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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury of American Songs and
+Lyrics, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: April 5, 2005 [EBook #15553]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Kline, Karen Dalrymple and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  To My Mother.
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+  THE
+  GOLDEN TREASURY
+  OF
+  AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS
+
+
+  EDITED BY
+  FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES
+
+
+  _NEW REVISED EDITION_
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+  BOSTON
+  L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY
+  (INCORPORATED)
+  MDCCCXCIX
+
+
+  Colonial Press:
+  Electrotyped and Printed by C.H. Simonds & Co.
+  Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+The numerous collections of American verse share, I think, one fault in
+common: they include too much. Whether this has been a bid for
+popularity, a concession to Philistia, I cannot say; but the fact
+remains that all anthologies of American poetry are, so far as I know,
+more or less uncritical. The aim of the present book is different. In no
+case has a poem been included because it is widely known. The purpose of
+this compilation is solely that of preserving, in attractive and
+permanent form, about one hundred and fifty of the best lyrics of
+America.
+
+I am quite aware of the danger attending such exacting honor-rolls. At
+best, an editor's judgment is only personal, and the realization of this
+fact gives me no small diffidence in attempting to decide what American
+lyrics are best worthy of preservation. That every reader of the
+"American Treasury" will find some favorite poem omitted, there can be
+little doubt. But the effort made in this book towards a careful
+estimate of our lyrical poetry is at any rate, I feel sure, in a good
+direction.
+
+There appear in the index of Mr. Stedman's "Poets of America" the names
+of over three hundred native writers. American verse in the last half
+century has been extraordinarily prolific. It would seem that the time
+has come, in the course of our national literature, for proving all
+things and holding fast that which is good.
+
+The fact that the title of this compilation instantly calls to mind that
+of Mr. Palgrave's scholarly collection of English lyrics need not prove
+a disadvantage to the book if the purpose which led to the choice of
+name is understood. The verse of a single century produced in a new
+country should not be expected to equal the poetic wealth of an old and
+intellectual nation. But if American poetry cannot hope to rival the
+poetry of the mother country, it may at least be compared with it; and
+the fact of such a comparative point of view will aid rather than hinder
+the student of our native poetry in estimating its value.
+
+American verse has suffered at the hands both of its admirers and its
+enemies. Injudicious praise, no less than supercilious contempt, has
+reacted unfavorably on the fame of our poets. Again and again has some
+minor versifier been hailed as the "American Keats" or the "American
+Burns." Really excellent poets, though distinctly poets of second rank,
+have been elevated amid the blare of critical trumpets to the company of
+Wordsworth and Milton. All this is unprofitable and silly. But not much
+better is the attitude of certain critics who patronize everything in
+the English language which has been written outside of England. Though
+America has added--leaving Poe out of account--no distinctly new notes
+to English poetry, it has added certainly not a few true ones. A nation
+need never apologize for its literature when it has produced such
+lyrics--to go no further--as "On a Bust of Dante," "Ichabod," "The
+Chambered Nautilus," and the "Waterfowl."
+
+My method of arrangement is roughly chronological. The First Book, which
+is shorter than the others, might be called the book of Bryant; the
+Second, of Longfellow; and the Third, of Aldrich. Since the periods must
+of course overlap, this division of the poems can be at most only
+suggestive.
+
+I have made it no part of my design to grant to the better known poets a
+larger number of lyrics than those given later and younger men. I have
+paid no regard to that purely conventional idea of proportion, that
+would assign to five or six writers a dozen selections each, and to
+another set of poets, in proportion to their popular fame, half that
+number. We can safely leave the final adjustment of all rival claims to
+Time, the best critic; in the meanwhile having the more modest aim of
+selecting, irrespective of contemporary judgments, whatever is best
+suited to our purpose.
+
+A word more should be said about the title. I have not interpreted the
+term lyric so rigidly as to exclude sonnets, ballads, elegiac verse, or
+even pieces of almost pure description. If I had held to the strictest
+sense of lyric, this book would never have been compiled; for I suspect
+nothing will strike the reader more forcibly than the fact that, despite
+the excellence of the poems included, there is a notable lack of
+unconsciousness--of pure singing quality. Such things as Pinkney's
+"Health" and Holmes's "Old Ironsides" are the exception. The poems are
+composed cleverly, but they do not quite sing themselves to their own
+music. The best American verse, while not insincere, is seldom wholly
+spontaneous. This is not saying that much spontaneous verse has not been
+written in this country; much has been, but the singer's voice has too
+often been uncultivated, and the product inartistic.
+
+The names of many popular poets are entirely omitted. In no case,
+however, was this probably due to oversight. I have gone over carefully
+a wide field of verse, not without finding much to admire, but never
+quite happening upon that final touch of successful achievement where
+art and inspiration join. I am especially sorry to leave unrepresented
+a writer--more imaginative, possibly, than any American poet except
+Poe--whose utter contempt for technique in the ordinary sense places him
+wholly outside my present purpose.
+
+I wish to acknowledge various favors kindly shown by Professor C.T.
+Winchester, Professor Barrett Wendell, and Mr. H.E. Scudder. Thanks are
+also due Mr. T.B. Aldrich for the privilege of including the six poems
+from his pen, which were kindly selected for the book by the poet
+himself. The following firms deserve thanks for permitting the use of
+copyrighted poems:
+
+_Houghton, Mifflin & Co.:_
+
+     Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Christopher Pearse Cranch, Ralph Waldo
+     Emerson, Annie Adams Fields, Louise Imogen Guiney, Oliver Wendell
+     Holmes, William Dean Howells, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James
+     Russell Lowell, Thomas William Parsons, John James Piatt, Lizette
+     Woodworth Reese, Hiram Rich, Edward Rowland Sill, Harriet
+     Prescott Spofford, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Bayard Taylor, Henry
+     David Thoreau, Maurice Thompson, John Greenleaf Whittier, George
+     Edward Woodberry.
+
+Selections from the works of the foregoing writers are included "by
+permission of and by special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
+publishers of the works of said authors."
+
+      _D. Appleton & Co.:_ Fitz-Greene Halleck, William Cullen Bryant.
+
+      _Lee & Shepard:_ Julia Ward Howe.
+
+      _Porter & Coates:_ Charles Fenno Hoffman.
+
+      _Roberts Brothers:_ Emily Dickinson, Helen Hunt Jackson, Louise
+      Chandler Moulton.
+
+      _Copeland & Day:_ John Banister Tabb, Richard Hovey.
+
+      _W.A. Pond & Co.:_ Stephen Collins Foster.
+
+      _Clark & Maynard:_ Nathaniel Parker Willis.
+
+      _The Cassell Publishing Co.:_ John Boyle O'Reilly.
+
+      _The Century Co.:_ Richard Watson Gilder, James Whitcomb Riley
+      (Poems in the _Century Magazine_).
+
+      _Estes & Lauriat:_ Lloyd Mifflin.
+
+      _Lamson & Wolffe:_ Bliss Carman.
+
+      _Charles Scribner's Sons:_ Henry Cuyler Bunner, Eugene Field,
+      Sidney Lanier, Richard Henry Stoddard, Henry Van Dyke.
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+                                                             PAGE
+
+  Absence of Little Wesley, The            _J.W. Riley_       280
+
+  After All                                _W. Winter_        117
+
+  Aladdin                                  _J.R. Lowell_      128
+
+  Annabel Lee                              _E.A. Poe_          10
+
+  Apart                                    _J.J. Piatt_       149
+
+  At Gibraltar                             _G.E. Woodberry_   273
+
+  At Last                                  _R.H. Stoddard_    153
+
+  At Night                                 _R.W. Gilder_      217
+
+  Auspex                                   _J.R. Lowell_      192
+
+
+  Ballad                                   _H.P. Spofford_    202
+
+  Battle-field, The                        _W.C. Bryant_       54
+
+  Battle-hymn of the Republic              _I.W. Howe_        108
+
+  Be Thou a Bird, My Soul                  _(?)_              282
+
+  Bedouin Song                             _B. Taylor_         85
+
+  Bereaved                                 _J.W. Riley_       263
+
+  Birds                                    _R.H. Stoddard_    193
+
+  Black Regiment, The                      _G.H. Boker_       100
+
+  Bucket, The                              _S. Woodworth_       8
+
+
+  Carolina                                 _H. Timrod_        104
+
+  Chambered Nautilus, The                  _O.W. Holmes_      178
+
+  Chariot, The                             _E. Dickinson_     264
+
+  Childhood                                _J.B. Tabb_        230
+
+  City in the Sea, The                     _E.A. Poe_          15
+
+  Concord Hymn                             _R.W. Emerson_      74
+
+  Confided                                 _J.B. Tabb_        266
+
+  Coronation                               _H.H. Jackson_     183
+
+  Crowded Street, The                      _W.C. Bryant_       42
+
+
+  Day is Done, The                         _W. Longfellow_     66
+
+  Days                                     _R.W. Emerson_     126
+
+  Death-bed, A                             _J. Aldrich_       136
+
+  Destiny                                  _T.B. Aldrich_     210
+
+  Dirge for a Soldier                      _G.H. Boker_       106
+
+  Discoverer, The                          _E.C. Stedman_     150
+
+  Dutch Lullaby                            _E. Field_         284
+
+
+  Eavesdropper, The                        _B. Carman_        298
+
+  Evening Song                             _S. Lanier_        215
+
+  Eve's Daughter                           _E.R. Sill_        247
+
+
+  Fall of the Leaf, The                    _H.D. Thoreau_     162
+
+  Farragut                                 _W.T. Meredith_    110
+
+  Fertility                                _M. Thompson_      294
+
+  Fire of Driftwood, The                   _H.W. Longfellow_  133
+
+  Flight, The                               _L. Mifflin_      229
+
+  Flight of Youth, The                     _R.H. Stoddard_    129
+
+  Fool's Prayer, The                       _E.R. Sill_        205
+
+  Four Winds, The                          _C.H. Lüders_      258
+
+  Future, The                              _E.R. Sill_        219
+
+
+  Gondolieds                               _H.H. Jackson_     155
+
+  Gravedigger, The                         _B. Carman_        277
+
+
+  Haunted Palace                           _E.A. Poe_          26
+
+  Health, A                                _E.C. Pinkney_      12
+
+  Hebe                                     _J.R. Lowell_       64
+
+  He Made the Stars Also                   _L. Mifflin_       257
+
+  Her Epitaph                              _T.W. Parsons_     147
+
+  House of Death, The                      _L.C. Moulton_     236
+
+  Humble-bee, The                          _R.W. Emerson_     169
+
+  Hunting Song                             _R. Hovey_         251
+
+
+  Ichabod                                  _J.G. Whittier_     69
+
+  In Absence                               _J.B. Tabb_        267
+
+  In August                                _W.D. Howells_     223
+
+  Indian Summer                            _E. Dickinson_     265
+
+  In the Hospital                          _M.W. Howland_     122
+
+  In the Twilight                          _J.R. Lowell_      158
+
+  Israfel                                  _E.A. Poe_          21
+
+
+  Jerry an' Me                             _H. Rich_          275
+
+
+  Katie                                    _H. Timrod_        140
+
+  Kings, The                               _L.I. Guiney_      211
+
+
+  Last Leaf, The                           _O.W. Holmes_       95
+
+  Little Boy Blue                          _E. Field_         231
+
+
+  Maryland Yellow-throat, The              _H. Van Dyke_      287
+
+  Memory                                   _T.B. Aldrich_     241
+
+  Mood, A                                  _T.B. Aldrich_     242
+
+  "My Life is Like the Summer Rose"        _R.H. Wilde_         4
+
+  My Love                                  _J.R. Lowell_      142
+
+  My Maryland                              _J.R. Randall_     113
+
+  My Playmate                              _J.G. Whittier_    130
+
+  My Strawberry                            _H.H. Jackson_     167
+
+
+  Nature                                   _H.W. Longfellow_   63
+
+  Nature                                   _H.D. Thoreau_     166
+
+  Negro Lullaby                            _P.L. Dunbar_      225
+
+  Night                                    _L. Mifflin_       256
+
+  No More                                  _B.F. Willson_     197
+
+
+  "O Fairest of the Rural Maids"           _W.C. Bryant_        6
+
+  Old Ironsides                            _O.W. Holmes_       76
+
+  Old Kentucky Home, The                   _S.C. Foster_       98
+
+  On a Bust of Dante                       _T.W. Parsons_     185
+
+  On an Intaglio Head of Minerva           _T.B. Aldrich_     248
+
+  On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake      _F.G. Halleck_      36
+
+  On the Life-mask of Abraham Lincoln      _R.W. Gilder_      207
+
+  Opportunity                              _E.R. Sill_        283
+
+
+  Pan in Wall Street                       _E.C. Stedman_     188
+
+  Paradisi Gloria                          _T.W. Parsons_     201
+
+  Parting                                  _E. Dickinson_     252
+
+  Port of Ships, The                       _C.H. Miller_      199
+
+  Prescience                               _T.B. Aldrich_     221
+
+
+  Raven, The                               _E.A. Poe_          45
+
+  Return, The                              _L.F. Tooker_      260
+
+  Rhodora, The                             _R.W. Emerson_     165
+
+
+  Sea's Voice, The                         _W.P. Foster_      271
+
+  Secret, The                              _G.E. Woodberry_   290
+
+  Serenade, A                              _E.C. Pinkney_      14
+
+  Sesostris                                _L. Mifflin_       300
+
+  She Came and Went                        _J.R. Lowell_      145
+
+  Sigh, A                                  _H.P. Spofford_    196
+
+  Silence of Love, The                     _G.E. Woodberry_   289
+
+  Sir Humphrey Gilbert                     _H.W. Longfellow_   71
+
+  Skipper Ireson's Ride                    _J.G. Whittier_     87
+
+  Sleeper, The                             _E.A. Poe_          57
+
+  Song                                     _R.W. Gilder_      208
+
+  Song                                     _J. Shaw_            3
+
+  Song                                     _R.H. Stoddard_    127
+
+  Song of the Camp, The                    _B. Taylor_        119
+
+  Song of the Chattahoochee                _S. Lanier_        268
+
+  Sparkling and Bright                     _C.F. Hoffman_      32
+
+  Stanzas                                  _C.P. Cranch_      181
+
+  Still in Thy Love I Trust                _A.A. Fields_      218
+
+  Strong as Death                          _H.C. Bunner_      233
+
+  Summer Rain, The                         _H.D. Thoreau_     172
+
+
+  Telling the Bees                         _J.G. Whittier_    137
+
+  "Thalatta"                               _J.B. Brown_       154
+
+  That Day You Came                        _L.W. Reese_       224
+
+  Thought                                  _H.H. Jackson_     180
+
+  Tide Rises, the Tide Falls, The          _H.W. Longfellow_  161
+
+  To a Dead Woman                          _H.C. Bunner_      209
+
+  To America                               _G.H. Boker_        75
+
+  To a Waterfowl                           _W.C. Bryant_       29
+
+  To a Young Girl Dying                    _T.W. Parsons_     198
+
+  To England                               _G.H. Boker_        79
+
+  To Helen                                 _E.A. Poe_          31
+
+  To One in Paradise                       _E.A. Poe_          34
+
+  To the Dandelion                         _J.R. Lowell_      175
+
+  To the Fringed Gentian                   _W.C. Bryant_       40
+
+  To the Past                              _W.C. Bryant_       18
+
+  Toujours Amour                           _E.C. Stedman_     194
+
+  Triumph                                  _H.C. Bunner_      213
+
+  Tropical Morning at Sea, A               _E.R. Sill_        238
+
+
+  Under the Violets                        _O.W. Holmes_      124
+
+  Unseen Spirits                           _N.P. Willis_       24
+
+
+  Valley of Unrest, The                    _E.A. Poe_          38
+
+  Veery, The                               _H. Van Dyke_      296
+
+  Village Blacksmith, The                  _H.W. Longfellow_   92
+
+
+  Way to Arcady, The                       _H.C. Bunner_      243
+
+  When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan          _T.B. Aldrich_     253
+
+  Whip-poor-will, The                      _H. Van Dyke_      291
+
+  White Jessamine, The                     _J.B. Tabb_        235
+
+  Wild Honeysuckle, The                    _P. Freneau_         1
+
+  Woman's Thought, A                       _R.W. Gilder_      227
+
+  Woods that Bring the Sunset Near, The    _R.W. Gilder_      216
+
+  Wreck of the Hesperus, The               _H.W. Longfellow_   80
+
+
+
+
+BOOK FIRST.
+
+
+
+
+AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS
+
+
+
+
+The Wild Honeysuckle.
+
+
+  Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
+    Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
+  Untouched thy honey'd blossoms blow,
+    Unseen thy little branches greet;
+      No roving foot shall crush thee here,
+      No busy hand provoke a tear.
+
+  By Nature's self in white arrayed,
+    She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
+  And planted here the guardian shade,
+    And sent soft waters murmuring by;
+      Thus quietly thy summer goes,--
+      Thy days declining to repose.
+
+  Smit with those charms, that must decay,
+    I grieve to see your future doom;
+  They died--nor were those flowers more gay--
+    The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
+      Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power
+      Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
+
+  From morning suns and evening dews
+    At first thy little being came;
+  If nothing once, you nothing lose,
+    For when you die you are the same;
+      The space between is but an hour,
+      The frail duration of a flower.
+
+P. FRENEAU.
+
+
+
+
+Song.
+
+
+  Who has robbed the ocean cave,
+    To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
+  Who from India's distant wave
+    For thee those pearly treasures drew?
+      Who from yonder orient sky
+      Stole the morning of thine eye?
+
+  Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
+    From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
+  Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
+    On thy breath their fragrance borne.
+      Guard thy bosom from the day,
+      Lest thy snows should melt away.
+
+  But one charm remains behind,
+    Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
+  Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
+    Nor in the circling air, a heart.
+      Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
+      Take, oh, take that heart from me.
+
+J. SHAW.
+
+
+
+
+"My Life is Like the Summer Rose."
+
+
+  My life is like the summer rose
+    That opens to the morning sky,
+  But ere the shades of evening close,
+    Is scattered on the ground--to die!
+  Yet on the rose's humble bed
+  The sweetest dews of night are shed,
+  As if she wept the waste to see,--
+  But none shall weep a tear for me!
+
+  My life is like the autumn leaf
+    That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
+  Its hold is frail,--its date is brief,
+    Restless,--and soon to pass away!
+  Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
+  The parent tree will mourn its shade,
+  The winds bewail the leafless tree,--
+  But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
+
+  My life is like the prints which feet
+    Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
+  Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
+    All trace will vanish from the sand;
+  Yet, as if grieving to efface
+  All vestige of the human race,
+  On that lone shore loud moans the sea,--
+  But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
+
+R.H. WILDE.
+
+
+
+
+"O Fairest of the Rural Maids!"
+
+
+  O Fairest of the rural maids!
+  Thy birth was in the forest shades;
+  Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
+  Were all that met thine infant eye.
+
+  Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
+  Were ever in the sylvan wild;
+  And all the beauty of the place
+  Is in thy heart and on thy face.
+
+  The twilight of the trees and rocks
+  Is in the light shade of thy locks;
+  Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
+  Its playful way among the leaves.
+
+  Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
+  And silent waters heaven is seen;
+  Their lashes are the herbs that look
+  On their young figures in the brook.
+
+  The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
+  Are not more sinless than thy breast;
+  The holy peace that fills the air
+  Of those calm solitudes is there.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Bucket.
+
+
+  How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
+  When fond recollection presents them to view!--
+  The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
+  And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
+  The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
+  The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
+  The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it;
+  And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well,--
+  The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
+  The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
+
+  That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
+  For often at noon, when returned from the field,
+  I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,--
+  The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
+  How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
+  And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!
+  Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
+  And 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 receive it,
+  As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
+  Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
+  The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
+  And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
+  The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
+  As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
+  And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well,--
+  The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
+  The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.
+
+S. WOODWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+Annabel Lee.
+
+
+  It was many and many a year ago,
+    In a kingdom by the sea,
+  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
+    By the name of Annabel Lee;
+  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
+    Than to love and be loved by me.
+
+  I was a child and she was a child,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  But we loved with a love that was more than love,
+    I and my Annabel Lee;
+  With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
+    Coveted her and me.
+
+  And this was the reason that, long ago,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
+    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
+  So that her highborn kinsmen came
+    And bore her away from me,
+  To shut her up in a sepulchre
+    In this kingdom by the sea.
+
+  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
+    Went 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.
+
+  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
+    Of those who were older than we,
+    Of many far wiser than we;
+  And neither the angels in heaven above,
+    Nor the demons down under the sea,
+  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
+    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
+
+  For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
+    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
+  And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
+    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
+  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
+  Of my darling,--my darling,--my life and my bride,
+    In her sepulchre there by the sea,
+    In her tomb by the sounding sea.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+A Health.
+
+
+  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,
+    'Tis 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 flows
+  As one may see the burden'd 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;
+  And of her voice in echoing hearts
+    A sound must long remain,
+  But memory, such as mine of her,
+    So very much endears,
+  When 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.
+
+E.C. PINKNEY.
+
+
+
+
+A Serenade.
+
+
+  Look out upon the stars, my love,
+    And shame them with thine eyes,
+  On which, than on the lights above,
+    There hang more destinies.
+  Night's beauty is the harmony
+    Of blending shades and light:
+  Then, lady, up,--look out, and be
+    A sister to the night!
+
+  Sleep not!--thine image wakes for aye
+    Within my watching breast;
+  Sleep not!--from her soft sleep should fly,
+    Who robs all hearts of rest.
+  Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,
+    And make this darkness gay,
+  With looks whose brightness well might make
+    Of darker nights a day.
+
+E.C. PINKNEY.
+
+
+
+
+The City in the Sea.
+
+
+  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
+  In a strange city lying alone
+  Far down within the dim West,
+  Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
+  Have gone to their eternal rest.
+  There shrines and palaces and towers
+  (Time-eaten towers that tremble not)
+  Resemble nothing that is ours.
+  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+
+  No rays from the holy heaven come down
+  On the long night-time of that town;
+  But light from out the lurid sea
+  Streams up the turrets silently,
+  Gleams up the pinnacles far and free:
+  Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls,
+  Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls,
+  Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers
+  Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers,
+  Up many and many a marvellous shrine,
+  Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine
+  The viol, the violet, and the vine.
+
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+  So blend the turrets and shadows there
+  That all seem pendulous in air,
+  While from a proud tower in the town
+  Death looks gigantically down.
+
+  There open fanes and gaping graves
+  Yawn level with the luminous waves;
+  But not the riches there that lie
+  In each idol's diamond eye,--
+  Not the gaily-jewelled dead
+  Tempt the waters from their bed;
+  For no ripples curl, alas,
+  Along that wilderness of glass;
+  No swellings tell that winds may be
+  Upon some far-off happier sea;
+  No heavings hint that winds have been
+  On seas less hideously serene!
+
+  But lo, a stir is in the air!
+  The wave--there is a movement there!
+  As if the towers had thrust aside,
+  In slightly sinking, the dull tide;
+  As if their tops had feebly given
+  A void within the filmy Heaven!
+  The waves have now a redder glow,
+  The hours are breathing faint and low;
+  And when, amid no earthly moans,
+  Down, down that town shall settle hence,
+  Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
+  Shall do it reverence.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+To The Past.
+
+
+    Thou unrelenting Past!
+  Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
+    And fetters, sure and fast,
+  Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
+
+    Far in thy realm withdrawn,
+  Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
+    And glorious ages gone
+  Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.
+
+    Childhood, with all its mirth,
+  Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,
+    And last, Man's Life on earth,
+  Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.
+
+    Thou hast my better years;
+  Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind,
+    Yielded to thee with tears,--
+  The venerable form, the exalted mind.
+
+    My spirit yearns to bring
+  The lost ones back,--yearns with desire intense,
+    And struggles hard to wring
+  Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
+
+    In vain; thy gates deny
+  All passage save to those who hence depart;
+    Nor to the streaming eye
+  Thou giv'st them back,--nor to the broken heart.
+
+    In thy abysses hide
+  Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee
+    Earth's wonder and her pride
+  Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;
+
+    Labors of good to man,
+  Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,
+    Love, that midst grief began,
+  And grew with years, and faltered not in death.
+
+    Full many a mighty name
+  Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;
+    With thee are silent fame,
+  Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.
+
+    Thine for a space are they,--
+  Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last!
+    Thy gates shall yet give way,
+  Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!
+
+    All that of good and fair
+  Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
+    Shall then come forth, to wear
+  The glory and the beauty of its prime.
+
+    They have not perished,--no!
+  Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,
+    Smiles, radiant long ago,
+  And features, the great soul's apparent seat;
+
+    All shall come back, each tie
+  Of pure affection shall be knit again;
+    Alone shall Evil die,
+  And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
+
+    And then shall I behold
+  Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
+    And her, who, still and cold,
+  Fills the next grave,--the beautiful and young.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+Israfel.
+
+   And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who
+   has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+   --_Koran._
+
+
+  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
+    Whose heart-strings are a lute;
+  None sing so wildly well
+  As the angel Israfel,
+  And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
+  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
+    Of his voice, all mute.
+
+  Tottering above
+    In her highest noon,
+    The enamored moon
+  Blushes with love,
+    While, to listen, the red levin
+    (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
+    Which were seven)
+    Pauses in Heaven.
+
+  And they say (the starry choir
+    And the other listening things)
+  That Israfeli's fire
+  Is owing to that lyre
+    By which he sits and sings,--
+  The trembling living wire
+  Of those unusual strings.
+
+  But the skies that angel trod,
+    Where deep thoughts are a duty,
+  Where Love's a grown-up God,
+  Where the Houri glances are
+    Imbued with all the beauty
+  Which we worship in a star.
+
+  Therefore thou art not wrong,
+    Israfeli, who despisest
+  An unimpassioned song;
+  To thee the laurels belong,
+    Best bard, because the wisest:
+  Merrily live, and long!
+
+  The ecstasies above
+    With thy burning measures suit:
+  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
+    With the fervor of thy lute:
+    Well may the stars be mute!
+
+  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
+    Is a world of sweets and sours;
+    Our flowers are merely--flowers,
+  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
+  Is the sunshine of ours.
+
+  If I could dwell
+  Where Israfel
+    Hath dwelt, and he where I,
+  He might not sing so wildly well
+    A mortal melody,
+  While a bolder note than this might swell
+    From my lyre within the sky.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+Unseen Spirits.
+
+
+  The shadows lay along Broadway,--
+    'Twas near the twilight-tide,--
+  And slowly there a lady fair
+    Was walking in her pride.
+  Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
+    Walked spirits at her side.
+
+  Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
+    And Honor charmed the air;
+  And all astir looked kind on her,
+    And called her good as fair--
+  For all God ever gave to her
+    She kept with chary care.
+
+  She kept with care her beauties rare
+    From lovers warm and true,
+  For her heart was cold to all but gold,
+    And the rich came not to woo;
+  But honored well are charms to sell,
+    If priests the selling do.
+
+  Now walking there was one more fair,--
+    A slight girl, lily-pale;
+  And she had unseen company
+    To make the spirit quail,--
+  'Twixt 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!
+  But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
+    By man is cursed alway.
+
+N.P. WILLIS.
+
+
+
+
+The Haunted Palace.
+
+
+  In the greenest of our valleys
+    By good angels tenanted,
+  Once a fair and stately palace--
+    Radiant palace--reared its head.
+  In the monarch Thought's dominion,
+    It stood there;
+  Never seraph spread a pinion
+    Over fabric half so fair.
+
+  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow
+  (This--all this--was in the olden
+    Time long ago),
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A wingèd odor went away.
+
+  Wanderers in that happy valley
+    Through two luminous windows saw
+  Spirits moving musically,
+    To a lute's well-tunèd law,
+  Round about a throne where, sitting,
+    Porphyrogene,
+  In state his glory well befitting,
+    The ruler of the realm was seen.
+
+  And all with pearl and ruby glowing
+    Was the fair palace door,
+  Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
+    And sparkling evermore,
+  A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
+    Was but to sing,
+  In voices of surpassing beauty,
+    The wit and wisdom of their king.
+
+  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
+    Assailed the monarch's high estate;
+  (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
+    Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
+  And round about his home the glory
+    That blushed and bloomed
+  Is but a dim-remembered story
+    Of the old time entombed.
+
+  And travellers now within that valley
+    Through the red-litten windows see
+  Vast forms that move fantastically
+    To a discordant melody;
+  While, like a ghastly rapid river,
+    Through the pale door
+  A hideous throng rush out forever,
+    And laugh--but smile no more.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+To a Waterfowl.
+
+
+        Whither, midst falling dew,
+  While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
+  Far, through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
+        Thy solitary way?
+
+        Vainly the fowler's eye
+  Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
+  As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
+        Thy figure floats along.
+
+        Seek'st thou the plashy brink
+  Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
+  Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
+        On the chafed ocean-side?
+
+        There is a Power whose care
+  Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
+  The desert and illimitable air--
+        Lone wandering, but not lost.
+
+        All day thy wings have fanned,
+  At that far height, 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 form; 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 I must tread alone,
+        Will lead my steps aright.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+To Helen.
+
+
+  Helen, thy beauty is to me
+    Like those Nicæan barks of yore,
+  That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
+    The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
+    To his own native shore.
+
+  On desperate seas long wont to roam,
+    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
+  Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home
+    To the glory that was Greece
+  And the grandeur that was Rome.
+
+  Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
+    How statue-like I see thee stand,
+    The agate lamp within thy hand!
+  Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
+    Are Holy Land!
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+Sparkling and Bright.
+
+
+  Sparkling and bright in liquid light
+    Does the wine our goblets gleam in,
+  With hue as red as the rosy bed
+    Which a bee would choose to dream in.
+      Then fill to-night, with hearts as light,
+        To loves as gay and fleeting
+      As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
+        And break on the lips while meeting.
+
+  Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight
+    Of Time through Life's dominions,
+  We here awhile would now beguile
+    The graybeard of his pinions,
+      To drink to-night, with hearts as light,
+        To loves as gay and fleeting
+      As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
+        And break on the lips while meeting.
+
+  But since Delight can't tempt the wight,
+    Nor fond Regret delay him,
+  Nor Love himself can hold the elf,
+    Nor sober Friendship stay him,
+      We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light,
+        To loves as gay and fleeting
+      As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
+        And break on the lips while meeting.
+
+C.F. HOFFMAN.
+
+
+
+
+To One in Paradise.
+
+
+  Thou wast all that to me, love,
+    For which my soul did pine:
+  A green isle in the sea, love,
+    A fountain and a shrine
+  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
+    And all the flowers were mine.
+
+  Ah, dream too bright to last!
+    Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
+  But to be overcast!
+    A voice from out the Future cries,
+  "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
+    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
+  Mute, motionless, aghast.
+
+  For, alas! alas! with me
+    The light of Life is o'er!
+  No more--no more--no more--
+    (Such language holds the solemn sea
+  To the sands upon the shore)
+    Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
+  Or the stricken eagle soar.
+
+  And all my days are trances,
+    And all my nightly dreams
+  Are where thy gray eye glances,
+    And where thy footstep gleams,--
+  In what ethereal dances,
+    By what eternal streams.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.
+
+
+  Green be the turf above thee,
+    Friend of my better days!
+  None knew thee but to love thee,
+    Nor named thee but to praise.
+
+  Tears fell when thou wert dying,
+    From eyes unused to weep,
+  And long, where thou art lying,
+    Will tears the cold turf steep.
+
+  When hearts, whose truth was proven,
+    Like thine, are laid in earth,
+  There should a wreath be woven
+    To tell the world their worth;
+
+  And I, who woke each morrow
+    To clasp thy hand in mine,
+  Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
+    Whose weal and woe were thine,
+
+  It should be mine to braid it
+    Around thy faded brow,
+  But I've in vain essayed it,
+    And feel I cannot now.
+
+  While memory bids me weep thee,
+    Nor thoughts nor words are free,
+  The grief is fixed too deeply
+    That mourns a man like thee.
+
+F.G. HALLECK.
+
+
+
+
+The Valley of Unrest.
+
+
+  Once it smiled a silent dell
+  Where the people did not dwell;
+  They had gone unto the wars,
+  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
+  Nightly, from their azure towers,
+  To keep watch above the flowers,
+  In the midst of which all day
+  The red sunlight lazily lay.
+  Now each visitor shall confess
+  The sad valley's restlessness.
+  Nothing there is motionless,
+  Nothing save the airs that brood
+  Over the magic solitude.
+  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
+  That palpitate like the chill seas
+  Around the misty Hebrides!
+  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
+  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
+  Uneasily, from morn to even,
+  Over the violets there that lie
+  In myriad types of the human eye,
+  Over the lilies there that wave
+  And weep above a nameless grave!
+  They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
+  Eternal dews come down in drops.
+  They weep:--from off their delicate stems
+  Perennial tears descend in gems.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+To the Fringed Gentian.
+
+
+  Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
+  And colored with the heaven's own blue,
+  That openest when the quiet light
+  Succeeds the keen and frosty night:
+
+  Thou comest not when violets lean
+  O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
+  Or columbines, in purple dressed,
+  Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
+
+  Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
+  When woods are bare and birds are flown,
+  And frosts and shortening days portend
+  The aged year is near his end.
+
+  Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
+  Look through its fringes to the sky,
+  Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall
+  A flower from its cerulean wall.
+
+  I would that thus, when I shall see
+  The hour of death draw near to me,
+  Hope, blossoming within my heart,
+  May look to heaven as I depart.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Crowded Street.
+
+
+  Let me move slowly through the street,
+    Filled with an ever-shifting train,
+  Amid the sound of steps that beat
+    The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
+
+  How fast the flitting figures come!
+    The mild, the fierce, the stony face,--
+  Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
+    Where secret tears have left their trace.
+
+  They pass--to toil, to strife, to rest;
+    To halls in which the feast is spread;
+  To chambers where the funeral guest
+    In silence sits beside the dead.
