep  mid-sea  Felicia  Hemuns 

Two  brown  heads  with  tossing  curls A  nonymoiis 

Two  gentlemen  llieir  appetite IV.  B.  lynlte 

Two  hands  upon  the  breast Dinah  M.  Craik 

Two  little  feet Anonymous 

Two  pilgrims  from  the  distant  plain Mac-Carthy 

Two  went  to  pray?  O,  rather  i:iy ..  Richard  Crashaw 

Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  dim Nora  Ferry 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree Longfellow 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window..  7".   IVestwood 

Underneath  the  sod  low-lying J.  T.  Fields 

Underneath  this  marble  hearse Ben  Jonson 

Under  the  larch  with  its  tassels  wet Anonyxnons 

Untremulous  in  the  river  clear Lowe/l 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn lyhillier 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day T.  B.  Kead 

Upon  ane  stormy  Sunday Charles  SiUey 

Up  !  quit  thy  bower  ! Joanna  Baillie 

Up  springs  the  lark Thomson 

Up  the  airy  mountain IV.  AUingham 

Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne Geo.  Darlcy 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen tVhillier 

Veil  1     Here  I  am,  —  no  matter  how  it  suits   T.  Hood 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus St.  Gregory  the  Great 

Veni,  Sancte  Spiritus Robert  II.  of  France 

Victor  in  poesy  ! Tennyson 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame  ! Fofie 

Wait  a  little  ;  do  we  not  wait  ? Lowell 

Wait,  wait,  ye  winds  !  till  1  repeat Anonymous 

Wake  now,  my  love,  awake,  for  it  is  time.. £.  Sfenser 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay Scott 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  surveyed 

Campbell 
War's  loud  alarms.     From  the  Welsh  of  Tathaiarn 

ofatinybell? John  Pierpont 

of  greenness  rolling  down 

M.  L.  Ritter 

successively  rolls  on Tuckerman 

Chas.  S Prague 

■  laugh  ;  we  Keep.  .Barry  Cornwall 

jsscan  snore  upon  the  flint Shakespeare 

such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  oX  Shakespeare 
'ders,  Ro^ermdi.  J.  T.  Trowbridge 
In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet..  Hallech 

rimson-tippid  flower Burns 

>re.  sad  fountains  ! y.  Dowlami 

beastie Burns 

through  the  town  /('.  Miller 

C  E.  Norton 

T.  B.  A  Idrich 

Herrick 


Was  it  the  cl 
Wave  after 


!  after  v 


ffr 


Weehawkei 

Wee,  mode 

Weep  ye  no  mo 

Wee,  sleekit,  co 

Wee  Willie  Wii 

We  have  been  friends  togethe 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  i 

Welcome,  maids  of  honor! 

Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing IVilliam  Br . 

We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night 

Mrs.  Crawford 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain J.  Sylvester 

Wenher  had  a  love  for  Charlotte Thackeray 

We  scatter  -^ceds  with  careless  hand fohn  Keble 


919  ■  We  stood  upon  the  ragged  rocks IV.  B.  Glazier  372 

S33  '  Westward  the  Star  of  Empire  takes  its  way 

^37  I  Geo  Berkeley  531 

695  j  We  the  fairies  blithe  and  antic  ( Translation  of 

117  Leigh  Hunt)-    T.  Randolph  764 

656  '  We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night  T.  Hood  293 

6S9     We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin J.  T.  Fields  585 

We  were  not  many,— we  who  stood. .C.  F.  Hoffman  462 
We  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head.^/  W.  Lowell  270 

What  a  moment,  what  a  doubt! Leigh  Hunt  qi8 

What,  and  how  great  the  virtue  and  the  art 

L  ines  and  Couplets  from  Pope  746 
What  change  has  made  the  pastures  sweet  J.  Ingelo'.u  116 

What  constitutes  a  state? Sir  IV.  Jones  551 

What  different  dooms  our  birthdays  bring  I  7".  Hood  2;S 
What  do  the  wrens  and  the  robins  say  ?. .  E.  S.  Smith  787 
What  hid'st  thou  in  thy  treasure  caves  and  cells? 

Felicia  Hemans  572 

What  hope  is  here  for  modem  rhyme Tennyson  286 

What  is  death  ?    'T  is  to  be  free George  Croly  720 

What  is  it  fades  and  flickers  in  the  fire — L.  Larcom  i-jb 

What  is  the  existence  of  man's  life? Henry  King  303 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ?  J.  G.  Holland  17 
What 's  fame  ?  —  a  fancied  life  in  other's  breath.  .Pope  699 

What  shall  be  the  baby's  name  ? R.  W.  Raymond    23 

What  sh.ill  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  \iom%.  .Kemble  200 
What 's  billowed  ground ?     Has  earth  a  clod 

Campbell  712 
What 's  this  dull  town  to  me?  Lady  Caroline  Kepfel  102 
What  was  he  doing,  the  great  God  Pan? 

E.  B.  Browning  792 
What,  was  it  a  dream?  am  I  all  alone.  ...T.  T.  Bolton  478 

Wheel  me  into  the  sunshine Sydney  Dobell  219 

Wlieer  asta  been  saw  long Tennyson  903 

When  a'  ither  bainiies  are  hushed  to  their  hame 

iniliam  Thorn     39 
When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  cammmA..  Thomson  515 

Whence  could  arise  this  mighty  critic Churchill  818 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street Burns  776 

When  days  are  long  and  skies  are  bright //.£.  Warner  363 
When  deeply  in  love  with  Miss  Emily  Pryne 

J.  G.  Saxe  916 

When  Delia  on  the  plain  appears Lord  Lyttelton    70 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic Longfello-.u  5S; 

When  Eve  brought  woe A  nonymous  S78 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy Samuel  Lover  154 

When  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond 

r.  E.  Noilon     32 
When  Freedom,  from  her  m.]nntain  height 
6'Jo  :  J.  R   Drake  516 

When  God  at  first  made  man George  Herbert  Ciq6 

220     When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train    Edward  Everett  S13 

73'>     When  I  a  verse  shall  make Herrick  815 

182  I  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall Shakespeare  401 

72S  I  When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent Milton  330 

(178  I  When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time 
67S  !  Shakespeare  727 

492  I  When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  l\me. ■  .Shakes/>eare 
633  I  When  in  the  storm  on  Albion's  coast... 71?.  S.  Sharpe 

425  I  When  I  think  on  the  happy  days Anonymoi, 

677     When  leaves  grow  sear  all  things  take  sombre  hue 
4.51  Anonvmot. 

24  When  I.esbia  first  I  saw  so  heavenly  fairW.  Congret 
jS  When  Love  with  unconfined  wings. .  Col.  R  Lotvlace 
638     When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young.  .  W.  Collins 

425     When  o'er  the  mountain  steeps Rose  Terry 

87     When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls Tennyson 

When  shall  we  all  meet  again A  wniymous 

192  '  When  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast  ...O    W.  Holmes 
85  ,  When  summer  o'er  her  native  hills.. ./)«.«  C  Lynch 
S75  i  When  that  my  mood  is  s.id  and  in  the  noise 
677  :  W  n.  Simms 


586 


396 
70S 


-^ 


[&■ 


934 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


-a 


When  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was  presented 
IV.  R.  Spencer 

When  the  British  warrior  queen Cowper  511 

When  the  hounds  of  spring A.  C.  S'lVinburne  380 

When  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered  . . . .  Longfello'w  262 

When  the  humid  shadows  hover Coates  Kinney     46 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered  Shelley  225 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended     Dickimon  181 
When  the  sheep  are  in  X\\^{^vi\6,  Lady  Anne  Barnard  205 

When  the  showery  vapors  gather Coates  Kinney    46 

When  the  Sultan  Shah-Zainan T.  B.  Aldrich  150 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

Shakespeare    60 

When  your  beauty  appears Thomas  Parnell  134 

Where  are  the  men  who  went  forth  in  the  morning 

From  the  Welsh  0/  Talhaiam  481 

Where  are  the  swallows  fled? A.A.Procter  71S 

Whereas,  on  certain  boughs  and  sprays Brownell  896 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear?  G.  MacDonald    18 
Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn  ?  Coleridge  4S2 

Where  music  dwells IVordsiuorth  692 

Where  noble  Grafton  spreads  his  rich  domain-^ 

R-  Blooinfield  497 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest Scott  231 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride.  .Andrew  Marvell  5S4 

Whether  with  reason  or  with  instinct  blest Pope  700 

Which  is  the  wmd  that  brings  the  cold  ? 

E.  C.  Stedjnan  413 

Which  I  wish  to  remark Bret  If  arte  SS8 

While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels  ( Trans- 
lation of  S.  Rogers)  Leonidas  of  Alexandria     24 
While  sauntering  through  the  crowded  street 

Paul  H.  Hayiie  734 
While  yet  the  feeble  accents  hung 

Margaret  Davidson  392 
Whilom  by  silver  Thames's  gentle  stream 

M.  Akeiiside  S59 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew W.  C-  Bryant  445 

Whoe'er  she  be R.  Crashaw  146 

Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls Emerson  746 

Who  Cometh  over  the  hills Lowell  544 

Who  counts  himself  as  nobly  bom E.  S  H.  687 

Who  did  not  know  the  office  Jaun  of  pale  Pomona 

green  ? Henry  M.  Parker  652 

Who  has  not  dreamed  a  world  of  bliss  W,  M.  Howitt  370 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere Moore  414 

Whom  first  we  love,  you  know,  we  seldom  wed 

Robert  Buliver-Lyttaii  230 

Whoso  him  bethoft Anonyftious  713 

Who  would  care  to  pass  his  life Mortitner  Collins  877 

Why  came  the  rose  ?    Because  the  sun  is  shining 

Mary  L.  Bitter     89 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes? Her  rick  423 

Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily Shakespeare  S09 

Why,  lovely  charmer,  tell  me  why Anonymons    86 

Why  sits  she  thus  in  solitude? A.  B.  li'elby  742 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?.  ..6"/r  J.  Suckling  226 
Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 

Harriet  Winslovj  Seiuall  357 
IVide.  it  was  and  high Byron  638 


'  Widow  Machree,  it  's  no  wonder  jou  frown  S.  Lover  i 
)     While  sauntering  through  the  crowded  street 
:  Paid  H.  Hayne  7 

)  !  While  yet  the  feeble  accents  hung  jl/a?-^rtre':'  Davidson  3 

!  !  Will  affection  still  infold  me Anonymmts 

'■>  \  Willie,  fold  your  little  hands Dinah  M.  Craik  1 

Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near  day  Shakespeare  1 
With  awful  walls,  far  glooming,  that  possessed 

Leigh  Hunt  i 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-pots J'entiyson  2 

With  deep  affection Father  Prout  t 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn T.  Hood  2 

Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood Milton  5 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees. .  T.  B.  Read  t 
With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn  Dr.  J.  Ley  den  1 

With  sorrow  and  heart's  distress Milton  2 

Woman  is  crowned,  but  man  in  truth  is  king 

Robert  Batson 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! G.  P.  Morris 

Wordsworth  upon  Helvellyn  ! E.  B.  Broivning  i 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king. .  C.  E.  Norton  2 

Wouldst  thou  hear  what  man  can  say Ben  Jonson  I 

Would  wisdom  for  herself  be  wooed 

Coventry  Palmare  i 
Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng  Anonymous  i. 
Would  you  know  why  I  summoned  you  together  ? 

7.  H.  Payne  ; 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet Tennyson  1 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams IV.  M.  Praed  : 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around Burns  : 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon Bums  : 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers Thos-  Gray  ; 

Ye  little  snails Anonymous  ^ 

Ye  mariners  of  England Campbell  ■ 

Ye  powers  who  rule  ihe  tongue Coivper  i 

Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away  .    L.  H.  Sigourney  ', 

Yes  !  bear  them  to  their  rest .Geo.  IV.  Beihune  ( 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  you  last  night... £".  B.  Brow?ting 
Ye  sons  of  freedom,  wake  to  glory  !  {  Translation) 

Rougei  de  L  isle  \ 

Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners Geo  Crabbe  \ 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels John  Milton  ; 

Ye  who  would  have  your  features  florid  Horace  Stnith  i 

You  ask  me  why,  though  ill  at  ease Tenitysoti  \ 

You  bells  in  the  steeple Jean  Ingeloiv 

You  cbarm  when  you  talk  (  Trattslation)  De  Montreuil  { 

"  You  have  heard."  said  a  youth Robert  Story  1 

Vou  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  R.  Broivni7ig  < 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered Tom  Taylor  \ 

You  may  give  over  plow,  boys Sydney  Dobell  : 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night Sir  H.  IVotion 

Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man T.  Hood  \ 

"  Young,  gay,  and  fortunate  !  "    Each  yields  a  theme 

Young 
Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn 

Samuel  Lover 
Your  fav'rite  picture  rises  up  before  me . .  A  nonymous 
Your  horse  is  faint,  my  king,  my  lord  J.  G.  Lockhart  . 
Your  wedding-ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife  W.  C.  Bennett 
You  see  this  pebble  stone C  Z..  CalverUy.   < 


B-- 


-^ 


-n 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


y^ 


Aobey,  Melrose Sir  IV.  Scolt 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  L.  Hunt 

Abram  and  Zimri     c.  C<^ok 

Absence    ^  nonytnoiis 

Absence    p.  A.  KembU 

Absent Shakaptart 

Absent  Sailor,  To  her J.  G.   Whitlier 

Absent  Soldier  Son,  The J'.  Dobell 

A  Bust  oJ  Dante,  Ou T.  IV.  Parsoiu 

Acadie,  Peace  in H.  IF.  Longftllow 

Achbar  and  Nouimahal T.  Moore 

Adam's  Morning  Hj-mn  in  Paradise Milton 

Adam  to  Eve Milton 

Addison a.  I'opc 

Address  to  the  Ocean    B.  IV.  Procter 

Adieu,  adieu!  my  native  shore    Lord  Byron 

Adieu,  adieu  !  our  dream  of  love    T.  K.  Hcr2<cy 

Ae  fond  kiss  before  we  part   R.  Burns 

Afar  in  the  desert T-  Prin^ie 

After  the  Ball N.  Perry 

Afton  Water R.  Bur?is 

Agassiz,  The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of Long^/e/loio 

Agassiz,  The  Prayer  of  J  G.  IVhittier 

Age  of  Wisdom,  The W.  M.  Tltackeray 

Agincourt,  The  Ballad  of  M.  Drayton 

Ah,  how  sweet J.  Dryden 

Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil !    D.  F  MacCarthy 

A  hunting  we  will  go H.  Fie/ding 

Ah,  what  is  Love  ? /?.  Greene 

Airy  Nothings Shakespeare 

Alabaster  Sarcophagus,  The  H.  Smith 

Alas  1  how  light  a  cause  may  move T.  Moore 

Album,  Lines  written  in  an IV.  Gay  lord 

Alexander's  Feast J.  Dryden 

Alfred  the  Harper    J  Sterling 

Alice D.  F.  MacCarthy 

All's  WeU T.  Dibdi,, 

All 's  Well H.  McE.  Kimball 

Almond  Blossom E.  A  mold 

Abiwick  Castle Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

Alpine  Heights    F.  IV.  Krummacher 

Althea  from  Prison,  To R.  Lovelace 

Amazing,  beauteous  change  \ Ph.  Doddridge 

America IV.  C.  Bryant 

America  to  Great  Britain IV.  A  listen 

American  Aristocracy    J.  G.  Saxe 

American  Flag,  The J.  R.  Drake 

Amy's  Cruelty E.  B.  Broiuning 

Anchor,  The  Forging  of  the i'  Ferguson 

Ancient  Hymn J.  M.  Neale 

Ancient  Mariner,  Rime  of  the    ..J'.  T.  Coleridge 

Angel  of  Patience,  The   J.G.  Whittier 

Angels,  Battle  of  the    Milton 

Angel's  Visit,  An E.  S.  Turner 

Angel's  Whisper,  The 5.  Lover 

Angler,  The J.  Ckalkhill 


I  Angler,  The T.  B.  Read 

I  Anglers'  Trysting-Tree,  The T.  T.  Stodaart 

Angler's  Wish,  The    1.  IValt.n 

I  Angling    y.  Thomson 

AngUng,  In  Praise  of Sir  H.  II  'otton 

Animals,  Of  Cruelty  to M.  F.  Tuppcr 

Animals,  Plea  for  the J.  Thomson 

Annabel  Lee E.  A.  Poe 

Anne  Hathaway  Anonymous 

Annie,  For E.  A.  Poe 

Annie,  Lines  to  the  Memory  of H.  B.  Stowe 

Annuity,  The  G.  Outram 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question ,?.  T.  Coleridge 

Antiquity  of  Freedom,  The IV.  C.  Bryant 

Antony  and  Cleopatra W.  H.  Lytle 

Apple-Tree,  The  Planting  of  the  ..W.C.  Bryant 

Approach  of  Age,  The  G.  Crabbe 

Apres A.y.  Mundy 

April  Violet,  An A  nonymous 

Arab,  The Charles  L.Calverly 

Are  the  children  at  home? M.  E.  M  Sangster 

Arthur,  Death  of  A.  Tennyson 

As  by  the  shore  at  break  of  day T.  Moore 

Ask  me  no  more A.  Tennyson 

Aspasia,  Pericles  and  G.  Croly 

As  ships  becalmed  A.  H.  Clough 

Ae  slow  our  ship    T.  Moore 

Atalanta  Conquered IV.  Morris 

Atalanta  Victorious IV.  Morris 

Athulf  and  Ethilda    H.  Taylor 

At  Sea y.  T.  Trowbridge 

At  the  Church  Gate  IV.  M.  Thackeray 

Auf  Wiedersehen  !    J.  R.  Lo'joell 

Augusta,  To    Lord  Byron 

Auld  Lang  Syne    R.  Burns 

Auld  Rohin  Gray   Lady  Barmird 

Aurelia,  To J.  Dyer 

Author's  Miseries,  The A.  Pope 

Autumn T.  Hood 

Autunm P.  B.  Shelley 

Autumn,  A  Still  Day  in S^  H.  IVhitman 

Autumn.  The  Ii\  D.  Gallagher 

Autumn  Walk,  My IV.  C.  Bryant 

Aux  Italiena    R.  B.  Lytton 

B. 

Baby  Louise   M.  Eytinge 

Baby  May    W.  C.  Bennett 

Baby's  Shoes W.C.  Bennett 

Baby,  The Calidasa 

Baby,  The   G.  Macdonald 

Baby  Zulma's  Christmas  Carol .  ...A.  J.  Reijuier 

Bachelor's  Hall J.  Finley 

Balaklava A.  B.  Meek 

Baltimore,  The  Sack  of T.  Davis 

Banks  o'  Doon,  The R.  Burns 

Banks  of  the  Lee,  The    T.  Davis 


i 


938 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


-Ri 


Bannockburn R.  Burns  513 

Banty  Tim J.  Hay  qoi 

Barbara  Frietchie y.  G.  IVkittier  543 

Barber's  Shop,  Jones  at  the Punch  914 

Barclay  of  Ury J.  G.  tyiiMier  4S7 

Bard's  Epitaph,  A R.  Burns  S29 

Barefoot  Boy,  The 7.  G.  M'hittier  36 

Battle-Field,  The ;(-'.  C.  Bryant  485 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic J.  IV.  Howe  356 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The R.  Southey  489 

Battle  of  the  Angels Milton  454 

Battle-Song  of  GustavTls  Adolphus  M.  A  Iteitburg  468 

Bayard M.  L.  Kilter  832 

Bay  of  Biscay,  The A.  Cherry  586 

Beach  Bird,  The  Little R.  H.  Dana  446 

Beach,  Newport H.  Th.  Tuckerman  y^b 

Beacon,  The P.  M.  yames  57s 

Beal'  an  Dhuine Sir  IK  Scott  439 

Beatrice  Cenci P.  B.  S/u-lky  798 

Beautiful  Day,  On  a y.  Sterling  367 

Beautiful  River,  The B.  P.  Taylor  202 

Beautiful  Snow   y.  IV.  Watson  250 

Beauty Lord  Thurloiu  666 

Bedouin  Love-Song T.  Parnell  134 

Before  and  after  the  Rain ....T.  B.  A  Idrich  638 

Before  Sedan A.  Dohson  480 

Beginnings,  Small Ch  Maekay  697 

Belfry  Pigeon,  The N.P.  irillis  436 

Belgrade,  Siege  of A  nonymous  916 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 

T.  Moore  123 

Belinda  A.  Pope  66 

Belle  of  the  BaU,  The n'.  M.  Praed  230 

Bells,  City R.  H.  Barham  659 

Bells  of  Shaudon,  The F.  Mahony  658 

Bella,  The    E.A.Poe  657 

Bell,  The  Passing 7-  Pierfont  660 

Benedicite y.  G.  H  'hittier  53 

Benny A.  C.  Ketchum  27 

Bertha  in  the  Lane E.  B.  Browning  208 

Beth  Gelert IV.  R.  Spencer  617 

Betrothed  Anew E.  C.  Stedman  429 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping. . //".  Bonar  292 

BillandJoe O.  W. Holmes  56 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine C.  B.  Norton  476 

Bireh  Stream,  The A.  B.  Averill  6jq 

Bird  Language E.  S.  Smith  787 

Birds y.  Montgomery  433 

Birds  by  my  Window E.  Spencer  434 

Bird's  Nest,  A  '^.  Hurdis  433 

Birds,  Plea  for  the H.  W.  ^^gj-cilow  433 

Bird,  To  a Lord  Thurlow  446 

Birth  of  Portraiture,  The T.  Moore  103 

Bishop,  God's  Judgment  on  a  Wicked  R.  Sonthey  791 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The  Th.  O'Hara  540 

Black  and  Blue  Eyes  T.  Moore  143 

Blackbird,  The F.  Tennyson  640 

BL-ick-Eyed  Susan y.  Gay  185 

Black  Regiment,  The  G.  H.  Baker  464 

Blacksmith,  The  Village H.  IV.  Longfellow  495 

;  they  that  mourn IV.  C.  Bryant  718 

1  Damozel,  The    D.  G  Rosseiti  75S 

Blest  as  the  Immortal  Gods Sappho  132 

Blighted  Love Camoens  222 

Blind  Boy,  The C.  Cibber  25S 

Blindness,  On  his   Milton  330 

Blindness,  On  his  own    Milton  672 

Blood  Horse,  The    B.  IV.  Procter  430 

Blossoms,  To  R-  Herrick  418 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind Shakespeare  236 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  Tl'.e  F.  M.  Finch  483 

Boadicea  IV.  Cowper  511 


Boatmen,  Song  of  the  Negro 7.  G.  IVhitticr 

Boat,  The  Pleasure R.  H -  Dana 

Bobolink,  The    T.  Hill 

Bomba,  King  of  Naples,  Death-Bed  of  —  Punch 
Bonaparte,  Popular  Recollections  of    F  Mahony 

Bonnie  Wee  Thing  R  Burns 

Books A  JionymcMii 

Books 7  Higgins 

Boone,  Daniel   Lord  Byron 

Borrowing R.  IV.  Emerson 

Boston  Hymn    R.  IV.  Emerson 

Bower  of  Bliss,  The £.  Spenser 

Boyhood IV.  A  llston 

' '  Boz, "  A  Welcome  to  IV.  H.  Venable 

Brahma    R.  IV.  Emerson 

Brahma's  Answer    R.  H.  Stoddard 

Brave  at  Home,  The    T.  B  Read 

Brave,  How  sleep  the IV.  Collins 

Brave  Old  Oak,  The  H.  F.  Chorley 

Break,  break,  break    A.  Tennyson 

Breathes  there  the  man Sir  IV.  Scott 

Bride,  The  Siry.  Suckling 

Bridge,  Horatius  at  the T.  B.  Macaulay 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  The T.  Hood 

Brierwood  Pipe,  The C.  D^  Shanly 

Brigantine,  My    y.  F.  Cooper 

British  Soldier  in  China,  The  ...SirF.  H  Doyle 

Brooklet,  The Sir  R.Grant 

Brookside,  The R.  Hr.  Milnes 

Brook,  Song  of  the    A  ■  Tennyson 

Broom-Flower,  The  M-  Howitt 

Brougham,  Henry,  Baron  Vaux A  nonymous 

Bruce  and  the  Spider  B.  Barton 

Bruce,  The  Heart  of  the JV.  E.  Aytonn 

Brutus  over  the  Body  of  Lucretia  . .  7-  H.  Pay7te 

Bugle,  The    A.  Tennyson 

Burial  of  Moses,  The C.  F.  Alexander 

Burial  of  the  Dane,  The  H.  H.  Brownell 

Burial,  The  Drummer  Boy's    A  nonymous 

Buried  Flower,  The IV.  E.  Aytoun 

Buried  To-day D.  isr.  Craik 

Burns E.  Elliott 

Bums    Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

Bums  H .  N.  Powers 

Bums y.  G.  II  ■hittier 

Bums,  Robert 7-  •£■  Rankin 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly V.  Bourne 

Byron    R.  Pollok 

Byron's  Latest  Verses    Lord  Byron 

By  the  Alma  River  D.  M.  Craik 

C. 

Caliph  and  Satan,  The y.  F.  Clarke 

Camp-bell  (Charade)  IV.  H[.  Pracd 

CampbeU,  To T.  Moore 

Camp,  Song  of  the  B.  Taylor 

Cana 7- -f"  Clarke 

Canadian  Boat-Song T.  Moore 

Canterbury  Pilgrims,  The    G.  Chaucer 

Cape  Cottage  at  Sunset     IV.  B.  Glazier 

Caractacus B.  Barton 

CarUlon H.  IV.  Longfellow 

Casa  Wappy  D.  M.  Moir 

Castara    IV.  Habington 

Castle,  Alnwick   Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

Castle  in  the  Air,  The T.  Paine 

Castle  Norham Sir  IV.  Scott 

Catalogue.  The Captain  Morris 

Cataract  of  Lodore,  The R.  Sojithey 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes R.  Burns 

Cavalry  Song    R    II'.  Raymond 

Cavalry.  Song  of  the    /;.  C.  Stedman 


& 


r 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


939 


-a 


tQ^- 


Celestial  Country,  The B.  lic  Morlaix 

Centennial  Hymn J.  G.  li  'hitlier  546 

Centennial  Meditation  of  Columbia  ..S.  Lanier  545 

(Centennial)  National  Ode B.  Ta^'lor  546 

(CentenniaJ )  People's  Song  of  Peace  —  7  Mdlsr  549 

Cento  Verses — A?touynwus  915 

Certaine  Man,  Of  a  Sir  7.  Harrington  855 

Chain  Verses Anonymtnts  917 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The O.  iV.  Holmes  582 

Chameleon,  The 7  Merrick  856 

Chancelloravllle,  The  Wood  of D.  R.  German  541 

Change  P.  B.  Sltelley  683 

Changes R.  B.  Lytton  230 

Charge  at  Waterloo,  The   Sir  W.  Scott  462 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade A.  Tennyson  464 

Charles  XII S.7ohnson  S17 

Charlie  Machree W.  7.  Hoppin  102 

Charlotte,  The  Princess    Lord  Byron  819 

Chastity VV.  Cliamberlayne  6S2 

Chess-Board,  The   R.B.  Lytton  106 

Chevy-Chase R.  Sheale  591 

Child  and  Maiden SirC.Sedley  85 

Child  during  Sickneaa,  To  a L.  Hunt  34 

CliUdren's  Hour,  The  H.  IV.  Longfellow  46 

Children,  The   CM.  Dickinson  181 

Chloe,  To Peter  Pindar  145 

Choosing  a  Name    Mary  Lamb  1 8 

Chord,  A  Lost A.  A.  Procter  735 

Chorus  of  English  Songsters —  IV.  7.  Courthope  432 

Christian  Calling,  The  A  nonymous  360 

Christmas  Hymn  Milton  724 

Christmas  in  the  Olden  Time  Sir  IV.  Scott  64 1 

Chronicle,  The A.  CoiuUy  144 

Church  Gate,  At  the IV.  M.  Tliackeray  67 

Church  Porch,  The  G.  Herbert  327 

City  and  Country  O.  IV.  Holmes  8S1 

City  Bells R.H.  Barham  659 

Civil  War C.  D.  Shanly  475 

Clam,  Sonnet  to  a 7.  G.  Saxe  890 

Chin- Alpine,  Song  of   Sir  IV.  Scott  467 

Clarence,  The  Dream  of Sfuikespearc  80-? 

Claude  Melnotte'a  Apology  and  Defense  Btthver  206 

Cleon  and  I Ch.  .Mackay  668 

Cleopatra    Shakespeare  644 

Cleopatra IV.  IV.  Story  13S 

Closing  Scene,  The T.  B.  Read  b^i 

Closing  Year,  The G.  D.  Prentice  726 

Cloud,  The   P.  B.  Shelley  749 

Cloud,  The  Evening  7  IVilson  698 

Cloud,  The  Little 7.  H.  Bryant  537 

Cock  and  the  Bull,  The  C.  L.  Calnerly  912 

CoUseum  by  Moonlight     Lord  Byron  629 

Coliseum,  The  Lord  Byron  624 

Collegian  to  his  Bride,  The Punch  895 

Columbia    T.  Dunght  532 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud  A.  Tennyson  96 

Come,  let  us  kisse  and  parte M  Drayton  igi 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead A.  Tennyson  230 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom T.  Moore  133 

Come  to  me,  dearest  7.  Brennan  204 

Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace  IV.  L.  Bowles  367 

Comfort   M.  Collins  877  ' 

Comin' thro' the  Rye    Adapted  by  Burns  136 

Common  Lot,  The 7.  Montgomery  30*; 

Compliments  of  the  Season,  The  R.  IV.  Raymond  26  ! 