+
+  And some to happy homes repair,
+    Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
+  With mute caresses shall declare
+    The tenderness they cannot speak.
+
+  And some, who walk in calmness here,
+    Shall shudder as they reach the door
+  Where one who made their dwelling dear,
+    Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
+
+  Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
+    And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
+  Go'st thou to build an early name,
+    Or early in the task to die?
+
+  Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
+    Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
+  Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
+    Or melt the glittering spires in air?
+
+  Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
+    The dance till daylight gleam again?
+  Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?
+    Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?
+
+  Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
+    The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;
+  And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
+    Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.
+
+  Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
+    They pass, and heed each other not.
+  There is who heeds, who holds them all
+    In His large love and boundless thought.
+
+  These struggling tides of life, that seem
+    In wayward, aimless course to tend,
+  Are eddies of the mighty stream
+    That rolls to its appointed end.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Raven.
+
+
+  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
+  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,--
+  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
+  As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
+  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,--
+            Only this, and nothing more."
+
+  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
+  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
+  Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
+  From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore,--
+  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,--
+            Nameless here forevermore.
+
+  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
+  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
+  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
+  --Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
+            This it is, and nothing more."
+
+  Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
+  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
+  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
+  And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
+  That I scarce was sure I heard you;"--here I opened wide the door:--
+            Darkness there, and nothing more.
+
+  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
+  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
+  But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
+  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
+  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore:"
+            Merely this, and nothing more.
+
+  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
+  Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
+  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
+  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,--
+  Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
+            'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
+
+  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
+  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
+  Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
+  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
+  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
+            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
+  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
+  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure
+       no craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore,--
+  Tell, me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
+            With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
+  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
+  Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
+  Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
+  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
+            Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
+
+  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
+  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
+  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,
+  Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
+            Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+  But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
+  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
+  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
+  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
+  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
+            Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
+
+  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
+  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
+  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
+  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
+  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
+            _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
+
+  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
+  Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
+  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels He hath
+      sent thee
+  Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
+  Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
+  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
+  Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
+  On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore,--
+  Is there,--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
+  By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
+      upstarting,--
+  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
+  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
+  Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
+  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
+            Shall be lifted,--nevermore!
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+The Battle-field.
+
+
+  Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
+    Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
+  And fiery hearts and armèd hands
+    Encountered in the battle-cloud.
+
+  Ah! never shall the land forget
+    How gushed the life-blood of her brave,--
+  Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
+    Upon the soil they fought to save.
+
+  Now all is calm and fresh and still;
+    Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
+  And talk of children on the hill,
+    And bell of wandering kine are heard.
+
+  No solemn host goes trailing by
+    The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
+  Men start not at the battle-cry;
+    Oh, be it never heard again!
+
+  Soon rested those who fought; but thou
+    Who minglest in the harder strife
+  For truths which men receive not now,
+    Thy warfare only ends with life.
+
+  A friendless warfare! lingering long
+    Through weary day and weary year;
+  A wild and many-weaponed throng
+    Hang on thy front and flank and rear.
+
+  Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
+    And blench not at thy chosen 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 born.
+
+  Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
+    The eternal years of God are hers;
+  But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
+    And dies among his worshippers.
+
+  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.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Sleeper.
+
+
+  At midnight, in the month of June,
+  I stand beneath the mystic moon.
+  An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
+  Exhales from out her golden rim,
+  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
+  Upon the quiet mountain-top,
+  Steals drowsily and musically
+  Into the universal valley.
+  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
+  The lily lolls upon the wave;
+  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
+  The ruin moulders into rest;
+  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
+  A conscious slumber seems to take,
+  And would not, for the world, awake.
+  All beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
+  Irene, with her destinies!
+
+  O lady bright! can it be right,
+  This window open to the night?
+  The wanton airs from the tree-top
+  Laughingly through the lattice drop;
+  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
+  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
+  And wave the curtain canopy
+  So fitfully, so fearfully,
+  Above the closed and fringed lid
+  'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
+  That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
+  Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.
+  O lady dear, hast thou no fear?
+  Why and what art thou dreaming here?
+  Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
+  A wonder to these garden trees!
+  Strange is thy pallor; strange thy dress;
+  Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
+  And this all solemn silentness!
+
+  The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,
+  Which is enduring, so be deep!
+  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
+  This chamber changed for one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy,
+  I pray to God that she may lie
+  Forever with unopened eye,
+  While the pale sheeted ghosts go by.
+
+  My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,
+  As it is lasting, so be deep!
+  Soft may the worms about her creep!
+  Far in the forest, dim and old,
+  For her may some tall vault unfold:
+  Some vault that oft hath flung its black
+  And wingèd panels fluttering back,
+  Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
+  Of her grand family funerals;
+  Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
+  Against whose portal she hath thrown,
+  In childhood, many an idle stone;
+  Some tomb from out whose sounding door
+  She ne'er shall force an echo more,
+  Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,
+  It was the dead who groaned within!
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+
+BOOK SECOND.
+
+
+
+
+Nature.
+
+
+  As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
+    Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
+    Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
+  And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
+  Still gazing at them through the open door,
+    Nor wholly reassured and comforted
+    By promises of others in their stead,
+  Which, though more splendid, may not please him more,--
+  So Nature deals with us, and takes away
+    Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
+      Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
+  Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
+    Being too full of sleep to understand
+      How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Hebe.
+
+
+    I saw the twinkle of white feet,
+  I saw the flash of robes descending;
+    Before her ran an influence fleet,
+  That bowed my heart like barley bending.
+
+    As, in bare fields, the searching bees
+  Pilot to blooms beyond our finding,
+    It led me on, by sweet degrees
+  Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.
+
+    Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates;
+  With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me;
+    The long-sought Secret's golden gates
+  On musical hinges swung before me.
+
+    I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp
+  Thrilling with godhood; like a lover
+    I sprang the proffered life to clasp;--
+  The beaker fell; the luck was over.
+
+    The Earth has drunk the vintage up;
+  What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?
+    Can Summer fill the icy cup,
+  Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?
+
+    O spendthrift haste! await the Gods;
+  Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience;
+    Haste scatters on unthankful sods
+  The immortal gift in vain libations.
+
+    Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,
+  And shuns the hands would seize upon her;
+    Follow thy life, and she will sue
+  To pour for thee the cup of honor.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+The Day is Done.
+
+
+  The day is done, and the darkness
+    Falls from the wings of Night,
+  As a feather is wafted downward
+    From an eagle in his flight.
+
+  I see the lights of the village
+    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
+  And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
+    That my soul cannot resist:
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing,
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+  Come, read to me some poem,
+    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
+  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
+    And banish the thoughts of day.
+
+  Not from the grand old masters,
+    Not from the bards sublime,
+  Whose distant footsteps echo
+    Through the corridors of Time.
+
+  For, like strains of martial music,
+    Their mighty thoughts suggest
+  Life's endless toil and endeavor;
+    And to-night I long for rest.
+
+  Read from some humbler poet,
+    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
+  As showers from the clouds of summer,
+    Or tears from the eyelids start;
+
+  Who, through long days of labor,
+    And nights devoid of ease,
+  Still heard in his soul the music
+    Of wonderful melodies.
+
+  Such songs have power to quiet
+    The restless pulse of care,
+  And come like the benediction
+    That follows after prayer.
+
+  Then read from the treasured volume
+    The poem of thy choice,
+  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
+    The beauty of thy voice.
+
+  And the night shall be filled with music,
+    And the cares that infest the day
+  Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
+    And as silently steal away.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Ichabod.
+
+
+  So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
+    Which once he wore!
+  The glory from his gray hairs gone
+    Forevermore!
+
+  Revile him not,--the Tempter hath
+    A snare for all;
+  And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
+    Befit his fall!
+
+  Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
+    When he who might
+  Have lighted up and led his age,
+    Falls back in night.
+
+  Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
+    A bright soul driven,
+  Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
+    From hope and heaven!
+
+  Let not the land once proud of him
+    Insult him now,
+  Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
+    Dishonored brow.
+
+  But let its humbled sons, instead,
+    From sea to lake,
+  A long lament, as for the dead,
+    In sadness make.
+
+  Of all we loved and honored, naught
+    Save power remains,--
+  A fallen angel's pride of thought,
+    Still strong in chains.
+
+  All else is gone; from those great eyes
+    The soul has fled:
+  When faith is lost, when honor dies.
+    The man is dead!
+
+  Then, pay the reverence of old days
+    To his dead fame;
+  Walk backward, with averted gaze,
+    And hide the shame!
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+Sir Humphrey Gilbert.
+
+
+  Southward with fleet of ice
+    Sailed the corsair Death;
+  Wild and fast blew the blast,
+    And the east-wind was his breath.
+
+  His lordly ships of ice
+    Glisten in the sun;
+  On each side, like pennons wide,
+    Flashing crystal streamlets run.
+
+  His sails of white sea-mist
+    Dripped with silver rain;
+  But where he passed there were cast
+    Leaden shadows o'er the main.
+
+  Eastward from Campobello
+    Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
+  Three days or more seaward he bore,
+    Then, alas! the land-wind failed.
+
+  Alas! the land-wind failed,
+    And ice-cold grew the night;
+  And nevermore, on sea or shore,
+    Should Sir Humphrey see the light.
+
+  He sat upon the deck,
+    The Book was in his hand;
+  "Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"
+    He said, "by water as by land!"
+
+  In the first watch of the night,
+    Without a signal's sound,
+  Out of the sea, mysteriously,
+    The fleet of Death rose all around.
+
+  The moon and the evening star
+    Were hanging in the shrouds;
+  Every mast, as it passed,
+    Seemed to rake the passing clouds.
+
+  They grappled with their prize,
+    At midnight black and cold!
+  As of a rock was the shock;
+    Heavily the ground-swell rolled.
+
+  Southward through day and dark,
+    They drift in close embrace,
+  With mist and rain, o'er the open main;
+    Yet there seems no change of place.
+
+  Southward, forever southward,
+    They drift through dark and day;
+  And like a dream, in the Gulf Stream
+    Sinking, vanish all away.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Concord Hymn.
+
+   Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836.
+
+
+  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
+    Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
+  Here once the embattled farmers stood,
+    And fired the shot heard round the world.
+
+  The foe long since in silence slept;
+    Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
+  And Time the ruined bridge has swept
+    Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
+
+  On this green bank, by this soft stream,
+    We set to-day a votive stone,
+  That memory may their deed redeem,
+    When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
+
+  Spirit, that made those heroes dare
+    To die, and leave their children free,
+  Bid Time and Nature gently spare
+    The shaft we raise to them and thee.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+To America.
+
+
+  What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one,
+    Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age,
+    Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage
+  Its venal battles,--and, by yon bright sun,
+  Our God is false, and liberty undone,
+    If slaves have power to win your heritage!
+    Look on your country, God's appointed stage,
+  Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run:
+  For that it was your stormy coast He spread--
+    A fear in winter; girded you about
+  With granite hills, and made you strong and dread.
+    Let him who fears before the foemen shout,
+  Or gives an inch before a vein has bled,
+    Turn on himself, and let the traitor out!
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Old Ironsides.
+
+
+  Ay, 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.
+
+  Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
+    Where knelt the vanquished foe,
+  When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
+    And waves were white below,
+  No more shall feel the victor's tread,
+    Or know the conquered knee;
+  The harpies of the shore shall pluck
+    The eagle of the sea!
+
+  Oh, 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!
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+To England.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale
+    Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame;
+    The times have changed, the moral is the same.
+  So like an outcast, dowerless and pale,
+  Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale
+    Spread her young banner, till its sway became
+    A wonder to the nations. Days of shame
+  Are close upon thee; prophets raise their wail.
+  When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand
+    Points his long spear across the narrow sea,--
+    "Lo! there is England!" when thy destiny
+  Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand
+  Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,--
+    God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!
+
+  [1852.]
+
+
+II.
+
+  Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!
+    Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,
+    Sole refuge to the overwearied brave
+  Who planned, arose, and battled to be free,
+  Fell, undeterred, then sadly turned to thee,
+   Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,
+    To rise again, and animate the slave,
+  When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye
+  Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain
+    Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled,
+    Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled
+  Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, till the main
+  Sink under them; and if your courage wane,
+    Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!
+
+  [1853.]
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+The Wreck of the Hesperus.
+
+
+  It was the schooner Hesperus,
+    That sailed the wintry sea;
+  And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,
+    To bear him company.
+
+  Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+  And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+    That ope in the month of May.
+
+  The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+    His pipe was in his mouth,
+  And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+    The smoke now West, now South.
+
+  Then up and spake an old Sailòr,
+    Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+  "I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+    For I fear a hurricane.
+
+  "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+    And to-night no moon we see!"
+  The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+    And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+  Colder and louder blew the wind,
+    A gale from the Northeast,
+  The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+    And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+  Down came the storm, and smote amain
+    The vessel in its strength;
+  She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed,
+    Then leaped her cable's length.
+
+  "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+    And do not tremble so;
+  For I can weather the roughest gale
+    That ever wind did blow."
+
+  He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+    Against the stinging blast;
+  He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+    And bound her to the mast.
+
+  "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+    Oh, say, what may it be?"
+  "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
+    And he steered for the open sea.
+
+  "O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+    Oh, say, what may it be?"
+  "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+    In such an angry sea!"
+
+  "O father! I see a gleaming light,
+    Oh, say, what may it be?"
+  But the father answered never a word,
+    A frozen corpse was he.
+
+  Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+    With his face turned to the skies,
+  The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+    On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+  Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+    That savèd she might be;
+  And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+    On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+  And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+  Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+    Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
+
+  And ever the fitful gusts between
+    A sound came from the land;
+  It was the sound of the trampling surf
+    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+  The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+    She drifted a dreary wreck,
+  And a whooping billow swept the crew
+    Like icicles from her deck.
+
+  She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+    Looked soft as carded wool,
+  But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+    Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+  Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+    With the masts went by the board;
+  Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+  At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+    A fisherman stood aghast,
+  To see the form of a maiden fair,
+    Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+  The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+    The salt tears in her eyes;
+  And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+    On the billows fall and rise.
+
+  Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
+    In the midnight and the snow!
+  Christ save us all from a death like this,
+    On the reef of Norman's Woe!
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Bedouin Song.
+
+
+  From the Desert I come to thee
+    On a stallion shod with fire,
+  And the winds are left behind
+    In the speed of my desire.
+  Under thy window I stand,
+    And the midnight hears my cry:
+  I love thee, I love but thee,
+    With a love that shall not die
+        _Till the sun grows cold,_
+        _And the stars are old,_
+        _And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_
+
+  Look from thy window and see
+    My passion and my pain;
+  I lie on the sands below,
+    And I faint in thy disdain.
+  Let the night-winds touch thy brow
+    With the heat of my burning sigh,
+  And melt thee to hear the vow
+    Of a love that shall not die
+        _Till the sun grows cold,_
+        _And the stars are old,_
+        _And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_
+
+  My steps are nightly driven,
+    By the fever in my breast,
+  To hear from thy lattice breathed
+    The word that shall give me rest.
+  Open the door of thy heart,
+    And open thy chamber door,
+  And my kisses shall teach thy lips
+    The love that shall fade no more
+        _Till the sun grows cold,_
+        _And the stars are old,_
+        _And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_
+
+B. TAYLOR.
+
+
+
+
+Skipper Ireson's Ride.
+
+
+  Of all the rides since the birth of time,
+  Told in story or sung in rhyme,--
+  On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
+  Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
+  Witch astride of a human back,
+  Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,--
+  The strangest ride that ever was sped
+  Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!
+    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Body of turkey, head of owl,
+  Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
+  Feathered and ruffled in every part,
+  Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
+  Scores of women, old and young,
+  Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
+  Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
+  Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
+  Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
+  Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
+  Bacchus round some antique vase,
+  Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
+  Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
+  With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,
+  Over and over the Mænads sang:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  Small pity for him!--He sailed away
+  From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,--
+  Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
+  With his own town's-people on her deck!
+  "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.
+  Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
+  Brag of your catch of fish again!"
+  And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
+    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
+  That wreck shall lie forevermore.
+  Mother and sister, wife and maid,
+  Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
+  Over the moaning and rainy sea,--
+  Looked for the coming that might not be!
+  What did the winds and the sea-birds say
+  Of the cruel captain who sailed away?--
+    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Through the street, on either side,
+  Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
+  Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
+  Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
+  Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
+  Hulks of old sailors run aground,
+  Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
+  And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  Sweetly along the Salem road
+  Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
+  Little the wicked skipper knew
+  Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
+  Riding there in his sorry trim,
+  Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
+  Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
+  Of voices shouting, far and near:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,--
+  "What to me is this noisy ride?
+  What is the shame that clothes the skin
+  To the nameless horror that lives within?
+  Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
+  And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
+  Hate me and curse me,--I only dread
+  The hand of God and the face of the dead!"
+    Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
+  Said, "God has touched him! Why should we?"
+  Said an old wife, mourning her only son:
+  "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
+  So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
+  Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
+  And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
+  And left him alone with his shame and sin.
+    Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+The Village Blacksmith.
+
+
+  Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+    The village smithy stands;
+  The smith, a mighty man is he,
+    With large and sinewy hands;
+  And the muscles of his brawny arms
+    Are strong as iron bands.
+
+  His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+    His face is like the tan;
+  His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+    He earns whate'er he can,
+  And looks the whole world in the face,
+    For he owes not any man.
+
+  Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+    You can hear his bellows blow;
+  You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+    With measured beat and slow,
+  Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+    When the evening sun is low.
+
+  And children coming home from school
+    Look in at the open door;
+  They love to see the flaming forge,
+    And hear the bellows roar,
+  And catch the burning sparks that fly
+    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+  He goes on Sunday to the church,
+    And sits among his boys;
+  He hears the parson pray and preach,
+    He hears his daughter's voice,
+  Singing in the village choir,
+    And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+  It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+    Singing in Paradise!
+  He needs must think of her once more,
+    How in the grave she lies;
+  And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+    A tear out of his eyes.
+
+  Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+    Onward through life he goes;
+  Each morning sees some task begin,
+    Each evening sees it close;
+  Something attempted, something done.
+    Has earned a night's repose.
+
+  Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+    For the lesson thou hast taught!
+  Thus at the flaming forge of life
+    Our fortunes must be wrought;
+  Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+    Each burning deed and thought.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+The Last Leaf.
+
+
+  I saw him once before,
+  As he passed by the door,
+      And again
+  The pavement stones resound,
+  As he totters o'er the ground
+      With his cane.
+
+  They say that in his prime,
+  Ere the pruning-knife of Time
+      Cut him down,
+  Not a better man was found
+  By the crier on his round
+      Through the town.
+
+  But now he walks the streets,
+  And he looks at all he meets
+      Sad and wan,
+  And he shakes his feeble head,
+  That it seems as if he said,
+      "They are gone."
+
+  The mossy marbles rest
+  On the lips that he has pressed
+      In their bloom,
+  And the names he loved to hear
+  Have been carved for many a year
+      On the tomb.
+
+  My grandmamma has said--
+  Poor old lady, she is dead
+      Long ago--
+  That he had a Roman nose,
+  And his cheek was like a rose
+      In the snow.
+
+  But now his nose is thin,
+  And it rests upon his chin
+      Like a staff,
+  And a crook is in his back,
+  And a melancholy crack
+      In his laugh.
+
+  I know it is a sin
+  For me to sit and grin
+      At him here;
+  But the old three-cornered hat,
+  And the breeches, and all that,
+      Are so queer!
+
+  And if I should live to be
+  The last leaf upon the tree
+      In the spring,
+  Let them smile, as I do now,
+  At the old, forsaken bough
+      Where I cling.
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+The Old Kentucky Home.
+
+A NEGRO MELODY.
+
+
+  The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home;
+    'Tis 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 and bright;
+  By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door,--
+    Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!
+
+          Weep no more, my lady,
+          Oh, weep no more to-day!
+  We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,
+          For the old Kentucky Home, far away.
+
+  They hunt 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 door.
+  The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
+    With sorrow, where all was delight;
+  The time has come when the darkies have to part,--
+    Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!
+
+  The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
+    Wherever the darkey may go;
+  A few more days, and the trouble all will end,
+    In the field where the sugar-canes grow.
+  A few more days for to tote the weary load,--
+    No matter, 'twill 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,
+          Oh, weep no more to-day!
+  We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,
+          For the old Kentucky Home, far away.
+
+S.C. FOSTER.
+
+
+
+
+The Black Regiment.
+
+Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.
+
+
+  Dark as the clouds of even,
+  Ranked in the western heaven,
+  Waiting the breath that lifts
+  All the dread mass, and drifts
+  Tempest and falling brand
+  Over a ruined land;--
+  So still and orderly,
+  Arm 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 command
+  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 old chains again!"
+  Oh, what a shout there went
+  From the black regiment!
+
+  "Charge!" Trump and drum awoke,
+  Onward the bondmen broke;
+  Bayonet and sabre-stroke
+  Vainly opposed their rush.
+  Through the wild battle's crush,
+  With but one thought aflush,
+  Driving their lords like chaff,
+  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 'tis 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.
+  Oh, to the living few,
+  Soldiers, be just and true!
+  Hail them as comrades tried;
+  Fight with them side by side;
+  Never, in field or tent,
+  Scorn the black regiment.
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Carolina.
+
+
+  The despot treads thy sacred sands,
+  Thy pines give shelter to his bands,
+  Thy sons stand by with idle hands,
+              Carolina!
+  He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,
+  He scorns the lances of thy palm;
+  Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,
+              Carolina!
+  Thy ancient fame is growing dim,
+  A spot is on thy garment's rim;
+  Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,
+              Carolina!
+
+  Call on thy children of the hill,
+  Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,
+  Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,
+              Carolina!
+  Cite wealth and science, trade and art,
+  Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,
+  And pour thee through the people's heart,
+              Carolina!
+  Till even the coward spurns his fears,
+  And all thy fields, and fens, and meres
+  Shall bristle like thy palm with spears,
+              Carolina!
+
+  I hear a murmur as of waves
+  That grope their way through sunless caves,
+  Like bodies struggling in their graves,
+              Carolina!
+  And now it deepens; slow and grand
+  It swells, as, rolling to the land,
+  An ocean broke upon thy strand,
+              Carolina!
+  Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns!
+  And roar with all thy festal guns!
+  It is the answer of thy sons,
+              Carolina!
+
+H. TIMROD.
+
+
+
+
+Dirge for a Soldier.
+
+
+  Close 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!
+
+  As man may, he fought his fight,
+    Proved his truth by his endeavor;
+  Let him sleep in solemn night,
+    Sleep forever and forever.
+      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!
+      What cares he? He cannot know;
+            Lay him low!
+
+  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.
+      Lay him low, lay him low,
+      In the clover or the snow!
+      What cares he? He cannot know!
+            Lay him low!
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Battle-hymn of the Republic.
+
+
+  Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
+  He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
+  He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword:
+          His truth is marching on.
+
+  I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
+  They have builded 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 serpent with His heel!
+          Since God is marching on."
+
+  He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
+  He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
+  Oh! 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 His bosom that transfigures you and me:
+  As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
+          While God is marching on.
+
+J.W. HOWE.
+
+
+
+
+Farragut.
+
+
+  Farragut, Farragut,
+    Old Heart of Oak,
+  Daring Dave Farragut,
+    Thunderbolt stroke,
+  Watches the hoary mist
+    Lift from the bay,
+  Till his flag, glory-kissed,
+    Greets the young day.
+
+  Far, by gray Morgan's walls,
+    Looms the black fleet.
+  Hark, deck to rampart calls
+    With the drums' beat!
+  Buoy your chains overboard,
+    While the steam hums;
+  Men! to the battlement,
+    Farragut comes.
+
+  See, as the hurricane
+    Hurtles in wrath
+  Squadrons of clouds amain
+    Back from its path!
+  Back to the parapet,
+    To the guns' lips,
+  Thunderbolt Farragut
+    Hurls the black ships.
+
+  Now through the battle's roar
+    Clear the boy sings,
+  "By the mark fathoms four,"
+    While his lead swings.
+  Steady the wheelmen five
+    "Nor' by east keep her,"
+  "Steady," but two alive:
+    How the shells sweep her!
+
+  Lashed to the mast that sways
+    Over red decks,
+  Over the flame that plays
+    Round the torn wrecks,
+  Over the dying lips
+    Framed for a cheer,
+  Farragut leads his ships,
+    Guides the line clear.
+
+  On by heights cannon-browed,
+    While the spars quiver;
+  Onward still flames the cloud
+    Where the hulks shiver.
+  See, yon fort's star is set,
+    Storm and fire past.
+  Cheer him, lads,--Farragut,
+    Lashed to the mast!
+
+  Oh! while Atlantic's breast
+    Bears a white sail,
+  While the Gulf's towering crest
+    Tops a green vale;
+  Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
+    Old Heart of Oak,
+  Daring Dave Farragut,
+    Thunderbolt stroke!
+
+W.T. MEREDITH.
+
+
+
+
+My Maryland.
+
+
+  The despot's heel is on thy shore,
+        Maryland!
+  His torch is at thy temple door,
+        Maryland!
+  Avenge the patriotic gore
+  That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
+  And be the battle-queen of yore,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Hark to an exiled son's appeal,
+        Maryland!
+  My Mother State, to thee I kneel,
+        Maryland!
+  For life and death, for woe and weal,
+  Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
+  And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
+        Maryland!
+  Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
+        Maryland!
+  Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
+  Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
+  And all thy slumberers with the just,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
+        Maryland!
+  Come with thy panoplied array,
+        Maryland!
+  With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
+  With Watson's blood at Monterey,
+  With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,
+        Maryland!
+  Virginia should not call in vain,
+        Maryland!
+  She meets her sisters on the plain,--
+  _"Sic semper!"_ 'tis the proud refrain
+  That baffles minions back amain,
+        Maryland!
+  Arise in majesty again,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
+        Maryland!
+  Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
+        Maryland!
+  Come to thine own heroic throng
+  Stalking with Liberty along,
+  And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  I see the blush upon thy cheek,
+        Maryland!
+  For thou wast ever bravely meek,
+        Maryland!
+  But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
+  From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
+  Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
+        Maryland!
+  Thou wilt not crook to his control,
+        Maryland!
+  Better the fire upon thee roll,
+  Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
+  Than crucifixion of the soul,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  I hear the distant thunder-hum,
+          Maryland!
+  The old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,
+          Maryland!
+  She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;
+  Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
+  She breathes! She burns! She'll come!
+      She'll come!
+          Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+J.R. RANDALL.
+
+
+
+
+After All.[1]
+
+
+  The apples are ripe in the orchard,
+    The work of the reaper is done,
+  And the golden woodlands redden
+    In the blood of the dying sun.
+
+  At the cottage door the grandsire
+    Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,
+  While a gentle wind of twilight
+    Plays with his silver hair.
+
+  A woman is kneeling beside him;
+    A fair young head is prest,
+  In the first wild passion of sorrow,
+    Against his aged breast.
+
+  And far from over the distance
+    The faltering echoes come,
+  Of the flying blast of trumpet,
+    And the rattling roll of drum.
+
+  And the grandsire speaks in a whisper:
+    "The end no man can see;
+  But we give him to his country,
+    And we give our prayers to Thee."
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The violets star the meadows,
+    The rose-buds fringe the door,
+  And over the grassy orchard
+    The pink-white blossoms pour.
+
+  But the grandsire's chair is empty,
+    The cottage is dark and still,
+  There's a nameless grave in the battle-field,
+    And a new one under the hill.
+
+  And a pallid, tearless woman
+    By the cold hearth sits alone,
+  And the old clock in the corner
+    Ticks on with a steady drone.
+
+WILLIAM WINTER.
+
+
+
+[1] From "Wanderers," copyright, 1892, by Macmillan and Co.
+
+
+
+
+The Song of the Camp.
+
+
+  "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
+    The outer trenches guarding,
+  When the heated guns of the camps allied
+    Grew weary of bombarding.
+
+  The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
+    Lay grim and threatening under;
+  And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
+    No longer belch'd its thunder.
+
+  There was a pause. A guardsman said:
+    "We storm the forts to-morrow;
+  Sing while we may, another day
+    Will bring enough of sorrow."
+
+  They lay along the battery's side,
+    Below the smoking cannon:
+  Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
+    And from the banks of Shannon.
+
+  They sang of love, and not of fame;
+    Forgot was Britain's glory:
+  Each heart recall'd a different name,
+    But all sang "Annie Laurie."
+
+  Voice after voice caught up the song,
+    Until its tender passion
+  Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,--
+    Their battle-eve confession.
+
+  Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
+    But as the song grew louder,
+  Something upon the soldier's cheek
+    Washed off the stains of powder.
+
+  Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd
+    The bloody sunset's embers,
+  While the Crimean valleys learn'd
+    How English love remembers.
+
+  And once again a fire of hell
+    Rain'd on the Russian quarters,
+  With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
+    And bellowing of the mortars!
+
+  And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
+    For a singer dumb and gory;
+  And English Mary mourns for him
+    Who sang of "Annie Laurie."
+
+  Sleep, soldiers! still in honor'd rest
+    Your truth and valor wearing:
+  The bravest are the tenderest,--
+    The loving are the daring.
+
+B. TAYLOR.
+
+
+
+
+In the Hospital.
+
+
+  I lay me down to sleep,
+  With little thought or care
+  Whether my waking find
+      Me here or there.
+
+  A bowing, 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 how.
+
+  I am not eager, bold,
+  Nor strong--all that is past;
+  I am ready not to do
+      At last, at last.
+
+  My half day's work is done,
+  And this is all my part;
+  I give a patient God
+      My patient heart,
+
+  And grasp His banner still,
+  Though all its blue be dim;
+  These stripes, no less than stars,
+      Lead after Him.
+
+M.W. HOWLAND.
+
+
+
+
+Under the Violets.
+
+
+  Her hands are cold; her face is white;
+    No more her pulses come and go;
+  Her eyes are shut to life and light;--
+    Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
+    And lay her where the violets blow.
+
+  But not beneath a graven stone,
+    To plead for tears with alien eyes;
+  A slender cross of wood alone
+    Shall say, that here a maiden lies
+    In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
+
+  And gray old trees of hugest limb
+    Shall wheel their circling shadows round
+  To make the scorching sunlight dim
+    That drinks the greenness from the ground,
+    And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
+
+  When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
+    And through their leaves the robins call,
+  And, ripening in the autumn sun,
+    The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
+    Doubt not that she will heed them all.
+
+  For her the morning choir shall sing
+    Its matins from the branches high,
+  And every minstrel voice of Spring,
+    That trills beneath the April sky,
+    Shall greet her with its earliest cry.
+
+  When, turning round their dial-track,
+    Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
+  Her little mourners, clad in black,
+    The crickets, sliding through the grass,
+    Shall pipe for her an evening mass.
+
+  At last the rootlets of the trees
+    Shall find the prison where she lies,
+  And bear the buried dust they seize
+    In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
+    So may the soul that warmed it rise!
+
+  If any, born of kindlier blood,
+    Should ask, What maiden lies below?
+  Say only this: A tender bud,
+    That tried to blossom in the snow,
+    Lies withered where the violets blow.
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+Days.
+
+
+  Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
+  Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
+  And marching single in an endless file,
+  Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
+  To each they offer gifts after his will,
+  Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
+  I, in my pleachèd garden, watched the pomp,
+  Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
+  Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
+  Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
+  Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+Song.[2]
+
+
+  You know the old Hidalgo
+    (His box is next to ours),
+  Who threw the Prima Donna
+    The wreath of orange-flowers;
+  He owns the half of Aragon,
+    With mines beyond the main;
+  A very ancient nobleman,
+    And gentleman of Spain.
+
+  They swear that I must wed him,
+    In spite of yea or nay,
+  Though uglier than the Scaramouch,
+    The spectre in the play;
+  But I will sooner die a maid
+    Than wear a gilded chain,
+  For all the ancient noblemen
+    And gentlemen of Spain!
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[2] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Aladdin.
+
+
+  When I was a beggarly boy,
+    And lived in a cellar damp,
+  I had not a friend nor a toy,
+    But I had Aladdin's lamp;
+  When I could not sleep for cold,
+    I had fire enough in my brain,
+  And builded, with roofs of gold,
+    My beautiful castles in Spain!
+
+  Since then I have toiled day and night,
+    I have money and power good store,
+  But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright,
+    For the one that is mine no more;
+  Take, Fortune, whatever you choose,--
+    You gave, and may snatch again;
+  I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,
+    For I own no more castles in Spain!
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+The Flight of Youth.[3]
+
+
+  There are gains for all our losses,
+    There are balms for all our pain;
+  But when youth, the dream, departs,
+  It takes something from our hearts,
+    And it never comes again.
+
+  We are stronger, and are better,
+    Under manhood's sterner reign;
+  Still, we feel that something sweet
+  Followed youth, with flying feet,
+    And will never come again.
+
+  Something beautiful is vanished,
+    And we sigh for it in vain;
+  We behold it everywhere,
+  On the earth, and in the air,
+    But it never comes again.
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[3] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+My Playmate.
+
+
+  The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
+    Their song was soft and low;
+  The blossoms in the sweet May wind
+    Were falling like the snow.
+
+  The blossoms drifted at our feet,
+    The orchard birds sang clear;
+  The sweetest and the saddest day
+    It seemed of all the year.
+
+  For, more to me than birds or flowers,
+    My playmate left her home,
+  And took with her the laughing spring,
+    The music and the bloom.
+
+  She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
+    She laid her hand in mine:
+  What more could ask the bashful boy
+    Who fed her father's kine?
+
+  She left us in the bloom of May:
+    The constant years told o'er
+  Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
+    But she came back no more.
+
+  I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
+    Of uneventful years;
+  Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
+    And reap the autumn ears.
+
+  She lives where all the golden year
+    Her summer roses blow;
+  The dusky children of the sun
+    Before her come and go.
+
+  There haply with her jewelled hands
+    She smooths her silken gown,--
+  No more the homespun lap wherein
+    I shook the walnuts down.