Concord  Monument  Hymn R.  IV.  Emerson  533 

Connubial  Life 7.  Thomson  16S 

Constancy    Ai.onymotts  699 

Content    R.  Greene  668 

Contentation Ch.  Cotton  670  ; 

Cont-entment 7-  Sylvester  66S 

Contentment O.  IV.  Holmes  660  ■ 


Contradiction IV.  Cotvper 

Cooking  and  Courting  A  nonymous 

Coral  Grove,  The   7.  G.  Percival 

Coral  Insect,  The 7.  Montgomery 

Coral  Insect,  The    L.  H.  Sigoumey 

Coronach   Sir  IV.  Scott 

Coronation    //.  Hunt 

Correspondences   C.  P.  Cranck 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  Tlie R.  Burns 

Countess  Laura   G.  H .  Boker 

Country  Life,  The    R.  Herrick 

Country,  My A.  Tennyson 

Country,  My  7.  Montgomery 

Course  of  True  Love,  The    Shakespeare 

Courtin',  The  7.  R.  Lowell 

Court  Lady,  A E.  B.  Brmoning 

Cowper,  Rousseau  and C.  IVilcox 

Cradle  Song,  A /.  IVatts 

Cradle  Song Anonymous 

Cradle  Song  7.  G.  Holland 

Creation Milton 

Cricket,  The   IV.  Cowper 

Cromwell,  Oliver  7-  Dryden 

Cromwell,  To  the  Lord  General Milton 

Cruelty  to  Animals,  Of M.  F.  I  upper 

Cuckoo-Clock,  The  C.  B.  Southey 

Cuckoo,  To  the 7.  Logan 

Culprit  Fay,  The 7.  R  Drake 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 7-  Lyiy 

Cupid  Swallowed  L.  Hunt 

Cyrus,  The  Tomb  of Anonymous 

Daflfodils .' R.  Herrick 

Daffodils IV,  IVordsworth 

Daisy,  The 7,  Leyden 

Daisy,  The 7.  Montgomery 

Daisy,  To  a  Mountain R.  Burns 

Dane,  The  Burial  of  the H.  H.  Browntll 

Dante,  On  a  Bust  of T.  IV.  Parsons 

Darkness  is  thinning Pope  Gregory  /. 

Darwin M.  Collins 

Davie  Sillar,  To R.  Burns 

Dawn R.  IV.  Gilder 

Daybreak ff.  IV.  Longfellow 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying M.  Brooks 

Day  in  the  Pamflli  Doria,  A H  B.  Stowe 

Dead  Friend,  The A.   Tennyson 

Dead,  The  Bivouac  of  the Th.  O'Hara 

Death Lord  Byron 

Death  and  Cupid 7,  G.  Saxe 

Death  and  the  Youth L  E.  Landon 

Death-Bed,  A 7.  A  Idrich 

Death  of  a  Beautiful  Wife,  On  the H.  King 

Death  of  a  Daughter,  On  the R.  H.  Barluim 

Death  of  Arthur A.  Tennyson 

Death  of  Leonidas,  The G.  Croly 

Death  of  the  Flowers,  The IV  C.  Bryant 

Death  of  the  White  Fawn A.  lifarvell 

Death-Song,  Indian A.  H.  Hunter 

Death,  The  Genius  of G.  Croly 

Death,  the  Leveler 7,  Shirley 

Death,  The  Secret  of E.  Arneild 

Death,  The  Trooper's R.  IV.  Raymond 

Death,  To Gluck 

Deborah  Lee IV.  H.  Burleigh 

Deceived  Lover,  The Sir  T.  Il'yatt 

Deep,  The    7  G.  C.  Braitard 

Deep,  The  Treasures  of  the F  Hemans 

Delight  in  God F.  Quarles 

De  Profundis     E.  B.  Browning 

Descent,  The X  Rogers 

Deserted  VUlage,  The O.  Goldsmith 


38 


cB- 


940 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


■a 


h 


Deaire Af.  A  rfiold  321 

Diamond,  The 7-JG.  IVilkinson  735 

Dickens  in  Camp B.  Harte  S40 

Die  down,  O  dismal  day  1  D.  Gray  3S0 

Diego  Ordas  in  El  Dorado Anonymous  756 

Dieslrae T.  d^  Celano  313 

Difference,  The ML.  Ritter  1 35 

Dinna  ask  me  Dujilop  107 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier   G.  H.  Boker  482 

Dirge  for  a  Young  Girl J.  T.  Fields  30D 

Dirge  of  Alaric,  the  Visigoth  E.  Everett  813 

Dirge,  The H.  King  303 

Disappointed  Lover,  The A.  C.  S-winburft^  226 

Disappointment M.  G  Brooks  223 

Disguised  Maiden,  The  ..Beaumont  and  Fletcher  6S8 

Dismal  Swamp,  The  Lake  of  the T.  Moore  782 

Diversities  of  Fortune T.  Hood  258 

Divided J.  higelow  1S6 

Diviija  Commedia //.  VV.  Longfellow  650 

Domestic  Birds J.  Thomson  432 

Donald  the  Black,  Song  of Sir  W.  Scoti  466 

Doolkamein,  The  Trumpets  of L.  Hunt  6cx> 

Doorstep,  The E.  C.  Stedman  741 

Dorothy  in  the  Garret J.  T.  Trowbridge  210 

Doubt,  A Dr.  R.  Hughfs  146 

Doubting  Heart,  The A.  A.  Procter  71S 

Dover  Beach M.  A  mold  563 

Dover  Cliff Shakespeare  407 

Dow's  Flat B.  Harte  899 

Doxology,  A  Lancashire Z>.  M.  Craik  502 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman Fitz-Greene  Halleck  S34 

Dreamer,  The A  nonymous  246 

Dream  of  Clarence,  The Shakespeare  8og 

Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,  The T.  Hood  810 

Dreams  and  Realities   P-  Cary  55 

Dreams,  Sleepless    D.  G.  Rossetti  70S 

Dream,  The    Lord  Byron  6S0 

Dream,  The  Mariner's Py.  Dimond  567 

Dream,  The  Soldier's T.  Campbell  480 

Dress,  A  Sweet  Disorder  in R.  Herrick  698 

Dress,  Freedom  in B.  Jonson  698 

Drifting    T.  B.  Read  751 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes — Philostratus  714 

Driving  Home  the  Cows A'.  P.  Osgood  482 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears G.  Fletcher  322 

Drop  of  Dew,  A A.  Mamdl  392 

Drummer  Boy's  Burial,  The A  ?ionymous  479 

Dniry  Lane,  A  Tale  of  H.  Sinith  910 

Dueling /^-  Cowper  705 

Dule  '3  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine,  The E.  li'angh  904 

Dum  Vivimus,  Vivamua Ph.  Doddridge  325 

Duncan  Gray  cam'  here  to  woo R-  Bjtrns  152 

Duty A  fionytnous  503 

Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  The A.  Pope  328 

Dying  Gertrude  to  Waldegrave,  The  7".  Cafnpbell  193 

Dying  Hymn,  A A.  Cary  356 

Dying  Saviour,  The   P.  Gerliardt  336 

Each  and  All R.  W  Emerson  365 

Eagle,  The A.  Tennyson  447 

Earl  of  Quarterdeck,  The G.  Macdonald  603 

Early  Friendship   A.  De  Vere  61 

Earnest  Suit,  An Sir  T.  IVyatt  191 

Echo J.G.  Saxe  917 

Echo  and  Silence Sir  E.  Brydges  397 

Fcho  and  the  Lover Anonymous  917 

Echoes    T.  Moore  92 

Education  of  Nature W.  Wordsxvorth  i,-j 

Edwin  and  Pauiinus  A  nonymous  354 

Eggs  and  the  Horses,  The A  nonymous  875 

El  Dorado,  Diego  Ordas  in A  uonymoids  758 


Electrician's  Valentine,  The A  nonymous 

Elegy  on  Madame  Blaize 0.  Goldsmith 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog..  (7.  Goldsmith 
Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyara  T.  Gray 

Eleonora J-  Dryden 

Emigrants  in  Bermuda,  Song  of  the  ..A.  Ma*vell 

Emigrant's  Wish,  The A  noftymous 

(Emmett,  R.)    O,  breathe  not  his  name ! . .  Moore 

Emmett's  Epitaph    R.  Southey 

Enchantments A-  Cary 

End  of  the  Play,  The ...   W.  M.  Thackeray 

Ends  of  Life,  The W.  Drummond 

Enid's  Song A.  Tennyson 

Enigma  (The  Letter  H)  C.  Fanshawe 

Enoch  Arden  at  the  Window A.  Tennyson 

Epigiea  Asleep IV^.  W.  Bailey 

Epigram,  An  (Woman's  Will) J.  G,  Saxe 

Epigrams S'  T.  Coleridge 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H B.  Jonson 

Epitaph,  Emmett's    R.  Smtthey 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke  B.  Jonson 

Epithalamion,  The    E.  Spenser 

Eton  College,  On  a  Distant  Prospect  of. .  T.  Gray 

Etrurian  Valley,  In  the Buhver 

Euthanasia H.  More 

Evangeline  on  the  Prairie H.  li'.  Long/elloiv 

Evelyn  Hope  R-  Browning 

Evening Lord  Byron 

Evening  Cloud,  The   7-  ^^ihon 

Evenijig  in  Paradise Milton 

Evening,  Ode  to W.  Collins 

Evening  Star,  The T.  Campbell 

Evening  Wind,  The    IV.  C.  Bryant 

Eve  of  Election,  The J.G.  IP'hittier 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The J-  Keats 

Example 7-  Keble 

Execution  of  Montrose,  The IV.  E.  Aytoun 

Exile  of  Erin T.  Campbell 

Experience  and  a  Moral,  An   F.  S.  Cozzens 

F. 

Fairest  thing  m  mortal  eyes.  The  Duke  0/  Orleans 

Fair  Helen  of  Kirconnell     Anonytnous 

Failles.  Farewell  to  the  R.  Corbett 

Fairies'  Lullaby  Shakespeare 

Fairies'  Song    T.  Randolph 

Fairies,  The IV.  A  llingham 

Fairy  Queen,  The Anonymous 

Fairy  Song 7-  Keats 

Faith F.  A.  Kemble 

Faith  and  Hope R   P^cile 

Faithful  Angel,  The Milton 

Faithful  Lovers,  The A  nonymous 

Faithless  Sally  Brown T,  Hood 

Fame ^  Pop^ 

Fame  -^-  J^^f^son 

Family  Meeting,  The C  Sprague 

Fancy,  Delights  of M.  A  ketiside 

Fancy,  Hollo,  my A  nonymous 

Fancy  in  Nubibus   S.  T,  Coleridge 

Fantasy    ^-  Jonso7t 

Farewell  1  but  whenever '^-  Moore 

Farewell,  Life ^-  ■^■^^''^ 

Farewell  of  a  Slave  Mother,  The  ..J.G.  U  'hittier 

Farewell,  The  Sea-Boy's A  nonymous 

Farewell  I  thou  art  too  dear Shakespeare 

Farewell  to  thee,  Ai-aby's  daughter T.  Moore 

Farewell  to  Tobacco,  A C  Lamb 

Fanner's  Boy,  The R.  Bloojnfield 

Father  Land  and  Mother  Tongue S,  Lover 

Fatima  and  Raduau ^V.  C.  B?yant 

Fay,  The  Culprit J-  R-  Drak^ 


-3 


[tr 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


-n 


941 


h 


Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun Shakespeare    30 1 

Female  Convict,  The L.  E.  Landon    294 

Ferguson's  Cat Anonymous    891 

Fern,  The  Petrifled M.  L.  B.  Branch    754 

Fetching  Water  from  the  Well. Anonymous      82 

Fight  of  Faith,  The A.  Askewe    329 

Filial  Love Lord  Byron    173 

Fine  Old  English  Oentleman,  The A  nonymous    866 

Fire  by  the  Sea,  The A.  Cary    579 

Fire  of  Love,  The Earl  Dorset      85 

Fireside,  By  the L.  Larcom     176 

Fireside,  The A'.  Cotton     177 

First  Kiss,  The T.  Campbell    135 

First  Love Lord  Byron     6S9 

First  Snowfall,  The J.  R.  Lowell    264 

First  Spring  Flowers Mrs.  Howland    281 

Fisher  Folk,  The  Poor V.  Hugo    577 

Fishers,  The  Three Ch.  Kingsley    576 

Fisher,  The Goethe    776 

Flight  into  Egypt,  The F.  lilahony    344 

Flood  of  Years,  The  «'.  C.  Bryant     Ixiv 

Florence  Vane  Ph.  P.  Cooke    276 

Flotsam  and  Jetsam Anonymous    574 

Flower  o'  Dumblane,  The R    Tannahill      96 

Flower  of  Finae,  The T.  Davis    286 

Flowers /-.  Hood    421 

Flowers,  Hymn  to  the H.  Smith    421 

Flowers,  The  Death  of  the IV.  C.  Bryant    428 

Flowers,  The  Use  of AI.  Howitt    429 

Flowers  without  Fruit    J.  H.  Newman    741 

Fly,  Busy,  curious,  thirsty V.  Bourne    731 

Fly,  To  a y.  Wolcott    731 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me T.  Moore      95 

Folding  the  Flocks Beaumont  and  Fletcher    431 

Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  fliea  you    B.  Jonson      84 

Foolish  Virgins,  The A.  Tennyson    717 

Footsteps  of  Angels H.  W.  Long/elloiu    261 

Fop,  Hotspiu-'s  Description  of  a  Shakespeare    472 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that   R.  Burns    257 

For  Charlie's  Sake J.  IV.  Palmer    thb 

Forest  Hymn,  A \V.  C.  Bryant    414 

Forest  Primeval,  The H.  IV.  Longfellow    414 

Forever  with  the  Lord J.  Montgomery    353 

Forgiag  of  the  Anchor,  The  .T.  Ferguson    500 

Forlorn  Shepherd's  Complaint,  The T.  Hood    902 

For  love's  sweet  sake   B,  Cornwall     94 

Forsaken  Merman,  The M.  A  mold    775 

Fortune    Fitz-Greene  Halleck    696 

Fortune Sir  J.  Harrington     855 

Fra  Giacomo  R.  Buchanan    802 

Freedom  in  Dress    B.  Jonson    6g8 

Freedom,  The  Antiquity  of  W.C.  Bryant    554 

Freeman,  The W.  Cowper    552 

Fremont,  John  C y.  G    IVhittier    849 

French  Camp,  Incident  of  the R.  Browning    470 

Friar  of  orders  gray,  I  am  a J.  O'Kee/e    Sbg 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The T.  Percy      72 

Friends  Departed H .  Vaughan    263 

Friendship R,  iV.  Emerson      59 

Friendship Sltakespeare      60 

From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit..?".  Bowring    337 

Frost,  The H.F.  Gould      46 

Future  Life,  The W.  C.  Bryant    263 

Future,  The  A.  Pope    722 

G. 

Gambols  of  Children,  The G-  Barley  3 1 

Garden  of  Love,  The W.  Blake  713 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd  y.  R.  Lowell  846 

Gas-making:  An  Impromptu  ..R.  IV.  Raymond  S92 

Genevieve .S".  T.  Coleridge  107 

Genius  of  Death,  The   G.  Croly  720  | 


Gentilwoman,  To  a OR.  77 

Gentleman  of  the  Old  School,  A  Anonymous  654 

Giacomo,  Fra R.  Buchanan  802 

Gifts  of  God,  The    G  Herbert  696 

Ginevra    S  Kogers  605 

Girdle,  On  a E.  iVuller  86 

Give  me  more  love,  or  more  disdain  . .  T.  Carew  So 

Give  me  the  old R.  H.  Messenger  716 

Give  me  three  grains  of  00m,  mother 

Miss  Edwards  255 

Give  place,  ye  lovers  Lord  Suney  65 

Glove  and  the  Lions,  The  L.Hunt  605 

Gluggity  Glug    G.  Colman.  yr.  S58 

God   Derzhavtn  320 

God  everywhere  in  Nature C  Wilcox  452 

Godiva A.  Tennyson  644 

God's  Acre H.  W.  Long/ellow  305 

Go,  feel  what  I  have  felt A  nonymous  494 

Go,  happy  rose  R.  Herricjt  7 1 

Going  and  Coming E.  A.  yenks  72S 

Gold T.  Hood  705 

iGolden  Girl,  A B.  Cornwall  144 

Golden  Ringlet,  The A.  B.  IVelby  275 

Go,  lovely  rose E.  H  'alter  66 

Good  Ale  y.  Still  85S 

GoodBy    R.  IV.  Emerson  719 

Good  Bye A  nonymous  .  £3 

Good  Great  Man,  The     i".  T.  Coleridge  676 

Good  Night    C.  Th.  Korner  504 

Good  Night  and  Good  Morning R.  M.  Milnes  3  r 

Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child    Mrs.  Sigourney  271 

Gougaune  Barra 7.  y.  Callanan  522 

Gouty  Merchant  and  the  Stranger,  The  //.  Smith  867 

Grape-Vine  Swing,  The  y.  G  Simms  4 1 S 

Grass,  The  Voice  of  the  S.  Roberts  427 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  The y.  Keats  449 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  The L.  Hunt  449 

Grasshopper,  Soliloquy  on  a    IV.  H arte  44H 

Grasshopper,  The  A  nacreon  449 

Graves  of  a  Household,  The F.  Hemans  305 

Gray,  Growing A.  Dobson  7 1 5 

Gray  Hail-,  The  One W.S.  Landor  715 

Gray  Head,  The  Young C.  B.  Southey  79S 

Great  Britain O  Goldsmith  633 

Greatness    A.Pope  700 

Great  St.  Bernard,  The S.  Rogers  40S 

Grecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a J.  Keats  750 

Greece  (Childe  Harold) Lord  Byron  526 

Greece  (The  Giaour) Lord  Byron  526 

Greek  Poet,  Song  of  the    Lord  Byron  525 

Green  gi'ow  the  rashes,  0  !    R.Burns  145 

Greenwood  Cemetery C.  Kennedy  305 

Greenwood  Shrift,  The R.  rnd  C.  Southey  343 

Greenwood,  The IV.  L.  Bowles  416 

Grief      Shakespeare  290 

Grief  for  the  Dead   A  nonymous  260 

Grongar  Hill    y.  Dyer  406 

Groomsman  to  his  Mistress,  The. .  T.  W.  Parsons  149 

Growing  Gray A.  Dobson  715 

Growth,  The  True B.  yonson  665 

Gulf- Weed C.  G.  Fenner  5S3 

Guy  Fawkes A  nonymous  867 

H. 

HaUeck,  Fitz-Greene    y.G.  iVhittier  852 

Hallowed  Ground  T.  Campbell  712 

Hampton  Beach    y.  G.  IVhittier  562 

Hang  up  his  harp  :  he  'U  wake  no  more  E.  Cook  291 

Hans  Breitmann's  Party   C.  G.  Leland  901 

Happiness  A.  Pope  673 

Happy  Heart,  The  T.  Decker  495 

Happy  Life,  A Sir  H  tVottan  674 


-s 


[fi- 


942 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


-^ 


Happy  Man,  The h'.  C<m,prr 

Hare  and  many  Friends,  The y.  Gay 

Hark,  hark  I  the  lark Shakespeare 

Harmosan R,C.  Trench 

Harper,  Alfred  the y.  sterling 


448 


Harper,  To  the  Memory  of  Fletcher ..  Zi.  jW.  Cr, 

gin  of  the T.  Ma 

5  through  Tara's  Halls,  The . .  Afoare 


Humble-Bee,  To  the  R.  W.  Emerson 

Hlimility Anonymous 

H^lility R.M.Milnes    700 

Hunter's  Song,  The B.  IV.  Procter    61S 

Hunting  we  will  go,  A H.  Fieldi,^    617 


Haro   The  Oriffin  of  the  v^    if  "'*    *f  I  JJunt,  The  Stag    y.   Thomson    6.6 

xiarp,  ine  urigin  01  the T.Moore    762  ,  Hunt  The  Sta?  c-    i>r    c    ,.    ^ 

Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls,  The.. Moore    l,S  :  Husband  '—-■■  - -: •^"'  '*  '  ■^""    ''* 


^....,..u.i.uucBuuuugniarasjiaus,Xfle..;J/<.^r<.    518  ^  Husband  and  Wife's  Grave   The        R    M    n 

■■■■■■-■■■■  Mjlton    7S6  I  Hymn  :  Concord  Monument  ....R.IV.  Emerson    533 

i  ■J'""^'"'""    *«  ;  Hymn  to  Light,  From  the A.  Cowley    367 

Hymn  to  Night G.  W.  Bethune 


Haunt  of  the  Sorcerer,  The 
Hawthomi 

Health,  A e.  C.  Pinckmy 

Hearth  and  Home,  A  Song  for  the  W.  R.  Duryea 

Heart  of  the  Brace,  The IV.  E.  Aytoun    457 

Heath  Cock,  The y.  Baillie    441 

Heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed,  The    . . .  .Scott    184 

H^-''^™ 7-Taylor  330 

Heaven    tf.  A.  IV.  Priest  331 

Heaving  of  the  Lead,  The Pearce  585 

Hebrew  Wedding H.  H.  Milman  .65 


678 


I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee P.  B.  Shelley  1 40 

Ice-Palace,  A  Russian    IV.  Cowper  539 

Ichabod  (Daniel  Webster) y.  G.  Whittier  844 

IdiotBoy,  The     R.  SoJilliey  255 

Idler,  The H.  E.  H'amer 

Idle  Singer,  The IV.  Morris 


363 


H:i!ir*^;;^^!::^!!ie^^:-^;^-.f'^'"^^  677,idonotio;etheeii;rth;;tfair-:::;;::.rc 


Height  of  the  Ridiculous,  The O.  IV.  Holmes 

Heine's  Grave m.  Arnold  837 

HelveUyn sir  ir.  Scott  6.3 

Hence,  all  ye  vain  delights  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  235 

Henderson,  Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  R  Bums  830 

Hen,  The Claudius  892 

Her  Letter b.  Harte  8S9 

Her  Likeness d_  m,  Craik  87 

Hermit,  The y.  BeattU  674 

Hen,  Cras,  Hodie    R.  IV.  Emerson  746 

Heroism  . 
Heroism, . . 


75 


IV.  Cowper    484 

Hero  to  Leander a.  Tennyson     186 

Herve  Riel R.  Browning    56S 

Hervey,  Sporus,  Lord ^.  /.^^^    8,8 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek T.  Caretv      75 

Highland  Girl  of  Inversnaid,  To  the  Wordsworth      49 

Highland  Mary /j .  Surns    277 

High  Seas,  The Sir  IV.  Scolt    575 

High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire  y.  Ingelow    277 

Hohenlinden T.Campbell    469 

Holland O.  Goldsmith    632 

Holly-Tree,  The R.  So,Ul^y    4,7 

Holy  Spirit,  The    R.  Herrick    3,9 

Heme Leonidas     ,75 

Home o.  Goldsmith     179 

Homes  of  England,  The p.  Hemans     iSo 

Home,  Sweet  Home y.  H.  Payne    17s 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead. .  Tennyson    286 

Home,  Wounded    S.  Dobell    219 

Honor fy,  tVordsworth    665 

Hood,  To  the  Memory  of  Thomas   . .  B.  Simmons    836 

Hope PV.S/ienstone      72 

Hopefully  Waiting A.  D.  F.  Randolph    357 

Horatms  at  the  Bridge T.  B.  Macaulay    507 

Horse,  The  Blood    b.  IV.  Procter    430 

Household  Sovereign,  The  ....H.  IV.  Long/ello^v      20 

Housekeeper,  The C.  Lamb    451 

Hotspur's  Description  of  a  Fop Shakespeare    472 

How  Long? H.Botiar    329 

How  sleep  the  Brave n:  Colli,u    505 

How'smyBoy?    S.  Dobell    570 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 

to  Alx n.  Browning     470 

Hudibras'  Sword  and  Dagger j-.  Butler   472 

Hudibras.  The  Logic  of .y.  Butler    855 

Hudibras,  The  Philosophy  of ,S".  Butler    855 

Hudibras,  The  Religion  of    i'.  Butler    346 

Hugo,  To  Victor A.  Tennyson     840 

Humanity    iv.  Cowper    703 


If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please 

Graham  0/ Gartmore       86 
If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing  .M.  A  ngelo      69 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love R.  Heher     171 

If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart T.  L.  Beddoes    302 

If  women  could  be  fair E.  Vere    714 

II  Penseroso   Milton    710 

I  loved  a  lass,  a  fair  one G.  Wither    225 

Imagination Shakespeare    667 

Immortality,  Intimations  of  ...W.  Wordsworth    732 

Immortality,  Soliloquy  on y.  Addison    734 

Impromptu:  Gas-Making R.  W.  Raymond   892 

In  a  Year R.  Browning    222 

Inchcape  Rock,  The R.  Southey    576 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp R.  Broioning    470 

Indian  Death-Song    A.  H.  Hunter    290 

Indian  Names L.  H.  Sigourney    737 

Indians c.  Sprague    735 

Indian  Summer Anonymous 

Indian  Summer A  nonymons 

Infant's  Death,  On  an A  nonymous 

In  Heaven T.  Westwood 

In  Memoriam,  Selections  from A.  Tennyson 

Inner  Vision,  The W.  Words-worth 

Inscription  :  Faversham  Church A  nonymous 

Insignificant  Existence /.  Watts    698 

Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva,  On  an . .  7".  .5.  ^  Idrich    708 

Introspection G.  Arnold    213 

Inuectiue  against  Loue,  An Anonymous     146 

Invitation,  An y.  R.  Lowell      53 

Invocation  to  my  Lyre A.  Cowley    691 

Invocation  to  Rain  in  Summer W.  C.  Bennett    713 

Invocation  to  the  Angel Byron      95 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart  Sir  y.  Suckling      S6 

Ireland D.  F.  MacCarthy     523 

I  remember,  I  remember 7".  Hood      41 

Irish  Emigrant's  Lament,  The Lady  Dufferin    2S8 

Ironsides,  Old O.  W.Holmes    575 

I  saw  Thee R.  Palmer    358 

I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning.. y.  G  C.  Brainard     72 

Island,  The  .    R.  H.  Dana     637 

Italy 3'.  Rogers    62S 

It  kindles  all  my  soul Casimir  0/  Poland    333 

It  never  comes  again R.  H.  Stoddard     52 

Ivy  Green,  The  C.  Dickens    42S 

I  will  that  men  pray  everywhere../]^.  Ware,  yr.    335 


396 


667 


Jackdaw  of  Hheims R.  H.  Barham 

Jaffar L  Hunt 


& 


[&-^ 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


943 


-a 


Jamie  's  on  the  Stormy  Sea D.  M.  Moir  574 

Jane ^V.  Perry  132 

Jeanie  Morrison IV.  Motlierroell  J95 

Jennie  kissed  me  Z-.  Hunt  50 

Jester's  Sermon,  The G.  W.  Thornbury  729 

Jewish  Hymn  in  Jerusalem H.  H .  JMHmait  336 

Jim B.  Harte  goo 

Jock  Johnstone,  the  Tinkler 7-  i^^ogg  5';5 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo  R.  Bums  173 

John  Barleycorn  A'.  Bur^s  S54 

John  Brown  of  Osoawattomie  ....£■.  C.  Stedman  537 

John  Davidson Afwuytnous  859 

Jonsou,  Ode  to  Ben    R.  Herrick  815 

Jonson,  Prayer  to  Bon  A'.  Herrick  815 

Jonson's  Commonplace  Book,  Ben  Lord  Falkla7td  815 

Jonson.  To  the  Memory  of  Ben J.  Cleveland  S15 

Jorasse 5.  Rogers  604 

Judge  Not A.  A.  Procter  440 

June J.  R.  Lotucll  3S6 

June IV.  C-  Bryant  Ixxvii 

June,  The  Child's  Wish  in C  Gilman  3S7 

Justice R.  U'.  Emerson  746 

K. 

Katie H-  Thurod  97 

Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey A  ncnymous  99 

Katydid O.  If.  Holmes  450 

Keep  my  Memory  Green A  nouymous  72S 

Kilmeny y_  Hogg-  766 

Kindred  Hearts /'.  Hemans  58 

King  is  cold,  The  R.  Browning  805 

King  John  and  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury  .Anon.  S53 

King  of  Denmark's  Ride,  The C  E.  Norton  2SS 

lOng  of  Thule,  The    Goethe  7S5 

Ivissing  's  no  Sin Anonymous  136 

Kiss  me  softly y.  G.  Saxe  134 

Kiss.  The R.  Herrick  135 

Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves,  The  IV.  H'ordsivorth  25 

Kitty  of  Coleraine A  nonymous  1 37 

Knight's  Tomb,  The S.  T.  Coleridge  4S2 

L. 