+
+  The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
+    The brown nuts on the hill,
+  And still the May-day flowers make sweet
+    The woods of Follymill.
+
+  The lilies blossom in the pond,
+    The bird builds in the tree,
+  The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
+    The slow song of the sea.
+
+  I wonder if she thinks of them,
+    And how the old time seems,
+  If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
+    Are sounding in her dreams.
+
+  I see her face, I hear her voice:
+    Does she remember mine?
+  And what to her is now the boy
+    Who fed her father's kine?
+
+  What cares she that the orioles build
+    For other eyes than ours,--
+  That other hands with nuts are filled,
+    And other laps with flowers?
+
+  O playmate in the golden time!
+    Our mossy seat is green,
+  Its fringing violets blossom yet,
+    The old trees o'er it lean.
+
+  The winds so sweet with birch and fern
+    A sweeter memory blow;
+  And there in spring the veeries sing
+    The song of long ago.
+
+  And still the pines of Ramoth wood
+    Are moaning like the sea,--
+  The moaning of the sea of change
+    Between myself and thee!
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+The Fire of Driftwood.
+
+DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.
+
+
+  We sat within the farmhouse old,
+    Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
+  Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,
+    An easy entrance, night and day.
+
+  Not far away we saw the port,
+    The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
+  The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
+    The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
+
+  We sat and talked until the night,
+    Descending, filled the little room;
+  Our faces faded from the sight,
+    Our voices only broke the gloom.
+
+  We spake of many a vanished scene,
+    Of what we once had thought and said,
+  Of what had been, and might have been,
+    And who was changed, and who was dead;
+
+  And all that fills the hearts of friends,
+    When first they feel, with secret pain,
+  Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
+    And never can be one again;
+
+  The first slight swerving of the heart,
+    That words are powerless to express,
+  And leave it still unsaid in part,
+    Or say it in too great excess.
+
+  The very tones in which we spake
+    Had something strange, I could but mark;
+  The leaves of memory seemed to make
+    A mournful rustling in the dark.
+
+  Oft died the words upon our lips,
+    As suddenly, from out the fire
+  Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
+    The flames would leap and then expire.
+
+  And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
+    We thought of wrecks upon the main,
+  Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
+    And sent no answer back again.
+
+  The windows, rattling in their frames,
+    The ocean, roaring up the beach,
+  The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
+    All mingled vaguely in our speech;
+
+  Until they made themselves a part
+    Of fancies floating through the brain,
+  The long-lost ventures of the heart,
+    That send no answers back again.
+
+  O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
+    They were indeed too much akin,
+  The driftwood fire without that burned,
+    The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+A Death-bed.
+
+
+  Her suffering ended with the day,
+    Yet lived she at its close,
+  And breathed the long, long night away
+    In statue-like repose.
+
+  But when the sun in all his state
+    Illumed the eastern skies,
+  She passed through Glory's morning gate
+    And walked in Paradise.
+
+J. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+Telling the Bees.
+
+
+  Here is the place; right over the hill
+    Runs the path I took;
+  You can see the gap in the old wall still,
+    And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
+
+  There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
+    And the poplars tall;
+  And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
+    And the white horns tossing above the wall.
+
+  There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
+    And down by the brink
+  Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,--
+    Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
+
+  A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
+    Heavy and slow;
+  And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
+    And the same brook sings of a year ago.
+
+  There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
+    And the June sun warm
+  Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
+    Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
+
+  I mind me how with a lover's care
+    From my Sunday coat
+  I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
+    And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
+
+  Since we parted, a month had passed,--
+    To love, a year;
+  Down through the beeches I looked at last
+    On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
+
+  I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain
+    Of light through the leaves,
+  The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
+    The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
+
+  Just the same as a month before,--
+    The house and the trees,
+  The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,--
+    Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
+
+  Before them, under the garden wall,
+    Forward and back,
+  Went, drearily singing, the chore-girl small,
+  Draping each hive with a shred of black.
+
+  Trembling, I listened; the summer sun
+    Had the chill of snow;
+  For I knew she was telling the bees of one
+    Gone on the journey we all must go!
+
+  Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps
+    For the dead to-day;
+  Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
+    The fret and the pain of his age away."
+
+  But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
+    With his cane to his chin,
+  The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
+    Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
+
+  And the song she was singing ever since
+    In my ear sounds on:
+  "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
+    Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+Katie.
+
+
+  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 English sunshine, warmth, and air!
+  I cannot tell,--but here to-day,
+  A thousand billowy leagues away
+  From that green isle whose twilight skies
+  No darker are than Katie's eyes,
+  She seems to me, go where 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;
+  And, as to do her grace, rise up
+  The primrose and the buttercup!
+  I roam with her through fields of cane,
+  And seem to stroll an English lane,
+  Which, white with blossoms of the May,
+  Spreads its green carpet in her way!
+  As fancy wills, the path beneath
+  Is golden gorse, or purple heath;
+  And now we hear in woodlands dim
+  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 greet the dawn!
+  All birds that love the English sky
+  Throng round my path when she is by;
+  The blackbird from a neighboring thorn
+  With music brims the cup of morn,
+  And in a thick, melodious rain
+  The mavis pours her mellow strain!
+  But only when my Katie's voice
+  Makes all the listening woods rejoice
+  I hear--with cheeks that flush and pale--
+  The passion of the nightingale!
+
+H. TIMROD.
+
+
+
+
+My Love.
+
+
+  Not as all other women are
+  Is she that to my soul is dear;
+  Her glorious fancies come from far,
+  Beneath the silver evening-star,
+  And yet her heart is ever near.
+
+  Great feelings hath she of her own,
+  Which lesser souls may never know;
+  God giveth them to her alone,
+  And sweet they are as any tone
+  Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
+
+  Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
+  Although no home were half so fair;
+  No simplest duty is forgot;
+  Life hath no dim and lowly spot
+  That doth not in her sunshine share.
+
+  She doeth little kindnesses,
+  Which most leave undone, or despise;
+  For naught that sets one heart at ease,
+  And giveth happiness or peace,
+  Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.
+
+  She hath no scorn of common things,
+  And, though she seem of other birth,
+  Round us her heart intwines and clings,
+  And patiently she folds her wings
+  To tread the humble paths of earth.
+
+  Blessing she is; God made her so,
+  And deeds of week-day holiness
+  Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
+  Nor hath she ever chanced to know
+  That aught were easier than to bless.
+
+  She is most fair, and thereunto
+  Her life doth rightly harmonize;
+  Feeling or thought that was not true
+  Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
+  Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
+
+  She is a woman; one in whom
+  The spring-time of her childish years
+  Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
+  Though knowing well that life hath room
+  For many blights and many tears.
+
+  I love her with a love as still
+  As a broad river's peaceful might,
+  Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
+  Goes wandering at its own will,
+  And yet doth ever flow aright.
+
+  And, on its full, deep breast serene,
+  Like quiet isles my duties lie;
+  It flows around them and between,
+  And makes them fresh, and fair, and green,
+  Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+She Came and Went.
+
+
+  As a twig trembles, which a bird
+    Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,
+  So is my memory thrilled and stirred;--
+    I only know she came and went.
+
+  As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,
+    The blue dome's measureless content,
+  So my soul held that moment's heaven;--
+    I only know she came and went.
+
+  As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps
+    The orchards full of bloom and scent,
+  So clove her May my wintry sleeps;--
+    I only know she came and went.
+
+  An angel stood and met my gaze,
+    Through the low doorway of my tent;
+  The tent is struck, the vision stays;--
+   I only know she came and went.
+
+  Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,
+    And life's last oil is nearly spent,
+  One gush of light these eyes will brim,
+    Only to think she came and went.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+Her Epitaph.
+
+
+  The handful here, that once was Mary's earth,
+    Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul,
+  That, when she died, all recognized her birth,
+    And had their sorrow in serene control.
+
+  "Not here! not here!" to every mourner's heart
+    The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier;
+  And when the tomb-door opened, with a start
+    We heard it echoed from within,--"Not here!"
+
+  Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass,
+    Note in these flowers a delicater hue,
+  Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass,
+    Or the bee later linger on the dew,--
+
+  Know that her spirit to her body lent
+    Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can;
+  That even her dust, and this her monument,
+    Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man,
+  Lonely through life, but looking for the day
+    When what is mortal of himself shall sleep,
+  When human passion shall have passed away,
+    And Love no longer be a thing to weep.
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+Apart.
+
+
+  At sea are tossing ships;
+    On shore are dreaming shells,
+  And the waiting heart and the loving lips,
+    Blossoms and bridal bells.
+
+  At sea are sails a-gleam;
+    On shore are longing eyes,
+  And the far horizon's haunting dream
+    Of ships that sail the skies.
+
+  At sea are masts that rise
+    Like spectres from the deep;
+  On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries
+    That cross the waves of sleep.
+
+  At sea are wrecks a-strand;
+    On shore are shells that moan,
+  Old anchors buried in barren sand,
+    Sea-mist and dreams alone.
+
+J.J. PIATT.
+
+
+
+
+The Discoverer.
+
+
+    I have a little kinsman
+    Whose earthly summers are but three,
+    And yet a voyager is he
+    Greater than Drake or Frobisher,
+    Than all their peers together!
+    He is a brave discoverer,
+    And, far beyond the tether
+    Of them who seek the frozen Pole,
+  Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.
+    Ay, he has travelled whither
+    A winged pilot steered his bark
+    Through the portals of the dark,
+    Past hoary Mimir's well and tree,
+          Across the unknown sea.
+
+    Suddenly, in his fair young hour,
+    Came one who bore a flower,
+    And laid it in his dimpled hand
+          With this command:
+    "Henceforth thou art a rover!
+    Thou must make a voyage far,
+    Sail beneath the evening star,
+    And a wondrous land discover."
+    --With his sweet smile innocent
+          Our little kinsman went.
+
+    Since that time no word
+    From the absent has been heard.
+          Who can tell
+    How he fares, or answer well
+    What the little one has found
+    Since he left us, outward bound?
+    Would that he might return!
+    Then should we learn
+    From the pricking of his chart
+    How the skyey roadways part.
+  Hush! does not the baby this way bring,
+    To lay beside this severed curl,
+          Some starry offering
+    Of chrysolite or pearl?
+
+          Ah, no! not so!
+    We may follow on his track,
+          But he comes not back.
+          And yet I dare aver
+    He is a brave discoverer
+    Of climes his elders do not know.
+    He has more learning than appears
+    On the scroll of twice three thousand years,
+    More than in the groves is taught,
+    Or from furthest Indies brought;
+    He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,--
+    What shapes the angels wear,
+    What is their guise and speech
+    In those lands beyond our reach,--
+          And his eyes behold
+  Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.
+
+E.C. STEDMAN.
+
+
+
+
+At Last.[4]
+
+
+  When first the bride and bridegroom wed,
+    They love their single selves the best;
+  A sword is in the marriage bed,
+    Their separate slumbers are not rest.
+  They quarrel, and make up again,
+  They give and suffer worlds of pain.
+          Both right and wrong,
+          They struggle long,
+  Till some good day, when they are old,
+  Some dark day, when the bells are tolled,
+  Death having taken their best of life,
+    They lose themselves, and find each other;
+  They know that they are husband, wife,
+    For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[4] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+"Thalatta."
+
+CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.
+
+
+  I stand upon the summit of my years.
+  Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife,
+  The wandering and the desert; vast, afar,
+  Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea!
+  The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings,
+  By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath
+  Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.
+  Palter no question of the dim Beyond;
+  Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest;
+  Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,
+  A widening heaven, a current without care.
+  Eternity!--Deliverance, Promise, Course!
+  Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.
+
+J.B. BROWN.
+
+
+
+
+Gondolieds.
+
+
+I.
+
+YESTERDAY.
+
+
+  Dear yesterday, glide not so fast;
+      Oh, let me cling
+  To thy white garments floating past;
+  Even to shadows which they cast
+      I cling, I cling.
+      Show me thy face
+  Just once, once more; a single night
+  Cannot have brought a loss, a blight
+      Upon its grace.
+
+  Nor are they dead whom thou dost bear,
+      Robed for the grave.
+  See what a smile their red lips wear;
+  To lay them living wilt thou dare
+      Into a grave?
+      I know, I know,
+  I left thee first; now I repent;
+  I listen now; I never meant
+      To have thee go.
+
+  Just once, once more, tell me the word
+      Thou hadst for me!
+  Alas! although my heart was stirred,
+  I never fully knew or heard
+      It was for me.
+      O yesterday,
+  My yesterday, thy sorest pain
+  Were joy couldst thou but come again,--
+      Sweet yesterday.
+
+  _Venice, May 26._
+
+
+II.
+
+TO-MORROW.
+
+  All red with joy the waiting west,
+      O little swallow,
+  Couldst thou tell me which road is best?
+  Cleaving high air with thy soft breast
+      For keel, O swallow,
+      Thou must o'erlook
+  My seas and know if I mistake;
+  I would not the same harbor make
+      Which yesterday forsook.
+
+  I hear the swift blades dip and plash
+      Of unseen rowers;
+  On unknown land the waters dash;
+  Who knows how it be wise or rash
+      To meet the rowers!
+      Premì! Premì!
+  Venetia's boatmen lean and cry;
+  With voiceless lips I drift and lie
+      Upon the twilight sea.
+
+  The swallow sleeps. Her last low call
+      Had sound of warning.
+  Sweet little one, whate'er befall,
+  Thou wilt not know that it was all
+      In vain thy warning.
+      I may not borrow
+  A hope, a help. I close my eyes;
+  Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs;
+      Kneeling I wait to-morrow.
+
+  _Venice, May 30._
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+In the Twilight.
+
+
+  Men say the sullen instrument
+    That, from the Master's bow,
+    With pangs of joy or woe,
+  Feels music's soul through every fibre sent,
+    Whispers the ravished strings
+  More than he knew or meant;
+    Old summers in its memory glow;
+    The secrets of the wind it sings;
+    It hears the April-loosened springs;
+      And mixes with its mood
+      All it dreamed when it stood
+      In the murmurous pine-wood
+                Long ago!
+
+  The magical moonlight then
+    Steeped every bough and cone;
+  The roar of the brook in the glen
+    Came dim from the distance blown;
+  The wind through its glooms sang low,
+    And it swayed to and fro
+      With delight as it stood,
+      In the wonderful wood,
+                Long ago!
+
+  O my life, have we not had seasons
+    That only said, "Live and rejoice?"
+  That asked not for causes and reasons,
+    But made us all feeling and voice?
+  When we went with the winds in their blowing,
+    When Nature and we were peers,
+  And we seemed to share in the flowing
+    Of the inexhaustible years?
+    Have we not from the earth drawn juices
+    Too fine for earth's sordid uses?
+      Have I heard, have I seen
+        All I feel and I know?
+      Doth my heart overween?
+      Or could it have been
+                Long ago?
+
+  Sometimes a breath floats by me,
+    An odor from Dreamland sent,
+  That makes the ghost seem nigh me
+    Of a splendor that came and went,
+  Of a life lived somewhere, I know not
+    In what diviner sphere,
+  Of memories that stay not and go not,
+    Like music heard once by an ear
+      That cannot forget or reclaim it,
+      A something so shy, it would shame it
+        To make it a show,
+      A something too vague, could I name it,
+        For others to know,
+      As if I had lived it or dreamed it,
+      As if I had acted or schemed it,
+                Long ago!
+
+  And yet, could I live it over,
+    This life that stirs in my brain,
+  Could I be both maiden and lover,
+  Moon and tide, bee and clover,
+    As I seem to have been, once again,
+  Could I but speak and show it,
+    This pleasure more sharp than pain,
+    That baffles and lures me so,
+  The world should not lack a poet,
+      Such as it had
+      In the ages glad,
+                Long ago!
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls.
+
+
+  The tide rises, the tide falls,
+  The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
+  Along the sea-sands damp and brown
+  The traveller hastens toward the town,
+    And the tide rises, the tide falls.
+
+  Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
+  But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;
+  The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
+  Efface the footprints in the sands,
+    And the tide rises, the tide falls.
+
+  The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
+  Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
+  The day returns, but nevermore
+  Returns the traveller to the shore,
+    And the tide rises, the tide falls.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+The Fall of the Leaf.
+
+
+  The evening of the year draws on,
+    The fields a later aspect wear;
+  Since Summer's garishness is gone,
+    Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.
+
+  Behold! the shadows of the trees
+    Now circle wider 'bout their stem,
+  Like sentries that by slow degrees
+    Perform their rounds, gently protecting them.
+
+  And as the year doth decline,
+    The sun allows a scantier light;
+  Behind each needle of the pine
+    There lurks a small auxiliar to the night.
+
+  I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay
+    Around, beneath me, and on high;
+  It rocks the night, it soothes the day,
+    And everywhere is Nature's lullaby.
+
+  But most he chirps beneath the sod,
+    When he has made his winter bed;
+  His creak grown fainter but more broad,
+    A film of Autumn o'er the Summer spread.
+
+  Small birds, in fleets migrating by,
+    Now beat across some meadow's bay,
+  And as they tack and veer on high,
+    With faint and hurried click beguile the way.
+
+  Far in the woods, these golden days,
+    Some leaf obeys its Maker's call;
+  And through their hollow aisles it plays
+    With delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.
+
+  Gently withdrawing from its stem,
+    It lightly lays itself along
+  Where the same hand hath pillowed them,
+    Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng.
+
+  The loneliest birch is brown and sere,
+    The furthest pool is strewn with leaves,
+  Which float upon their watery bier,
+    Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.
+
+  The jay screams through the chestnut wood;
+    The crisped and yellow leaves around
+  Are hue and texture of my mood,--
+    And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.
+
+  The threadbare trees, so poor and thin,--
+    They are no wealthier than I;
+  But with as brave a core within
+    They rear their boughs to the October sky.
+
+  Poor knights they are which bravely wait
+    The charge of Winter's cavalry,
+  Keeping a simple Roman state,
+    Discumbered of their Persian luxury.
+
+H.D. THOREAU.
+
+
+
+
+The Rhodora.
+
+ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
+
+
+  In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
+  I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
+  Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
+  To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
+  The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
+  Made the black water with their beauty gay;
+  Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
+  And court the flower that cheapens his array.
+  Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
+  This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
+  Tell them, dear, 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 never thought to ask, I never knew:
+  But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
+  The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+Nature.
+
+
+  O nature! I do not aspire
+  To be the highest in thy quire,--
+  To be a meteor in the sky,
+  Or comet that may range on high;
+  Only a zephyr that may blow
+  Among the reeds by the river low;
+  Give me thy most privy place
+  Where to run my airy race.
+
+  In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
+  Let me sigh upon a reed,
+  Or in the woods, with leafy din,
+  Whisper the still evening in.
+  Some still work give me to do,--
+  Only--be it near to you!
+  For I'd rather be thy child
+  And pupil, in the forest wild,
+  Than be the king of men elsewhere,
+  And most sovereign slave of care.
+
+H.D. THOREAU.
+
+
+
+
+My Strawberry.
+
+
+  O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause
+  To reckon thee. I ask what cause
+  Set free so much of red from heats
+  At core of earth, and mixed such sweets
+  With sour and spice: what was that strength
+  Which out of darkness, length by length,
+  Spun all thy shining thread of vine,
+  Netting the fields in bond as thine.
+  I see thy tendrils drink by sips
+  From grass and clover's smiling lips;
+  I hear thy roots dig down for wells,
+  Tapping the meadow's hidden cells;
+     Whole generations of green things,
+  Descended from long lines of springs,
+  I see make room for thee to bide
+  A quiet comrade by their side;
+  I see the creeping peoples go
+  Mysterious journeys to and fro,
+  Treading to right and left of thee,
+  Doing thee homage wonderingly.
+  I see the wild bees as they fare,
+  Thy cups of honey drink, but spare.
+  I mark thee bathe and bathe again
+  In sweet uncalendared spring rain.
+  I watch how all May has of sun
+  Makes haste to have thy ripeness done,
+  While all her nights let dews escape
+  To set and cool thy perfect shape.
+  Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause
+  To dream and seek thy hidden laws!
+  I stretch my hand and dare to taste,
+  In instant of delicious waste
+  On single feast, all things that went
+  To make the empire thou hast spent.
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+The Humble-bee.
+
+
+  Burly, dozing humble-bee,
+  Where thou art is clime for me.
+  Let them sail for Porto Rique,
+  Far-off heats through seas to seek;
+  I will follow thee alone,
+  Thou animated torrid-zone!
+  Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
+  Let me 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;
+  Epicurean of June;
+  Wait, I prithee, till I come
+  Within earshot of thy hum,--
+  All without is martyrdom.
+
+  When the south wind, in May days,
+  With a net of shining haze
+  Silvers the horizon wall,
+  And with softness touching all,
+  Tints the human countenance
+  With a color of romance,
+  And infusing subtle heats,
+  Turns the sod to violets,
+  Thou, 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 leisure,
+  Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
+
+  Aught unsavory or unclean
+  Hath my insect never seen;
+  But violets and bilberry bells,
+  Maple-sap and daffodels,
+  Grass with green flag half-mast high,
+  Succory to match the sky,
+  Columbine with horn of honey,
+  Scented fern, and agrimony,
+  Clover, catchfly, 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-breeched philosopher!
+  Seeing only what is fair,
+  Sipping only what is sweet,
+  Thou dost mock at fate and care,
+  Leave the chaff, 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;
+  Want and woe, which torture us,
+  Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+The Summer Rain.
+
+
+  My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read.
+    'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
+  Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
+    And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
+
+  Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
+    Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
+  What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
+    Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
+
+  Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
+    What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
+  If juster battles are enacted now
+    Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?
+
+  Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
+    If red or black the gods will favor most,
+  Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
+    Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
+
+  Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
+    For now I've business with this drop of dew,
+  And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,--
+    I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
+
+  This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spread
+    Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use;
+  A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
+    And violets quite overtop my shoes.
+
+  And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
+    And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
+  The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
+    Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
+
+  I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
+    But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
+  Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
+    And now it sinks into my garment's hem.
+
+  Drip, drip the trees for all the country round,
+    And richness rare distills from every bough;
+  The wind alone it is makes every sound,
+    Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
+
+  For shame the sun will never show himself,
+    Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
+  My dripping locks,--they would become an elf,
+    Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
+
+H.D. THOREAU.
+
+
+
+
+To the Dandelion.
+
+
+    Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,
+  Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
+      First pledge of blithesome May,
+  Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
+    High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
+  An Eldorado in the grass have found,
+  Which not the rich earth's ample round
+    May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me
+    Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
+
+    Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow
+  Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
+      Nor wrinkled the lean brow
+  Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;
+    'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now
+  To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
+  Though most hearts never understand
+    To take it at God's value, but pass by
+    The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.
+
+    Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
+  To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
+      The eyes thou givest me
+  Are in the heart, and heed not space or time:
+    Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
+  Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment
+  In the white lily's breezy tent,
+    His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
+    From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
+
+    Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,
+  Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
+      Where, as the breezes pass,
+  The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,
+    Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
+  Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue
+  That from the distance sparkle through
+    Some woodland gap, and of a sky above,
+    Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
+
+    My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee;
+  The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,
+      Who, from the dark old tree
+  Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
+    And I, secure in childish piety,
+  Listened as if I heard an angel sing
+  With news from heaven, which he could bring
+    Fresh every day to my untainted ears
+    When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.
+
+    How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,
+  When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
+      Thou teachest me to deem
+  More sacredly of every human heart,
+    Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
+  Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
+  Did we but pay the love we owe,
+    And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
+    On all these living pages of God's book.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+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, where the Siren sings,
+       And coral reefs lie bare,
+  Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 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 crypt 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 the old no more.
+
+  Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
+      Child of the wandering sea,
+      Cast from her lap, forlorn!
+  From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
+  Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!
+      While on mine ear it rings,
+  Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:
+
+  Build thee more stately mansions, O 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 life's unresting sea!
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+Thought.
+
+
+  O messenger, art thou the king, or I?
+      Thou dalliest outside the palace gate
+      Till on thine idle armor lie the late
+  And heavy dews. The morn's bright scornful eye
+  Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery,
+      Thou smilest at the window where I wait,
+      Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state
+  My days go on, while false hours prophesy
+  Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,
+  I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air;
+      When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet,
+      And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.
+  Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy
+  I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+Stanzas.
+
+
+  Thought is deeper than all speech,
+    Feeling deeper than all thought;
+  Souls to souls can never teach
+    What 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 columns left alone
+    Of a temple once complete.
+
+  Like the stars that gem the sky,
+    Far apart, though seeming near,
+  In our light we scattered lie;
+    All is thus but starlight here.
+
+  What is social company
+    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 taught;
+
+  Only when our souls are fed
+    By the Fount which gave them birth,
+  And by inspiration led,
+    Which they never drew from earth,
+
+  We, like parted drops of rain
+    Swelling till they meet and run,
+  Shall be all absorbed again,
+    Melting, flowing into one.
+
+C.P. CRANCH.
+
+
+
+
+Coronation.
+
+
+  At the king's gate the subtle noon
+    Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
+  Into the drowsy snare too soon
+    The 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 thou have of me?"
+    The beggar turned, and, pitying,
+  Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee,
+    Nothing. I want the king."
+
+  Uprose the king, and from his head
+    Shook off the crown and threw it by.
+  "O man, thou must have known," he said,
+    "A greater king than I."
+
+  Through all the gates, unquestioned then,
+    Went king and beggar hand in hand.
+  Whispered the king, "Shall I know when
+    Before _his_ throne I stand?"
+
+  The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
+    Were wiping from the king's hot brow
+  The 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 guards waked one by one.
+
+  "Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen
+    The king?" The cry ran to and fro;
+  Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,
+    The laugh that free men know.
+
+  On the king's gate the moss grew gray;
+    The king came not. They called him dead;
+  And made his eldest son one day
+    Slave in his father's stead.
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+On a Bust of Dante.
+
+
+  See, from this counterfeit of him
+    Whom Arno shall remember long,
+  How stern of lineament, how grim,
+    The father was of Tuscan song:
+  There but the burning sense of wrong,
+    Perpetual care and scorn, abide;
+  Small friendship for the lordly throng;
+    Distrust of all the world beside.
+
+  Faithful if this wan image be,
+    No dream his life was,--but a fight;
+  Could any Beatrice see
+    A lover in that anchorite?
+  To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight
+    Who could have guessed the visions came
+  Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
+    In circles of eternal flame?
+
+  The lips as Cumæ'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,
+    Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.
+
+  Not wholly such his haggard look
+    When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,
+  With no companion save his book,
+    To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;
+  Where, as the Benedictine laid
+    His palm upon the convent's guest,
+  The single boon for which he prayed
+    Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.
+
+  Peace dwells not here,--this rugged face
+    Betrays no spirit of repose;
+  The sullen warrior sole we trace,
+    The marble man of many woes.
+  Such was his mien when first arose
+    The thought of that strange tale divine,
+  When hell he peopled with his foes,
+    The scourge of many a guilty line.
+
+  War to the last he waged with all
+    The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
+  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.
+
+  O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
+    The only righteous 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 parcel of mankind,
+  Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
+    The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+Pan in Wall Street.
+
+A.D. 1867.
+
+
+  Just where the Treasury's marble front
+    Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;
+  Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
+    To throng for trade and last quotations;
+  Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
+    Outrival, in the ears of people,
+  The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled
+    From Trinity's undaunted steeple,--
+
+  Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
+    Sound high above the modern clamor,
+  Above the cries of greed and gain,
+    The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;
+  And swift, on Music's misty ways,
+    It led, from all this strife for millions,
+  To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
+    Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.
+
+  And as it stilled the multitude,
+    And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
+  I saw the minstrel, where he stood
+   At ease against a Doric pillar:
+  One hand a droning organ played,
+    The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned
+  Like those of old) to lips that made
+    The reeds give out that strain impassioned.
+
+  'Twas Pan himself had wandered here
+    A-strolling through this sordid city,
+  And piping to the civic ear
+    The prelude of some pastoral ditty!
+  The demigod had crossed the seas,--
+    From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,
+  And Syracusan times,--to these
+    Far shores and twenty centuries later.
+
+  A ragged cap was on his head;
+    But--hidden thus--there was no doubting
+  That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,
+    His gnarlèd horns were somewhere sprouting;
+  His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
+    Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,
+  And trousers, patched of divers hues,
+    Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.
+
+  He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
+    And o'er his mouth their changes shifted,
+  And with his goat's-eyes looked around
+    Where'er the passing current drifted;
+  And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
+    The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,
+  Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
+    With clerks and porters, crowded near him.
+
+  The bulls and bears together drew
+    From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley,
+  As erst, if pastorals be true,
+    Came beasts from every wooded valley;
+  The random passers stayed to list,--
+    A boxer Ægon, rough and merry,
+  A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
+    With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.
+
+  A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
+    In tattered cloak of army pattern,
+  And Galatea joined the throng,--
+    A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;
+  While old Silenus staggered out
+    From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,
+  And bade the piper, with a shout,
+    To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!
+
+  A newsboy and a peanut-girl
+    Like little Fauns began to caper:
+  His hair was all in tangled curl,
+    Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
+  And still the gathering larger grew,
+    And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
+  While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
+    His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.
+
+  O heart of Nature, beating still
+    With throbs her vernal passion taught her,--
+  Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,
+    Or by the Arethusan water!
+  New forms may fold the speech, new lands
+    Arise within these ocean-portals,
+  But Music waves eternal wands,--
+    Enchantress of the souls of mortals!
+
+  So thought I,--but among us trod
+    A man in blue, with legal baton,
+  And scoffed the vagrant demigod,
+    And pushed him from the step I sat on.
+  Doubting, I mused upon the cry,
+    "Great Pan is dead!"--and all the people
+  Went on their ways:--and clear and high
+    The quarter sounded from the steeple.
+
+E.C. STEDMAN.
+
+
+
+
+Auspex.
+
+
+  My heart, I cannot still it,
+  Nest that had song-birds in it;
+  And when the last shall go,
+  The dreary days, to fill it,
+  Instead of lark or linnet,
+  Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.
+
+  Had they been swallows only,
+  Without the passion stronger
+  That skyward longs and sings,--
+  Woe's me, I shall be lonely
+  When I can feel no longer
+  The impatience of their wings!
+
+  A moment, sweet delusion,
+  Like birds the brown leaves hover;
+  But it will not be long
+  Before their wild confusion
+  Fall wavering down to cover
+  The poet and his song.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+Birds.[5]
+
+
+  Birds are singing round my window,
+    Tunes the sweetest ever heard,
+  And I hang my cage there daily,
+    But I never catch a bird.
+
+  So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
+    And they sing there all day long:
+  But they will not fold their pinions
+    In the little cage of Song.
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[5] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Toujours Amour.
+
+
+  Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,
+  At what age does Love begin?
+  Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
+  Summers three, my fairy queen,
+  But a miracle of sweets,
+  Soft approaches, sly retreats,
+  Show the little archer there,
+  Hidden in your pretty hair;
+  When didst learn a heart to win?
+  Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
+
+      "Oh!" the rosy lips reply,
+      "I can't tell you if I try.
+      'Tis so long I can't remember:
+      Ask some younger lass than I!"
+
+  Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face,
+  Do your heart and head keep pace?
+  When does hoary Love expire,
+  When do frosts put out the fire?
+  Can its embers burn below
+  All that chill December snow?
+  Care you still soft hands to press,
+  Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
+  When does Love give up the chase?
+  Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face!
+
+      "Ah!" the wise old lips reply,
+      "Youth may pass and strength may die;
+      But of Love I can't foretoken:
+      Ask some older sage than I!"
+
+E.C. STEDMAN.
+
+
+
+
+A Sigh.
+
+
+  It was nothing but a rose I gave her,--
+      Nothing but a rose
+  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 upon them lingers,
+      Stays, and thrills them still!
+
+  Withered, faded, pressed between the pages,
+      Crumpled fold on fold,--
+  Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
+      Cannot make it old!
+
+H.P. SPOFFORD.
+
+
+
+
+No More.
+
+
+  This is the Burden of the Heart,
+    The Burden that it always bore:
+  We live to love; we meet to part;
+    And part to meet on earth No More:
+  We clasp each other to the heart,
+    And part to meet on earth No More.
+
+  There is a time for tears to start,--
+    For dews to fall and larks to soar:
+  The Time for Tears, is when we part
+    To meet upon the earth No More:
+  The Time for Tears, is when we part
+    To meet on this wide earth--No More.
+
+B.F. WILLSON.
+
+
+
+
+To a Young Girl Dying.
+
+WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.
+
+
+  This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,
+  I bring palm branches, found upon my way:
+  But these will wither; thine shall never die,--
+  The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
+  Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
+  Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!
+  _We_ doubt and tremble,--_we_, with bated breath,
+  Talk of this mystery of life and death:
+  Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive
+  Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!
+
+  Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,
+  Gentle white palmer, never more to roam!
+  Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st,
+  Thy benediction,--for my love thou know'st!
+  We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine:
+  Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+The Port of Ships.[6]
+
+
+  Behind him lay the gray Azores,
+    Behind the Gates of Hercules;
+  Before him not the ghost of shores,
+    Before him only shoreless seas.
+  The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
+    For lo! the very stars are gone.
+  Brave Adm'ral speak,--what shall I say?"
+    "Why, say, 'Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"
+
+  "My men grow mutinous day by day;
+    My men grow ghastly, wan and weak."
+  The stout mate thought of home; a spray
+    Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
+  "What shall I say, brave Adm'ral, say,
+    If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
+  "Why, you shall say, at break of day,
+    'Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"
+
+  They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow,
+    Until at last the blanched mate said:
+  "Why, now not even God would know
+    Should I and all my men fall dead.
+  These very winds forget their way,
+    For God from these dread seas is gone.
+  Now speak, brave Adm'ral; speak, and say--"
+    He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"
+
+  They sailed! They sailed! Then spake the mate:
+    "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night;
+  He curls his lip, he lies in wait
+    With lifted teeth, as if to bite!