Laborer,  Tlie  7.  Cutre  503 

Labor  is  to  Pray,  To F.  S.  Osgood  502 

Labor  Song D.  F.  MacCarthy  502 

Lady  Ann  Bothwell's  Lament  A  nonymons  231 

Lady  before  Marriage,  To  a T.  Tickell  161 

Lady  lost  in  the  Wood,  The  Milton  755 

Lady's  Looking-Glass,  The J/  Prior  74 

Lady's  Yes,  The E.  B.  Browning  79 

Laird  o'  Cockpen,  The    Baroness  Nairn  156 

Lake  Leman Lord  Byron  633 

Lake  Leman,  Storm  at  Night  on Lord  Byron  634 

Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swam.p,  The T.  Moore  7S2 

L'  Allegro Milton  709 

Lamb,  Esq..  To  John C.  Lamb  833 

Lambs  at  Play    R.  Bloomfield  431 

Lament,  A    P.  B   Shx-lley  243 

Lament  for  Bion Mosckus  282 

Lament  of  the  Border  Widow A  nonymous  289 

Lancashire  Doxolojy,  A D.  M.  Craik  502 

Landlady's  Daughter,  Tho Ukland  77 

Land  of  Lands,  The A.  Tennyson  5 1 5 

Land  o'  the  Leal,  The   Baroness  Nairn  292 

Lass  of  Richmond  Hill,  The J.  Upton  90 

La3t  Leaf,  The O.  IV.  Holmes  244 

Late  I  stayed.  Too IV.  R.  Spencer  727 

Late  Spring,  The L.  C.  Moulton  243 

Late,  Too    D.  M.  Craik  280 

Late,  Too F.  H.  Ludlow  716 

Latter  Rain,  The 7  Very  395 

Launch,  The H.  W.  Long/ellovj  563 


1  Laus  Deo y.  G.  IVkiitier 

I  Law  7-  BeaiUe 

I  Lawyer's  Invocation  to  Spring,  The  —  Browtiell 

I  Lear's  Prayer Shakespeare 

\  Left  Behind    E.  A.  Allen 

I  Left  on  the  Battle-Field S.  T.  Bolton 

\  Legacy,  My H,  Hunt 

'  Leonidas,  The  Death  of G-  Croly 

Leper,  The N.P.  Willis 

Let  Erin  remember  the  day5  of  old T.  Moore 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain R.  Bums 

Letters R.  IV.  Emerson 

Life B.  ir.  Pro-tcr 

'  Life G.  Herbert 

'  Life R.H.  Wilde 

Life  and  Eternity A  nonymous 

I  Life,  A  Psalm  of //.  W.  Longfelloiu 

I  Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art  .A.  L.  Barbauld 

!  Life.  The  River  of 7'.  Campbell 

\  Light    Bourdillon 

\  Lightning,  Song  of  the G-  W-  Cutter 

i  Like  a  Laverock  in  the  Lift    7-  htgelow 

Lincoln,  Abraham 7-  B.  Lowell 

Lincoln,  Abraham  (From  "Punch")  J'om  Taylor 

Lincoln,  Robert  of /f'.  C.  Bryant 

Linda  to  Hafed T.  Moore 

Lines  and  Couplets A-  Pope 

I  Lines  to  the  Memory  of  Annie //.  B.  Stowe 

Lines  written  by  one  in  the  Tower  Ch.  Tychborn 

Lines  written  in  an  Album W.  Gaylord 

Lines  written  the  Night  before  his  Execution 

Sir  W.  Raleigh 

Lion's  Ride,  The F.  Freiligmth 

Lions,  The  Glove  and  the  L.  Hunt 

Litany Sir  R.  Grant 

Little  Beach  Bird,  The R.  N.  Tana 

Little  Bell T.  Westwood 

Little  Billee // '.  M.  Tftackeray 

Little  Cloud,  The y.  H.  Bryant 

Little  Feet  A  nonymous 

Little  Goldenhair A  nonyinous 

Little  Match  Girl,  The II.  C.  A  ndcrson 

Little  Milliner,  The R.  Buchanan 

Little  Puss A  nonymous 

Little  Puss S.  A.  Woolsey 

Living  Waters C.  Spencer 

Lochaber  no  more A.  Ramsay 

Lochiel's  Warning T.  Campbell 

Locksiey  Hall A.  Tennyson 

London    W.  H  'ordsivorth 

London  Churches     R.  M-  Milnes 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 7-  B.  Lowell 

Lord  of  Butrago,  The  7  G  Lo:khart 

Lord  Walter's  Wife  E.  B.  Browning 

Lord,  when  those  glorious  lights  I  see  G.  Witlwr 

Lost  Chord,  A A.  A.  Procter 

Lost  Days D.  G.  Rossetti 

Lost  Heir,  The '/'.  Hood 

Lost  Sister,  The L.  H.  Sigottmey 

Louis  XV 7-  Wilson 

Louse,  To  a R.  Burtts 

Love     A.  C.  Sivinburne 

Love Shakespeare 

Love T.  K.  Hervey 

Love  against  Love D.  A.  M 'assign 

Love  and  Time D.  F.  MacCarthy 

Love  Dissembled Shakespeare 

Love.  First Lord  Byron 

Love  is  a  Sickness   .S".  Daniel 

Love  Knot,  The N-  Perry 

Love- Letters  made  of  Flowers L.  Himt 

Love  lightens  Labor  A  nonymous 


-^ 


[& 


94-i 


IXDKX  OF  TITLES. 


e- 


Loveliness  of  Love,  The    Ai 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly   W.  Allingham  154 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long Attouymous  75 

Lovo  me  not  for  comely  gi-ace A  itonymom  75 

Love  Not C.  E.  XorioH  241 

Love  of  God  Supreme,  The y.  It  'edcy  355 

Love  of  God,  The li  Rasaxs  350 

Love  of  God,  The H.  Scuddrr  357 

Lovers,  The Ph  Cary  919 

Love  scoiiis  Degrees P.  //.  Hay  tie  69 

Love's  Memory Shakesffure  195 

Love's  Philosophy /■*.  B.  ShelUy  136 

Love's  Silence Sir  Ph.  Sidney  So 

Love's  Young  Dream T,  Moore  324 

Love,  The  Gai'den  of //'.  Blake  713 

Low-backed  Car,  The S.  Lover  154 

Liicusta,  To R.  Lovelace  194 

Lucasta.To:  On  Going  to  the 'Wara..^.  Lox'elacr  1S5 

Lucknow,  The  Relief  of R.  Loioell  47 1 

Lucretia,  Brutus  over  the  Body  of.  ..J.  H.  Payne  m 

Lucy IV,  t^ords^vorth  49 

Lute  Player,  The B.  Taylor  137 

Lycidas Milton  382 

Lyke-Wake  Dirge,  The A  nonymons  298 

Lyi-e,  Invocation  to  my    A- Cowley  691 

M. 

Macanlay  ;*'.  .s".  Landor  837 

MacGregor's  Gathering Sir  II'.  Siolt  5 1 4 

Mahmoud  L.  Hunt  684 

MahoKtmy-Tree,  The W.  M.  T/t.tckeray  7 1 4 

Maidenhood H.  ir.  Long/ello-.u  48 

Maiden's  Choice,  The H.  Fielding  76 

Maiden  with  a  MUking-Pail,  A J.  lng,'lo:u  1 16 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part Lord  Byron  184 

Maid's  Lament,  The /r.  S.  Landor  279 

Maid's  Remonstrance,  The T.  Campbell  80 

Maire  Bhan  Aster 'P.  Davis  164 

Maize,  The »'.  IV.  Fosdick  420 

Majesty  in  Misery CAar/es  I.  239 

Make  Believe  A.  Cary  312 

Make  way  for  Liberty  \ J.  J^fontgomery  528 

Making  Port elnonymons  571 

Malone,  "Widow Ch.  Lever  905 

Man    E.  y'oiwg  694 

Maniac,  The M.  G.  Leiois  356 

Man's  Mortality ,?.  Il'aslell  302 

Man,  The  Seven  Ages  of Shakespeare  733 

Man  —  Woman Lord  Byron  695 

Man  —  Woman    L.  H.  Sigonrtiey  694 

March "'.  Morris  379 

Miu'co  Bozzaris Fits-Greene  Halleck  534 

Miu-iana A.   Tennyson  233 

Mariner's  Dream,  The  W.  Dimond  567 

Miuiners  of  England,  Ye T.  CampMl  5S7 

Marion's  Men,  Song  of /f .  C  Bryant  533 

"Marriage S.  Rogers  165 

MiuseiUes  Hymn,  The   R.  de  Lisle  538 

Martial  Klegy Tyrttens  454 

M;u-tial  Fi'iendsliip Shakespeare  60 

Miutyrs'  Hymn,  Th»    M.  L iither  33S 

Mary  in  Heaven,  To R.  Burns  279 

Miuy  Leo   y.  Clare  91 

Mai"y  Morison    R.  Bums  90 

Maiy's  Dream y.  Loive  380 

Master's  Touch,  The   !/.  Bonar  351 

Match,  A  A.  C.  Swinhime  89 

Maud  MuUer  y.  G.  II  'hittier  104 

May y.  G.  Percivat  3S5 

May L.Hunt  383 

May  Morning  Milton  384 

Mazeppa's  Ride   Lord  Byron  609 


Mazzin J L.  C.  Kcdd>-n  848 

Mejuxs  to  attain  Ha;)py  Life,  The  .  .Lord  Surrey  177 

Meeting A'.  Hrovn:rtg  1 10 

Meeting  of  the  Ships,  The P.  Hemans  57 

Mooting,  The y.G  ll'hittier  340 

Melrose  Abbey  Sir  II '.  Scott  624 

Melrose  Abbey,  Inscription  on A  nonymous  308 

Memory  green,  Keep  my A  nonymous  728 

Men  and  Boys Ch.  Th.  Alimer  527 

"  Mercenary  "  I^Iamage,  A    L>.  .1/  Craik  78 

Mercy    Shakespeare  676 

Merman,  The  Foi-saken M.  A  mold  775 

Merry  Lark,  The   Ch.  Kingsley  370 

Metrical  Feet S.T.Coleridge  919 

Midges  daiice  aboon  the  bum,  The  A'.  Tannahill  371 

Might  of  one  fair  face.  The    M.  Angela  69 

Mighty  foi-tress  is  our  God,  A M.  Luther  335 

MilkingMaid,  The C.  G.  Rosseiti  67 

Milkmaid,  The y.  Taylor  iS6 

Milkmaid's  Song,  The J".  DoMl  117 

Millais's  "Huguenots" Anonymous  Si 

Miller's  Daughter,  The    .'I .  Tennyson  131 

Milton,  To (/■.  Il'ordsu'orth  815 

Milton,  Under  the  Portrait  of  John  ..y.Pryden  815 

Minerva,  On  an  Intaglio  Head  of..  T.  B.  Aldrich  708 

Ministry  of  Angels,  "The E.  Spenser  337 

Minstrel's  Song T.  Chalterton  2S2 

Minute-Gun,  The R.  S.  Sharpe  5S6 

Miralwau    7-  H-'ilson  824 

Misivdventures  at  Margate   R.  H.  Barham  871 

Mist    H.  D.  Tkoreau  736 

Mist,  Ili  tile 3".  IVoolsey  760 

Mistletoe  Bough,  The  T.  H.  Bayly  606 

Mistress,  The C  Patmore  123 

Mithorless  Bairn,  The    II'.  Thorn  39 

Moan,  moan,  ye  dying  gales H.  Neele  235 

Mocking-Bird,  The «■".  Whitman  434 

Modern  Belle,  The Stark  8S2 

Modern  House  that  Jack  built.  The  Anonymous  913 

Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball,  Mr Thacieray  904 

Moncontour    T.  B.  Macanlay  s  if> 

Monterey C  /•".  Hoffman  462 

Montrose,  The  Execution  of II'.  E.  Aytoun  791 

Moods    Sir  y.  Suckiiug  66 

Moonlight  in  Summer   R.  Bloomfield  394 

Moon,  'ro  the  Harvest H.  K.  II  hite  495 

Moore,  Burhil  of  Sir  John C.  IVolfe  832 

Moore,  To  Thomas  Lord  Byron  832 

Moral  Cosmetics  H.  Smith  491 

Morning    7  Ctmuinglmm  368 

Morning  Glory,  The  M.  II'.  Lo:iell  370 

Morning  Meditations   P.  Hood  868 

Mosquito,  Tea "'■  C.  Bryant'  451 

Moss  Rose,  The    F.  fV  Knimmacher  423 

Mother  and  Child JC  C  Simms  696 

Mother  and  Poet E.  B.  Browning  273 

Mother's  Heart,  The  C.  E.  A'orlon  33 

Mother's  Hope,  Tlie    L.  Blanchard  33 

Mother's  Pictuie,  My )/ '.  Cm-per  739 

Mother's  Sacrifice,  The J>'.  Smith  403 

Mother's  Stratcigem,  The   Leonidas  24 

Moth's  kiss,  first,  The A'.  Browning  1 37 

,  Mountain  Daisy,  To  a R.  Burns  425 

Mourn,  Blessed  aio  they  that IV.  C.  Bryant  7 18 

Mourners  came  at  break  of  day,  The  5".  F.  .1  dams  a6i 

i  Mourner,  The    G.  Crnl>/v  192 

Mouse,  Tea R;  Bums  431 

Mowers,  The MB.  Ben/on  4q5 

Muff,  On  an  Old  F.  Locker  876 

1  Mummy  at  Belzoni's  Exhibition,  Address  to  the 

'                                                                                //.  Smith  661 

Mummy  at  Belzoni's  Exhibition  :  Ansv.-tr  .-Inon  662 


fl- 


IXDE.X   Of  TITLES. 


94C 


-a 


Murat Lord  Byron 

Miu-der,  The  Sluikespcart 

Muaic Sliakespeare 

Musical  Duel,  The J.  Ford 

Music  :  Alexander's  Feast J.  Drydcn 

Musical  Instrument,  A E.  B.  Brownius 

Music,  Au  Ode  to  :  The  Passions    ....ly.  Collins 

Music's  Duel R.  Crashaw 

My  Autumn  Walk IV.  C.  Bryant 

My  Bird E.  C.  Judsoii 

My  Brigantino y.  F.  Cooper 

My  Child y.  I'ierpont 

My  Cottage y.  IViUon 

My  Country A.  Tennyson 

My  Country y.  Montgomery 

My  deal"  and  only  love y.  Gra/utm 

My  eyes  I  how  I  love  you y.  G.  Saxe 

My  God,  I  love  thee St.  F.  Xavier 

My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie  . .  W.  Motherwell 

My  Infant  Son,  To T.  Hood 

My  Legacy //.  Hunt 

My  Little  Saint y.  Xorris 

My  love  in  her  attire A  nonymous 

My  love  is  always  neiir F.  Locker 

My  Love  (Patchwork  Verses) Anonymous 

My  minie  to  nie  a  kingdom  is Sir  E.  Dyer 

My  Mother's  Picture ly.  Co-ivper 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home i".  C.  Foster 

My  Playmate y.  G.  Whit  tier 

Myself,  Of A.  Cowley 

My  Ship E.  A.  Allen 

My  Sweet  Sweeting A  >tonymoits 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand A.  L.  U-'aring 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart Sir  Pk.  Sidney 

My  Wife  and  Child T.y.  yackson 

My  wife  's  a  winsome  woo  thing R.  Burns 


N. 


•7. 


Fields 


Nantucket  Skipper,  The  . . . 

Naples S.  Rogers 

Napoleon Lord  Byron 

Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor T.  Camtbelt 

Napoleon  II E.  C.  Embury 

Napoleon,  Odo  to Lord  Byron 

Narcissa E.  Young 

Naseby T.  B.  Macaulay 

National  Anthems R.  H.  Ne-well 

National  Ode,  The  ( ' '  Centennial, "  1876)  B.  Taylor 

Nature y.  Very 

Nature's  Chain A.  Pope 

Nature,  God  everywhere  in C.  IVileox 

Nautilus,  The  Chambered O.  IF.  Holmes 

Nearer  Home Ph.  Cary 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thO-7 S.  F.  Adams 

Negro  Boatmen,  Song  of  the y.  G.  IVhittier 

Neighbor  Nelly R.  B.  Brojtgh 

Nevermore,  The D.  G.  Rossetti 

New  Church  Organ,  The IV.  M.  Carletou 

New  Enghund  in  Winter y.  G.  IVhittier 

New  Jerusalem,  Tho D.  Dickson 

Newport  Beach H.  Th.  Tuckerman 

New  Year's  Eve A.  Tennyson 

New  York  Bay,  Weehawken  and  the ... .  Halleck 

Niagara,  The  Fall  of y.  G.  C.  Brainard 

Nicholas,  The  Dead  Czar D.  Af.  Craik 

Night y.  B.  White 

Night y.  Montf^omery 

Night Lord  Bvron 

Night P.  B.  Shelley 

Ni j'nt  before  the  Wedding,  The A.  Smith 

Nightfall:  A  Picture A.  B.  Street 

N!"c'it,  '^y^in  to G.  IV.  Bethunc 


Night,  Hymn  to  the H.  IV.  Longfellow 

Nightingale  and  Glow-worm,  The \V.  Cowper 

Nightingale  Bereaved ,  The y.  Thomson 

Nightingale,  Ode  to  a y.  Keats 

Nightingale,  The    G.  I  'icente 

Nightuigale,  The 1/  T.  Visscher 

Nightingale,  The  Mother E   M.  de  VWegas 

Nightingale,  To  the R   Barnfield 

Night  Piece,  The K.  Merrick 

Night  Sea,  The H.  P.  Spofford 

Night,  To P.  B.  Shelley 

No  I T.  Hood 

No  Baby  in  the  House C.  G.  Delliver 

Nobleiaau  and  tho  Pensioner,  The i*/effel 

Nobly  Born,  Tho E.  S.  H. 

Nocturnal  Sketch T.  Hood 

Noontide y.  Leydcn 

Norham  Castle Sir  IV.  Scott 

Northern  Fiu-mer A.  Tennyson 

Northern  Lights,  The B.  F.  Taylor 

Northman  R.  IV.  Emerson 

Nerval y.  Home 

Nose  and  the  Eyes,  Tho IV.  Co^vper 

Noso,  To  my i.  H.  Forrester 

Nothing  but  loaves L.  E.  Akcrman 

Nothing  to  wear  IV.  A .  Butler 

Not  on  the  Battle-Field y.  Pierpont 

Not  ours  tho  vow.s B.  Barton 

Not  Ripe  for  Pulitical  Power  — Sir  y.  Bowring 

Now  and  Afterwards D.  M.  Craik 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep A  nonymous 

Now  or  Never O.  IV.  Holmes 

Nuptials  of  Adam  and  Eve Milton 

Nuremberg   //.  IV.  Longfellow 

Nursery  Rhymes Anonymous 

Nursery  Song    Anonymous 

Nurse's  Watch C.  T.  Brooks 

Nymph  of  tho  Severn,  The Milton 

Nymph's  Reply,  Tho Sir  IV.  R.iUigh 

O. 

Oaths IV.  Cowper 

O,  breathe  not  his  name  !  /'.  Moore 

Ocean R.  Poltok 

Ocean,  Address  to  the  B.  IV.  Procter 

Ocean,  The Ch.  Tennyson 

Ocean,  Tho  y.  Montgomery 

Odo  for  a  Social  Meeting O.  IV.  Holmes 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  y.  Keats 

Odo,  The  National  (1876) B.  Taylor 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale y.  Keats 

Odo  to  Ben  Jonson    R.  Herrick 

Ode  to  Napoleon  Lord  Kyron 

Odo  to  Washington // '.  C  Bryant 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw R.  Bums 

Of  Myself   A.  Cowley 

Og,  —  Shadwell  the  Dramatist 7.  Dryden 

Ob,  faii'ost  of  the  i-ural  maids IV.  C.  Bryant 

O,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear  I G.  Massey 

Old Ji-  Hoyt 

Old  Admiral,  The E.  C.  Stedman 

Old  Ago  of  Temperance    Shakespeare 

Old  Arm-Chair,  The    E.  Cook 

Old  Bui-ying-Ground,  The y.  T.  Trowbridge 

Old  Continentals,  The G.  H.  McMaster 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The C.  Lamb 

Old  Gaelic  Lullaby   A  nonymous 

Old,  Give  me  the   R./f.  Messenger 

Old  Grimes A.  T.  Green 

Old  Ironsides    O.  IV.  Holmes 

OldMaid,  The    A.B.  IVelby 

Old  Oaken  Bucket,  The i".  IVoodw.irth 


[&^ 


1^ 


^ 


I4G 


IKDEX  OF  TITLES. 


-a 


B-- 


Old  Schoolhouse,  The A  notiymoiis 

Old  Sea- Port,  An Anonymous 

Old  Sergeant,  The B.  F.  IVillson 

Old  Year,  The  Death  of  the A.  Tennyson 

O'Lincoln  Family \V.  Ftagg 

Olivia    SImkespeare 

O  mistress  mine  I  Shakfs/>fare 

Once    M.  L .  RilUr 

One  Gray  Hair,  The »^.  S.  Lmidor 

One-Hoss  Shay,  The O.  IV.  llobnes 

On  Love Sir  R.  Aylan 

Only  a  Woman D.M.  Craik 

Only  a  Year  H.  B.  Stowe 

Only  Seven H.  S.  Leigh 

Only  the  clothes  she  wore  N.  G.  Sluplurd 

Only  waiting A.  A.  Procter 

Opal,  Origin  of  the A  nonymous 

Opportunity Sluikespeare 

Orator  Puff T.  Moore 

Order  for  a  Picture,  An  A.  Cary 

Org;ui,  The  New  Church \V.  M.  Carleton 

Orieut,  The Lord  Byron 

Orphan  Boy's  Tale,  The A.  Opie 

Orphans,  The AnoiiyDious 

0,  saw  ye  honnie  Lesley  ? R,  Bums 

O,  snatched  aw.ay  in  beauty's  bloom .  Lord  Byron 
O  swallow,  swallow,  flying  South  ..A.  7'cnnyson 

Othello's  Defense Shakespeare 

O,  the  pleasant  days  of  old  !    F.  Braiun 

Other  World,  The  H.  B.  Stowe 

O,  the  sight  entrancing T.  Moore 

Our  Boat  to  the  Waves  ly.  E.  C/ianning 

Our  Wee  White  Rose G.  Massey 

Outgrown  y.  C.  R.  Dorr 

Outward  Bound    Lord  Byron 

Over  the  Kiver N.  IV.  t'ric^t 

O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ?  Knox 

O  winter,  wilt  thou  never  go    D.  Gray 

Owl,  The B.  iV.  Procter 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt P.  B  She/ley 

P. 

Pack  clouds  away  '/'.  Ifeywood 

Psestum,  The  Grecian  Temples  at    Raymond 

Palm,  The  Arab  to  the     B.  Taylor 

Palm-Tree,  The J.  G.  Xi^hitiicr 

Pamfili  Doria,  A  Day  in  the H.  B.  Stowe 

Pan  in  Love IK  U^.  Story 

Paper    B.  Frank/in 

Paradise  Lost,  Selections  from Mi/ton 

Parrhasius jV.  P.  U'iliis 

Parting  Lovers E.  B.  Browning 

Parting  Lovers,  The IV.  R.  Alger 

Parting  of  Romeo  and  Juliet Shakespeare 

Passage F.  Mahony 

Passage,  The L.  Uhland 

Passing  Away    J.  Pierpont 

Passing  Bell,  The J.  Pierpont 

Passioriate  Pilgrim's  Song,  The G.  Massey 

Passions,  The  IV.  Col/ins 

Pastoral,  A a.  J.  Mundy 

Patchwork  Verses  A  ?to?tytnous 

Paul  Revere's  Ride    M.  IV.  Longfellow 

Pauper's  Death-Bed,  The  Mrs.  Soulhry 

Pauper's  Drive,  The   T.  Noel 

Peace Ph.  Cary 

Peace,  uo  Peace  S/tnkespcare 

Peace,  Ode  to tV.  Tennent 

Peasant,  The G.  Cra'.be 

Peda-;ogue,  The  Jolly  Old  G.  A  mold 

Peddler's  Pack,  The   Shakespeare 

Peg  of  Limavaddy   M'  M.  Thackeray 


Pelican,  The J.  Montgomery  444 

Pembroke,  Epitiiph  on  the  Countess  of  B.  Jonson  S16 

Penseroso,  II Milton  710 

Perfection  Shakespeare  676 

Pericles  and  Aspasia    G.  Croly  506 

Per  Pacem ad  Lucem A.  A.  Procter  378 

Perseverance L.  da  Vinci  699 

Perseverance R.  S.  S.  Amlros  441 

Petition  to  Time,  A  B.  IV.  Procter  182 

Pet  Name,  The E-  B.  Bro:vning  35 

Petrified  Fern,  The M.  L.  B.  Branch  754 

Philip,  my  King D.  M-  Craik  17 

Phillida  and  Corydon .V.  Breton  144 

PhUlis  ismyonly  joy    Sir  Ch.  Sedley  65 

PhilUs  the  Fail- N.  Breton  69 

Philomela MA  mold  443 

Philosopher  and  his  Daughter,  The  Ch.  S.  Brooks  S94 

Philosopher's  Scales,  The y.  Taylor  78s 

Philosopher  Toad,  The  R.  S.  Nichols  789 

Physics    IV.  IVhewell  895 

Picket-Guard,  The ..     11.  L.  Beers  474 

Picture,  On  a    A.C.  C.  Botta  201 

Pictures  of  Memoiy  A.  Cary  38 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  Tlie R.  Browning  77S 

Pilgrimage,  The    Sir  IV.  Raleigh  324 

Pilgrims  and  the  Peas,  The Dr.  IVotcott  863 

PUlar  of  the  Cloud,  The y.H.  Newman  326 

Plaidio,The    Ch.  SiMey  136 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James..  5.  Pfarte  8SS 

Platonic IV.  B.  Terrett  61 

Plea  for  tho  Anijnals y.  Thomson  704 

Pleasure-Boat,  The R.  H.  Dana  619 

Pliocene  Skull,  To  the B.  Harie  892 

Plowman,  Tho O.  IV.  Holmes  496 

Plow,  The  Useful A  nonymous  406 

Poet    R.  IV.  Emerson  746 

Poet  of  To-day,  The S.y.  L  ippiucott  73S 

Poet's  Bridal-Day  Song,  The  — A.  Cunningham  169 

Poet's  Reward,  The  y.  C.  II  hittier  667 

Poland T.  Campbell  527 

Poor  Fisher  Folk,  The ( '.  Hugo  577 

Portrait,  A     E.  B.  drowning  45 

Posie,  The    R.  Bums  91 

Possession   O.  .Meredith  15S 

Possession    B.  Taylor  168 

Potato,  The A  nonymous  421 

Praise   G.  Pferheri  326 

Praxiteles    Anonymous  816 

Prayer Mary,  Queen  0/ Hungary  328 

Prayer  for  Life,  A  ...   G.  S.  Burleigh  342 

Pre-existence P.  H .  Hayne  734 

Pretty  Girl  of  Loch  Dan,  The i^.  Ferguson  48 

Primroses,  To . .  -R.  Herrick  4^3 

Primrose,  The R.  Herrick  424 

Primrose,  The  Early //.  A".  White  424 

Prince  Adeb G.  H.  Boker  607 

Private  of  the  Buffs,  The Sir  F.  H.  Doyle  473 

Problem,  The R.  W.  Emerson  673 

Procrastination    E.Young  723 

Profusion     A.Pope  702 

Psalm  of  Life.  A H.  IV .  Longfellow  686 

Pumpkin,  The y.  G.  Whittier  421 

Puritan  Lovers,  The Marian  Douglas  84 

Pygmalion  and  the  Image IV.  Morris  113 

Q. 

Quack  Medicines G.  Crabbe    707 

Quakerdom C.G.  f /alpine    106 

Quarrel  of  Friends,  The J^.  T.  Coleridge      59 

Quarterdeck,  The  Earl  of G.  Macdonald '  603 

Quatrains  and  Fragments  R.  IV.  Emerson    746 

Queen  Mab Shakespe, 


-^ 


a- 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


947 


U 


Quiet  from  God  A  nottytuous 

Qniet  Life,  The A.  t'opt 

R. 

RaUroad  Rliyme J.  G.  Saxe 

Eainbow,  The /K  ll'ordsworth 

Rain  in  Summer H.  ir.  Longfctimv 

Rain  in  Summer,  Invocatiou  to W.  C,  Bennett 

Rain  on  the  Roof C  Kinney 

Rain,  The  L;itter  J.  Very 

Ramon   B.  Harte 

Raven,  The E.  A.  Pm 

Razor-Seller,  The Dr.  Wolcott 

Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  The ..H.IV.L ongfelloiw 

Reapers  Dream,  The T.  B.  Rettd 

Reason  and  Instinct A.  Pope 

Recipe  for  Salad ,5".  Smith 

Red  Jacket,  On  a  Portrait  of  Fits-Greene  HnlUck 

Reformer,  The J.  G.  tVhittier 

Reichst;idt(Napoleon  II.)    E.  C.  Evtimry 

Relic,  A y.  K.S. 

Republic,  Battle-Hjrmn  of  the J.  IK  Howe 

Reputation Skakapeare 

Resi;;uation //.  IV.  Long/ello-M 

Rest M.  W.  HowUind 

Rest,  True J.  S.  Du,ig/ii 

Retirement T.  li'arton 

Ketiiemeut,  The C/t.  Cotton 

Retort,  The G.  P.  .Morris 

Ketributrou  N.  IK  L  onsfelto-M 

Retrospection A.  Tennyson 

Revedu  Midi R.  T.  Cooke 

Revere's  Ride,  Paul H.  IV.  Longf^Uovj 

Revival G.  Herbert 

Rhine,  Ou  the   IV.  L.  BmiUs 

Rhine,  The Lord  Byron 

Rhodora,  The R.   ;C.  Emerson 

Richmond  Churchyard,  Yorkshire  . .  //.  Knowtes 

Rienzi  to  the  Romans M.  R.  Mit/ord 

Right  must  win.  The F.  ir.  F.tber 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner   ..S.  T.  Coleridge 

Rise  of  Species,  The «-■.  J,  Co:irtli'ope 

Ritter  Hugo C.  G  Leland 

Rivalry  ui  Love ;;-.  U'aUk 

River  Song F.  B.  Santoni 

Roixsted  Sucking  Pig Punch 

Robert  of  Lincoln II'.  C  Bryant 

Robin  Adair Lady  Ke/^pel 

Robin  Goodfellow  B.  Jonson 

Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale Anonymous 

Robinson  he,  John  P J  R.  Lo-.vell 

Robin,  The J.  G.  Whittier 

Robin,  The  English H.  Weir 

Rocked  in  the  Ci"adle  of  the  Deep E.  IVillard 

Rock  me  to  sleep E.  A.  Allen 

Rock  of  Ages A  nonymous 

Roman  Campagua,  A  View  across  £■-  B  Bro^vning 
Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest.  The  E.  B.  Brozuning 
Roman  Father's  Sacrifice,  The  ...T.  B.  Macaulay 

Rome ,y.  Rogers 

Kory  O'More i'.  Lover 

Rosalie \V  Allston 

Rositlind's  Complaint T.  Lodge 

Rosaline  .  ^- T.  Lodge 

Rose  and  the  Gauntlet,  The ?'.  Wilson 

Rose-Bush,  The IV.  W.  Cahhoell 

Rose  of  the  World,  The C.  Patmore 

Rose,  The B.  Taylor 

Rose,  The Sir  » '.  Scott 

Rose,  The tV.  Cowfer 

Rose,  The  Moss IK.  F.  Krummachcr 

Rough  Rhyme  ou  a  Rough  Matter,  A  . .  Kingsley 


Rousseau  and  Cowper C.  Wilcox  825 

Rousseau's  Isle,  On  J.  Miller  625 

Rover,  Song  of  the Lord  Byron  5^4 

Royal  George,  On  the  Loss  of  the —  W.  Cozoper  564 

Royal  Guest,  The J.  IK  Ho^ae  59 

Rudolph,  the  Headsman O.  IK.  Holmes  SS 1 

Rule  Britaunia  !    J.Thomson  515 

Ruling  Pitssiou,  The  A.  Pope  70s 

Russian  Ice-Palace,  A W.  Cozuper  639 

Rustic  Lad's  Laauent  in  the  Town,  The  D  M.  Moir  198 

Ruth     R.  IK  Raymond  23 

Ruth /■  Hood  49 

G. 