+  Brave Adm'ral, say but one good word,--
+    What shall we do when hope is gone?"
+  The words leaped as a leaping sword:
+    "Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!"
+
+C.H. MILLER.
+
+
+
+[6] From The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller.
+
+
+
+
+Paradisi Gloria.
+
+
+  There is a city, builded by no hand,
+    And unapproachable by sea or shore,
+  And unassailable by any band
+    Of storming soldiery for evermore.
+
+  There we no longer shall divide our time
+    By acts or pleasures,--doing petty things
+  Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme;
+    But we shall sit beside the silver springs
+
+  That flow from God's own footstool, and behold
+    Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few
+  Who loved us once and were beloved of old,
+    To dwell with them and walk with them anew,
+
+  In alternations of sublime repose,
+    Musical motion, the perpetual play
+  Of every faculty that Heaven bestows
+    Through the bright, busy, and eternal day.
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+Ballad.
+
+
+  In the summer even,
+    While yet the dew was hoar,
+  I went plucking purple pansies,
+    Till my love should come to shore.
+  The 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;
+  And the young moon dropped from heaven,
+    And the lights hid one by one.
+  All silently their glances
+    Slipped down the cruel sea,
+  And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,--
+    Wait, till I come to thee!
+
+H.P. SPOFFORD.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THIRD.
+
+
+
+
+
+The Fool's Prayer.
+
+
+  The royal feast was done; the King
+    Sought some new sport to banish care,
+  And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
+    Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
+
+  The jester doffed his cap and bells,
+    And stood the mocking court before;
+  They could not see the bitter smile
+    Behind the painted grin he wore.
+
+  He bowed his head, and bent his knee
+    Upon the monarch's silken stool;
+  His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
+    Be merciful to me, a fool!
+
+  "No pity, Lord, could change the heart
+    From red with wrong to white as wool;
+  The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
+    Be merciful to me, a fool!
+
+  "'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
+    Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
+  'Tis by our follies that so long
+    We hold the earth from heaven away.
+
+  "These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
+    Go crushing blossoms without end;
+  These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
+    Among the heart-strings of a friend.
+
+  "The ill-timed truth we might have kept--
+    Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
+  The word we had not sense to say--
+    Who knows how grandly it had rung?
+
+  "Our faults no tenderness should ask,
+    The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
+  But for our blunders--oh, in shame
+    Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
+
+  "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
+    Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
+  That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
+    Be merciful to me, a fool!"
+
+  The room was hushed; in silence rose
+    The King, and sought his gardens cool,
+  And walked apart, and murmured low,
+    "Be merciful to me, a fool!"
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+On The Life-mask Of Abraham Lincoln.
+
+
+  This bronze doth keep the very form and mold
+    Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:
+    That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
+  That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
+  Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;
+    That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
+    For storms to beat on; the lone agony
+  Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
+  Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
+    As might some prophet of the elder day,--
+    Brooding above the tempest and the fray
+  With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.
+    A power was his beyond the touch of art
+    Or armèd strength: his pure and mighty heart.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+Song.
+
+
+  Years have flown since I knew thee first,
+  And I know thee as water is known of thirst:
+  Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight,
+  And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+To A Dead Woman.[7]
+
+
+  Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end,
+     I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee.
+  Through long years keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend!
+    At the gate of Silence give it back to me.
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[7] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Destiny.
+
+
+  Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
+  Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
+  Drooped in a florist's window in a town.
+
+  The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
+  Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.
+
+  The second rose, as virginal and fair,
+  Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.
+
+  The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,
+  Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+The Kings.
+
+
+  A man said unto his angel:
+  "My spirits are fallen thro',
+  And I cannot carry this battle;
+  O brother! what shall I do?
+
+  "The terrible Kings are on me,
+  With spears that are deadly bright,
+  Against me so from the cradle
+  Do fate and my fathers fight."
+
+  Then said to the man his angel:
+  "Thou wavering, foolish soul,
+  Back to the ranks! What matter
+  To win or to lose the whole,
+
+  "As judged by the little judges
+  Who hearken not well, nor see?
+  Not thus, by the outer issue,
+  The Wise shall interpret thee.
+
+  "Thy will is the very, the only,
+  The solemn event of things;
+  The weakest of hearts defying
+  Is stronger than all these Kings.
+
+  "Tho' out of the past they gather,
+  Mind's Doubt and bodily Pain,
+  And pallid Thirst of the Spirit
+  That is kin to the other twain,
+
+  "And Grief, in a cloud of banners,
+  And ringletted Vain Desires,
+  And Vice with the spoils upon him
+  Of thee and thy beaten sires,
+
+  "While Kings of eternal evil
+  Yet darken the hills about,
+  Thy part is with broken sabre
+  To rise on the last redoubt;
+
+  "To fear not sensible failure,
+  Nor covet the game at all,
+  But fighting, fighting, fighting,
+  Die, driven against the wall!"
+
+L.I. GUINEY.
+
+
+
+
+Triumph.[8]
+
+
+  The dawn came in through the bars of the blind,--
+    And the winter's dawn is gray,--
+  And said, "However you cheat your mind,
+    The hours are flying away."
+
+  A ghost of a dawn, and pale, and weak,--
+    "Has the sun a heart," I said,
+  "To throw a morning flush on the cheek
+    Whence a fairer flush has fled?"
+
+  As a gray rose-leaf that is fading white
+    Was the cheek where I set my kiss;
+  And on that side of the bed all night
+    Death had watched, and I on this.
+
+  I kissed her lips, they were half apart,
+    Yet they made no answering sign;
+  Death's hand was on her failing heart,
+    And his eyes said, "She is mine."
+
+  I set my lips on the blue-veined lid,
+    Half-veiled by her death-damp hair;
+  And oh, for the violet depths it hid
+    And the light I longed for there!
+
+  Faint day and the fainter life awoke,
+    And the night was overpast;
+  And I said, "Though never in life you spoke
+    Oh, speak with a look at last!"
+
+  For the space of a heart-beat fluttered her breath,
+    As a bird's wing spread to flee;
+  She turned her weary arms to Death,
+    And the light of her eyes to me.
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[8] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Evening Song.[9]
+
+
+  Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,
+    And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,
+  How long they kiss in sight of all the lands.
+    Ah! longer, longer, we.
+
+  Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,
+    As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,
+  And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done,
+    Love, lay thine hand in mine.
+
+  Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;
+    Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.
+  O night! divorce our sun and sky apart,
+    Never our lips, our hands.
+
+S. LANIER.
+
+
+
+[9] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
+Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+"The Woods That Bring the Sunset Near."
+
+
+  The wind from out the west is blowing,
+  The homeward-wandering cows are lowing,
+  Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear,--
+  The woods that bring the sunset near.
+
+  When o'er wide seas the sun declines,
+  Far off its fading glory shines,
+  Far off, sublime, and full of fear,--
+  The pine-woods bring the sunset near.
+
+  This house that looks to east, to west,
+  This, dear one, is our home, our rest;
+  Yonder the stormy sea, and here
+  The woods that bring the sunset near.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+At Night.
+
+
+  The sky is dark, and dark the bay below
+  Save where the midnight city's pallid glow
+        Lies like a lily white
+        On the black pool of night.
+
+  O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way
+  Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay,
+        To where the eddying tide
+        Strikes hard the city's side!
+
+  For there, between the river and the sea,
+  Beneath that glow,--the lily's heart to me,--
+        A sleeping mother mild,
+        And by her breast a child.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+"Still in Thy Love I Trust."
+
+
+  Still in thy love I trust,
+  Supreme o'er death, since deathless is thy essence;
+  For, putting off the dust,
+  Thou hast but blest me with a nearer presence.
+
+  And so, for this, for all,
+  I breathe no selfish plaint, no faithless chiding;
+  On me the snowflakes fall,
+  But thou hast gained a summer all-abiding.
+
+  Striking a plaintive string,
+  Like some poor harper at a palace portal,
+  I wait without and sing,
+  While those I love glide in and dwell immortal.
+
+A.A. FIELDS.
+
+
+
+
+The Future.
+
+
+  What may we take into the vast Forever?
+      That marble door
+  Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor,
+      No fame-wreathed crown we wore,
+      No garnered lore.
+
+  What can we bear beyond the unknown portal?
+      No gold, no gains
+  Of all our toiling: in the life immortal
+      No hoarded wealth remains,
+      Nor gilds, nor stains.
+
+  Naked from out that far abyss behind us
+      We entered here:
+  No word came with our coming, to remind us
+      What wondrous world was near,
+      No hope, no fear.
+
+  Into the silent, starless Night before us,
+      Naked we glide:
+  No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us,
+      No comrade at our side,
+      No chart, no guide.
+
+  Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow,
+      Our footsteps fare:
+  The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow--
+      His love alone is there,
+      No curse, no care.
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+Prescience.
+
+
+  The new moon hung in the sky,
+    The sun was low in the west,
+  And my betrothed and I
+    In the churchyard paused to rest--
+      Happy maiden and lover,
+      Dreaming the old dream over:
+  The light winds wandered by,
+    And robins chirped from the nest.
+
+  And lo! in the meadow-sweet
+    Was the grave of a little child,
+  With a crumbling stone at the feet,
+    And the ivy running wild--
+      Tangled ivy and clover
+      Folding it over and over:
+  Close to my sweetheart's feet
+    Was the little mound up-piled.
+
+  Stricken with nameless fears,
+    She shrank and clung to me,
+  And her eyes were filled with tears
+    For a sorrow I did not see:
+      Lightly the winds were blowing,
+      Softly her tears were flowing--
+  Tears for the unknown years
+    And a sorrow that was to be!
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+In August.
+
+
+  All the long August afternoon,
+    The little drowsy stream
+  Whispers a melancholy tune,
+  As if it dreamed of June
+    And whispered in its dream.
+
+  The thistles show beyond the brook
+    Dust on their down and bloom,
+  And out of many a weed-grown nook
+  The aster-flowèrs look
+    With eyes of tender gloom.
+
+  The silent orchard aisles are sweet
+    With smell of ripening fruit.
+  Through the sere grass, in shy retreat,
+  Flutter, at coming feet,
+    The robins strange and mute.
+
+  There is no wind to stir the leaves,
+    The harsh leaves overhead;
+  Only the querulous cricket grieves,
+  And shrilling locust weaves
+    A song of Summer dead.
+
+W.D. HOWELLS.
+
+
+
+
+That Day You Came.
+
+
+  Such special sweetness was about
+    That day God sent you here,
+  I knew the lavender was out,
+    And it was mid of year.
+
+  Their common way the great winds blew,
+    The ships sailed out to sea;
+  Yet ere that day was spent I knew
+    Mine own had come to me.
+
+  As after song some snatch of tune
+    Lurks still in grass or bough,
+  So, somewhat of the end o' June
+    Lurks in each weather now.
+
+  The young year sets the buds astir,
+    The old year strips the trees;
+  But ever in my lavender
+    I hear the brawling bees.
+
+L.W. REESE.
+
+
+
+
+Negro Lullaby.
+
+
+  Bedtimes' come fu' little boys,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Too tiahed out to make a noise,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'?
+  Yes, you tole me dat, befo',
+  Don't you fool me, chile, no mo',
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  You been bad de livelong day,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  My, but you's a-runnin' wild,
+  Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile;
+  Mam' gwine whup you atter while,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  See dem han's now,--sich a sight!
+  Would you ever b'lieve dey's white!
+  Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  Jes' caint hol' yo' haid up straight,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Hadn't oughter played so late,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Mammy do' know whut she'd do,
+  Ef de chillun's all lak you;
+  You's a caution now fu' true,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  Lay yo' haid down in my lap,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Y'ought to have a right good slap,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  You been runnin' roun' a heap.
+  Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep,
+  Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+P.L. DUNBAR.
+
+
+
+
+A Woman's Thought.
+
+
+  I am a woman--therefore I may not
+  Call to him, cry to him,
+  Fly to him,
+  Bid him delay not!
+
+  And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet:
+  Still as a stone--
+  All silent and cold.
+  If my heart riot--
+  Crush and defy it!
+  Should I grow bold--
+  Say one dear thing to him,
+  All my life fling to him,
+  Cling to him--
+  What to atone
+  Is enough for my sinning!
+  This were the cost to me,
+  This were my winning--
+  That he were lost to me.
+  Not as a lover
+  At last if he part from me,
+  Tearing my heart from me--
+  Hurt beyond cure,--
+  Calm and demure
+  Then must I hold me--
+  In myself fold me--
+  Lest he discover;
+  Showing no sign to him
+  By look of mine to him
+  What he has been to me--
+  How my heart turns to him,
+  Follows him, yearns to him,
+  Prays him to love me.
+
+  Pity me, lean to me,
+  Thou God above me!
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+The Flight.
+
+
+  Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.
+    The angel raised his hand and looked and said,
+    "Which world, of all yon starry myriad
+  Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude
+  Became a harp whereon his voice and mood
+    Made spheral music round his haloed head.
+    I spake--for then I had not long been dead--
+  "Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood
+  A moment on these orbs ere I decide ...
+    What is yon lower star that beauteous shines
+    And with soft splendor now incarnadines
+  Our wings?--_There_ would I go and there abide."
+    He smiled as one who some child's thought divines:
+    "That is the world where yesternight you died."
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+Childhood.
+
+
+  Old Sorrow I shall meet again,
+    And Joy, perchance--but never, never,
+  Happy Childhood, shall we twain
+    See each other's face forever!
+
+  And yet I would not call thee back,
+    Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me,
+  Thine old companion, on the rack
+    Of Age, should sadden even thee.
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+Little Boy Blue.[10]
+
+
+  The little toy dog is covered with dust,
+    But sturdy and stanch he stands;
+  And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
+    And his musket moulds in his hands.
+  Time was when the little toy dog was new
+    And the soldier was passing fair,
+  And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
+    Kissed them and put them there.
+
+  "Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
+    "And don't you make any noise!"
+  So toddling off to his trundle-bed
+    He dreampt of the pretty toys.
+  And as he was dreaming, an angel song
+    Awakened our Little Boy Blue,--
+  Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
+    But the little toy friends are true.
+
+  Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
+    Each in the same old place,
+  Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
+    The smile of a little face.
+  And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
+    In the dust of that little chair,
+  What has become of our Little Boy Blue
+    Since he kissed them and put them there.
+
+E. FIELD.
+
+
+
+[10] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene
+Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Strong as Death.[11]
+
+
+  O death, when thou shalt come to me
+    From out thy dark, where she is now,
+  Come not with graveyard smell on thee,
+    Or withered roses on thy brow.
+
+  Come not, O Death, with hollow tone,
+    And soundless step, and clammy hand--
+  Lo, I am now no less alone
+    Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;
+
+  But with that sweet and subtle scent
+    That ever clung about her (such
+  As with all things she brushed was blent);
+    And with her quick and tender touch.
+
+  With the dim gold that lit her hair,
+    Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread
+  So light that I may dream her there,
+    And turn upon my dying bed.
+
+  And through my chilling veins shall flame
+    My love, as though beneath her breath;
+  And in her voice but call my name,
+    And I will follow thee, O Death.
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[11] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896 by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The White Jessamine.
+
+
+  I knew she lay above me,
+    Where the casement all the night
+  Shone, softened with a phosphor glow
+    Of sympathetic light,
+  And that her fledgling spirit pure
+    Was pluming fast for flight.
+
+  Each tendril throbbed and quickened
+    As I nightly climbed apace,
+  And could scarce restrain the blossoms
+    When, anear the destined place,
+  Her gentle whisper thrilled me
+    Ere I gazed upon her face.
+
+  I waited, darkling, till the dawn
+    Should touch me into bloom,
+  While all my being panted
+    To outpour its first perfume,
+  When, lo! a paler flower than mine
+    Had blossomed in the gloom!
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+The House of Death.
+
+
+  Not a hand has lifted the latchet
+    Since she went out of the door--
+  No footstep shall cross the threshold,
+    Since she can come in no more.
+
+  There is rust upon locks and hinges,
+    And mold and blight on the walls,
+  And silence faints in the chambers,
+    And darkness waits in the halls--
+
+  Waits as all things have waited
+    Since she went, that day of spring,
+  Borne in her pallid splendor
+    To dwell in the Court of the King:
+
+  With lilies on brow and bosom,
+    With robes of silken sheen,
+  And her wonderful, frozen beauty,
+    The lilies and silk between.
+
+  Red roses she left behind her,
+    But they died long, long ago
+  'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom
+    That seemed through the dusk to glow.
+
+  The garments she left mock the shadows
+    With hints of womanly grace,
+  And her image swims in the mirror
+    That was so used to her face.
+
+  The birds make insolent music
+    Where the sunshine riots outside,
+  And the winds are merry and wanton
+    With the summer's pomp and pride.
+
+  But into this desolate mansion,
+    Where Love has closed the door,
+  Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter,
+    Since she can come in no more.
+
+L.C. MOULTON.
+
+
+
+
+A Tropical Morning at Sea.
+
+
+  Sky in its lucent splendor lifted
+    Higher than cloud can be;
+  Air with no breath of earth to stain it,
+    Pure on the perfect sea.
+
+  Crests that touch and tilt each other,
+    Jostling as they comb;
+  Delicate crash of tinkling water,
+    Broken in pearling foam.
+
+  Plashings--or is it the pinewood's whispers,
+    Babble of brooks unseen,
+  Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms,
+    Brushing aside the green?
+
+  Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle;
+    Foam-wreaths slipping by,
+  Soft as a snow of broken roses
+    Afloat over mirrored sky.
+
+  Off to the east the steady sun-track
+    Golden meshes fill
+  Webs of fire, that lace and tangle,
+    Never a moment still.
+
+  Liquid palms but clap together,
+    Fountains, flower-like, grow--
+  Limpid bells on stems of silver--
+    Out of a slope of snow.
+
+  Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets--
+    Blue as a summer sky,
+  When you blink at its arch sprung over
+    Where in the grass you lie.
+
+  Dimly an orange bit of rainbow
+    Burns where the low west clears,
+  Broken in air, like a passionate promise
+    Born of a moment's tears.
+
+  Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver,
+    Clouds in the distance dwell,
+  Clouds that are cool, for all their color,
+    Pure as a rose-lipped shell.
+
+  Fleets of wool in the upper heavens
+    Gossamer wings unfurl;
+  Sailing so high they seem but sleeping
+    Over yon bar of pearl.
+
+  What would the great world lose, I wonder--
+    Would it be missed or no--
+  If we stayed in the opal morning,
+    Floating forever so?
+
+  Swung to sleep by the swaying water,
+    Only to dream all day--
+  Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting,
+    Scatter such dreams away!
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+Memory.
+
+
+  My mind lets go a thousand things,
+  Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
+  And yet recalls the very hour--
+  'Twas noon by yonder village tower,
+  And on the last blue noon in May--
+  The wind came briskly up this way,
+  Crisping the brook beside the road;
+  Then, pausing here, set down its load
+  Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
+  Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+A Mood.
+
+
+  A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness--
+  Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness;
+  A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence;
+  A tense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence;
+  A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken--
+  Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+The Way to Arcady.[12]
+
+
+  _Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_
+    _To Arcady, to Arcady;_
+  _Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_
+    _Where all the leaves are merry?_
+
+  Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
+  The spring is rustling in the tree--
+  The tree the wind is blowing through--
+    It sets the blossoms flickering white.
+  I knew not skies could burn so blue
+    Nor any breezes blow so light.
+  They blow an old-time way for me,
+  Across the world to Arcady.
+
+  Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
+  Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
+  Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
+  How have you heart for any tune,
+  You with the wayworn russet shoon?
+  Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
+  Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
+  I'll brim it well with pieces red,
+  If you will tell the way to tread.
+
+  _Oh, I am bound for Arcady,_
+  _And if you but keep pace with me_
+  _You tread the way to Arcady._
+
+  And where away lies Arcady,
+  And how long yet may the journey be?
+
+  _Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know--_
+  _Across the clover and the snow--_
+  _Across the frost, across the flowers--_
+  _Through summer seconds and winter hours._
+  _I've trod the way my whole life long,_
+    _And know not now where it may be;_
+  _My guide is but the stir to song._
+  _That tells me I can not go wrong,_
+    _Or clear or dark the pathway be_
+    _Upon the road to Arcady._
+
+  But how shall I do who cannot sing?
+    I was wont to sing, once on a time--
+  There is never an echo now to ring
+    Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.
+
+  _'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he),
+  _The folk all sing in Arcady._
+
+  But how may he find Arcady
+  Who hath not youth nor melody?
+
+  _What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)--
+    _Your hair is white, your face is wise--_
+    _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_
+  _Who hopes to see fair Arcady?_
+  _No gold can buy you entrance there;_
+  _But beggared Love may go all bare--_
+  _No wisdom won with weariness;_
+  _But Love goes in with Folly's dress--_
+  _No fame that wit could ever win;_
+  _But only Love may lead Love in_
+    _To Arcady, to Arcady._
+
+  Ah, woe is me, through all my days
+    Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
+  And fame and name, and great men's praise;
+    But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.
+
+  There was a time, when life was new--
+    But far away, and half forgot--
+  I only know her eyes were blue;
+    But Love--I fear I knew it not.
+  We did not wed, for lack of gold,
+  And she is dead, and I am old.
+  All things have come since then to me,
+  Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.
+
+  _Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he),
+  _My way's for Love and Arcady_.
+
+  But you, you fare alone, like me;
+    The gray is likewise in your hair.
+    What love have you to lead you there,
+  To Arcady, to Arcady?
+
+  _Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;_
+    _My true companion's Memory._
+  _With Love he fills the Spring-time air;_
+    _With Love he clothes the Winter tree._
+  _Oh, past this poor horizon's bound_
+    _My song goes straight to one who stands--_
+  _Her face all gladdening at the sound--_
+    _To lead me to the Spring-green lands,_
+    _To wander with enlacing hands._
+  _The songs within my breast that stir_
+  _Are all of her, are all of her._
+  _My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he),
+  _She waits for me in Arcady._
+
+  _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_
+    _To Arcady, to Arcady;_
+  _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_
+    _Where all the leaves are merry._
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[12] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Eve's Daughter.
+
+
+  I waited in the little sunny room:
+    The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play,
+  The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,
+    And out upon the bay
+  I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.
+
+  "Such an old friend,--she would not make me stay
+    While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo,
+  Danaë in her shower! and fit to slay
+    All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow:
+  Gold hair, that streamed away
+    As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow.
+    "She would not make me wait!"--but well I know
+  She took a good half-hour to loose and lay
+    Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.
+
+
+  Beneath the warrior's helm, behold
+    The flowing tresses of the woman!
+  Minerva, Pallas, what you will--
+    A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.
+
+  Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx
+    In cousin's helmet masquerading;
+  If not--then Wisdom was a dame
+    For sonnets and for serenading!
+
+  I thought the goddess cold, austere,
+    Not made for love's despairs and blisses:
+  Did Pallas wear her hair like that?
+    Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?
+
+  The Nightingale should be her bird,
+    And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn:
+  How very fresh she looks, and yet
+    She's older far than Trajan's Column!
+
+  The magic hand that carved this face,
+    And set this vine-work round it running,
+  Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought
+    Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.
+
+  Who was he? Was he glad or sad,
+    Who knew to carve in such a fashion?
+  Perchance he graved the dainty head
+    For some brown girl that scorned his passion.
+
+  Perchance, in some still garden-place,
+    Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,
+  He flung the jewel at the feet
+    Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Laïs.
+
+  But he is dust; we may not know
+    His happy or unhappy story:
+  Nameless, and dead these centuries,
+    His work outlives him--there's his glory!
+
+  Both man and jewel lay in earth
+    Beneath a lava-buried city;
+  The countless summers came and went
+    With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.
+
+  Years blotted out the man, but left
+    The jewel fresh as any blossom,
+  Till some Visconti dug it up--
+    To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!
+
+  O nameless brother! see how Time
+    Your gracious handiwork has guarded:
+  See how your loving, patient art
+    Has come, at last, to be rewarded.
+
+  Who would not suffer slights of men,
+    And pangs of hopeless passion also,
+  To have his carven agate-stone
+    On such a bosom rise and fall so!
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+Hunting-song.
+
+
+  Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
+  When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
+  And a ten-tined buck to kill!
+
+  Before the sun goes down, goes down,
+  We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison,
+  When we come home again.
+
+  Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
+  Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
+  And the joy of the open air.
+
+  But he that loves the hills, the hills,
+  Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
+  And the hunt's up, and away!
+
+R. HOVEY.
+
+
+
+
+Parting.
+
+
+  My life closed twice before its close;
+    It yet remains to see
+  If Immortality unveil
+    A third event to me,
+
+  So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
+    As these that twice befell.
+  Parting is all we know of heaven,
+    And all we need of hell.
+
+E. DICKINSON.
+
+
+
+
+When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.
+
+
+  _When the Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _Goes to the city Ispahan_,
+  Even before he gets so far
+  As the place where the clustered palm-trees are,
+  At the last of the thirty palace-gates,
+  The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom,
+  Orders a feast in his favorite room--
+  Glittering squares of colored ice,
+  Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice,
+  Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates,
+  Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,
+  Limes, and citrons, and apricots,
+  And wines that are known to Eastern princes;
+  And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots
+  Of spicèd meats and costliest fish
+  And all that the curious palate could wish,
+  Pass in and out of the cedarn doors;
+  Scattered over mosaic floors
+  Are anemones, myrtles, and violets,
+  And a musical fountain throws its jets
+  Of a hundred colors into the air.
+  The dusk Sultana loosens her hair,
+  And stains with the henna-plant the tips
+  Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips
+  Till they bloom again; but, alas, _that_ rose
+  Not for the Sultan buds and blows!
+  _Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _When he goes to the city Ispahan_.
+
+  Then at a wave of her sunny hand
+  The dancing-girls of Samarcand
+  Glide in like shapes from fairy-land,
+  Making a sudden mist in air
+  Of fleecy veils and floating hair
+  And white arms lifted. Orient blood
+  Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes.
+  And there, in this Eastern Paradise,
+  Filled with the breath of sandal-wood,
+  And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh,
+  Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan,
+  Sipping the wines of Astrakhan;
+  And her Arab lover sits with her.
+  _That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _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 the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _Has gone to the city Isfahan_.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+Night.
+
+
+  Chaos, of old, was God's dominion;
+    'Twas His belovèd child, His own first-born;
+    And He was agèd ere the thought of morn
+  Shook the sheer steeps of black Oblivion.
+  Then all the works of darkness being done
+    Through countless æons hopelessly forlorn,
+    Out to the very utmost verge and bourn,
+  God at the last, reluctant, made the sun.
+  He loved His darkness still, for it was old:
+    He grieved to see His eldest child take flight;
+    And when His _Fiat lux_ the death-knell tolled,
+  As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled,
+    He snatched a remnant flying into light
+    And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night.
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+He Made the Stars Also.
+
+
+  Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach
+    Of suns, their legions withering at His nod,
+    Died into day hearing the voice of God;
+  And seas new made, immense and furious, each
+  Plunged and rolled forward, feeling for a beach;
+    He walked the waters with effulgence shod.
+    This being made, He yearned for worlds to make
+  From other chaos out beyond our night--
+  For to create is still God's prime delight.
+    The large moon, all alone, sailed her dark lake,
+    And the first tides were moving to her might;
+  Then Darkness trembled, and began to quake
+    Big with the birth of stars, and when He spake
+    A million worlds leapt into radiant light!
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+The Sour Winds.
+
+
+  Wind of the North,
+  Wind of the Norland snows,
+  Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars--
+  Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,
+  And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,
+  And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice,
+  But go not near my love.
+
+  Wind of the West,
+  Wind of the few, far clouds,
+  Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands--
+  Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
+  And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,
+  And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
+  But let my dear one rest.
+
+  Wind of the East,
+  Wind of the sunrise seas,
+  Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains--
+  Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,
+  And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars,
+  And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves,
+  Yet keep thou from my love.
+
+  But thou, sweet wind!
+  Wind of the fragrant South,
+  Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose--
+  Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes
+  And flowering forests come with dewy wings,
+  And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss
+  The low mound where she lies.
+
+C.H. LÜDERS.
+
+
+
+
+The Return.
+
+
+  Now at last I am at home--
+    Wind abeam and flooding tide,
+  And the offing white with foam,
+    And an old friend by my side
+    Glad the long, green waves to ride.
+
+  Strange how we've been wandering
+    Through the crowded towns for gain,
+  You and I who loved the sting
+    Of the salt spray and the rain
+    And the gale across the main!
+
+  What world honors could avail
+    Loss of this--the slanted mast,
+  And the roaring round the rail,
+    And the sheeted spray we cast
+    Round us as we seaward passed?
+
+  As the sad land sinks apace,
+    With it sinks each thought of care;
+  Think not now of aging face;
+    Question not the whitening hair:
+    Youth still beckons everywhere.
+
+  And the light we thought had fled
+    From the sky-line glows there now;
+  Bends the same blue overhead;
+    And the waves we used to plow
+    Part in beryl at the bow.
+
+  Hours like this we two have known
+    In the old days, when we sailed
+  Seaward ere the night had flown,
+    Or the morning star had paled
+    Like the shy eyes love has veiled.
+
+  Round our bow the ripples purled,
+    As the swift tide outward streamed
+  Through a hushed and ghostly world,
+    Where our harbor reaches seemed
+    Like a river that we dreamed.
+
+  Then we saw the black hills sway
+    In the waters' crinkled glass,
+  And the village wan and gray,
+    And the startled cattle pass
+    Through the tangled meadow-grass.
+
+  Through the glooming we have run
+    Straight into the gates of day,
+  Seen the crimson-edgèd sun
+    Burn the sea's gray bound away--
+    Leap to universal sway.
+
+  Little cared we where we drove
+    So the wind was strong and keen.
+  Oh, what sun-crowned waves we clove!
+    What cool shadows lurked between
+    Those long combers pale and green!
+
+  Graybeard pleasures are but toys;
+    Sorrow shatters them at last:
+  For this brief hour we are boys;
+    Trim the sheet and face the blast;
+    Sail into the happy past!
+
+L.F. TOOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Bereaved.
+
+
+  Let me come in where you sit weeping,--aye,
+      Let me, who have not any child to die,
+  Weep with you for the little one whose love
+      I have known nothing of.
+
+  The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed
+  Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used
+  To kiss.--Such arms--such hands I never knew.
+      May I not weep with you?
+
+  Fain would I be of service--say some thing,
+  Between the tears, that would be comforting,--
+  But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I,
+      Who have no child to die.
+
+J.W. RILEY.
+
+
+
+
+The Chariot.
+
+
+  Because I could not stop for Death,
+    He kindly stopped for me;
+  The carriage held but just ourselves
+    And Immortality.
+
+  We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
+    And I had put away
+  My labor, and my leisure too,
+    For his civility.
+
+  We passed the school where children played,
+    Their lessons scarcely done;
+  We passed the fields of gazing grain.
+    We passed the setting sun.
+
+  We paused before a house that seemed
+    A swelling of the ground;
+  The roof was scarcely visible,
+    The cornice but a mound.
+
+  Since then 'tis centuries; but each
+    Feels shorter than the day
+  I first surmised the horses' heads
+    Were toward eternity.
+
+E. DICKINSON.
+
+
+
+
+Indian Summer.
+
+
+  These are the days when birds come back,
+  A very few, a bird or two,
+  To take a backward look.
+
+  These are the days when skies put on
+  The old, old sophistries of June,--
+  A blue and gold mistake.
+
+  Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
+  Almost thy plausibility
+  Induces my belief,
+
+  Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
+  And softly through the altered air
+  Hurries a timid leaf!
+
+  Oh, sacrament of summer days,
+  Oh, last communion in the haze,
+  Permit a child to join,
+
+  Thy sacred emblems to partake,
+  Thy consecrated bread to break,
+  Taste thine immortal wine!
+
+E. DICKINSON.
+
+
+
+
+Confided.
+
+
+  Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold,
+  Within this quiet fold,
+  Among Thy Father's sheep
+  I lay to sleep!
+  A heart that never for a night did rest
+  Beyond its mother's breast.
+  Lord, keep it close to Thee,
+  Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me!
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+In Absence.
+
+
+  All that thou art not, makes not up the sum
+    Of what thou art, belovèd, unto me:
+  All other voices, wanting thine, are dumb;
+    All vision, in thine absence, vacancy.
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+Song of the Chattahoochee.[13]
+
+
+  Out of the hills of Habersham,
+  Down the valleys of Hall,
+  I hurry amain to reach the plain,
+  Run the rapids and leap the fall
+  Split at the rock and together again,
+  Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
+  And flee from folly on every side
+  With a lover's pain to attain the plain
+    Far from the hills of Habersham,
+    Far from the valleys of Hall.
+
+    All down the hills of Habersham,
+    All through the valleys of Hall,
+  The rushes cried _Abide, abide_,
+  The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,
+  The laving laurel turned my tide,
+  The ferns and the fondling grass said _Stay_,
+  The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
+  And the little reeds sighed _Abide, abide_
+    _Here in the hills of Habersham_
+    _Here in the valleys of Hall_.
+
+    High o'er the hills of Habersham,
+    Veiling the valleys of Hall,
+  The hickory told me manifold
+  Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
+  Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
+  The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
+  Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
+  Said, _Pass not, so cold, these manifold_
+    _Deep shades of the hills of Habersham_,
+    _These glades in the valleys of Hall_.
+
+    And oft in the hills of Habersham,
+    And oft in the valleys of Hall,
+  The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
+  Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
+  And many a luminous jewel lone
+  --Crystals clear or acloud with mist,
+  Ruby, garnet and amethyst--
+  Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
+    In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
+    In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
+
+    But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
+    And oh, not the valleys of Hall
+  Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
+  Downward the voices of Duty call--
+  Downward to toil and be mixed with the main.
+  The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
+  And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
+  And the lordly main from beyond the plain
+    Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
+    Calls through the valleys of Hall.