Sabbath  Morning,  The J.  Leyden  370 

Sabbath  of  the  Soul,  The A.  L.  Barbautd  353 

Sabbath,  The... J.  Grahame  340 

Sack  of  Baltimore,  The T.  Davis  792 

Said  I  not  so  7 G.  Herbert  330 

Sailor's  Consolation,  The T.  Hood  590 

Sally  in  our  Alley H.  Carey  154 

Samela R.  Greene  64 

Samson  Agonist«s Milton  241 

Sandpiper,  The C.  Thaxler  446 

Sands  o'  Dee,  The Ck.  Kingsley  577 

Satan's  Address  to  the  Sun    Mdton  S05 

Satan,  The  Caliph  and J  F.  Clarke  7S9 

Saturday  Afternoon \'.  P.  li  'illis  52 

Saying  not  Meaning IK.  B.  II  'ake  S62 

Scandal   A.Pope  702 

Scholar  and  his  Dog,  A 7.  Marston  855 

Schoolmistress,  The    IK.  Slienstone  656 

Scotland    Sir  IK.  Scott  514 

Sea,  At y.  T.  Trowbridge  563 

Sea-Boy's  Farewell,  The   A  nonymous  573 

Sea-Fight,  The  /( nonymous  565 

Sea-Grot,  The    Lord  Byron  63S 

Sea  Life J.  Montgomery  580 

Sea-Murmurs E.  Cook  563 

Sea-Port,  An  Old Anonymous  575 

Search  after  God T  Heyioood  353 

Seaside  Well,  The    Anonymous  701 

Seasons,  Hymn  from  the y.  Thomson  377 

Seasons,  The  Four   A  nonymous  378 

Seas.  The  High   Sir  IK.  Scott  575 

Sea,  The B.  Barton  559 

Sea,  The B.  W  Procter  581 

Sea,  The R.  IK.  Emerson  562 

Sea,  The  (Childe  Harold) Lord  Byron  559 

Sea,  The  Fire  by  the A.  Cary  579 

Sea,  TheNight  H.P.  Spofford  57s 

Sea,  To T.  L   Bcddoes  5^9 

Sea.  Twilight  at A.  B.  Welby  474 

Sea-Weed   H.  IK.  Longfellow  5S2 

Secret  of  Death,  The  E.Arnold  295 

See.  O,  see:  Earl 0/ Bristol  366 

Selkirk,  Alexander,  Verses  by  /('.  Co'.vper  675 

Sempronius's  Speech  for  War y.  Addison  511 

Seneca  Lake,  To y.  G.  Percifal  410 

September G  A  mold  394 

Settler,  The   A   B  Street  649 

Seven  Ages  of  Man Shakespeare  723 

Seven  Times  Four y.  Ingelo^v  33 

Seven  Times  One  y.  Ingelow  33 

Seven  Times  Sis    y  Ingelow  165 

Seven  Times  Three  7.  In^elo^v  121 

Seven  Times  Two  y  higelo^o  46 

Sevigne,  To  Madame De  Montreuil  825 

"Sextant, "To  the    A.  M  IViUson  908 

Shaded  Water,  The IK.  G.  Simms  410 

PJiadwell  the  Dramatist,      O,: -.  Dryden  818 

t-h,all  Itellyou  whomllov.^-; ir  lir.ione  74 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


Sfaamus  O'Brien 

Shan  Van  Voclit 


Shepherds  Life,  A  '.'.'.'.'.'.' .'.■.■.'.■.■.'.■.■.■ '  ■^""">'""""    57S    Song,  Indian  Death' 


for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  A 7 


S/inkrspeui 
Wither 


Dryden  694 

,,  -  01   --""Jail  iyeiitn     A       f-f     U        .i 

77    Song,  Kdrner's  Sword-            r    /•  ^      /  "'° 

47    Song,  Labor ,:  '  Jt ' .i  ^.''""''^  4*3 


Shepherd's  Resolution,  The 

Shepherd  to  his  Love  The  r   nt    ", ■•/  i  "-"s,  i^auor n   s-    ,|/^,^     ,, 

Sheridan's  Ride  ...  ^  ^f '^'"S    '"t  I  ^ong,  Mignon's ^^  ^-  '""^CV^^Mj- 


ShfJft  S  PJ^antom  of  deUght  ":.W.  'iy,rd:Zr'l'k 

Ships  at  Sea   e    n  ^  a 

ShipuTeck,  The t  ^  ,-^' 

SicVita... "^-f;";-''" 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip .  .'.•.■.■.■.'.'. 'm  rI'J 

Siege  of  Be' — ^-  ^''^'^' 

Siesta,  The 


r  Clan- Alpine q-    ,,,   ^ 

67  I  Song  Of  Donald  the  Black,  Gathering  i^./r  %Z    'Z 


IV.  C.  Bryant 


of  Belgrade , . .  .^ 


_'^        '^'^  C.  jSo-fl^/ 

SiinL  of  Rain  '.■.'.■.■.■.'. n'J  '^"'"'^"""'' 


j?<ya'f«    Si6    Song  of  the  Camp    . 
no„y„,m,s    916    Song  of  the  Cavalry 


■^'"' G.  W.Cutler 

■  B.  Tnylo, 


JOr.  E.  7< 
.  ly.  Cottgreve 
H.  M.  Parker    65 

Marm.-iduke       r"r"i \'''-Morru    665  |  Song  of  the  Sea 

<-'■<-  olmaii,  the  3  ounre 


Silly  Fair 
Sinims,  M 
Singer,  The  Idle 


Song  of  the  Rover   


Sit  down,  sad  soul 
Skater-BeU( 


.  K'.  Procter 


S66    Song  of  the  Shejjherd's  Wife  . 


Skeleton,  Toa    . . ! ! ','.  T.  ■.'. '^J'"'^' 

Skulls,  On  some 

Skull,  The  ,       , 

Skull,  To  the  puocene::;.'.";:;:::;;;:^'"/^:: 

Skylark,  The 


B.  Harte     So 


7-  G.  Whittier 

Lord  Byron  5 84 

R-  H^.  Raymond  760 

R-  Greene  663 

T.Hood  254 

D.M.Moir  415 

Song,  RiVe;":.:".:*""' f  r-^r "  ^"^ 

".  .0.  CianOorn     755 

:,  Sleigh ,;     •  ^"''"'"-    '" 


Song  of  the  Shirt 

Song  of  the  South 

nonymous    736  [  Song  of  Wood  Nymphs. .  .V. s'^lv 

nonymous    64 )  I  Song,  River  .£>•"'. 

7S6    Song,  Siren' 


IV.Peliee    62 


■--J  nogs    436    Songsters,  Chorus  of  EngUsh        IV'^r, 

P.B.  ShelUy    437  [  Songsters.  The .  .V  ^     ^  ^  C-^-tt'oPe    4,; 


■  J,''^  ?."".''*''V- ■'■'■■'■'■'■'■B^iy"p"octer 


Skylark,'  To  the'. ' '. '. '„ '  '„  ^""f/    "'^'^  ,  ^""S^*' 

Skylark,  To  the '. "li-   ii,-    ' f  '"'i    ""^    " 

Slavery **^-  ^^ '"■dsworth    438  .         .,,  __ „„„,  „ 

Sleep :.;;: ---IV^Cowper    556!  Song,  The  Market- Wife's'..  9/,*,/     . 

Sleep E.B.Bro^vnmg    677  1  Sonnet  (in  prison) ... .    '  '   ".^^■■;-^^  ""'!'"    ^<"> 

Sleep -^E-iomig    677    Sonnets  "- ■  i^- Unrr:,on    554 

Sleep .'.■.■;;;; -J ■  ^'-'I'^'^i   677    sonnets  from  the  Port'uguese 

Sleep ^Shakespeare    677    Sonnet  to  a  Clam  ... . 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The.' j    /'  ^"^'"'^    ^^'^    Sonnets  to  George  Sand 

Sleeping  Beautv  den.nrt.,  Tiil .'  '^''''y^""    124  |  Sorrows  of  Werther   .- 


■7- R.  Lowell    ,66 


oieeping  Beauty  departs  The  j    -/■  --t  1  ""^luwa  01  wertner   ly  M  Ti.^^i.     " 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The  Revival  of 'the^'  r"""""'    ""    S°>^'b  Cry,  The '  "^ '  ^-  ^^  'tZZ 

Sleeping,  To  lanthe       ^"™  « '^e^    /„«j.^<,„     .24  ]  Soul's  Defiance.  The  ... .  ",     A^f""^ 


..y.  C  Saxe    S90 
.5.  Brownijtg    837 

875 


eeping,  To  lanthe p '„ 


i!::pi^  D^^l^r*":  ■  ■  ■  • -^--^^^t  :^;  i  ?-^'^.^— <^'  ^^^e 


Defiance,  The  ^ 


Sleeple 
Sleep,  The 


^i?.G.^„„«/    708  '  Spac'ious  flrma'm'e'nt 


Stoddard  358 
■  J.  Sylvester  721 
■"    A'^.  Dana     3-12 


3s u^  ,,^      ,  -"".     /:jo    opacious  nrmament  on  hiffh  TIip         v    ^  ^v 

Cave  of . . . ; ; ; "^^  ^'''"■f -'"•"■'    680  I  Spice-Tl-ee,  The !^  [  ™«  ' ' ' '  J  ^Jd.son 


Ijy  Hollow 

Sly  Thoughts   

1  School,  The 
Small  Beginnings 


IV  -f^f^"""-    753  I  Spider,  Bruce  and  the   

r   p  ;"""^    "'  I  Spinning-Wheel  Song,  The 

■ '  "ivptT"    '^=    Spinning-Wheel,  ThI 

'  ■     r,    fr    ,""'      '^  i  Spinster's  Stint,  A 

Smile  and  never  hedd  me       "-Miciay    697  |  Spirit-Land,  The 

Smiling  in  his  Sleep.  '"""' 

Smoke 

Smollett 

Knails,  Remonstrance  with  the 


"u'Vc^\:,7'""    't"    Splendid  ShiUiiig,  The....         v 

■H.  IV.  i  t.llman       22     Snor„»  _  T„.^  w'     „!. ^• 


7-  Sterli, 
. . .  B.  Barton 
7- P.  Waller 
.  A  nonymous 

■i.  Cary 

7    yery 


■  H.  D.  Thore 


Sporus,  —  Lord  Hervey 


•  Philllfs    856 


736  s;;L;^'..r:r::^:;:::: -/■''"''' 


S18 


7  Clmrchill    S18  I  Sprint    Anacreon  384 

su;;Sn;:::r::";"™ """ ^"^ """r'T"  ^=°  1 4ring'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.';.v;.v ■  •  ■  ^,;^- j^r^"  ", 

.now:  I  Winter  Sketch.'.'.'.-;. ^  ^"''    ^"^    Spring   ■:r'^'::"'^tZt  t\ 

■*   Hoyt    402  I  Spring ''.'""  3S3 

403    Spring,  Return  of .....'..."..'.'.'.'.'/)'. ' Konsatd  ^8^ 


."inow-Flak 
Snow-Shower,  The 
.Snow-storm,  A 


■ff.  ty.  Long/elh. 

■  C.  Bryant    402 


Sjiring 


■Snow-storm!  The'.'.'.'. ^    ?..  ^"'""<"'    4°3  ;  Spring] 

Snug  Little  Island,  The.     ■  J=-'nr 


Song  of IT  \-     ,  „ 

^,     *       ^^ E.  \  oul  183 

the  sweet  Spring •/■  f,^  ,  '' 

4-  [  Spring,  The  Lawyer's  Invocation  to.  '.'.'.Sro^oZll  s!fi 

516     Stabat  Mater  nnl„,.„=o                                 ■tlro.vneU  S96 


:--oitly  woo  away  her  breath B   'ir  p    T"    ^'^  '  ®*''^'"  ^''*'"'  dolorosa   '.]','  7    ' . 

Soldier,  rest  I  tbv  ^,,.r„l ..' ' ' '   "  '^^  ''  •..'^'■■'^''■'-    =9=  i  Stag-Hunt,  The . .  l^  l?,""^' 


Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfMe''o''er  '   ""'<;'■   ',^1"^''  "^^  i  Stag-Hunt,  The. 

■soldier's  Dream,  The  ■^.''- "' '  ^""'  4S.     Stag-Hunt,  The  

-n.The      ■■''•^'""'^*^''  480,  Stammering  Wife,  The  . 

Grassh;;pper;::.'.'.'.'^:^:2^:^  !?df^!!^^J^«°^is'^' 


Soldier's  Return,  The .'.'.'. '. )f^«f "'"^^f^    •''° 

i-y  on  a  Grasshopper         " '    '    lyu     f    ''  l  I  ;^"""='a'Js,  ine  society  upon  the  B  ^art, 

SoUloquy  on  Death.... V/  ^i  '    **^  !  Star  of  Bethlehem,  The..  .  ■^■•^art, 


Soliloquy  ( 


%  Thojnsoft 

Sir  jy.  Scott 

y.  G.  Sc 


916 


Somebody    ....  ■S-;4«*«A'«'-^    295  i  Star-Spangled  Banner,  The  p   Pt"     ^t 

•'ioug :.•;;;;;.■; -  ■^'■-'■vnous    ,22    St.  Augustine,  A  Passage  in  the'Life'of  V  B,rtZ    lit 

Song,  A  Canadian  Boat... '*'•  ^«J''W     79    Stewart  (The  Old  Admiral) £  c\tfdmZ 


Song,Enid's i-y-Raymond   466    Storm  at  Night  on  Lake  Leman 

Song,  Pa  r'.'  '  fnnyson    696  i  Storm,  The 

'^  R"ndolfh    764  I  Storm,  The    .... 