+
+S. LANIER.
+
+
+
+[13] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
+Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Sea's Voice.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Around the rocky headlands, far and near,
+    The wakened ocean murmured with dull tongue
+    Till all the coast's mysterious caverns rung
+  With the waves' voice, barbaric, hoarse, and drear.
+  Within this distant valley, with rapt ear,
+    I listened, thrilled, as though a spirit sung,
+    Or some gray god, as when the world was young,
+  Moaned to his fellow, mad with rage or fear.
+  Thus in the dark, ere the first dawn, methought
+    The sea's deep roar and sullen surge and shock
+      Broke the long silence of eternity,
+  And echoed from the summits where God wrought,
+    Building the world, and ploughing the steep rock
+      With ploughs of ice-hills harnessed to the sea.
+
+
+II.
+
+  The sea is never quiet: east and west
+    The nations hear it, like the voice of fate;
+    Within vast shores its strife makes desolate,
+  Still murmuring mid storms that to its breast
+  Return, as eagles screaming to their nest.
+    Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait
+  While old earth crumbles to eternal rest,
+    Or some hoar monster calling to his mate?
+  O ye, that hear it moan about the shore,
+    Be still and listen! that loud voice hath sung
+      Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown;
+  And when man's voice is dumb, forevermore
+    'Twill murmur on its craggy shores among,
+      Singing of gods and nations overthrown.
+
+W.P. FOSTER.
+
+
+
+
+At Gibraltar.
+
+
+I.
+
+  England, I stand on thy imperial ground,
+    Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
+    I feel within my blood old battles flow,--
+  The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.
+  Still surging dark against the Christian bound
+    Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know
+    Thy heights that watch them wandering below;
+  I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.
+  I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face;
+    England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!
+  I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;
+    Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day
+  Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun
+    Startles the desert over Africa!
+
+
+II.
+
+  Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas
+    Between the East and West, that God has built;
+    Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,
+  While run thy armies true with His decrees.
+  Law, justice, liberty,--great gifts are these;
+    Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,
+    Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt,
+  The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease.
+  Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,
+    Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one
+  Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light
+    American I am; would wars were done!
+  Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,--
+    Peace to the world from ports without a gun!
+
+G.E. WOODBERRY.
+
+
+
+
+Jerry an' Me.
+
+
+  No matter how the chances are,
+    Nor when the winds may blow,
+  My Jerry there has left the sea
+    With all its luck an' woe:
+  For who would try the sea at all,
+    Must try it luck or no.
+
+  They told him--Lor', men take no care
+    How words they speak may fall--
+  They told him blunt, he was too old,
+    Too slow with oar an' trawl,
+  An' this is how he left the sea
+    An' luck an' woe an' all.
+
+  Take any man on sea or land
+    Out of his beaten way,
+  If he is young 'twill do, but then,
+    If he is old an' gray,
+  A month will be a year to him,
+    Be all to him you may.
+
+  He sits by me, but most he walks
+    The door-yard for a deck,
+  An' scans the boat a-goin' out
+    Till she becomes a speck,
+  Then turns away, his face as wet
+    As if she were a wreck.
+
+  I cannot bring him back again,
+    The days when we were wed.
+  But he shall never know--my man--
+    The lack o' love or bread,
+  While I can cast a stitch or fill
+    A needleful o' thread.
+
+  God pity me, I'd most forgot
+    How many yet there be,
+  Whose goodmen full as old as mine
+    Are somewhere on the sea,
+  Who hear the breakin' bar an' think
+    O' Jerry home an'--me.
+
+H. RICH.
+
+
+
+
+The Gravedigger.
+
+
+  Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,
+  And well his work is done;
+  With an equal grave for lord and knave,
+  He buries them every one.
+
+  Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
+  He makes for the nearest shore;
+  And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
+  Will send him a thousand more;
+  But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
+  And shoulder them in to shore,--
+  Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
+  Shoulder them in to shore.
+
+  Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre
+  Went out, and where are they?
+  In the port they made, they are delayed
+  With the ships of yesterday.
+
+  He followed the ships of England far
+  As the ships of long ago;
+  And the ships of France they led him a dance,
+  But he laid them all arow.
+
+  Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him
+  Is the sexton of the town;
+  For sure and swift, with a guiding lift,
+  He shovels the dead men down.
+
+  But though he delves so fierce and grim,
+  His honest graves are wide,
+  As well they know who sleep below
+  The dredge of the deepest tide.
+
+  Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip,
+  And loud is the chorus skirled;
+  With the burly note of his rumbling throat
+  He batters it down the world.
+
+  He learned it once in his father's house
+  Where the ballads of eld were sung;
+  And merry enough is the burden rough,
+  But no man knows the tongue.
+
+  Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,
+  And wilful she must have been,
+  That she could bide at his gruesome side
+  When the first red dawn came in.
+
+  And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those
+  She greets to his border home;
+  And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep
+  That beckons, and they come.
+
+  Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough
+  To handle the tallest mast;
+  From the royal barque to the slaver dark,
+  He buries them all at last.
+
+  Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
+  He makes for the nearest shore;
+  And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
+  Will send him a thousand more;
+  But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
+  And shoulder them in to shore,--
+  Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
+  Shoulder them in to shore.
+
+B. CARMAN.
+
+
+
+
+The Absence of Little Wesley.
+
+HOOSIER DIALECT.
+
+
+  Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still--
+  W'y, I miss his yell o' "Gran'pap!" as I'd miss the whipperwill!
+  And to think I ust to _scold_ him fer his everlastin' noise,
+  When I on'y rickollect him as the best o' little boys!
+  I wisht a hunderd times a day 'at he'd come trompin' in,
+  And all the noise he ever made was twic't as loud ag'in!--
+  It 'u'd seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment,
+  'Longside o' this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!
+
+  Of course the clock don't tick no louder than it ust to do--
+  Yit now they's times it 'pears like it 'u'd bu'st itse'f in two!
+  And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som'er's clos't around,
+  And seems's ef, mighty nigh it, it 'u'd lift me off the ground!
+  And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars,
+  In the red o' airly mornin', er the dusk and dew and stars,
+  When the neighbers' boys 'at passes never stop, but jes' go on,
+  A-whistlin' kind o' to theirse'v's--sence little Wesley's gone!
+
+  And then, o' nights, when Mother's settin' up oncommon late,
+  A-bilin' pears er somepin', and I set and smoke and wait,
+  Tel the moon out through the winder don't look bigger'n a dime,
+  And things keeps gittin' stiller--stiller--stiller all the time,--
+  I've ketched myse'f a-wishin' like--as I dumb on the cheer
+  To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor'n fifty year,--
+  A-wishin' 'at the time bed come fer us to go to bed,
+  With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley's dead!
+
+J.W. RILEY.
+
+
+
+
+Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.
+
+
+  Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar
+        Out of thy wilderness,
+        Till earth grows less and less,
+        Heaven, more and more.
+
+  Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing,
+        Till all the earth shall be
+        Vibrant with ecstasy
+        Beneath thy wing.
+
+  Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come,
+        That through the pathless air
+        Thou shalt find otherwhere
+        Unerring, home.
+
+
+
+
+Opportunity.
+
+
+  This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:--
+  There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
+  And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
+  A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
+  Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
+  Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
+  A craven hung along the battle's edge,
+  And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel--
+  That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this
+  Blunt thing!"--he snapt and flung it from his hand,
+  And lowering crept away and left the field.
+  Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
+  And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
+  Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
+  And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
+  Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
+  And saved a great cause that heroic day.
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+Dutch Lullaby.[14]
+
+
+  Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
+    Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
+  Sailed on a river of misty light
+    Into a sea of dew.
+  "Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
+    The old moon asked the three.
+  "We have come to fish for the herring-fish
+    That live in this beautiful sea;
+    Nets of silver and gold have we,"
+        Said Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+  The old moon laughed and sung a song,
+    As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
+  And the wind that sped them all night long
+    Ruffled the waves of dew;
+  The little stars were the herring-fish
+    That lived in the beautiful sea.
+  "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
+    But never afeard are we!"
+    So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
+        Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+  All night long their nets they threw
+    For the fish in the twinkling foam,
+  Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,
+    Bringing the fishermen home;
+  'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
+    As if it could not be;
+  And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
+    Of sailing that beautiful sea;
+    But I shall name you the fishermen three:
+        Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+  Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
+    And Nod is a little head,
+  And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
+    Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
+  So shut your eyes while Mother sings
+    Of wonderful sights that be,
+    And you shall see the beautiful things
+    As you rock on the misty sea
+    Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,--
+        Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+E. FIELD.
+
+
+
+[14] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene
+Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Maryland Yellow-throat.[15]
+
+  While May bedecks the naked trees
+  With tassels and embroideries,
+  And many blue-eyed violets beam
+  Along the edges of the stream,
+  I hear a voice that seems to say,
+  Now near at hand, now far away,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."
+
+  An incantation so serene,
+  So innocent, befits the scene:
+  There's magic in that small bird's note--
+  See, there he flits--the yellow-throat:
+  A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
+  A spark of light that shines and sings
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."
+
+  You prophet with a pleasant name,
+  If out of Mary-land you came,
+  You know the way that thither goes
+  Where Mary's lovely garden grows:
+  Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
+  And try, to call her down this way,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+  Tell her to leave her cockleshells,
+  And all her little silver bells
+  That blossom into melody,
+  And all her maids less fair than she.
+  She does not need these pretty things,
+  For everywhere she comes, she brings
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+  The woods are greening overhead,
+  And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
+  The waters babble as they run--
+  One thing is lacking, only one:
+  If Mary were but here to-day,
+  I would believe your charming lay,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+  Along the shady road I look--
+  Who's coming now across the brook?
+  A woodland maid, all robed in white--
+  The leaves dance round her with delight,
+  The stream laughs out beneath her feet--
+  Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+H. VAN DYKE.
+
+
+
+[15] From "The Builders and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Silence of Love.
+
+
+  Oh, inexpressible as sweet,
+     Love takes my voice away;
+  I cannot tell thee, when we meet,
+     What most I long to say.
+
+  But hadst thou hearing in thy heart
+     To know what beats in mine,
+  Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art,
+     In melodies divine.
+
+  So warbling birds lift higher notes
+     Than to our ears belong;
+  The music fills their throbbing throats,
+     But silence steals the song.
+
+G.E. WOODBERRY.
+
+
+
+
+The Secret.
+
+
+  Nightingales warble about it,
+     All night under blossom and star;
+  The wild swan is dying without it,
+     And the eagle cryeth afar;
+  The sun he doth mount but to find it,
+     Searching the green earth o'er;
+  But more doth a man's heart mind it,
+     Oh, more, more, more!
+
+  Over the gray leagues of ocean
+     The infinite yearneth alone;
+  The forests with wandering emotion
+     The thing they know not intone;
+  Creation arose but to see it,
+     A million lamps in the blue;
+  But a lover he shall be it
+     If one sweet maid is true.
+
+G.E. WOODBERRY.
+
+
+
+
+The Whip-poor-will.[16]
+
+
+  Do you remember, father,--
+    It seems so long ago,--
+  The day we fished together
+    Along the Pocono?
+  At dusk I waited for you,
+    Beside the lumber-mill,
+  And there I heard a hidden bird
+    That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  The place was all deserted;
+    The mill-wheel hung at rest;
+  The lonely star of evening
+    Was quivering in the west;
+  The veil of night was falling;
+    The winds were folded still;
+  And everywhere the trembling air
+    Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  You seemed so long in coming,
+    I felt so much alone;
+  The wide, dark world was round me,
+    And life was all unknown;
+  The hand of sorrow touched me,
+    And made my senses thrill
+  With all the pain that haunts the strain
+    Of mournful whip-poor-will.
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  What did I know of trouble?
+    An idle little lad;
+  I had not learned the lessons
+    That make men wise and sad,
+  I dreamed of grief and parting,
+    And something seemed to fill
+  My heart with tears, while in my ears
+    Resounded "whip-poor-will."
+  "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  'Twas but a shadowy sadness,
+    That lightly passed away;
+  But I have known the substance
+    Of sorrow, since that day.
+  For nevermore at twilight,
+    Beside the silent mill,
+  I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,
+    And hear the whip-poor-will.
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  But if you still remember,
+    In that fair land of light,
+  The pains and fears that touch us
+    Along this edge of night,
+  I think all earthly grieving,
+    And all our mortal ill,
+  To you must seem like a boy's sad dream,
+    Who hears the whip-poor-will.
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    A passing thrill--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+H. VAN DYKE.
+
+
+
+[16] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Fertility.
+
+
+  Spirit that moves the sap in spring,
+  When lusty male birds fight and sing,
+  Inform my words, and make my lines
+  As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines,
+
+  Let mine be the freshening power
+  Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;
+  The fertilizing song be mine,
+  Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.
+
+  Let some procreant truth exhale
+  From me, before my forces fail;
+  Or ere the ecstatic impulse go,
+  Let all my buds to blossoms blow.
+
+  If quick, sound seed be wanting where
+  The virgin soil feels sun and air,
+  And longs to fill a higher state,
+  There let my meanings germinate.
+
+  Let not my strength be spilled for naught,
+  But, in some fresher vessel caught,
+  Be blended into sweeter forms,
+  And fraught with purer aims and charms.
+
+  Let bloom-dust of my life be blown
+  To quicken hearts that flower alone;
+  Around my knees let scions rise
+  With heavenward-pointed destinies.
+
+  And when I fall, like some old tree,
+  And subtile change makes mould of me,
+  There let earth show a fertile line
+  Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine!
+
+M. THOMPSON.
+
+
+
+
+The Veery.[17]
+
+
+  The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
+  When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
+  So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie,
+  I longed to hear a simpler strain,--the wood notes of the veery.
+
+  The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
+  It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
+  He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
+  I only know one song more sweet,--the vespers of the veery.
+
+  In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
+  I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:
+  The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
+  And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.
+
+  But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
+  New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:
+  And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
+  I fain would hear, before I go, the wood notes of the veery.
+
+H. VAN DYKE.
+
+
+[17] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Eavesdropper.
+
+
+  In a still room at hush of dawn,
+    My Love and I lay side by side
+  And heard the roaming forest wind
+    Stir in the paling autumn-tide.
+
+  I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad
+    Because the round day was so fair;
+  While memories of reluctant night
+    Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.
+
+  Outside, a yellow maple-tree,
+    Shifting upon the silvery blue
+  With small innumerable sound,
+    Rustled to let the sunlight through.
+
+  The livelong day the elvish leaves
+    Danced with their shadows on the floor;
+  And the lost children of the wind
+    Went straying homeward by our door.
+
+  And all the swarthy afternoon
+    We watched the great deliberate sun
+  Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,
+    Counting his hilltops one by one.
+
+  Then as the purple twilight came
+    And touched the vines along our eaves,
+  Another Shadow stood without
+    And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.
+
+  The silence fell on my Love's lips;
+    Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad
+  With pondering some maze of dream,
+    Though all the splendid year was glad.
+
+  Restless and vague as a gray wind
+    Her heart had grown, she knew not why.
+  But hurrying to the open door,
+    Against the verge of western sky
+
+  I saw retreating on the hills,
+    Looming and sinister and black,
+  The stealthy figure swift and huge
+    Of One who strode and looked not back.
+
+B. CARMAN.
+
+
+
+
+Sesostris.
+
+
+  Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings,
+    He sits within the desert, carved in stone;
+    Inscrutable, colossal, and alone,
+  And ancienter than memory of things.
+  Graved on his front the sacred beetle clings;
+    Disdain sits on his lips; and in a frown
+    Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown.
+  The affrighted ostrich dare not dust her wings
+  Anear this Presence. The long caravan's
+    Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins stare.
+    This symbol of past power more than man's
+  Presages doom. Kings look--and Kings despair:
+  Their sceptres tremble in their jewelled hands
+    And dark thrones totter in the baleful air!
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+American poetry before Bryant was considerable in amount, but, with few
+exceptions, it must be looked for by the curious student in the
+graveyard of old anthologies. Who now reads "The Simple Cobbler of
+Agawam in America," "The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung up in America," "The
+Day of Doom," "M'Fingal," or "The Columbiad?" Skipping a generation from
+Barlow's death, who reads with much seriousness any one of the group of
+poets of which Bryant in his earliest period was the centre: Halleck,
+Pierpont, Sprague, Drake, Dana, Percival, Allston, Brainard, Mrs.
+Osgood, and Miss Brooks? A few of them, to be sure, are remembered by an
+occasional lyric,--Halleck by "Marco Bozzaris," a spirited ode in the
+manner of Campbell; Pierpont by his ringing lines, "Warren's Address to
+the American Soldiers;" Drake by "The American Flag," conventional but
+not commonplace, and marked by one very imaginative line; and Allston by
+two rather excellent lyrics, "Rosalie" and "America to Great Britain."
+The first poet to accomplish work of high sustained excellence was
+Bryant. His poetry, though never impassioned, is uniformly elegant. It
+is often as chaste as Landor at his best. But it never surprises; it is
+not emotional, personal, suggestively imaginative. In fact, Bryant's
+muse is not lyrical. With the exception of Pinkney and Hoffman, whose
+"Sparkling and Bright," if technically defective, is a true song, we
+must wait for our lyric poet till we reach Edgar Allan Poe, the
+greatest--one inclines to say the only--master of musical quality in
+verse whom America has produced.
+
+_The Wild Honeysuckle._--Philip Freneau, born in 1752, was a soldier in
+the American Revolution. Though never rising quite into the highest
+class of poets, he is our first genuine singer. "The Indian
+Burying-ground" and "To a Honey-bee" are only less successful than the
+graceful lines quoted.
+
+_A Health._--Poe was an enthusiastic admirer of this poem. He pronounced
+it, in his essay entitled "The Poetic Principle," "full of brilliancy
+and spirit," and added: "It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have
+been born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable
+that he would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists by that
+magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American
+Letters, in conducting the thing called _The North American Review_."
+This passage, very characteristic of Poe's criticisms, illustrates both
+his championship of favorites, and unmerciful scourging of foes.
+
+_Unseen Spirits._--The earnest sincerity, evident in every line of this
+poem, removes it at once from the company of those gay society verses
+sparkling with conceits which won for Willis the satiric comment of
+Lowell in "A Fable for Critics:"
+
+  "There is Willis, all natty, and jaunty, and gay,
+  Who says his best things in so foppish a way,
+  With conceits and pet phrases so thickly o'erlaying 'em,
+  That one hardly knows whether to thank him for saying 'em;
+  Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose,--
+  Just conceive of a Muse with a ring in her nose!"
+
+Had Willis written more such lyrics as "Unseen Spirits," his fame could
+hardly have proved so ephemeral. Poe considered this poem Willis's best,
+and I see no ground for calling the critic's judgment in question.
+
+_To Helen._--This brief lyric, written in the poet's youth, is not only
+among the most exquisite from his pen, but it furnishes one of the most
+famous among current quotations:
+
+  "The glory that was Greece,
+  And the grandeur that was Rome."
+
+_On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake._--These manly lines have yielded
+another phrase to the world's memory. Hardly any quotation is more
+hackneyed than the last two verses of the first stanza. Drake was a
+young poet, the intimate friend and literary co-laborer of Halleck, who
+died September, 1820, in his twenty-fifth year.
+
+_To the Fringed Gentian._--This lyric well illustrates what Mr. Stedman
+has aptly termed Bryant's "Doric simplicity." Nothing of Wordsworth's is
+freer from ornament or from the least trace of affectation.
+
+_The Raven._--Though not belonging to the highest order of poetry, "The
+Raven" still maintains its position at the head of its class. No more
+astonishing _tour de force_ can be found in English literature.
+
+_Nature._--Generally regarded, I think, the finest of Longfellow's, if
+not of American, sonnets.
+
+_Ichabod._--Occasioned by the defection and fall of Daniel Webster. It
+is worthy a place by the side of Browning's "Lost Leader." In later
+years, Whittier wrote a poem on the theme, which, while not a retraction
+of his former position, is penned in a tenderer, more tolerant mood,
+"The Lost Occasion" is its title, and it is only just to the poet to
+read this second lyric, hardly less successful, in connection with the
+first.
+
+_Old Ironsides._--"Old Ironsides" was the popular name for the frigate
+_Constitution_. Dr. Holmes's poem appeared in the Boston _Advertiser_
+"at the time when it was proposed to break up the old ship as unfit for
+service."
+
+_Bedouin Song._--One of the most spirited, most genuinely lyrical of
+American poems.
+
+_Skipper Ireson's Ride._--These lines have an easy, swinging quality
+that is quite inimitable. One inclines to agree with Mr. Stedman: "Of
+all our poets he (Whittier) is the most natural balladist."
+
+_The Village Blacksmith._--The directness and homely strength of "The
+Village Blacksmith" have made it deservedly popular. One questions
+whether the last stanza might not have been omitted with advantage both
+to the unity and force of the poem.
+
+_The Last Leaf._--This masterpiece of mingled humor and pathos was a
+favorite poem of Abraham Lincoln.
+
+_The Old Kentucky Home._--The sincere and tender sentiment of this
+song, no less than its popular melody, has made it for many years a
+favorite. Even better known is Foster's "Old Folks at Home," which is
+said to have had a larger sale than any other American song.
+
+_Carolina._--The concluding lines of this lyric have an imaginative
+vigor rare in American poetry. Four stanzas are omitted.
+
+_Dirge for a Soldier._--Boker's Dirge was written in memory of General
+Philip Kearney.
+
+_Battle-hymn of the Republic._--Written in December, 1861, while Mrs.
+Howe was on a visit to Washington. Soon after the writer's return to
+Boston the lines were accepted for publication in the _Atlantic Monthly_
+by James T. Fields, who suggested the title of the poem. The song did
+not at first receive much notice, but before the Civil War was over had
+become very popular.
+
+_My Maryland._--A poem of great strength and beauty, though of uneven
+merit. It is unfortunately marred by a few rather intemperate
+expressions. The sincerity of feeling is everywhere so evident, however,
+that these must be forgiven. The lines were written by a native of
+Baltimore, Prof. James Randall, and were first published in April, 1861.
+The author of the famous song was teaching in a Louisiana college when
+he read in a New Orleans paper the news of the attack on the
+Massachusetts troops as they passed through Baltimore. This newspaper
+account inspired the verses.
+
+_In the Hospital._--This poem, which has enjoyed at best a newspaper
+immortality, deserves to be more widely known. Its simplicity,
+directness, and truth of feeling are quite beyond praise. According to a
+story which one dislikes to believe apocryphal, these lines were found
+under the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal, South Carolina,
+in 1864.
+
+_Days._--Regarded from the point of view of artistic form, perhaps
+nothing of Emerson's is quite so flawless as "Days," a poem which for
+conciseness and polish is worthy to be called classic.
+
+_A Death-bed._--This is a worthy companion-piece to that other miniature
+classic, Thomas Hood's song, beginning, "We watched her breathing
+through the night."
+
+_Telling the Bees._--"A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country,
+formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death
+of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event,
+and their hives dressed in mourning. The ceremonial was supposed to be
+necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a
+new home." This poem of Whittier's is almost his highest achievement.
+Lowell said, in writing of the Quaker poet (Appleton's Cyclopedia of
+American Biography, VI.): "Many of his poems (such for example as
+'Telling the Bees'), in which description and sentiment mutually inspire
+each other, are as fine as any in the language." I often think, however,
+that Whittier will live longest by his hymns and poems of purely
+religious devotion. I know of nothing similar in English that surpasses
+"The Eternal Goodness," and perhaps half a dozen other poems.
+
+_Katie._--About one-third of Timrod's graceful poem which bears this
+title. This is one of the few cases where I have ventured to make
+omissions.
+
+_Thalatta._--Regarding this poem, Thomas Wentworth Higginson says, in
+"The New World and the New Book:" "Who knows but that, when all else of
+American literature has vanished in forgetfulness, some single little
+masterpiece like this may remain to show the high-water mark, not merely
+of a single poet, but of a nation and a generation?" The author of
+"Thalatta" was a Dartmouth graduate, a teacher, and a disciple of
+Emerson.
+
+_The Fall of the Leaf._--Thoreau's prose is known universally; his verse
+has not won as yet the recognition it deserves. It has little lyrical
+quality, but for unconventionality, charming turns of phrase, and the
+intimate knowledge of Nature it reveals, it is almost alone in American
+poetry.
+
+_The Rhodora._--"The Rhodora" has a conciseness and unity too rare in
+Emerson's poetry, which, beautiful in details, is strangely uneven. We
+sigh as we think what an unrivalled lyric poet Emerson would have been
+had he been sustained at the heights he was capable of reaching. No one
+surpasses Emerson at his best; he is almost a great poet.
+
+_The Chambered Nautilus._--Many think this Holmes's finest poem. It is
+taken from "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," 1858.
+
+_Thought._--Helen Jackson is, perhaps, the most gifted of American women
+poets. Emily Dickinson is more imaginative, but her utter scorn of form
+in composition makes her work, unique as it is, less satisfying. Mrs.
+Jackson was a favorite with Emerson, and he is said to have liked best
+among her poems this sonnet, "Thought."
+
+_On a Bust of Dante._--Parsons, one of the best of American poets, is
+one of the most neglected. Stedman is inclined to think "On a Bust of
+Dante" the finest of American lyrics (see "The Nature of Poetry," 254).
+
+_The Port of Skips._--In a recent review of American Literature in the
+London _Athæneum_ occurs this sentence: "In point of power, workmanship,
+and feeling, among all poems written by Americans, we are inclined to
+give first place to the 'Port of Ships,' of Joaquin Miller."
+
+_Evening Song._--No poem of Lanier is more free from his characteristic
+faults. One regrets that so much of his work, highly imaginative as it
+is, is marred by over-elaboration and artificiality.
+
+_A Woman's Thought._--The striking reality and directness of this lyric,
+its immense emotional undercurrent, and its abrupt, almost gasping
+metre, admirably suited to the impassioned mood of the speaker,--these
+are a few of the qualities that combine to make "A Woman's Thought" one
+of the most remarkable poems in the book.
+
+_The White Jessamine._--One of the most charming of Father Tabb's
+lyrics. The verse of this poet is uneven in merit. He is too prone to
+merely fanciful conceits. But at his best Tabb is imaginative, as, for
+example, in the lines where he says of Angelo that he--
+
+  "From the sterile womb of stone,
+  Raised children unto God."
+
+Always artistic, Tabb's verse usually suggests workmanship; it is more
+thoughtful than spontaneous. His religious poetry presents, in the main,
+a rather striking similarity to the work of George Herbert.
+
+_The Battle-field._--Miss Dickinson has much of the witchcraft and
+subtlety of William Blake. Many verses of the shy recluse, whom Mr.
+Higginson so happily has introduced to the world, are not only daring
+and unconventional, but recklessly defiant of form. But, as her editor
+has well said, "When a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on
+grammar seems an impertinence." Emily Dickinson had more than a message,
+more than the charm of unexpectedness, more than the gift of
+phrase,--she had (and of how many Americans can this be said?) an
+intense imagination.
+
+_Fertility._--This selection appears in the collected poems of Maurice
+Thompson (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1892), under the title of "A
+Prelude."
+
+_Sesostris._--Of this poem Mr. Stoddard has the high praise that in
+imaginative quality it is unequalled in nineteenth century literature,
+unless by Leigh Hunt's sonnet on the Nile. The same critic does not
+scruple to declare of Mr. Mifflin that he has a "glorious imagination,"
+and to prophesy for him a distinguished future. Seldom indeed has a
+first book of verse won such instant and universal appreciation as Mr.
+Mifflin's volume of sonnets, just issued as the "American Treasury" goes
+to press.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX TO FIRST LINES.
+
+
+A blight, a gloom, I know not what; 242
+
+All that thou art not, makes not up the sum; 267
+
+All the long August afternoon; 223
+
+A man said unto his angel; 211
+
+Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold; 266
+
+Around the rocky headlands, far and near; 271
+
+As a fond mother, when the day is o'er; 63
+
+As a twig trembles, which a bird; 145
+
+At midnight, in the month of June; 57
+
+At sea are tossing ships; 149
+
+At the king's gate the subtle noon; 183
+
+Ay, tear her tattered ensign down; 76
+
+
+Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar; 282
+
+Because I could not stop for Death; 264
+
+Bedtime's come fu' little boys; 225
+
+Behind him lay the gray Azores; 199
+
+Beneath the warrior's helm, behold; 248
+
+Birds are singing round my window; 193
+
+Burly, dozing bumble-bee; 169
+
+By the rude bridge that arched the flood; 74
+
+
+Chaos, of old, was God's dominion; 256
+
+Close his eyes; his work is done; 106
+
+
+Dark as the clouds of even; 100
+
+Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days; 126
+
+Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way; 175
+
+Dear yesterday, glide not so fast; 155
+
+Do you remember, father; 291
+
+
+England, I stand on thy imperial ground; 273
+
+
+Fair flower that dost so comely grow; 1
+
+Farragut, Farragut; 110
+
+From the Desert I come to thee; 85
+
+
+"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried; 119
+
+Green be the turf above thee; 36
+
+
+Helen, thy beauty is to me; 31
+
+Her hands are cold; her face is white; 124
+
+Here is the place; right over the hill; 137
+
+Her suffering ended with the day; 136
+
+How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood; 8
+
+
+I am a woman--therefore I may not; 227
+
+I fill this cup to one made up; 12
+
+I have a little kinsman; 150
+
+I knew she lay above me; 235
+
+I lay me down to sleep; 122
+
+I saw him once before; 95
+
+I saw the twinkle of white feet; 64
+
+I stand upon the summit of my years; 154
+
+I waited in the little sunny room; 247
+
+In a still room at hush of dawn; 298
+
+In Heaven a spirit doth dwell; 21
+
+In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes; 165
+
+In the greenest of our valleys; 26
+
+In the summer even; 202
+
+It may be through some foreign grace; 140
+
+It was many and many a year ago; 10
+
+It was nothing but a rose I gave her; 196
+
+It was the schooner Hesperus; 80
+
+
+Just where the Treasury's marble front; 188
+
+
+Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale; 78
+
+Let me come in where you sit weeping,--aye; 263
+
+Let me move slowly through the street; 42
+
+Lo! Death has reared himself a throne; 15
+
+Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands; 215
+
+Look out upon the stars, my love; 14
+
+
+Men say the sullen instrument; 158
+
+Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; 108
+
+My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read; 172
+
+My heart, I cannot still it; 192
+
+My life closed twice before its close; 252
+
+My life is like the summer rose; 4
+
+My mind lets go a thousand things; 241
+
+
+Nightingales warble about it; 290
+
+No matter how the chances are; 275
+
+Not a hand has lifted the latchet; 236
+
+Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end; 209
+
+Not as all other women are; 142
+
+Now at last I am at home; 260
+
+
+O Death, when thou shalt come to me; 233
+
+O fairest of the rural maids; 6
+
+O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause; 167
+
+O messenger, art thou the king, or I; 180
+
+O Nature! I do not aspire; 166
+
+Of all the rides since the birth of time; 87
+
+Oh, inexpressible as sweet; 289
+
+Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old; 277
+
+Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor; 251
+
+_Oh, what's the way to Arcady_; 243
+
+Old Sorrow I shall meet again; 230
+
+Once it smiled a silent dell; 38
+
+Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands; 54
+
+Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary; 45
+
+Out of the hills of Habersham; 268
+
+
+Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin; 194
+
+
+See, from this counterfeit of him; 185
+
+Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still; 280
+
+Sky in its lucent splendor lifted; 238
+
+So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn; 69
+
+Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings; 300
+
+Southward with fleet of ice; 71
+
+Sparkling and bright in liquid light; 32
+
+Spirit that moves the sap in spring; 294
+
+Still in thy love I trust; 218
+
+Such special sweetness was about; 224
+
+
+The apples are ripe in the orchard; 117
+
+The dawn came in through the bars of the blind; 213
+
+The day is done, and the darkness; 66
+
+The despot treads thy sacred sands; 104
+
+The despot's heel is on thy shore; 113
+
+The evening of the year draws on; 162
+
+The handful here, that once was Mary's earth; 147
+
+The little toy dog is covered with dust; 231
+
+The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring; 296
+
+The new moon hung in the sky; 221
+
+The pines were dark on Ramoth hill; 130
+
+The royal feast was done; the King; 205
+
+The shadows lay along Broadway; 24
+
+The sky is dark, and dark the bay below; 217
+
+The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home; 98
+
+The tide rises, the tide falls; 161
+
+The wind from out the west is blowing; 216
+
+There are gains for all our losses; 129
+
+There is a city, builded by no hand; 201
+
+These are the days when birds come back; 265
+
+This bronze doth keep the very form and mold; 207
+
+This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream; 283
+
+This is Palm Sunday; mindful of the day; 198
+
+This is the Burden of the Heart; 197
+
+This is the ship of pearl, which poets feign; 178
+
+Thou blossom bright with autumn dew; 40
+
+Thou unrelenting Past; 18
+
+Thou wast all that to me, love; 34
+
+Thought is deeper than all speech; 181
+
+Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down; 210
+
+
+Under a spreading chestnut-tree; 92
+
+Upon a cloud among the stars we stood; 229
+
+
+Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach; 257
+
+
+We sat within the farmhouse old; 133
+
+What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one; 75
+
+What may we take into the vast Forever?; 219
+
+When first the bride and bridegroom wed; 153
+
+When I was a beggarly boy; 128
+
+_When the Sultan Shah-Zaman_; 253
+
+While May bedecks the naked trees; 287
+
+Whither, midst falling dew; 29
+
+Who has robbed the ocean cave; 3
+
+Wind of the North; 258
+
+Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night; 284
+
+
+Years have flown since I knew thee first; 208
+
+You know the old Hidalgo; 127
+
+
+
+
+INDEX TO AUTHORS.
+
+
+James Aldrich, 1810-1856, 136
+
+Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1836-; 210, 221, 241, 242, 248, 253
+
+
+George Henry Boker, 1823-1890; 75, 78, 100, 106
+
+Joseph Brownlee Brown, 1824-1888; 154
+
+William Cullen Bryant, 1794-1878; 6, 18, 29, 40, 42, 54
+
+Henry Cuyler Bunner, 1855-1896; 209, 213, 233, 243
+
+
+Bliss Carman, 1861-; 277, 298
+
+Christopher Pearse Cranch, 1813-1892; 181
+
+
+Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886; 252, 264, 265
+
+Paul Lawrence Dunbar, 1872-; 225
+
+
+Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882; 74, 126, 165, 169
+
+
+Eugene Field, 1850-1896; 231, 284
+
+Annie Adams Fields, 1834-; 218
+
+Stephen Collins Foster, 1826-1864; 98
+
+William Prescott Foster, 18-; 271
+
+Philip Freneau, 1752-1832; 1
+
+
+Richard Watson Gilder, 1844-; 207, 208, 216, 217, 227
+
+Louise Imogen Guiney, 1861-; 211
+
+
+Fitz-Greene Halleck, 1790-1867; 36
+
+Charles Fenno Hoffman, 1806-1884; 32
+
+Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-1894; 76, 95, 124, 178
+
+Richard Hovey, 1864-; 251
+
+Julia Ward Howe, 1819-; 108
+
+William Dean Howells, 1837-; 223
+
+Mary Woolsey Howland, 1832-1864; 122
+
+
+Helen Hunt Jackson, 1831-1885; 155, 167, 180, 183
+
+
+Sidney Lanier, 1842-1881; 215, 268
+
+Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882; 63, 66, 71, 80, 92, 133, 161
+
+James Russell Lowell, 1819-1891; 64, 128, 142, 145, 158, 175, 192
+
+Charles Henry Lüders, 1858-1891; 258
+
+
+William Tuckey Meredith, 1839-; 110
+
+Lloyd Mifflin, 18-; 229, 256, 257, 300
+
+Cincinnatus Hiner (Joaquin) Miller, 1841-; 199
+
+Louise Chandler Moulton, 1835-; 236
+
+
+Thomas William Parsons, 1819-1892; 147, 185, 198, 201
+
+John James Piatt, 1835-; 149
+
+Edward Coate Pinkney, 1802-1828; 12, 14
+
+Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849; 10, 15, 21, 26, 31, 34, 38, 45, 57
+
+
+James Ryder Randall, 1839-; 113
+
+Lizette Woodworth Reese, 1860-; 224
+
+Hiram Rich, 1832-; 275
+
+James Whitcomb Riley, 1853-; 263, 280
+
+
+John Shaw, 1778-1809; 3
+
+Edward Rowland Sill, 1841-1887; 205, 219, 238, 247, 283
+
+Harriet Prescott Spofford, 1835-; 196, 202
+
+Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1833-; 150, 188, 194
+
+Richard Henry Stoddard, 1825-; 127, 129, 153, 193
+
+
+John Banister Tabb, 1845-; 230, 235, 266, 267
+
+Bayard Taylor, 1825-1878; 85, 119
+
+Maurice Thompson, 1844-; 294
+
+Henry David Thoreau, 1817-1862; 162, 166, 172
+
+Henry Timrod, 1829-1867; 104, 140
+
+L. Frank Tooker, 18-; 260
+
+
+Henry Van Dyke, 1852-; 287, 291, 296
+
+
+John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892; 69, 87, 130, 137
+
+Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-1847; 4
+
+Nathaniel Parker Willis, 1806-1867; 24
+
+Byron Forceythe Willson, 1837-1867; 197
+
+William Winter, 1836-; 117
+
+George Edward Woodberry, 1855-; 273, 289, 290
+
+Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842; 8
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury of American Songs
+and Lyrics, by Various
+
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury of American Songs and
+Lyrics, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: April 5, 2005 [EBook #15553]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Kline, Karen Dalrymple and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+<div class="center"><small>[Transcriber's Note: The sequential table of contents was added for
+this eBook.]</small></div>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<div class="center">
+<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="384" height="613" alt="Cover of book" />
+</div>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><a name="Page_-16" id="Page_-16"></a>To My Mother.</h3>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<div class="center">
+<img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="338" height="560" alt="Woman in black and white"/>
+</div><p>
+<a name="Page_-15" id="Page_-15"></a></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<h1>THE<a name="Page_-14" id="Page_-14"></a></h1>
+<h1>GOLDEN TREASURY</h1>
+<h1>OF</h1>
+<h1>AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS</h1>
+
+
+<h3><br /><br />EDITED BY</h3>
+<h3>FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES</h3>
+
+
+<div class="center"><br /><i>NEW REVISED EDITION</i></div>
+
+
+<div class="center">
+<img src="images/titlepg.png" width="168" height="208" alt="Shield" />
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="center">BOSTON<br />
+<b>L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY</b><br />
+(INCORPORATED)<br />
+MDCCCXCIX<br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<div class="center"><a name="Page_-13" id="Page_-13"></a>
+<b>Colonial Press:</b><br />
+Electrotyped and Printed by C.H. Simonds &amp; Co.<br />
+Boston, Mass., U.S.A.</div>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE.<a name="Page_-12" id="Page_-12"></a></h2>
+
+
+<p>The numerous collections of American verse share, I think, one fault in
+common: they include too much. Whether this has been a bid for
+popularity, a concession to Philistia, I cannot say; but the fact
+remains that all anthologies of American poetry are, so far as I know,
+more or less uncritical. The aim of the present book is different. In no
+case has a poem been included because it is widely known. The purpose of
+this compilation is solely that of preserving, in attractive and
+permanent form, about one hundred and fifty of the best lyrics of
+America.</p>
+
+<p>I am quite aware of the danger attending such exacting honor-rolls. At
+best, an editor's judgment is only personal, and the realization of this
+fact gives me no small diffidence in attempting to decide what American
+lyrics are best worthy of preservation. That every reader of the
+"American Treasury" will find some favorite poem omitted, there can be
+little doubt. But the effort made in this book towards a careful<a name="Page_-11" id="Page_-11"></a>
+estimate of our lyrical poetry is at any rate, I feel sure, in a good
+direction.</p>
+
+<p>There appear in the index of Mr. Stedman's "Poets of America" the names
+of over three hundred native writers. American verse in the last half
+century has been extraordinarily prolific. It would seem that the time
+has come, in the course of our national literature, for proving all
+things and holding fast that which is good.</p>
+
+<p>The fact that the title of this compilation instantly calls to mind that
+of Mr. Palgrave's scholarly collection of English lyrics need not prove
+a disadvantage to the book if the purpose which led to the choice of
+name is understood. The verse of a single century produced in a new
+country should not be expected to equal the poetic wealth of an old and
+intellectual nation. But if American poetry cannot hope to rival the
+poetry of the mother country, it may at least be compared with it; and
+the fact of such a comparative point of view will aid rather than hinder
+the student of our native poetry in estimating its value.</p>
+
+<p>American verse has suffered at the hands both of its admirers and its
+enemies. Injudicious praise, no less than supercilious contempt, has
+reacted unfavorably on the fame of our poets. Again and again has some
+minor versifier been hailed as the "American Keats" or the "American
+Burns." Really excellent poets, though distinctly poets of second rank,<a name="Page_-10" id="Page_-10"></a>
+have been elevated amid the blare of critical trumpets to the company of
+Wordsworth and Milton. All this is unprofitable and silly. But not much
+better is the attitude of certain critics who patronize everything in
+the English language which has been written outside of England. Though
+America has added&mdash;leaving Poe out of account&mdash;no distinctly new notes
+to English poetry, it has added certainly not a few true ones. A nation
+need never apologize for its literature when it has produced such
+lyrics&mdash;to go no further&mdash;as "On a Bust of Dante," "Ichabod," "The
+Chambered Nautilus," and the "Waterfowl."</p>
+
+<p>My method of arrangement is roughly chronological. The First Book, which
+is shorter than the others, might be called the book of Bryant; the
+Second, of Longfellow; and the Third, of Aldrich. Since the periods must
+of course overlap, this division of the poems can be at most only
+suggestive.</p>
+
+<p>I have made it no part of my design to grant to the better known poets a
+larger number of lyrics than those given later and younger men. I have
+paid no regard to that purely conventional idea of proportion, that
+would assign to five or six writers a dozen selections each, and to
+another set of poets, in proportion to their popular fame, half that
+number. We can safely leave the final adjustment of all <a name="Page_-9" id="Page_-9"></a>rival claims to
+Time, the best critic; in the meanwhile having the more modest aim of
+selecting, irrespective of contemporary judgments, whatever is best
+suited to our purpose.</p>
+
+<p>A word more should be said about the title. I have not interpreted the
+term lyric so rigidly as to exclude sonnets, ballads, elegiac verse, or
+even pieces of almost pure description. If I had held to the strictest
+sense of lyric, this book would never have been compiled; for I suspect
+nothing will strike the reader more forcibly than the fact that, despite
+the excellence of the poems included, there is a notable lack of
+unconsciousness&mdash;of pure singing quality. Such things as Pinkney's
+"Health" and Holmes's "Old Ironsides" are the exception. The poems are
+composed cleverly, but they do not quite sing themselves to their own
+music. The best American verse, while not insincere, is seldom wholly
+spontaneous. This is not saying that much spontaneous verse has not been
+written in this country; much has been, but the singer's voice has too
+often been uncultivated, and the product inartistic.</p>
+
+<p>The names of many popular poets are entirely omitted. In no case,
+however, was this probably due to oversight. I have gone over carefully
+a wide field of verse, not without finding much to admire, but never
+quite happening upon that final touch of successful achievement where
+art and inspiration join. <a name="Page_-8" id="Page_-8"></a>I am especially sorry to leave unrepresented
+a writer&mdash;more imaginative, possibly, than any American poet except
+Poe&mdash;whose utter contempt for technique in the ordinary sense places him
+wholly outside my present purpose.</p>
+
+<p>I wish to acknowledge various favors kindly shown by Professor C.T.
+Winchester, Professor Barrett Wendell, and Mr. H.E. Scudder. Thanks are
+also due Mr. T.B. Aldrich for the privilege of including the six poems
+from his pen, which were kindly selected for the book by the poet
+himself. The following firms deserve thanks for permitting the use of
+copyrighted poems:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Houghton, Mifflin &amp; Co.:</i></p>
+
+     <p>Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Christopher Pearse Cranch, Ralph Waldo
+     Emerson, Annie Adams Fields, Louise Imogen Guiney, Oliver Wendell
+     Holmes, William Dean Howells, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James
+     Russell Lowell, Thomas William Parsons, John James Piatt, Lizette
+     Woodworth Reese, Hiram Rich, Edward Rowland Sill, Harriet
+     Prescott Spofford, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Bayard Taylor, Henry
+     David Thoreau, Maurice Thompson, John Greenleaf Whittier, George
+     Edward Woodberry.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Selections from the works of the foregoing writers are included "by
+permission of and by special <a name="Page_-7" id="Page_-7"></a>arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin &amp; Co.,
+publishers of the works of said authors."</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p><i>D. Appleton &amp; Co.:</i><br />Fitz-Greene Halleck, William Cullen Bryant.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>Lee &amp; Shepard:</i><br />Julia Ward Howe.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>Porter &amp; Coates:</i>Charles Fenno Hoffman.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>Roberts Brothers:</i><br />Emily Dickinson, Helen Hunt Jackson, Louise
+     Chandler Moulton.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>Copeland &amp; Day:</i><br />John Banister Tabb, Richard Hovey.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>W.A. Pond &amp; Co.:</i><br />Stephen Collins Foster.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>Clark &amp; Maynard:</i><br />Nathaniel Parker Willis.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>The Cassell Publishing Co.:</i><br />John Boyle O'Reilly.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>The Century Co.:</i><br />Richard Watson Gilder, James Whitcomb Riley
+     (Poems in the <i>Century Magazine</i>).</p>
+
+<p>     <i>Estes &amp; Lauriat:</i><br />Lloyd Mifflin.</p>
+
+<p>     <i>Lamson &amp; Wolffe:</i><br />Bliss Carman.<a name="Page_-6" id="Page_-6"></a></p>
+
+<p>     <i>Charles Scribner's Sons:</i><br />Henry Cuyler Bunner, Eugene Field,
+     Sidney Lanier, Richard Henry Stoddard, Henry Van Dyke.
+</p></div>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>
+<h3>(Sequential.)</h3>
+
+<div><a href="#BOOK_FIRST"><b>BOOK FIRST.</b></a><br /></div>
+<ul><li> <a href="#The_Wild_Honeysuckle"><b>The Wild Honeysuckle.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Song"><b>Song.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#My_Life_is_Like_the_Summer_Rose"><b>"My Life is Like the Summer Rose."</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#O_Fairest_of_the_Rural_Maids"><b>"O Fairest of the Rural Maids!"</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Bucket"><b>The Bucket.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Annabel_Lee"><b>Annabel Lee.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#A_Health"><b>A Health.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#A_Serenade"><b>A Serenade.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_City_in_the_Sea"><b>The City in the Sea.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_The_Past"><b>To The Past.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Israfel"><b>Israfel.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Unseen_Spirits"><b>Unseen Spirits.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Haunted_Palace"><b>The Haunted Palace.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_a_Waterfowl"><b>To a Waterfowl.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_Helen"><b>To Helen.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Sparkling_and_Bright"><b>Sparkling and Bright.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_One_in_Paradise"><b>To One in Paradise.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#On_the_Death_of_Joseph_Rodman_Drake"><b>On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Valley_of_Unrest"><b>The Valley of Unrest.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_the_Fringed_Gentian"><b>To the Fringed Gentian.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Crowded_Street"><b>The Crowded Street.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Raven"><b>The Raven.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Battle-field"><b>The Battle-field.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Sleeper"><b>The Sleeper.</b></a></li></ul>
+
+<div><a href="#BOOK_SECOND"><b>BOOK SECOND.</b></a><br /></div>
+<ul><li> <a href="#Nature"><b>Nature.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Hebe"><b>Hebe.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Day_is_Done"><b>The Day is Done.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Ichabod"><b>Ichabod.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Sir_Humphrey_Gilbert"><b>Sir Humphrey Gilbert.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Concord_Hymn"><b>Concord Hymn.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_America"><b>To America.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Old_Ironsides"><b>Old Ironsides.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_England"><b>To England.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Wreck_of_the_Hesperus"><b>The Wreck of the Hesperus.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Bedouin_Song"><b>Bedouin Song.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Skipper_Iresons_Ride"><b>Skipper Ireson's Ride.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Village_Blacksmith"><b>The Village Blacksmith.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Last_Leaf"><b>The Last Leaf.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Old_Kentucky_Home"><b>The Old Kentucky Home.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Black_Regiment"><b>The Black Regiment.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Carolina"><b>Carolina.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Dirge_for_a_Soldier"><b>Dirge for a Soldier.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Battle-hymn_of_the_Republic"><b>Battle-hymn of the Republic.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Farragut"><b>Farragut.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#My_Maryland"><b>My Maryland.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#After_All"><b>After All.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Song_of_the_Camp"><b>The Song of the Camp.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#In_the_Hospital"><b>In the Hospital.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Under_the_Violets"><b>Under the Violets.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Days"><b>Days.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Song2"><b>Song.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Aladdin"><b>Aladdin.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Flight_of_Youth"><b>The Flight of Youth.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#My_Playmate"><b>My Playmate.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Fire_of_Driftwood"><b>The Fire of Driftwood.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#A_Death-bed"><b>A Death-bed.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Telling_the_Bees"><b>Telling the Bees.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Katie"><b>Katie.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#My_Love"><b>My Love.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#She_Came_and_Went"><b>She Came and Went.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Her_Epitaph"><b>Her Epitaph.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Apart"><b>Apart.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Discoverer"><b>The Discoverer.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#At_Last"><b>At Last.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Thalatta"><b>"Thalatta."</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Gondolieds"><b>Gondolieds.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#In_the_Twilight"><b>In the Twilight.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Tide_Rises_the_Tide_Falls"><b>The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Fall_of_the_Leaf"><b>The Fall of the Leaf.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Rhodora"><b>The Rhodora.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Nature2"><b>Nature.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#My_Strawberry"><b>My Strawberry.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Humble-bee"><b>The Humble-bee.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Summer_Rain"><b>The Summer Rain.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_the_Dandelion"><b>To the Dandelion.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Chambered_Nautilus"><b>The Chambered Nautilus.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Thought"><b>Thought.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Stanzas"><b>Stanzas.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Coronation"><b>Coronation.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#On_a_Bust_of_Dante"><b>On a Bust of Dante.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Pan_in_Wall_Street"><b>Pan in Wall Street.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Auspex"><b>Auspex.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Birds"><b>Birds.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Toujours_Amour"><b>Toujours Amour.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#A_Sigh"><b>A Sigh.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#No_More"><b>No More.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_a_Young_Girl_Dying"><b>To a Young Girl Dying.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Port_of_Ships"><b>The Port of Ships.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Paradisi_Gloria"><b>Paradisi Gloria.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Ballad"><b>Ballad.</b></a></li></ul>
+
+<div><a href="#BOOK_THIRD"><b>BOOK THIRD.</b></a><br /></div>
+<ul><li> <a href="#The_Fools_Prayer"><b>The Fool's Prayer.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#On_The_Life-mask_Of_Abraham_Lincoln"><b>On The Life-mask Of Abraham Lincoln.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Song3"><b>Song.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#To_A_Dead_Woman"><b>To A Dead Woman.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Destiny"><b>Destiny.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Kings"><b>The Kings.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Triumph"><b>Triumph.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Evening_Song"><b>Evening Song.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Woods_That_Bring_the_Sunset_Near"><b>"The Woods That Bring the Sunset Near."</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#At_Night"><b>At Night.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Still_in_Thy_Love_I_Trust"><b>"Still in Thy Love I Trust."</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Future"><b>The Future.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Prescience"><b>Prescience.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#In_August"><b>In August.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#That_Day_You_Came"><b>That Day You Came.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Negro_Lullaby"><b>Negro Lullaby.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#A_Womans_Thought"><b>A Woman's Thought.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Flight"><b>The Flight.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Childhood"><b>Childhood.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Little_Boy_Blue"><b>Little Boy Blue.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Strong_as_Death"><b>Strong as Death.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_White_Jessamine"><b>The White Jessamine.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_House_of_Death"><b>The House of Death.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#A_Tropical_Morning_at_Sea"><b>A Tropical Morning at Sea.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Memory"><b>Memory.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#A_Mood"><b>A Mood.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Way_to_Arcady"><b>The Way to Arcady.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Eves_Daughter"><b>Eve's Daughter.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#On_An_Intaglio_Head_Of_Minerva"><b>On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Hunting-song"><b>Hunting-song.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Parting"><b>Parting.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#When_the_Sultan_Goes_to_Ispahan"><b>When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Night"><b>Night.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#He_Made_the_Stars_Also"><b>He Made the Stars Also.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Sour_Winds"><b>The Sour Winds.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Return"><b>The Return.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Bereaved"><b>Bereaved.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Chariot"><b>The Chariot.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Indian_Summer"><b>Indian Summer.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Confided"><b>Confided.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#In_Absence"><b>In Absence.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Song_of_the_Chattahoochee"><b>Song of the Chattahoochee.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Seas_Voice"><b>The Sea's Voice.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#At_Gibraltar"><b>At Gibraltar.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Jerry_an_Me"><b>Jerry an' Me.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Gravedigger"><b>The Gravedigger.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Absence_of_Little_Wesley"><b>The Absence of Little Wesley.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Be_Thou_a_Bird_My_Soul"><b>Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Opportunity"><b>Opportunity.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Dutch_Lullaby"><b>Dutch Lullaby.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Maryland_Yellow-throat"><b>The Maryland Yellow-throat.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Silence_of_Love"><b>The Silence of Love.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Secret"><b>The Secret.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Whip-poor-will"><b>The Whip-poor-will.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Fertility"><b>Fertility.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Veery"><b>The Veery.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#The_Eavesdropper"><b>The Eavesdropper.</b></a></li>
+<li> <a href="#Sesostris"><b>Sesostris.</b></a></li></ul>
+
+<p><a href="#NOTES"><b>NOTES.</b></a><br /></p>
+<p><a href="#INDEX_TO_FIRST_LINES"><b>INDEX TO FIRST LINES.</b></a><br /></p>
+<p><a href="#INDEX_TO_AUTHORS"><b>INDEX TO AUTHORS.</b></a></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a><a name="Page_-5" id="Page_-5"></a>CONTENTS.</h2>
+<h3>(Alphabetical.)</h3>
+
+
+<div class='center'>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents - Alphabetical">
+<tr><td colspan="3" align="right">PAGE</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Absence of Little Wesley, The</td><td align="left"><i>J.W. Riley</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_280'>280</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>After All </td><td align="left"><i>W. Winter</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_117'>117</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Aladdin </td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Lowell</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_128'>128</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Annabel Lee </td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_10'>10</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Apart </td><td align="left"><i>J.J. Piatt</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_149'>149</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>At Gibraltar </td><td align="left"><i>G.E. Woodberry</i>&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_273'>273</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>At Last </td><td align="left"><i>R.H. Stoddard</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_153'>153</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>At Night </td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Gilder</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_217'>217</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Auspex </td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Lowell</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_192'>192</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Ballad </td><td align="left"><i>H.P. Spofford</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_202'>202</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Battle-field, The &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>W.C. Bryant</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_54'>54</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Battle-hymn of the Republic</td><td align="left"><i>I.W. Howe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_108'>108</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Be Thou a Bird, My Soul</td><td align="left"><i>(?)</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_282'>282</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Bedouin Song </td><td align="left"><i>B. Taylor</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_85'>85</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Bereaved </td><td align="left"><i>J.W. Riley</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_263'>263</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Birds </td><td align="left"><i>R.H. Stoddard</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_193'>193</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Black Regiment, The</td><td align="left"><i>G.H. Boker</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_100'>100</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Bucket, The </td><td align="left"><i>S. Woodworth</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_8'>8</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Carolina </td><td align="left"><i>H. Timrod</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_104'>104</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Chambered Nautilus, The</td><td align="left"><i>O.W. Holmes</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_178'>178</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Chariot, The </td><td align="left"><i>E. Dickinson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_264'>264</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Childhood </td><td align="left"><i>J.B. Tabb</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_230'>230</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>City in the Sea, The</td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_15'>15</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Concord Hymn </td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Emerson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_74'>74</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Confided </td><td align="left"><i>J.B. Tabb</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_266'>266</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Coronation </td><td align="left"><i>H.H. Jackson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_183'>183</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Crowded Street, The</td><td align="left"><i>W.C. Bryant</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_42'>42</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><a name="Page_-4" id="Page_-4"></a>Day is Done, The &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>W. Longfellow</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_66'>66</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Days </td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Emerson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_126'>126</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Death-bed, A </td><td align="left"><i>J. Aldrich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_136'>136</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Destiny </td><td align="left"><i>T.B. Aldrich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_210'>210</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Dirge for a Soldier</td><td align="left"><i>G.H. Boker</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_106'>106</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Discoverer, The </td><td align="left"><i>E.C. Stedman</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_150'>150</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Dutch Lullaby </td><td align="left"><i>E. Field</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_284'>284</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Eavesdropper, The &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>B. Carman</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_298'>298</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Evening Song </td><td align="left"><i>S. Lanier</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_215'>215</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Eve's Daughter </td><td align="left"><i>E.R. Sill</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_247'>247</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Fall of the Leaf, The</td><td align="left"><i>H.D. Thoreau</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_162'>162</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Farragut </td><td align="left"><i>W.T. Meredith</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_110'>110</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Fertility </td><td align="left"><i>M. Thompson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_294'>294</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Fire of Driftwood, The</td><td align="left"><i>H.W. Longfellow</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_133'>133</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Flight, The </td><td align="left"><i>L. Mifflin</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_229'>229</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Flight of Youth, The</td><td align="left"><i>R.H. Stoddard</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_129'>129</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Fool's Prayer, The</td><td align="left"><i>E.R. Sill</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_205'>205</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Four Winds, The </td><td align="left"><i>C.H. L&uuml;ders</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_258'>258</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Future, The </td><td align="left"><i>E.R. Sill</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_219'>219</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Gondolieds </td><td align="left"><i>H.H. Jackson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_155'>155</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Gravedigger, The &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>B. Carman</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_277'>277</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Haunted Palace </td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_26'>26</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Health, A </td><td align="left"><i>E.C. Pinkney</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_12'>12</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Hebe </td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Lowell</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_64'>64</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>He Made the Stars Also</td><td align="left"><i>L. Mifflin</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_257'>257</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Her Epitaph </td><td align="left"><i>T.W. Parsons</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_147'>147</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>House of Death, The</td><td align="left"><i>L.C. Moulton</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_236'>236</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Humble-bee, The </td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Emerson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_169'>169</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Hunting Song </td><td align="left"><i>R. Hovey</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_251'>251</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Ichabod </td><td align="left"><i>J.G. Whittier</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_69'>69</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>In Absence </td><td align="left"><i>J.B. Tabb</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_267'>267</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>In August </td><td align="left"><i>W.D. Howells</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_223'>223</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Indian Summer </td><td align="left"><i>E. Dickinson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_265'>265</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>In the Hospital </td><td align="left"><i>M.W. Howland</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_122'>122</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>In the Twilight </td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Lowell</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_158'>158</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Israfel </td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_21'>21</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Jerry an' Me </td><td align="left"><i>H. Rich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_275'>275</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Katie </td><td align="left"><i>H. Timrod</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_140'>140</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><a name="Page_-3" id="Page_-3"></a>Kings, The </td><td align="left"><i>L.I. Guiney</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_211'>211</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Last Leaf, The </td><td align="left"><i>O.W. Holmes</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_95'>95</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Little Boy Blue </td><td align="left"><i>E. Field</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_231'>231</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Maryland Yellow-throat, The</td><td align="left"><i>H. Van Dyke</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_287'>287</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Memory </td><td align="left"><i>T.B. Aldrich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_241'>241</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Mood, A </td><td align="left"><i>T.B. Aldrich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_242'>242</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>"My Life is Like the Summer Rose"</td><td align="left"><i>R.H. Wilde</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_4'>4</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>My Love </td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Lowell</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_142'>142</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>My Maryland </td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Randall</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_113'>113</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>My Playmate </td><td align="left"><i>J.G. Whittier</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_130'>130</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>My Strawberry </td><td align="left"><i>H.H. Jackson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_167'>167</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Nature </td><td align="left"><i>H.W. Longfellow</i>&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_63'>63</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Nature </td><td align="left"><i>H.D. Thoreau</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_166'>166</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Negro Lullaby </td><td align="left"><i>P.L. Dunbar</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_225'>225</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Night </td><td align="left"><i>L. Mifflin</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_256'>256</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>No More </td><td align="left"><i>B.F. Willson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_197'>197</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>"O Fairest of the Rural Maids"</td><td align="left"><i>W.C. Bryant</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_6'>6</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Old Ironsides </td><td align="left"><i>O.W. Holmes</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_76'>76</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Old Kentucky Home, The</td><td align="left"><i>S.C. Foster</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_98'>98</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>On a Bust of Dante</td><td align="left"><i>T.W. Parsons</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_185'>185</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>On an Intaglio Head of Minerva</td><td align="left"><i>T.B. Aldrich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_248'>248</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>F.G. Halleck</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_36'>36</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>On the Life-mask of Abraham Lincoln</td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Gilder</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_207'>207</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Opportunity </td><td align="left"><i>E.R. Sill</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_283'>283</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Pan in Wall Street</td><td align="left"><i>E.C. Stedman</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_188'>188</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Paradisi Gloria </td><td align="left"><i>T.W. Parsons</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_201'>201</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Parting </td><td align="left"><i>E. Dickinson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_252'>252</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Port of Ships, The</td><td align="left"><i>C.H. Miller</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_199'>199</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Prescience </td><td align="left"><i>T.B. Aldrich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_221'>221</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Raven, The </td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_45'>45</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Return, The </td><td align="left"><i>L.F. Tooker</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_260'>260</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Rhodora, The </td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Emerson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_165'>165</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Sea's Voice, The &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>W.P. Foster</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_271'>271</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Secret, The </td><td align="left"><i>G.E. Woodberry</i>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_290'>290</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Serenade, A </td><td align="left"><i>E.C. Pinkney</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_14'>14</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Sesostris </td><td align="left"><i>L. Mifflin</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_300'>300</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><a name="Page_-2" id="Page_-2"></a>She Came and Went &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Lowell</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_145'>145</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Sigh, A </td><td align="left"><i>H.P. Spofford</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_196'>196</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Silence of Love, The</td><td align="left"><i>G.E. Woodberry</i>&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_289'>289</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Sir Humphrey Gilbert</td><td align="left"><i>H.W. Longfellow</i>&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_71'>71</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Skipper Ireson's Ride</td><td align="left"><i>J.G. Whittier</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_87'>87</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Sleeper, The </td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_57'>57</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Song </td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Gilder</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_208'>208</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Song </td><td align="left"><i>J. Shaw</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_3'>3</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Song </td><td align="left"><i>R.H. Stoddard</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_127'>127</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Song of the Camp, The</td><td align="left"><i>B. Taylor</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_119'>119</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Song of the Chattahoochee</td><td align="left"><i>S. Lanier</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_268'>268</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Sparkling and Bright</td><td align="left"><i>C.F. Hoffman</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_32'>32</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Stanzas </td><td align="left"><i>C.P. Cranch</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_181'>181</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Still in Thy Love I Trust</td><td align="left"><i>A.A. Fields</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_218'>218</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Strong as Death </td><td align="left"><i>H.C. Bunner</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_233'>233</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Summer Rain, The &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>H.D. Thoreau</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_172'>172</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Telling the Bees &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>J.G. Whittier</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_137'>137</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>"Thalatta" </td><td align="left"><i>J.B. Brown</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_154'>154</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>That Day You Came &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>L.W. Reese</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_224'>224</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Thought </td><td align="left"><i>H.H. Jackson</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_180'>180</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Tide Rises, the Tide Falls, The</td><td align="left"><i>H.W. Longfellow</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_161'>161</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To a Dead Woman </td><td align="left"><i>H.C. Bunner</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_209'>209</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To America </td><td align="left"><i>G.H. Boker</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_75'>75</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To a Waterfowl </td><td align="left"><i>W.C. Bryant</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_29'>29</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To a Young Girl Dying</td><td align="left"><i>T.W. Parsons</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_198'>198</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To England </td><td align="left"><i>G.H. Boker</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_79'>79</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To Helen </td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_31'>31</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To One in Paradise</td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_34'>34</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To the Dandelion &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>J.R. Lowell</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_175'>175</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To the Fringed Gentian</td><td align="left"><i>W.C. Bryant</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_40'>40</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>To the Past </td><td align="left"><i>W.C. Bryant</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_18'>18</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Toujours Amour </td><td align="left"><i>E.C. Stedman</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_194'>194</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Triumph </td><td align="left"><i>H.C. Bunner</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_213'>213</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Tropical Morning at Sea, A</td><td align="left"><i>E.R. Sill</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_238'>238</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Under the Violets &nbsp;</td><td align="left"><i>O.W. Holmes</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_124'>124</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Unseen Spirits </td><td align="left"><i>N.P. Willis</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_24'>24</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Valley of Unrest, The</td><td align="left"><i>E.A. Poe</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_38'>38</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Veery, The </td><td align="left"><i>H. Van Dyke</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_296'>296</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'><a name="Page_-1" id="Page_-1"></a>Village Blacksmith, The</td><td align="left"><i>H.W. Longfellow</i>&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_92'>92</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Way to Arcady, The</td><td align="left"><i>H.C. Bunner</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_243'>243</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan</td><td align="left"><i>T.B. Aldrich</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_253'>253</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Whip-poor-will, The</td><td align="left"><i>H. Van Dyke</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_291'>291</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>White Jessamine, The</td><td align="left"><i>J.B. Tabb</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_235'>235</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Wild Honeysuckle, The</td><td align="left"><i>P. Freneau</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_1'>1</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Woman's Thought, A</td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Gilder</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_227'>227</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Woods that Bring the Sunset Near, The</td><td align="left"><i>R.W. Gilder</i></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_216'>216</a> </td></tr>
+<tr><td align='left'>Wreck of the Hesperus, The</td><td align="left"><i>H.W. Longfellow</i>&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_80'>80</a> </td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="BOOK_FIRST" id="BOOK_FIRST"></a><a name="Page_0" id="Page_0"></a>BOOK FIRST.</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="AMERICAN_SONGS_AND_LYRICS" id="AMERICAN_SONGS_AND_LYRICS"></a><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a>AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Wild_Honeysuckle" id="The_Wild_Honeysuckle"></a><b>The Wild Honeysuckle.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hid in this silent, dull retreat,<br /></span>
+<span>Untouched thy honey'd blossoms blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unseen thy little branches greet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No roving foot shall crush thee here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No busy hand provoke a tear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>By Nature's self in white arrayed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,<br /></span>
+<span>And planted here the guardian shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And sent soft waters murmuring by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thus quietly thy summer goes,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy days declining to repose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a>
+<span>Smit with those charms, that must decay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I grieve to see your future doom;<br /></span>
+<span>They died&mdash;nor were those flowers more gay&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The flowers that did in Eden bloom;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall leave no vestige of this flower.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>From morning suns and evening dews<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At first thy little being came;<br /></span>
+<span>If nothing once, you nothing lose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For when you die you are the same;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The space between is but an hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The frail duration of a flower.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">P. Freneau.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Song" id="Song"></a><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a><b>Song.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Who has robbed the ocean cave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To tinge thy lips with coral hue?<br /></span>
+<span>Who from India's distant wave<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For thee those pearly treasures drew?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who from yonder orient sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stole the morning of thine eye?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thousand charms, thy form to deck,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From sea, and earth, and air are torn;<br /></span>
+<span>Roses bloom upon thy cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On thy breath their fragrance borne.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Guard thy bosom from the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lest thy snows should melt away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But one charm remains behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which mute earth can ne'er impart;<br /></span>
+<span>Nor in ocean wilt thou find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor in the circling air, a heart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Take, oh, take that heart from me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J. Shaw.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="My_Life_is_Like_the_Summer_Rose" id="My_Life_is_Like_the_Summer_Rose"></a><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a><b>"My Life is Like the Summer Rose."</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>My life is like the summer rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That opens to the morning sky,<br /></span>
+<span>But ere the shades of evening close,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is scattered on the ground&mdash;to die!<br /></span>
+<span>Yet on the rose's humble bed<br /></span>
+<span>The sweetest dews of night are shed,<br /></span>
+<span>As if she wept the waste to see,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>But none shall weep a tear for me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My life is like the autumn leaf<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That trembles in the moon's pale ray;<br /></span>
+<span>Its hold is frail,&mdash;its date is brief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Restless,&mdash;and soon to pass away!<br /></span>
+<span>Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade,<br /></span>
+<span>The parent tree will mourn its shade,<br /></span>
+<span>The winds bewail the leafless tree,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>But none shall breathe a sigh for me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My life is like the prints which feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Have left on Tampa's desert strand;<br /></span>
+<span>Soon as the rising tide shall beat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All trace will vanish from the sand;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a>Yet, as if grieving to efface<br /></span>
+<span>All vestige of the human race,<br /></span>
+<span>On that lone shore loud moans the sea,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>But none, alas! shall mourn for me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.H. Wilde.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="O_Fairest_of_the_Rural_Maids" id="O_Fairest_of_the_Rural_Maids"></a><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a><b>"O Fairest of the Rural Maids!"</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>O Fairest of the rural maids!<br /></span>
+<span>Thy birth was in the forest shades;<br /></span>
+<span>Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,<br /></span>
+<span>Were all that met thine infant eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,<br /></span>
+<span>Were ever in the sylvan wild;<br /></span>
+<span>And all the beauty of the place<br /></span>
+<span>Is in thy heart and on thy face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The twilight of the trees and rocks<br /></span>
+<span>Is in the light shade of thy locks;<br /></span>
+<span>Thy step is as the wind, that weaves<br /></span>
+<span>Its playful way among the leaves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene<br /></span>
+<span>And silent waters heaven is seen;<br /></span>
+<span>Their lashes are the herbs that look<br /></span>
+<span>On their young figures in the brook.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a>
+<span>The forest depths, by foot unpressed,<br /></span>
+<span>Are not more sinless than thy breast;<br /></span>
+<span>The holy peace that fills the air<br /></span>
+<span>Of those calm solitudes is there.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.C. Bryant.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Bucket" id="The_Bucket"></a><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a><b>The Bucket.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,<br /></span>
+<span>When fond recollection presents them to view!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,<br /></span>
+<span>And every loved spot which my infancy knew!<br /></span>
+<span>The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;<br /></span>