. .  Lord  Byron 
■G.  A.  .■Ste.vns 
<.Jl/.  Davidson 


S47 
638 
634 


r 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


949 


■a 


stormy  Petrel,  Lines  to  the   A  nmymous  447  i  Three  Fishers,  The Ch.  Kingsley  576 

Stormy  Petrel,  The    B   IV.  Procter  447    Three  Lows    L.  H.  Hooper  77 

St.  Paul,  From F.  IV  H.  Myers  359    Three  Sons,  The y.  Moultrie  30 

Stream,  The  Biich  A.  B.  Averill  63,  )  Three  Ships,  The y.  C.  K.  Dorr  759 


3S8 


Stiirge.  In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  y.G.  IVhitt. 

Sub  Silentio M.  L.  Rttter 

Sufi  saint.  To  heaven  approached  a D.  Kunti 

Summer  Day,  The  Story  of  a A.  Hume 

Summer  Days Anonymous 

Summer  Evening,  A /.  Watts 

Summer  Evening's  Meditation,  A  A.L.  Barbauld    393 

Summer,  Indian    A  nonymous    396 

Summer,  Invocation  to  Rain  in  ..IV,  C.  Bennett    713 

Summer  Longings    £>.  F.  MacCarthy    380 

Summer  Moods    y.  Clare    390 

Summer,  Moonlight  in R.  Bloomficld    394 

Summer  Morning y.  Thomson    3S7 

Summer  Noon,  A    IV.Howitt    370 

Summer,  Rain  in     H.  IV.  Longfelloiu    390 

Summer  Shower,  After  a ..A.  Norton    392 

Summer  Storm    y.  R.  Lowell    391 

Summer  Time,  In  IV.  IV.  Caldwell    387 

Summer  Winds,  Song  of  the  G.  Darley    3S8 

Sun-Flower,  The  W.  Blake    426 

Sunken  City,  The W.  Mueller    752 

Sunset Lord  Byron     375 

Sunset p.  B.  Shelley     372 

Sunset  City,  The  H.  S.  Cornwell    754 

Swallow,  Departure  of  the    IV.  Umuilt    442 

Swallow,  The C.  Smith     442 

Sweet,  be  not  proud R.  Herrick      69 

Sweet  disorder  tn  the  dress,  A R.  Herrick    6g8 

Sweetly  breathing,  vernal  air    T.  Care'M    383 

Sweet  Meeting  of  Desires C.  Patmore    1 19 

Sweet  stream  that  winds VV.  Cowper      50 

Swell's  Soliloquy   Anonymous    goS 

Swimming Lord  Byron    621 

Switzerland   y.  S.  Knowles    529 

Sword-Song,  Komer's  C.  T.  Brooks    468 

Sympathy    SirT.  N.  Tal/ourd    6SS 

Syria T.  Moore    413 


Tacking  Ship  off  Shore    W.  F.  Mitchell  571 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away Slutkespea  re  225 

Tale  of  Drury  Lane,  A H.  Smith  910 

Tam  O'Shanter R.  Bums  776 

Tear,  A J'.  Rogers  762 

TeU  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  Lord  Lytielion  70 

Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds Ck.  Mackay  352 

Telltale,  The A  nonymous  440 

Temperance,  Old  Age  of Shakespeare  494 

Tempest,  The    y.  T.  Fields  5S5 

Temple  to  Friendship,  A  T.  Moore  61 

Terrace  at  Berne,  The  MA  mold  202 

Terrestrial  Globe,  To  the ir.  S.  Gilbert  914 

Thanatopsis    IV.  C.  Bryant  30S 

Thauksgiving  for  his  House,  A   R.  Herrick  323 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns R.  Bums  167 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide  Shakespeare  64 

The  kiss,  dear  maid   Lord  Byron  184 

The  merry  summer  months W.  Motherwell  385 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face R.  A  llison  64 

There 's  nae  luck  about  the  house . .  U'.  J.  Mickle  201 

There  was  silence  in  heaven  Anoriymous  352 

The  s\in  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear  ..P.B.  Shelley  237 

They  are  dear  fish  to  me   Anonymous  272 

Those  evening  bells T.  Moore  237 

ThoseEyes B.  yonson  132 

Thought C.  P.  Cranch  666 

4          Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God ..  ..A  .  Cunningham 
A Thread  and  Song y.   IV.  Palmer 


S65 
663 

5S7 


83s  j  Threnody a  nonymous  294 

38    Thrush,  The IV.  Drummond  43S 

Thy  braes  were  bonny   y.  Logau  2S0 

Tiger,  The IV.  Blake  430 

Time £.  Young  724 

Time,  What  is W.  Marsden  729 

Tintem  Abbey W.  Wordsworth  361 

Toad's  Journal,  The    y.  Taylor  788 

Toad,  The  Philosopher    R.S.  Nichols  789 

Tobacco,  A  Farewell  to Ch.  Lamb  491 

To  be  no  more Milton  713 

Toby  Tosspot    G.  Colman 

Toilet  The A.Pope 

Tom  Bowling ch.  Dibdin 

Tommy's  Dead S.  D  obeli 

To-morrow ^.  yohnson  ^■■4 

Tonis  ad  resto  mare y,  Swi/l  896 

Too  Late />  ,,^  c»-«,-^-  2S0 

Too  Late p.  H.  Ludlo-j,  716 

Too  late  I  stayed ;;  -.  r,  spencer  727 

Topside  Gahih  (Excelsior) Anonymous  918 

'^oSeal T.  L.  Beddocs  589 

To  the  Memory  of  Shakespeare B   yonson  s.i 

Toothache,  The R.Burns  102 

Touchstone,  The w.  A  liingltam  748 

Toussaint  I'Ouverture,  To W.  IVordsworth  S35 

Transient  Beauty Lord  Byron  220 

Traveller's  Vision,  The F.  Freiligrath  737 

Treason Siry.  Harrington  855 

Treasures  of  the  Deep,  The F.  Hemans  572 

Tree,  On  Miss  Maria H.  Luttrell  833 

Trooper's  Death,  The R.  W.  Raymond  467 

Troth-Plight L.  C.Motdlon  171 

True  and  the  False,  The w.  Scott  231 

True  Growth,  The B.  yonson  665 

True  Lent,  A r.  Herrick  324 

Trumpets  of  Doolkamein,  The L.  Hunt  600 

Truth  ( Chain  Verse) Anonymous  917 

Truthful  James,  Plain  Language  from. .  B.  Harte  888 

Tubal  Cain ch.  Mackay  488 

Twins,  The H.  S.Leigh  Sg. 

Two  Anchors,  The R.  H.  .•iloddard  180 

Two  Pictures a.  D.  Green  728 

265 


324 


708 


Two  Waitings,  The y.  W.  Chadwick 

Two  went  up  to  the  Temple  to  pray  R.  Crashaw 
IT. 

Una  and  the  Lion E.  Spenser 

TJncle  Jo A.  Cary 

Unco  Guid,  To  the R   Bums 

Under  my  Window T.  Westwood 

Under  the  Cross W.  C.  Richards    241 

Universal  Prayer,  The A.  Pope    333 

Unrequited  Love Shakespeare    210 

Unsatisfactory Anonymous     157 

Unseen  Spirits N.  P.  Willis    2151 

Until  Death    A  nonymous     i  yj 

Up  Hill C.  G.  RosseUi     336 

Useful  Flow,  The Anony 


496 


V. 


Vagabonds,  The y.T  Troivbridge  492 

Vale  of  Avoca,  Tlie r.  Moore  $9 

Vale  of  Cashmere,  The  r.  Moore  414 

Valley  Brook,  The    y.  H.  Bryant  410 

Vanity HP.  Spofford  6S4 

.66  I  Vanity  of  the  World,  The F.Quarlcs  719 

59  !  Vaux,  Henry  Brougham,  Baron A  nonyinous 

46  ;  Vegetable  Girl,  The    M.  Taylor 


836 

-4' 


a-- 


•JoO 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


-a 


B 


Venice s.  Rogers 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus Pope  Gregory  I. 

Veui  Sancte  Spiritus Robert  II. 

Veraes  written  in  an  Album    T.  Moore 

VeiiUa  Regis    v.  Fortimalus 

Vicar  of  Bray,  The  A  nouymous 

View  across  Roman  Campagna,  A  E.B.Brownhtg 
View  from  the  Euganean  Hilis  ....P.  B.  Shelley 

Vina  Franca y.R.  Lowell 

Village  Choii-,  The  Old B.  F.  Taylor 

ViUage,  The  Deserted O.  Goldsmith 

Violet  in  her  hair,  A    Ch.  Swain 

Violets    R.  Ilerrick 

Violet,  The IV.  IV.  Story 

Virginius,  Lament  of  y.  IVebsicr 

Virgins,  The  FooUsh A.  Tenttyson 

Virgins,  To  the    R.  Herrick 

Vii-tue  Immortal G.  Herbert 

Virtuoso,  The    M.  Akenside 

Vision  of  Beauty,  A B  Jonson 

Vision,  The  Inner W.  IVorikworth 

Visit  from  St.  Nicholas,  A C.  C  Moore 

Voice  of  the  Grass,  The i".  Rr/ierls 

Vow,  The MiU-ngcr 

W. 

Waiting  for  the  Grapes VV.  Ufagitm 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay Sir  IV.  Scott 

Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara,  The R.  Buchajian 

Wants  of  Man,  The y.Q.  Adams 

War p.  B.  Shelley 

War,   Civil Ch.  D.  Sluinly 

War  for  the  sake  of  Peace J  Thomson 

Warning,  Lochiel's T,  Camfbell 

Warnings,  The  Three H.  L.  Thrale 

Warren's  Address y.  Pierfont 

Warres  in  Ireland,  Of  the. . ..Sir  y.  Harrington 

War's  Loud  Alarms Talliaiarn 

Washington y.R.  Lowell 

Washington,  Ode  to IF.  C.  Bryant 

Wasltington,  George  A  nonymous 

Watching E.  C.  yiidson 

Water-Driukor,  The E.  yohnson 

Waterfowl,  To  a W.C.  Bryant 

Waterloo Lord  Byron 

Waterloo,  The  Charge  at    Sir  IV.  Scot! 

Waters,  Living C.  S.  Spencer 

Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life,  The  . .  Th.  Parker 

We  are  Seven \V.  Wordsworth 

Webster,  Daniel O   IV.  Holmes 

Webster  (Ichabod) y.  G.  Whitiier 

Weehawken  and  the  New  York  Buy  F.  G.Halleck 

We  have  been  friends  together C.  E.  Norton 

Welcome,  The T.  Davis 

Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing    W.  Browne 

Wellington    H.  IV.  Longfellow 

Well  of  St.  Keyne,  The R.  Southey 

We  parted  in  silence Mrs.  Crawford 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain  .  y.  Sylvester 

Westward  Ho  ! G.  Berkeley 

We  watched  her  breathing T.  Hood 

What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? T.  Hood 

What  constitutes  a  State  •! Sir  IV.  yanes 

What  the  Winds  bring  E.  C.  Stedman 

When j-.  A.  IVoolsey 

When  I  am  dead  A  nonymotis 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall Shakespeare 

When  I  do  count  the  clock Shakespeare 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time  .Shakesp. 

When  shall  we  all  meet  again  ?    A  nonymous 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  . .  ..A.  C.  Swinburne 
When  the  Kye  come  Hame    y.  H,\^g 


When  the  lamp  is  shattered P.  B.  Shelley 

When  the  Sultan  goes  to Ispahaai ..T.B.A Idrich 
When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  aUent  thought 

Sluikesfeare 

Where  are  the  men? Talhrtiam 

Whistle  and  I  11  come  to  you ^.R.  Burns 

Whistle,  The R.  Story 

White  Rose,  The Anonymous 

White  Stiuall,  The B.  IV.  Procter 

White  SquaU,  The W.  M.  Thackeray 

Whittling y.  Pierpont 

Why,  lovely  charmt^r  ? A  nonymous 

Why  so  pale  and  wt  ji  ? Siry.  Suckling 

Why  thus  longing? H.IV.  Sewall 

Widow  Machree 5'  Lover 

Widow  Malone Ch.  Lever 

Widow's  Mite,  The F.  Locker 

Wife,  ChUdren,  and  Friends IV.  R.  Spencer 

Wife  to  her  Husband,  The   A  nonymous 

Wilkeson,  Lieut.  Bayard M.  L.  Ritter 

Willie  Winkle W.  Miller 

Will  you  love  me  when  I  'm  old  ? Anonymous 

Winged  Worshipers,  The C.  Sprague 

Winter    y.  H.  Bryant 

Winter IV.  Cowper 

Winter  being  over.  The A.  Collins 

Winter,  New  England  in y.  G.  IVhittier 

Winter  Pictures y.  R.  Lozvelt 

Winter  Scenes y.  Thomson 

Winter's  Evening  Hymn  to  my  Fire,  A  ..Lowell 

Winter  Song    L.  Holiy 

Winter  Walk  at  Noon  IV.  Coi«fcr 

Winter  i  wilt  thou  never  go  ?   D.  Gray 

Wisdom    C.  Patmore 

Wish,  A   .y.  Rogers 

Wishes  for  the  supposed  Mistress. .  .R.  Crashaw 
Without  and  Within  ....P.  A.  D.  B.  Metastasio 
With  whom  is  no  variableness  —  A.  H.  Clough 

Wolsey 's  Fall Shakespeare 

Wolsey's  Speech  to  CromweU Shakespeare 

Woman Anonymous 

Woman Calidasa 

Woman's  Inconstancy    Sir  R.  Ayson 

Woman's  Love,  A    y.  Hay 

Woman's  Question,  A  A.  A.  Procter 

Woman's  WUl y.  C.  Sajce 

Woodman,  spare  that  Tree  G.  P.  Morris 

Wood  of  ChanceUorsvUle,  The ....D.R.  German 

Wordsworth,  To F.  Hemans 

Wordsworth,  On  a  Portrait  of  ..E.  B-  Browning 

Worldliliess //''.  IVortlsworth 

World,  The F.  Locker 

World,  The  Vanity  of  the  F  Quar.'es 

Worn  Wedding-Ring,  The IV.  C.  Bennett 

Wounded  to  Death y.  W-  Watson 

Wreck  of  the  "  Grace  of  Sunderland  "  y.  Ingelow 

Wrestling  Jacob  C.  Wesley 

Writers  that  carp  at  other  Men's  Books 

Sir  y.  Harrington 


Tarn  ofthe  "Nancy  BeU,"  The....//-".  S.  Gilbert  873 

Year,  The  Closing  G.  D.  Prentice  73 

Year,  The  Death  of  the  Old  A.  Tennyson  727 

Years,  The  Flood  of W.  C.  Bryant  Ixiv 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  T.  Campbell  587 

You  meaner  beauties Sir  H    Wot  ton  68 

Young  Gray  Head,  The C.  B.  Southey  7<)S 

Young  May  Moon,  The 'J'-  Moore  151 

Yussouf 7-  l^-  Lowell  584 


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