+<span>The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;<br /></span>
+<span>The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it;<br /></span>
+<span>And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,<br /></span>
+<span>The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;<br /></span>
+<span>For often at noon, when returned from the field,<br /></span>
+<span>I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.<br /></span>
+<span>How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,<br /></span>
+<span>And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!<br /></span>
+<span>Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,<br /></span>
+<span>And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,<br /></span>
+<span>The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,<br /></span>
+<span>As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!<br /></span>
+<span>Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,<br /></span>
+<span>The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.<br /></span>
+<span>And now, far removed from the loved habitation,<br /></span>
+<span>The tear of regret will intrusively swell,<br /></span>
+<span>As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,<br /></span>
+<span>And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,<br /></span>
+<span>The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">S. Woodworth.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Annabel_Lee" id="Annabel_Lee"></a><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a><b>Annabel Lee.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>It was many and many a year ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In a kingdom by the sea,<br /></span>
+<span>That a maiden there lived whom you may know<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the name of Annabel Lee;<br /></span>
+<span>And this maiden she lived with no other thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than to love and be loved by me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I was a child and she was a child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In this kingdom by the sea,<br /></span>
+<span>But we loved with a love that was more than love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I and my Annabel Lee;<br /></span>
+<span>With a love that the wing&egrave;d seraphs of heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Coveted her and me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And this was the reason that, long ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In this kingdom by the sea,<br /></span>
+<span>A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My beautiful Annabel Lee;<br /></span>
+<span>So that her highborn kinsmen came<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And bore her away from me,<br /></span>
+<span>To shut her up in a sepulchre<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In this kingdom by the sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a>
+<span>The angels, not half so happy in heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Went envying her and me;<br /></span>
+<span>Yes, that was the reason (as all men know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In this kingdom by the sea)<br /></span>
+<span>That the wind came out of the cloud by night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But our love it was stronger by far than the love<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of those who were older than we,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of many far wiser than we;<br /></span>
+<span>And neither the angels in heaven above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor the demons down under the sea,<br /></span>
+<span>Can ever dissever my soul from the soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;<br /></span>
+<span>And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;<br /></span>
+<span>And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side<br /></span>
+<span>Of my darling,&mdash;my darling,&mdash;my life and my bride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In her sepulchre there by the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In her tomb by the sounding sea.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_Health" id="A_Health"></a><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a><b>A Health.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I fill this cup to one made up<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of loveliness alone,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>A woman, of her gentle sex<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The seeming paragon;<br /></span>
+<span>To whom the better elements<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And kindly stars have given<br /></span>
+<span>A form so fair, that, like the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis less of earth than heaven.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her every tone is music's own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like those of morning birds;<br /></span>
+<span>And something more than melody<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dwells ever in her words;<br /></span>
+<span>The coinage of her heart are they,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And from her lips each flows<br /></span>
+<span>As one may see the burden'd bee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Forth issue from the rose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Affections are as thoughts to her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The measures of her hours;<br /></span>
+<span>Her feelings have the fragrancy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The freshness of young flowers;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a>And lovely passions, changing oft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So fill her, she appears<br /></span>
+<span>The image of themselves by turns,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The idol of past years!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Of her bright face one glance will trace<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A picture on the brain;<br /></span>
+<span>And of her voice in echoing hearts<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A sound must long remain,<br /></span>
+<span>But memory, such as mine of her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So very much endears,<br /></span>
+<span>When death is nigh, my latest sigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will not be life's, but hers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I fill this cup to one made up<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of loveliness alone,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>A woman, of her gentle sex<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The seeming paragon.<br /></span>
+<span>Her health! and would on earth there stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some more of such a frame,<br /></span>
+<span>That life might be all poetry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And weariness a name.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.C. Pinkney.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_Serenade" id="A_Serenade"></a><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a><b>A Serenade.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Look out upon the stars, my love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And shame them with thine eyes,<br /></span>
+<span>On which, than on the lights above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There hang more destinies.<br /></span>
+<span>Night's beauty is the harmony<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of blending shades and light:<br /></span>
+<span>Then, lady, up,&mdash;look out, and be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A sister to the night!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sleep not!&mdash;thine image wakes for aye<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Within my watching breast;<br /></span>
+<span>Sleep not!&mdash;from her soft sleep should fly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who robs all hearts of rest.<br /></span>
+<span>Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And make this darkness gay,<br /></span>
+<span>With looks whose brightness well might make<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of darker nights a day.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.C. Pinkney.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_City_in_the_Sea" id="The_City_in_the_Sea"></a><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a><b>The City in the Sea.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Lo! Death has reared himself a throne<br /></span>
+<span>In a strange city lying alone<br /></span>
+<span>Far down within the dim West,<br /></span>
+<span>Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best<br /></span>
+<span>Have gone to their eternal rest.<br /></span>
+<span>There shrines and palaces and towers<br /></span>
+<span>(Time-eaten towers that tremble not)<br /></span>
+<span>Resemble nothing that is ours.<br /></span>
+<span>Around, by lifting winds forgot,<br /></span>
+<span>Resignedly beneath the sky<br /></span>
+<span>The melancholy waters lie.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>No rays from the holy heaven come down<br /></span>
+<span>On the long night-time of that town;<br /></span>
+<span>But light from out the lurid sea<br /></span>
+<span>Streams up the turrets silently,<br /></span>
+<span>Gleams up the pinnacles far and free:<br /></span>
+<span>Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls,<br /></span>
+<span>Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls,<br /></span>
+<span>Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers<br /></span>
+<span>Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a>Up many and many a marvellous shrine,<br /></span>
+<span>Whose wreath&egrave;d friezes intertwine<br /></span>
+<span>The viol, the violet, and the vine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Resignedly beneath the sky<br /></span>
+<span>The melancholy waters lie.<br /></span>
+<span>So blend the turrets and shadows there<br /></span>
+<span>That all seem pendulous in air,<br /></span>
+<span>While from a proud tower in the town<br /></span>
+<span>Death looks gigantically down.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There open fanes and gaping graves<br /></span>
+<span>Yawn level with the luminous waves;<br /></span>
+<span>But not the riches there that lie<br /></span>
+<span>In each idol's diamond eye,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Not the gaily-jewelled dead<br /></span>
+<span>Tempt the waters from their bed;<br /></span>
+<span>For no ripples curl, alas,<br /></span>
+<span>Along that wilderness of glass;<br /></span>
+<span>No swellings tell that winds may be<br /></span>
+<span>Upon some far-off happier sea;<br /></span>
+<span>No heavings hint that winds have been<br /></span>
+<span>On seas less hideously serene!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But lo, a stir is in the air!<br /></span>
+<span>The wave&mdash;there is a movement there!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>As if the towers had thrust aside,<br /></span>
+<span>In slightly sinking, the dull tide;<br /></span>
+<span>As if their tops had feebly given<br /></span>
+<span>A void within the filmy Heaven!<br /></span>
+<span>The waves have now a redder glow,<br /></span>
+<span>The hours are breathing faint and low;<br /></span>
+<span>And when, amid no earthly moans,<br /></span>
+<span>Down, down that town shall settle hence,<br /></span>
+<span>Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,<br /></span>
+<span>Shall do it reverence.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_The_Past" id="To_The_Past"></a><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a><b>To The Past.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thou unrelenting Past!<br /></span>
+<span>Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And fetters, sure and fast,<br /></span>
+<span>Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Far in thy realm withdrawn,<br /></span>
+<span>Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And glorious ages gone<br /></span>
+<span>Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Childhood, with all its mirth,<br /></span>
+<span>Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And last, Man's Life on earth,<br /></span>
+<span>Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thou hast my better years;<br /></span>
+<span>Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yielded to thee with tears,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The venerable form, the exalted mind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My spirit yearns to bring<br /></span>
+<span>The lost ones back,&mdash;yearns with desire intense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>And struggles hard to wring<br /></span>
+<span>Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In vain; thy gates deny<br /></span>
+<span>All passage save to those who hence depart;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor to the streaming eye<br /></span>
+<span>Thou giv'st them back,&mdash;nor to the broken heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In thy abysses hide<br /></span>
+<span>Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Earth's wonder and her pride<br /></span>
+<span>Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Labors of good to man,<br /></span>
+<span>Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Love, that midst grief began,<br /></span>
+<span>And grew with years, and faltered not in death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Full many a mighty name<br /></span>
+<span>Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With thee are silent fame,<br /></span>
+<span>Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thine for a space are they,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy gates shall yet give way,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>
+<span class="i1">All that of good and fair<br /></span>
+<span>Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall then come forth, to wear<br /></span>
+<span>The glory and the beauty of its prime.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">They have not perished,&mdash;no!<br /></span>
+<span>Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Smiles, radiant long ago,<br /></span>
+<span>And features, the great soul's apparent seat;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All shall come back, each tie<br /></span>
+<span>Of pure affection shall be knit again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alone shall Evil die,<br /></span>
+<span>And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And then shall I behold<br /></span>
+<span>Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And her, who, still and cold,<br /></span>
+<span>Fills the next grave,&mdash;the beautiful and young.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.C. Bryant.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Israfel" id="Israfel"></a><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a><b>Israfel.</b></h2>
+
+<div class="blocknarr"><p>And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who
+     has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.</p>
+
+<p>     &mdash;<i>Koran.</i></p></div>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>In Heaven a spirit doth dwell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whose heart-strings are a lute;<br /></span>
+<span>None sing so wildly well<br /></span>
+<span>As the angel Israfel,<br /></span>
+<span>And the giddy stars (so legends tell),<br /></span>
+<span>Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of his voice, all mute.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Tottering above<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In her highest noon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The enamored moon<br /></span>
+<span>Blushes with love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While, to listen, the red levin<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(With the rapid Pleiads, even,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which were seven)<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pauses in Heaven.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And they say (the starry choir<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the other listening things)<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a>That Israfeli's fire<br /></span>
+<span>Is owing to that lyre<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By which he sits and sings,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The trembling living wire<br /></span>
+<span>Of those unusual strings.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But the skies that angel trod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where deep thoughts are a duty,<br /></span>
+<span>Where Love's a grown-up God,<br /></span>
+<span>Where the Houri glances are<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Imbued with all the beauty<br /></span>
+<span>Which we worship in a star.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Therefore thou art not wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Israfeli, who despisest<br /></span>
+<span>An unimpassioned song;<br /></span>
+<span>To thee the laurels belong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Best bard, because the wisest:<br /></span>
+<span>Merrily live, and long!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The ecstasies above<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With thy burning measures suit:<br /></span>
+<span>Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the fervor of thy lute:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Well may the stars be mute!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>
+<span>Yes, Heaven is thine; but this<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is a world of sweets and sours;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our flowers are merely&mdash;flowers,<br /></span>
+<span>And the shadow of thy perfect bliss<br /></span>
+<span>Is the sunshine of ours.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>If I could dwell<br /></span>
+<span>Where Israfel<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hath dwelt, and he where I,<br /></span>
+<span>He might not sing so wildly well<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A mortal melody,<br /></span>
+<span>While a bolder note than this might swell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From my lyre within the sky.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Unseen_Spirits" id="Unseen_Spirits"></a><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a><b>Unseen Spirits.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The shadows lay along Broadway,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas near the twilight-tide,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>And slowly there a lady fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was walking in her pride.<br /></span>
+<span>Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Walked spirits at her side.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Honor charmed the air;<br /></span>
+<span>And all astir looked kind on her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And called her good as fair&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>For all God ever gave to her<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She kept with chary care.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She kept with care her beauties rare<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From lovers warm and true,<br /></span>
+<span>For her heart was cold to all but gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the rich came not to woo;<br /></span>
+<span>But honored well are charms to sell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If priests the selling do.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>
+<span>Now walking there was one more fair,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A slight girl, lily-pale;<br /></span>
+<span>And she had unseen company<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To make the spirit quail,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And nothing could avail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>No mercy now can clear her brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For this world's peace to pray;<br /></span>
+<span>For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her woman's heart gave way!<br /></span>
+<span>But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By man is cursed alway.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">N.P. Willis.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Haunted_Palace" id="The_Haunted_Palace"></a><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a><b>The Haunted Palace.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>In the greenest of our valleys<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By good angels tenanted,<br /></span>
+<span>Once a fair and stately palace&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Radiant palace&mdash;reared its head.<br /></span>
+<span>In the monarch Thought's dominion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It stood there;<br /></span>
+<span>Never seraph spread a pinion<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Over fabric half so fair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Banners yellow, glorious, golden,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On its roof did float and flow<br /></span>
+<span>(This&mdash;all this&mdash;was in the olden<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Time long ago),<br /></span>
+<span>And every gentle air that dallied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In that sweet day,<br /></span>
+<span>Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A wing&egrave;d odor went away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Wanderers in that happy valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through two luminous windows saw<br /></span>
+<span>Spirits moving musically,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To a lute's well-tun&egrave;d law,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>Round about a throne where, sitting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Porphyrogene,<br /></span>
+<span>In state his glory well befitting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The ruler of the realm was seen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And all with pearl and ruby glowing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was the fair palace door,<br /></span>
+<span>Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And sparkling evermore,<br /></span>
+<span>A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was but to sing,<br /></span>
+<span>In voices of surpassing beauty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wit and wisdom of their king.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But evil things, in robes of sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Assailed the monarch's high estate;<br /></span>
+<span>(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall dawn upon him desolate!)<br /></span>
+<span>And round about his home the glory<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That blushed and bloomed<br /></span>
+<span>Is but a dim-remembered story<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the old time entombed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And travellers now within that valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the red-litten windows see<br /></span>
+<span>Vast forms that move fantastically<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To a discordant melody;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a>While, like a ghastly rapid river,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the pale door<br /></span>
+<span>A hideous throng rush out forever,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And laugh&mdash;but smile no more.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_a_Waterfowl" id="To_a_Waterfowl"></a><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a><b>To a Waterfowl.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Whither, midst falling dew,<br /></span>
+<span>While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,<br /></span>
+<span>Far, through their rosy depths dost thou pursue<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy solitary way?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Vainly the fowler's eye<br /></span>
+<span>Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,<br /></span>
+<span>As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy figure floats along.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Seek'st thou the plashy brink<br /></span>
+<span>Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,<br /></span>
+<span>Or where the rocking billows rise and sink<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On the chafed ocean-side?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">There is a Power whose care<br /></span>
+<span>Teaches thy way along that pathless coast&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The desert and illimitable air&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lone wandering, but not lost.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">All day thy wings have fanned,<br /></span>
+<span>At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,<br /></span>
+<span>Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though the dark night is near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a>
+<span class="i3">And soon that toil shall end;<br /></span>
+<span>Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,<br /></span>
+<span>And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven<br /></span>
+<span>Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart<br /></span>
+<span>Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And shall not soon depart:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">He who, from zone to zone,<br /></span>
+<span>Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,<br /></span>
+<span>In the long way that I must tread alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Will lead my steps aright.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.C. Bryant.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_Helen" id="To_Helen"></a><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a><b>To Helen.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Helen, thy beauty is to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like those Nic&aelig;an barks of yore,<br /></span>
+<span>That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The weary, wayworn wanderer bore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To his own native shore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>On desperate seas long wont to roam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the glory that was Greece<br /></span>
+<span>And the grandeur that was Rome.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How statue-like I see thee stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The agate lamp within thy hand!<br /></span>
+<span>Ah, Psyche, from the regions which<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Are Holy Land!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Sparkling_and_Bright" id="Sparkling_and_Bright"></a><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a><b>Sparkling and Bright.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sparkling and bright in liquid light<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Does the wine our goblets gleam in,<br /></span>
+<span>With hue as red as the rosy bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which a bee would choose to dream in.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then fill to-night, with hearts as light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To loves as gay and fleeting<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And break on the lips while meeting.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Time through Life's dominions,<br /></span>
+<span>We here awhile would now beguile<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The graybeard of his pinions,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To drink to-night, with hearts as light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To loves as gay and fleeting<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And break on the lips while meeting.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But since Delight can't tempt the wight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor fond Regret delay him,<br /></span>
+<span>Nor Love himself can hold the elf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor sober Friendship stay him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To loves as gay and fleeting<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And break on the lips while meeting.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">C.F. Hoffman.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_One_in_Paradise" id="To_One_in_Paradise"></a><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a><b>To One in Paradise.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thou wast all that to me, love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For which my soul did pine:<br /></span>
+<span>A green isle in the sea, love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A fountain and a shrine<br /></span>
+<span>All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all the flowers were mine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Ah, dream too bright to last!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise<br /></span>
+<span>But to be overcast!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A voice from out the Future cries,<br /></span>
+<span>"On! on!"&mdash;but o'er the Past<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies<br /></span>
+<span>Mute, motionless, aghast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>For, alas! alas! with me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The light of Life is o'er!<br /></span>
+<span>No more&mdash;no more&mdash;no more&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Such language holds the solemn sea<br /></span>
+<span>To the sands upon the shore)<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,<br /></span>
+<span>Or the stricken eagle soar.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>
+<span>And all my days are trances,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all my nightly dreams<br /></span>
+<span>Are where thy gray eye glances,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And where thy footstep gleams,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>In what ethereal dances,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By what eternal streams.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="On_the_Death_of_Joseph_Rodman_Drake" id="On_the_Death_of_Joseph_Rodman_Drake"></a><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a><b>On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Green be the turf above thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Friend of my better days!<br /></span>
+<span>None knew thee but to love thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor named thee but to praise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Tears fell when thou wert dying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From eyes unused to weep,<br /></span>
+<span>And long, where thou art lying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will tears the cold turf steep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>When hearts, whose truth was proven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like thine, are laid in earth,<br /></span>
+<span>There should a wreath be woven<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To tell the world their worth;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And I, who woke each morrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To clasp thy hand in mine,<br /></span>
+<span>Who shared thy joy and sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whose weal and woe were thine,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>
+<span>It should be mine to braid it<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around thy faded brow,<br /></span>
+<span>But I've in vain essayed it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And feel I cannot now.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>While memory bids me weep thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor thoughts nor words are free,<br /></span>
+<span>The grief is fixed too deeply<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That mourns a man like thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">F.G. Halleck.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Valley_of_Unrest" id="The_Valley_of_Unrest"></a><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a><b>The Valley of Unrest.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Once it smiled a silent dell<br /></span>
+<span>Where the people did not dwell;<br /></span>
+<span>They had gone unto the wars,<br /></span>
+<span>Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,<br /></span>
+<span>Nightly, from their azure towers,<br /></span>
+<span>To keep watch above the flowers,<br /></span>
+<span>In the midst of which all day<br /></span>
+<span>The red sunlight lazily lay.<br /></span>
+<span>Now each visitor shall confess<br /></span>
+<span>The sad valley's restlessness.<br /></span>
+<span>Nothing there is motionless,<br /></span>
+<span>Nothing save the airs that brood<br /></span>
+<span>Over the magic solitude.<br /></span>
+<span>Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees<br /></span>
+<span>That palpitate like the chill seas<br /></span>
+<span>Around the misty Hebrides!<br /></span>
+<span>Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven<br /></span>
+<span>That rustle through the unquiet Heaven<br /></span>
+<span>Uneasily, from morn to even,<br /></span>
+<span>Over the violets there that lie<br /></span>
+<span>In myriad types of the human eye,<br /></span>
+<span>Over the lilies there that wave<br /></span>
+<span>And weep above a nameless grave!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>They wave:&mdash;from out their fragrant tops<br /></span>
+<span>Eternal dews come down in drops.<br /></span>
+<span>They weep:&mdash;from off their delicate stems<br /></span>
+<span>Perennial tears descend in gems.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_the_Fringed_Gentian" id="To_the_Fringed_Gentian"></a><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a><b>To the Fringed Gentian.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,<br /></span>
+<span>And colored with the heaven's own blue,<br /></span>
+<span>That openest when the quiet light<br /></span>
+<span>Succeeds the keen and frosty night:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thou comest not when violets lean<br /></span>
+<span>O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,<br /></span>
+<span>Or columbines, in purple dressed,<br /></span>
+<span>Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thou waitest late and com'st alone,<br /></span>
+<span>When woods are bare and birds are flown,<br /></span>
+<span>And frosts and shortening days portend<br /></span>
+<span>The aged year is near his end.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye<br /></span>
+<span>Look through its fringes to the sky,<br /></span>
+<span>Blue&mdash;blue&mdash;as if that sky let fall<br /></span>
+<span>A flower from its cerulean wall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>
+<span>I would that thus, when I shall see<br /></span>
+<span>The hour of death draw near to me,<br /></span>
+<span>Hope, blossoming within my heart,<br /></span>
+<span>May look to heaven as I depart.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.C. Bryant.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Crowded_Street" id="The_Crowded_Street"></a><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a><b>The Crowded Street.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Let me move slowly through the street,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Filled with an ever-shifting train,<br /></span>
+<span>Amid the sound of steps that beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The murmuring walks like autumn rain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>How fast the flitting figures come!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mild, the fierce, the stony face,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where secret tears have left their trace.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They pass&mdash;to toil, to strife, to rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To halls in which the feast is spread;<br /></span>
+<span>To chambers where the funeral guest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In silence sits beside the dead.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And some to happy homes repair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,<br /></span>
+<span>With mute caresses shall declare<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The tenderness they cannot speak.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And some, who walk in calmness here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall shudder as they reach the door<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>Where one who made their dwelling dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Its flower, its light, is seen no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And dreams of greatness in thine eye!<br /></span>
+<span>Go'st thou to build an early name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or early in the task to die?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Keen son of trade, with eager brow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who is now fluttering in thy snare?<br /></span>
+<span>Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or melt the glittering spires in air?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Who of this crowd to-night shall tread<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The dance till daylight gleam again?<br /></span>
+<span>Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Some, famine-struck, shall think how long<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;<br /></span>
+<span>And some, who flaunt amid the throng,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Each where his tasks or pleasures call,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They pass, and heed each other not.<br /></span>
+<span>There is who heeds, who holds them all<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In His large love and boundless thought.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>
+<span>These struggling tides of life, that seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In wayward, aimless course to tend,<br /></span>
+<span>Are eddies of the mighty stream<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That rolls to its appointed end.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.C. Bryant.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Raven" id="The_Raven"></a><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a><b>The Raven.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,<br /></span>
+<span>Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,<br /></span>
+<span>As of some one gently rapping&mdash;rapping at my chamber door.<br /></span>
+<span>"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Only this, and nothing more."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,<br /></span>
+<span>And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.<br /></span>
+<span>Eagerly I wished the morrow;&mdash;vainly I had sought to borrow<br /></span>
+<span>From my books surcease of sorrow&mdash;sorrow for the lost Lenore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nameless here forevermore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>
+<span>And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain<br /></span>
+<span>Thrilled me&mdash;filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;<br /></span>
+<span>So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating<br /></span>
+<span>"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,<br /></span>
+<span>&mdash;Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">This it is, and nothing more."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,<br /></span>
+<span>"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;<br /></span>
+<span>But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,<br /></span>
+<span>And so faintly you came tapping&mdash;tapping at my chamber door,<br /></span>
+<span>That I scarce was sure I heard you;"&mdash;here I opened wide the door:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Darkness there, and nothing more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a>Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;<br /></span>
+<span>But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,<br /></span>
+<span>And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"<br /></span>
+<span>This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore:"<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Merely this, and nothing more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,<br /></span>
+<span>Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.<br /></span>
+<span>"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;<br /></span>
+<span>Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">'Tis the wind, and nothing more."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,<br /></span>
+<span>In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;<br /></span>
+<span>But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Perched, and sat, and nothing more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling<br /></span>
+<span>By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,<br /></span>
+<span>"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,<br /></span>
+<span>Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Tell, me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,<br /></span>
+<span>Though its answer little meaning&mdash;little relevancy bore;<br /></span>
+<span>For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With such name as "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only<br /></span>
+<span>That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.<br /></span>
+<span>Nothing further then he uttered&mdash;not a feather then he fluttered&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>On the morrow <i>he</i> will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then the bird said, "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,<br /></span>
+<span>"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,<br /></span>
+<span>Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster<br /></span>
+<span>Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of 'Never&mdash;nevermore.'"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,<br /></span>
+<span>Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;<br /></span>
+<span>Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking<br /></span>
+<span>Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Meant in croaking "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing<br /></span>
+<span>To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;<br /></span>
+<span>This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining<br /></span>
+<span>On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,<br /></span>
+<span>But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er<br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>She</i> shall press, ah, nevermore!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a>
+<span>Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer<br /></span>
+<span>Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.<br /></span>
+<span>"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee&mdash;by these angels He hath sent thee<br /></span>
+<span>Respite&mdash;respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!<br /></span>
+<span>Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,<br /></span>
+<span>Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>On this home by Horror haunted&mdash;tell me truly, I implore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Is there,&mdash;<i>is</i> there balm in Gilead?&mdash;tell me&mdash;tell me, I implore!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>By that Heaven that bends above us&mdash;by that God we both adore&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,<br /></span>
+<span>It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!<br /></span>
+<span>Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!<br /></span>
+<span>Leave my loneliness unbroken!&mdash;quit the bust above my door!<br /></span>
+<span>Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting<br /></span>
+<span>On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,<br /></span>
+<span>And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;<br /></span>
+<span>And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Shall be lifted,&mdash;nevermore!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Battle-field" id="The_Battle-field"></a><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a><b>The Battle-field.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,<br /></span>
+<span>And fiery hearts and arm&egrave;d hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Encountered in the battle-cloud.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Ah! never shall the land forget<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How gushed the life-blood of her brave,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Upon the soil they fought to save.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Now all is calm and fresh and still;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alone the chirp of flitting bird,<br /></span>
+<span>And talk of children on the hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And bell of wandering kine are heard.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>No solemn host goes trailing by<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;<br /></span>
+<span>Men start not at the battle-cry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, be it never heard again!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Soon rested those who fought; but thou<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who minglest in the harder strife<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a>For truths which men receive not now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy warfare only ends with life.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A friendless warfare! lingering long<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through weary day and weary year;<br /></span>
+<span>A wild and many-weaponed throng<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hang on thy front and flank and rear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And blench not at thy chosen lot;<br /></span>
+<span>The timid good may stand aloof,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sage may frown,&mdash;yet faint thou not!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The foul and hissing bolt of scorn,<br /></span>
+<span>For with thy side shall dwell, at last,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The victory of endurance born.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The eternal years of God are hers;<br /></span>
+<span>But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And dies among his worshippers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When they who helped thee flee in fear,<br /></span>
+<span>Die full of hope and manly trust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like those who fell in battle here.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>
+<span>Another hand thy sword shall wield,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Another hand the standard wave,<br /></span>
+<span>Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.C. Bryant.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Sleeper" id="The_Sleeper"></a><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a><b>The Sleeper.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>At midnight, in the month of June,<br /></span>
+<span>I stand beneath the mystic moon.<br /></span>
+<span>An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,<br /></span>
+<span>Exhales from out her golden rim,<br /></span>
+<span>And, softly dripping, drop by drop,<br /></span>
+<span>Upon the quiet mountain-top,<br /></span>
+<span>Steals drowsily and musically<br /></span>
+<span>Into the universal valley.<br /></span>
+<span>The rosemary nods upon the grave;<br /></span>
+<span>The lily lolls upon the wave;<br /></span>
+<span>Wrapping the fog about its breast,<br /></span>
+<span>The ruin moulders into rest;<br /></span>
+<span>Looking like Lethe, see! the lake<br /></span>
+<span>A conscious slumber seems to take,<br /></span>
+<span>And would not, for the world, awake.<br /></span>
+<span>All beauty sleeps!&mdash;and lo! where lies<br /></span>
+<span>Irene, with her destinies!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>O lady bright! can it be right,<br /></span>
+<span>This window open to the night?<br /></span>
+<span>The wanton airs from the tree-top<br /></span>
+<span>Laughingly through the lattice drop;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,<br /></span>
+<span>Flit through thy chamber in and out,<br /></span>
+<span>And wave the curtain canopy<br /></span>
+<span>So fitfully, so fearfully,<br /></span>
+<span>Above the closed and fringed lid<br /></span>
+<span>'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,<br /></span>
+<span>That, o'er the floor and down the wall,<br /></span>
+<span>Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.<br /></span>
+<span>O lady dear, hast thou no fear?<br /></span>
+<span>Why and what art thou dreaming here?<br /></span>
+<span>Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,<br /></span>
+<span>A wonder to these garden trees!<br /></span>
+<span>Strange is thy pallor; strange thy dress;<br /></span>
+<span>Strange, above all, thy length of tress,<br /></span>
+<span>And this all solemn silentness!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,<br /></span>
+<span>Which is enduring, so be deep!<br /></span>
+<span>Heaven have her in its sacred keep!<br /></span>
+<span>This chamber changed for one more holy,<br /></span>
+<span>This bed for one more melancholy,<br /></span>
+<span>I pray to God that she may lie<br /></span>
+<span>Forever with unopened eye,<br /></span>
+<span>While the pale sheeted ghosts go by.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,<br /></span>
+<span>As it is lasting, so be deep!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a>Soft may the worms about her creep!<br /></span>
+<span>Far in the forest, dim and old,<br /></span>
+<span>For her may some tall vault unfold:<br /></span>
+<span>Some vault that oft hath flung its black<br /></span>
+<span>And wing&egrave;d panels fluttering back,<br /></span>
+<span>Triumphant, o'er the crested palls<br /></span>
+<span>Of her grand family funerals;<br /></span>
+<span>Some sepulchre, remote, alone,<br /></span>
+<span>Against whose portal she hath thrown,<br /></span>
+<span>In childhood, many an idle stone;<br /></span>
+<span>Some tomb from out whose sounding door<br /></span>
+<span>She ne'er shall force an echo more,<br /></span>
+<span>Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,<br /></span>
+<span>It was the dead who groaned within!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.A. Poe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a><a name="BOOK_SECOND" id="BOOK_SECOND"></a><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a>BOOK SECOND.</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Nature" id="Nature"></a><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a><b>Nature.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Leads by the hand her little child to bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Half willing, half reluctant to be led,<br /></span>
+<span>And leave his broken playthings on the floor,<br /></span>
+<span>Still gazing at them through the open door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor wholly reassured and comforted<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By promises of others in their stead,<br /></span>
+<span>Which, though more splendid, may not please him more,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>So Nature deals with us, and takes away<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our playthings one by one, and by the hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Leads us to rest so gently, that we go<br /></span>
+<span>Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Being too full of sleep to understand<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How far the unknown transcends the what we know.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.W. Longfellow.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Hebe" id="Hebe"></a><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a><b>Hebe.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I saw the twinkle of white feet,<br /></span>
+<span>I saw the flash of robes descending;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before her ran an influence fleet,<br /></span>
+<span>That bowed my heart like barley bending.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">As, in bare fields, the searching bees<br /></span>
+<span>Pilot to blooms beyond our finding,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It led me on, by sweet degrees<br /></span>
+<span>Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates;<br /></span>
+<span>With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The long-sought Secret's golden gates<br /></span>
+<span>On musical hinges swung before me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp<br /></span>
+<span>Thrilling with godhood; like a lover<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I sprang the proffered life to clasp;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The beaker fell; the luck was over.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The Earth has drunk the vintage up;<br /></span>
+<span>What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Can Summer fill the icy cup,<br /></span>
+<span>Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a>
+<span class="i1">O spendthrift haste! await the Gods;<br /></span>
+<span>Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Haste scatters on unthankful sods<br /></span>
+<span>The immortal gift in vain libations.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,<br /></span>
+<span>And shuns the hands would seize upon her;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Follow thy life, and she will sue<br /></span>
+<span>To pour for thee the cup of honor.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Lowell.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Day_is_Done" id="The_Day_is_Done"></a><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a><b>The Day is Done.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The day is done, and the darkness<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Falls from the wings of Night,<br /></span>
+<span>As a feather is wafted downward<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From an eagle in his flight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I see the lights of the village<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gleam through the rain and the mist,<br /></span>
+<span>And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That my soul cannot resist:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A feeling of sadness and longing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That is not akin to pain,<br /></span>
+<span>And resembles sorrow only<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As the mist resembles the rain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Come, read to me some poem,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some simple and heartfelt lay,<br /></span>
+<span>That shall soothe this restless feeling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And banish the thoughts of day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Not from the grand old masters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not from the bards sublime,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a>Whose distant footsteps echo<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the corridors of Time.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>For, like strains of martial music,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their mighty thoughts suggest<br /></span>
+<span>Life's endless toil and endeavor;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And to-night I long for rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Read from some humbler poet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whose songs gushed from his heart,<br /></span>
+<span>As showers from the clouds of summer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or tears from the eyelids start;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Who, through long days of labor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And nights devoid of ease,<br /></span>
+<span>Still heard in his soul the music<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of wonderful melodies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Such songs have power to quiet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The restless pulse of care,<br /></span>
+<span>And come like the benediction<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That follows after prayer.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then read from the treasured volume<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The poem of thy choice,<br /></span>
+<span>And lend to the rhyme of the poet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The beauty of thy voice.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>
+<span>And the night shall be filled with music,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the cares that infest the day<br /></span>
+<span>Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And as silently steal away.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.W. Longfellow.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Ichabod" id="Ichabod"></a><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a><b>Ichabod.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which once he wore!<br /></span>
+<span>The glory from his gray hairs gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Forevermore!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Revile him not,&mdash;the Tempter hath<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A snare for all;<br /></span>
+<span>And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Befit his fall!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When he who might<br /></span>
+<span>Have lighted up and led his age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Falls back in night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A bright soul driven,<br /></span>
+<span>Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From hope and heaven!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Let not the land once proud of him<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Insult him now,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dishonored brow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But let its humbled sons, instead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From sea to lake,<br /></span>
+<span>A long lament, as for the dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In sadness make.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Of all we loved and honored, naught<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Save power remains,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>A fallen angel's pride of thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Still strong in chains.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>All else is gone; from those great eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The soul has fled:<br /></span>
+<span>When faith is lost, when honor dies.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The man is dead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then, pay the reverence of old days<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To his dead fame;<br /></span>
+<span>Walk backward, with averted gaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And hide the shame!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.G. Whittier.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Sir_Humphrey_Gilbert" id="Sir_Humphrey_Gilbert"></a><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a><b>Sir Humphrey Gilbert.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Southward with fleet of ice<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sailed the corsair Death;<br /></span>
+<span>Wild and fast blew the blast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the east-wind was his breath.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>His lordly ships of ice<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Glisten in the sun;<br /></span>
+<span>On each side, like pennons wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flashing crystal streamlets run.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>His sails of white sea-mist<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dripped with silver rain;<br /></span>
+<span>But where he passed there were cast<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Leaden shadows o'er the main.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Eastward from Campobello<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;<br /></span>
+<span>Three days or more seaward he bore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then, alas! the land-wind failed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Alas! the land-wind failed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And ice-cold grew the night;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>And nevermore, on sea or shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should Sir Humphrey see the light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He sat upon the deck,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Book was in his hand;<br /></span>
+<span>"Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He said, "by water as by land!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>In the first watch of the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Without a signal's sound,<br /></span>
+<span>Out of the sea, mysteriously,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The fleet of Death rose all around.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The moon and the evening star<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were hanging in the shrouds;<br /></span>
+<span>Every mast, as it passed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Seemed to rake the passing clouds.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They grappled with their prize,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At midnight black and cold!<br /></span>
+<span>As of a rock was the shock;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Heavily the ground-swell rolled.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Southward through day and dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They drift in close embrace,<br /></span>
+<span>With mist and rain, o'er the open main;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet there seems no change of place.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>
+<span>Southward, forever southward,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They drift through dark and day;<br /></span>
+<span>And like a dream, in the Gulf Stream<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sinking, vanish all away.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.W. Longfellow.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Concord_Hymn" id="Concord_Hymn"></a><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a><b>Concord Hymn.</b></h2>
+
+<div class="center">Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836.<br /></div>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>By the rude bridge that arched the flood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,<br /></span>
+<span>Here once the embattled farmers stood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And fired the shot heard round the world.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The foe long since in silence slept;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;<br /></span>
+<span>And Time the ruined bridge has swept<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>On this green bank, by this soft stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We set to-day a votive stone,<br /></span>
+<span>That memory may their deed redeem,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When, like our sires, our sons are gone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Spirit, that made those heroes dare<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To die, and leave their children free,<br /></span>
+<span>Bid Time and Nature gently spare<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The shaft we raise to them and thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Emerson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_America" id="To_America"></a><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a><b>To America.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage<br /></span>
+<span>Its venal battles,&mdash;and, by yon bright sun,<br /></span>
+<span>Our God is false, and liberty undone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If slaves have power to win your heritage!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Look on your country, God's appointed stage,<br /></span>
+<span>Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run:<br /></span>
+<span>For that it was your stormy coast He spread&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A fear in winter; girded you about<br /></span>
+<span>With granite hills, and made you strong and dread.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Let him who fears before the foemen shout,<br /></span>
+<span>Or gives an inch before a vein has bled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Turn on himself, and let the traitor out!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">G.H. Boker.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Old_Ironsides" id="Old_Ironsides"></a><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a><b>Old Ironsides.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Long has it waved on high,<br /></span>
+<span>And many an eye has danced to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That banner in the sky;<br /></span>
+<span>Beneath it rung the battle shout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And burst the cannon's roar;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The meteor of the ocean air<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall sweep the clouds no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where knelt the vanquished foe,<br /></span>
+<span>When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And waves were white below,<br /></span>
+<span>No more shall feel the victor's tread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or know the conquered knee;<br /></span>
+<span>The harpies of the shore shall pluck<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The eagle of the sea!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, better that her shattered hulk<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should sink beneath the wave!<br /></span>
+<span>Her thunders shook the mighty deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And there should be her grave;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>
+<span>Nail to the mast her holy flag,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Set every threadbare sail,<br /></span>
+<span>And give her to the god of storms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lightning, and the gale!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">O.W. Holmes.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_England" id="To_England"></a><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>To England.</h2>
+
+
+<h3>I.</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The times have changed, the moral is the same.<br /></span>
+<span>So like an outcast, dowerless and pale,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Spread her young banner, till its sway became<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A wonder to the nations. Days of shame<br /></span>
+<span>Are close upon thee; prophets raise their wail.<br /></span>
+<span>When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Points his long spear across the narrow sea,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Lo! there is England!" when thy destiny<br /></span>
+<span>Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand<br /></span>
+<span>Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>[1852.]<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3>II.</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sole refuge to the overwearied brave<br /></span>
+<span>Who planned, arose, and battled to be free,<br /></span>
+<span>Fell, undeterred, then sadly turned to thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To rise again, and animate the slave,<br /></span>
+<span>When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye<br /></span>
+<span>Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled<br /></span>
+<span>Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, till the main<br /></span>
+<span>Sink under them; and if your courage wane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>[1853.]<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">G.H. Boker.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Wreck_of_the_Hesperus" id="The_Wreck_of_the_Hesperus"></a><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a><b>The Wreck of the Hesperus.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>It was the schooner Hesperus,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That sailed the wintry sea;<br /></span>
+<span>And the skipper had taken his little daught&egrave;r,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To bear him company.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her cheeks like the dawn of day,<br /></span>
+<span>And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That ope in the month of May.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The skipper he stood beside the helm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His pipe was in his mouth,<br /></span>
+<span>And he watched how the veering flaw did blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The smoke now West, now South.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then up and spake an old Sail&ograve;r,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had sailed to the Spanish Main,<br /></span>
+<span>"I pray thee, put into yonder port,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For I fear a hurricane.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And to-night no moon we see!"<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a>The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a scornful laugh laughed he.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Colder and louder blew the wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A gale from the Northeast,<br /></span>
+<span>The snow fell hissing in the brine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the billows frothed like yeast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Down came the storm, and smote amain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The vessel in its strength;<br /></span>
+<span>She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then leaped her cable's length.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And do not tremble so;<br /></span>
+<span>For I can weather the roughest gale<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That ever wind did blow."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Against the stinging blast;<br /></span>
+<span>He cut a rope from a broken spar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And bound her to the mast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, say, what may it be?"<br /></span>
+<span>"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he steered for the open sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>
+<span>"O father! I hear the sound of guns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, say, what may it be?"<br /></span>
+<span>"Some ship in distress, that cannot live<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In such an angry sea!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"O father! I see a gleaming light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, say, what may it be?"<br /></span>
+<span>But the father answered never a word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A frozen corpse was he.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With his face turned to the skies,<br /></span>
+<span>The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On his fixed and glassy eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That sav&egrave;d she might be;<br /></span>
+<span>And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the Lake of Galilee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And fast through the midnight dark and drear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the whistling sleet and snow,<br /></span>
+<span>Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And ever the fitful gusts between<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A sound came from the land;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>It was the sound of the trampling surf<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The breakers were right beneath her bows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She drifted a dreary wreck,<br /></span>
+<span>And a whooping billow swept the crew<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like icicles from her deck.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She struck where the white and fleecy waves<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Looked soft as carded wool,<br /></span>
+<span>But the cruel rocks, they gored her side<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like the horns of an angry bull.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the masts went by the board;<br /></span>
+<span>Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ho! ho! the breakers roared!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A fisherman stood aghast,<br /></span>
+<span>To see the form of a maiden fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lashed close to a drifting mast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The salt sea was frozen on her breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The salt tears in her eyes;<br /></span>
+<span>And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the billows fall and rise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>
+<span>Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the midnight and the snow!<br /></span>
+<span>Christ save us all from a death like this,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the reef of Norman's Woe!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.W. Longfellow.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Bedouin_Song" id="Bedouin_Song"></a><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a><b>Bedouin Song.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>From the Desert I come to thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On a stallion shod with fire,<br /></span>
+<span>And the winds are left behind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the speed of my desire.<br /></span>
+<span>Under thy window I stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the midnight hears my cry:<br /></span>
+<span>I love thee, I love but thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With a love that shall not die<br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>Till the sun grows cold,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>And the stars are old,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Look from thy window and see<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My passion and my pain;<br /></span>
+<span>I lie on the sands below,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I faint in thy disdain.<br /></span>
+<span>Let the night-winds touch thy brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the heat of my burning sigh,<br /></span>
+<span>And melt thee to hear the vow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a love that shall not die<br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a><i>Till the sun grows cold,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>And the stars are old,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My steps are nightly driven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the fever in my breast,<br /></span>
+<span>To hear from thy lattice breathed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The word that shall give me rest.<br /></span>
+<span>Open the door of thy heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And open thy chamber door,<br /></span>
+<span>And my kisses shall teach thy lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The love that shall fade no more<br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>Till the sun grows cold,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>And the stars are old,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">B. Taylor.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Skipper_Iresons_Ride" id="Skipper_Iresons_Ride"></a><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a><b>Skipper Ireson's Ride.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Of all the rides since the birth of time,<br /></span>
+<span>Told in story or sung in rhyme,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>On Apuleius's Golden Ass,<br /></span>
+<span>Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,<br /></span>
+<span>Witch astride of a human back,<br /></span>
+<span>Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The strangest ride that ever was sped<br /></span>
+<span>Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women of Marblehead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Body of turkey, head of owl,<br /></span>
+<span>Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,<br /></span>
+<span>Feathered and ruffled in every part,<br /></span>
+<span>Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.<br /></span>
+<span>Scores of women, old and young,<br /></span>
+<span>Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,<br /></span>
+<span>Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,<br /></span>
+<span>Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women o' Morble'ead!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>
+<span>Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,<br /></span>
+<span>Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,<br /></span>
+<span>Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase<br /></span>
+<span>Bacchus round some antique vase,<br /></span>
+<span>Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,<br /></span>
+<span>Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,<br /></span>
+<span>With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,<br /></span>
+<span>Over and over the M&aelig;nads sang:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women o' Morble'ead!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Small pity for him!&mdash;He sailed away<br /></span>
+<span>From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Sailed away from a sinking wreck,<br /></span>
+<span>With his own town's-people on her deck!<br /></span>
+<span>"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.<br /></span>
+<span>Back he answered, "Sink or swim!<br /></span>
+<span>Brag of your catch of fish again!"<br /></span>
+<span>And off he sailed through the fog and rain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women of Marblehead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur<br /></span>
+<span>That wreck shall lie forevermore.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>Mother and sister, wife and maid,<br /></span>
+<span>Looked from the rocks of Marblehead<br /></span>
+<span>Over the moaning and rainy sea,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Looked for the coming that might not be!<br /></span>
+<span>What did the winds and the sea-birds say<br /></span>
+<span>Of the cruel captain who sailed away?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women of Marblehead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Through the street, on either side,<br /></span>
+<span>Up flew windows, doors swung wide;<br /></span>
+<span>Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,<br /></span>
+<span>Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.<br /></span>
+<span>Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,<br /></span>
+<span>Hulks of old sailors run aground,<br /></span>
+<span>Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,<br /></span>
+<span>And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women o' Morble'ead!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sweetly along the Salem road<br /></span>
+<span>Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.<br /></span>
+<span>Little the wicked skipper knew<br /></span>
+<span>Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>Riding there in his sorry trim,<br /></span>
+<span>Like an Indian idol glum and grim,<br /></span>
+<span>Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear<br /></span>
+<span>Of voices shouting, far and near:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women o' Morble'ead!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>"What to me is this noisy ride?<br /></span>
+<span>What is the shame that clothes the skin<br /></span>
+<span>To the nameless horror that lives within?<br /></span>
+<span>Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,<br /></span>
+<span>And hear a cry from a reeling deck!<br /></span>
+<span>Hate me and curse me,&mdash;I only dread<br /></span>
+<span>The hand of God and the face of the dead!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women of Marblehead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea<br /></span>
+<span>Said, "God has touched him! Why should we?"<br /></span>
+<span>Said an old wife, mourning her only son:<br /></span>
+<span>"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"<br /></span>
+<span>So with soft relentings and rude excuse,<br /></span>
+<span>Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>And gave him a cloak to hide him in,<br /></span>
+<span>And left him alone with his shame and sin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the women of Marblehead!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.G. Whittier.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Village_Blacksmith" id="The_Village_Blacksmith"></a><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a><b>The Village Blacksmith.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Under a spreading chestnut-tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The village smithy stands;<br /></span>
+<span>The smith, a mighty man is he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With large and sinewy hands;<br /></span>
+<span>And the muscles of his brawny arms<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Are strong as iron bands.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>His hair is crisp, and black, and long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His face is like the tan;<br /></span>
+<span>His brow is wet with honest sweat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He earns whate'er he can,<br /></span>
+<span>And looks the whole world in the face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For he owes not any man.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Week in, week out, from morn till night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You can hear his bellows blow;<br /></span>
+<span>You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With measured beat and slow,<br /></span>
+<span>Like a sexton ringing the village bell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the evening sun is low.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And children coming home from school<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Look in at the open door;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>They love to see the flaming forge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And hear the bellows roar,<br /></span>
+<span>And catch the burning sparks that fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like chaff from a threshing-floor.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He goes on Sunday to the church,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And sits among his boys;<br /></span>
+<span>He hears the parson pray and preach,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He hears his daughter's voice,<br /></span>
+<span>Singing in the village choir,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And it makes his heart rejoice.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>It sounds to him like her mother's voice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Singing in Paradise!<br /></span>
+<span>He needs must think of her once more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How in the grave she lies;<br /></span>
+<span>And with his hard, rough hand he wipes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A tear out of his eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Toiling,&mdash;rejoicing,&mdash;sorrowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Onward through life he goes;<br /></span>
+<span>Each morning sees some task begin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each evening sees it close;<br /></span>
+<span>Something attempted, something done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Has earned a night's repose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>
+<span>Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the lesson thou hast taught!<br /></span>
+<span>Thus at the flaming forge of life<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our fortunes must be wrought;<br /></span>
+<span>Thus on its sounding anvil shaped<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each burning deed and thought.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.W. Longfellow.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Last_Leaf" id="The_Last_Leaf"></a><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a><b>The Last Leaf.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I saw him once before,<br /></span>
+<span>As he passed by the door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And again<br /></span>
+<span>The pavement stones resound,<br /></span>
+<span>As he totters o'er the ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With his cane.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They say that in his prime,<br /></span>
+<span>Ere the pruning-knife of Time<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cut him down,<br /></span>
+<span>Not a better man was found<br /></span>
+<span>By the crier on his round<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Through the town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But now he walks the streets,<br /></span>
+<span>And he looks at all he meets<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sad and wan,<br /></span>
+<span>And he shakes his feeble head,<br /></span>
+<span>That it seems as if he said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"They are gone."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>
+<span>The mossy marbles rest<br /></span>
+<span>On the lips that he has pressed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In their bloom,<br /></span>
+<span>And the names he loved to hear<br /></span>
+<span>Have been carved for many a year<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On the tomb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My grandmamma has said&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Poor old lady, she is dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Long ago&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>That he had a Roman nose,<br /></span>
+<span>And his cheek was like a rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the snow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But now his nose is thin,<br /></span>
+<span>And it rests upon his chin<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like a staff,<br /></span>
+<span>And a crook is in his back,<br /></span>
+<span>And a melancholy crack<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In his laugh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I know it is a sin<br /></span>
+<span>For me to sit and grin<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">At him here;<br /></span>
+<span>But the old three-cornered hat,<br /></span>
+<span>And the breeches, and all that,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Are so queer!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>
+<span>And if I should live to be<br /></span>
+<span>The last leaf upon the tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the spring,<br /></span>
+<span>Let them smile, as I do now,<br /></span>
+<span>At the old, forsaken bough<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where I cling.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">O.W. Holmes.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Old_Kentucky_Home" id="The_Old_Kentucky_Home"></a><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a><b>The Old Kentucky Home.</b></h2>
+
+<p class="center">A NEGRO MELODY.</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis summer, the darkies are gay;<br /></span>
+<span>The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While the birds make music all the day.<br /></span>
+<span>The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All merry, all happy and bright;<br /></span>
+<span>By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Weep no more, my lady,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Oh, weep no more to-day!<br /></span>
+<span>We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the old Kentucky Home, far away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;<br /></span>
+<span>They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the bench by the old cabin door.<br /></span>
+<span>The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With sorrow, where all was delight;<br /></span>
+<span>The time has come when the darkies have to part,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a>
+<span>The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wherever the darkey may go;<br /></span>
+<span>A few more days, and the trouble all will end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the field where the sugar-canes grow.<br /></span>
+<span>A few more days for to tote the weary load,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No matter, 'twill never be light;<br /></span>
+<span>A few more days till we totter on the road,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Weep no more, my lady,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Oh, weep no more to-day!<br /></span>
+<span>We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the old Kentucky Home, far away.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">S.C. Foster.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Black_Regiment" id="The_Black_Regiment"></a><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a><b>The Black Regiment.</b></h2>
+
+<p class="center">Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Dark as the clouds of even,<br /></span>
+<span>Ranked in the western heaven,<br /></span>
+<span>Waiting the breath that lifts<br /></span>
+<span>All the dread mass, and drifts<br /></span>
+<span>Tempest and falling brand<br /></span>
+<span>Over a ruined land;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>So still and orderly,<br /></span>
+<span>Arm to arm, knee to knee,<br /></span>
+<span>Waiting the great event,<br /></span>
+<span>Stands the black regiment.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Down the long, dusky line<br /></span>
+<span>Teeth gleam, and eyeballs shine;<br /></span>
+<span>And the bright bayonet,<br /></span>
+<span>Bristling and firmly set,<br /></span>
+<span>Flashed with a purpose grand,<br /></span>
+<span>Long ere the sharp command<br /></span>
+<span>Of the fierce rolling drum<br /></span>
+<span>Told them their time had come,<br /></span>
+<span>Told them what work was sent<br /></span>
+<span>For the black regiment.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>
+<span>"Now," the flag-sergeant cried,<br /></span>
+<span>"Though death and hell betide,<br /></span>
+<span>Let the whole nation see<br /></span>
+<span>If we are fit to be<br /></span>
+<span>Free in this land; or bound<br /></span>
+<span>Down, like the whining hound,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Bound with red stripes of pain<br /></span>
+<span>In our old chains again!"<br /></span>
+<span>Oh, what a shout there went<br /></span>
+<span>From the black regiment!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke,<br /></span>
+<span>Onward the bondmen broke;<br /></span>
+<span>Bayonet and sabre-stroke<br /></span>
+<span>Vainly opposed their rush.<br /></span>
+<span>Through the wild battle's crush,<br /></span>
+<span>With but one thought aflush,<br /></span>
+<span>Driving their lords like chaff,<br /></span>
+<span>In the guns' mouths they laugh;<br /></span>
+<span>Or at the slippery brands<br /></span>
+<span>Leaping with open hands,<br /></span>
+<span>Down they tear man and horse,<br /></span>
+<span>Down in their awful course;<br /></span>
+<span>Trampling with bloody heel<br /></span>
+<span>Over the crashing steel,<br /></span>
+<span>All their eyes forward bent,<br /></span>
+<span>Rushed the black regiment.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>
+<span>"Freedom!" their battle-cry,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>"Freedom! or leave to die!"<br /></span>
+<span>Ah! and they meant the word,<br /></span>
+<span>Not as with us 'tis heard,<br /></span>
+<span>Not a mere party shout;<br /></span>
+<span>They gave their spirits out,<br /></span>
+<span>Trusted the end to God,<br /></span>
+<span>And on the gory sod<br /></span>
+<span>Rolled in triumphant blood.<br /></span>
+<span>Glad to strike one free blow,<br /></span>
+<span>Whether for weal or woe;<br /></span>
+<span>Glad to breathe one free breath,<br /></span>
+<span>Though on the lips of death;<br /></span>
+<span>Praying&mdash;alas! in vain!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>That they might fall again,<br /></span>
+<span>So they could once more see<br /></span>
+<span>That burst to liberty!<br /></span>
+<span>This was what "freedom" lent<br /></span>
+<span>To the black regiment.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Hundreds on hundreds fell;<br /></span>
+<span>But they are resting well;<br /></span>
+<span>Scourges and shackles strong<br /></span>
+<span>Never shall do them wrong.<br /></span>
+<span>Oh, to the living few,<br /></span>
+<span>Soldiers, be just and true!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>Hail them as comrades tried;<br /></span>
+<span>Fight with them side by side;<br /></span>
+<span>Never, in field or tent,<br /></span>
+<span>Scorn the black regiment.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">G.H. Boker.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Carolina" id="Carolina"></a><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a><b>Carolina.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The despot treads thy sacred sands,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy pines give shelter to his bands,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy sons stand by with idle hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+<span>He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,<br /></span>
+<span>He scorns the lances of thy palm;<br /></span>
+<span>Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+<span>Thy ancient fame is growing dim,<br /></span>
+<span>A spot is on thy garment's rim;<br /></span>
+<span>Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Call on thy children of the hill,<br /></span>
+<span>Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,<br /></span>
+<span>Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+<span>Cite wealth and science, trade and art,<br /></span>
+<span>Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,<br /></span>
+<span>And pour thee through the people's heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>Till even the coward spurns his fears,<br /></span>
+<span>And all thy fields, and fens, and meres<br /></span>
+<span>Shall bristle like thy palm with spears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I hear a murmur as of waves<br /></span>
+<span>That grope their way through sunless caves,<br /></span>
+<span>Like bodies struggling in their graves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+<span>And now it deepens; slow and grand<br /></span>
+<span>It swells, as, rolling to the land,<br /></span>
+<span>An ocean broke upon thy strand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+<span>Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns!<br /></span>
+<span>And roar with all thy festal guns!<br /></span>
+<span>It is the answer of thy sons,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Carolina!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H. Timrod.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Dirge_for_a_Soldier" id="Dirge_for_a_Soldier"></a><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a><b>Dirge for a Soldier.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Close his eyes; his work is done!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What to him is friend or foeman,<br /></span>
+<span>Rise of moon, or set of sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hand of man, or kiss of woman?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lay him low, lay him low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the clover or the snow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What cares he? He cannot know;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Lay him low!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>As man may, he fought his fight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Proved his truth by his endeavor;<br /></span>
+<span>Let him sleep in solemn night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sleep forever and forever.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lay him low, lay him low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the clover or the snow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What cares he? He cannot know;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Lay him low!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Fold him in his country's stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Roll the drum and fire the volley!<br /></span>
+<span>What to him are all our wars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What but death bemocking folly?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>Lay him low, lay him low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the clover or the snow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What cares he? He cannot know;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Lay him low!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Leave him to God's watching eye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trust him to the hand that made him.<br /></span>
+<span>Mortal love weeps idly by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God alone has power to aid him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lay him low, lay him low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the clover or the snow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What cares he? He cannot know!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Lay him low!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">G.H. Boker.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Battle-hymn_of_the_Republic" id="Battle-hymn_of_the_Republic"></a><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a><b>Battle-hymn of the Republic.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:<br /></span>
+<span>He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;<br /></span>
+<span>He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His truth is marching on.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;<br /></span>
+<span>They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;<br /></span>
+<span>I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His day is marching on.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:<br /></span>
+<span>"As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal;<br /></span>
+<span>Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Since God is marching on."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>
+<span>He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;<br /></span>
+<span>He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;<br /></span>
+<span>Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Our God is marching on.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across the sea,<br /></span>
+<span>With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:<br /></span>
+<span>As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">While God is marching on.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.W. Howe.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Farragut" id="Farragut"></a><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a><b>Farragut.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Farragut, Farragut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Heart of Oak,<br /></span>
+<span>Daring Dave Farragut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thunderbolt stroke,<br /></span>
+<span>Watches the hoary mist<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lift from the bay,<br /></span>
+<span>Till his flag, glory-kissed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Greets the young day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Far, by gray Morgan's walls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Looms the black fleet.<br /></span>
+<span>Hark, deck to rampart calls<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the drums' beat!<br /></span>
+<span>Buoy your chains overboard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While the steam hums;<br /></span>
+<span>Men! to the battlement,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Farragut comes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>See, as the hurricane<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hurtles in wrath<br /></span>
+<span>Squadrons of clouds amain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Back from its path!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a>Back to the parapet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the guns' lips,<br /></span>
+<span>Thunderbolt Farragut<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hurls the black ships.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Now through the battle's roar<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Clear the boy sings,<br /></span>
+<span>"By the mark fathoms four,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While his lead swings.<br /></span>
+<span>Steady the wheelmen five<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Nor' by east keep her,"<br /></span>
+<span>"Steady," but two alive:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How the shells sweep her!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Lashed to the mast that sways<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Over red decks,<br /></span>
+<span>Over the flame that plays<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Round the torn wrecks,<br /></span>
+<span>Over the dying lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Framed for a cheer,<br /></span>
+<span>Farragut leads his ships,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Guides the line clear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>On by heights cannon-browed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While the spars quiver;<br /></span>
+<span>Onward still flames the cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the hulks shiver.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>See, yon fort's star is set,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Storm and fire past.<br /></span>
+<span>Cheer him, lads,&mdash;Farragut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lashed to the mast!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh! while Atlantic's breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bears a white sail,<br /></span>
+<span>While the Gulf's towering crest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tops a green vale;<br /></span>
+<span>Men thy bold deeds shall tell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Heart of Oak,<br /></span>
+<span>Daring Dave Farragut,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thunderbolt stroke!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.T. Meredith.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="My_Maryland" id="My_Maryland"></a><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a><b>My Maryland.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The despot's heel is on thy shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>His torch is at thy temple door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Avenge the patriotic gore<br /></span>
+<span>That flecked the streets of Baltimore,<br /></span>
+<span>And be the battle-queen of yore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Hark to an exiled son's appeal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>My Mother State, to thee I kneel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>For life and death, for woe and weal,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy peerless chivalry reveal,<br /></span>
+<span>And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thou wilt not cower in the dust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>Thy beaming sword shall never rust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Remember Carroll's sacred trust,<br /></span>
+<span>Remember Howard's warlike thrust,<br /></span>
+<span>And all thy slumberers with the just,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Come with thy panoplied array,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,<br /></span>
+<span>With Watson's blood at Monterey,<br /></span>
+<span>With fearless Lowe and dashing May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Virginia should not call in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>She meets her sisters on the plain,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span><i>"Sic semper!"</i> 'tis the proud refrain<br /></span>
+<span>That baffles minions back amain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Arise in majesty again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>
+<span>Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Come to thine own heroic throng<br /></span>
+<span>Stalking with Liberty along,<br /></span>
+<span>And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I see the blush upon thy cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>For thou wast ever bravely meek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>But lo! there surges forth a shriek,<br /></span>
+<span>From hill to hill, from creek to creek,<br /></span>
+<span>Potomac calls to Chesapeake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Thou wilt not crook to his control,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>Better the fire upon thee roll,<br /></span>
+<span>Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,<br /></span>
+<span>Than crucifixion of the soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>
+<span>I hear the distant thunder-hum,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>The old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland!<br /></span>
+<span>She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;<br /></span>
+<span>Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!<br /></span>
+<span>She breathes! She burns! She'll come!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She'll come!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Maryland, my Maryland!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Randall.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="After_All" id="After_All"></a><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a><b>After All.</b><a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The apples are ripe in the orchard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The work of the reaper is done,<br /></span>
+<span>And the golden woodlands redden<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the blood of the dying sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>At the cottage door the grandsire<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,<br /></span>
+<span>While a gentle wind of twilight<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Plays with his silver hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A woman is kneeling beside him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A fair young head is prest,<br /></span>
+<span>In the first wild passion of sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Against his aged breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And far from over the distance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The faltering echoes come,<br /></span>
+<span>Of the flying blast of trumpet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the rattling roll of drum.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And the grandsire speaks in a whisper:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"The end no man can see;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>But we give him to his country,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And we give our prayers to Thee."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The violets star the meadows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The rose-buds fringe the door,<br /></span>
+<span>And over the grassy orchard<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The pink-white blossoms pour.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But the grandsire's chair is empty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cottage is dark and still,<br /></span>
+<span>There's a nameless grave in the battle-field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a new one under the hill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And a pallid, tearless woman<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the cold hearth sits alone,<br /></span>
+<span>And the old clock in the corner<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ticks on with a steady drone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">William Winter.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> From "Wanderers," copyright, 1892, by Macmillan and Co.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Song_of_the_Camp" id="The_Song_of_the_Camp"></a><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a><b>The Song of the Camp.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The outer trenches guarding,<br /></span>
+<span>When the heated guns of the camps allied<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Grew weary of bombarding.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The dark Redan, in silent scoff,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lay grim and threatening under;<br /></span>
+<span>And the tawny mound of the Malakoff<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No longer belch'd its thunder.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There was a pause. A guardsman said:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"We storm the forts to-morrow;<br /></span>
+<span>Sing while we may, another day<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will bring enough of sorrow."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They lay along the battery's side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Below the smoking cannon:<br /></span>
+<span>Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And from the banks of Shannon.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They sang of love, and not of fame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Forgot was Britain's glory:<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>Each heart recall'd a different name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But all sang "Annie Laurie."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Voice after voice caught up the song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Until its tender passion<br /></span>
+<span>Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their battle-eve confession.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But as the song grew louder,<br /></span>
+<span>Something upon the soldier's cheek<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Washed off the stains of powder.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The bloody sunset's embers,<br /></span>
+<span>While the Crimean valleys learn'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How English love remembers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And once again a fire of hell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rain'd on the Russian quarters,<br /></span>
+<span>With scream of shot, and burst of shell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And bellowing of the mortars!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And Irish Nora's eyes are dim<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a singer dumb and gory;<br /></span>
+<span>And English Mary mourns for him<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who sang of "Annie Laurie."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>
+<span>Sleep, soldiers! still in honor'd rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Your truth and valor wearing:<br /></span>
+<span>The bravest are the tenderest,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The loving are the daring.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">B. Taylor.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="In_the_Hospital" id="In_the_Hospital"></a><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a><b>In the Hospital.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I lay me down to sleep,<br /></span>
+<span>With little thought or care<br /></span>
+<span>Whether my waking find<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Me here or there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A bowing, burdened head,<br /></span>
+<span>That only asks to rest,<br /></span>
+<span>Unquestioning, upon<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A loving breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My good right hand forgets<br /></span>
+<span>Its cunning now.<br /></span>
+<span>To march the weary march<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I know not how.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I am not eager, bold,<br /></span>
+<span>Nor strong&mdash;all that is past;<br /></span>
+<span>I am ready not to do<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">At last, at last.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My half day's work is done,<br /></span>
+<span>And this is all my part;<br /></span>
+<span>I give a patient God<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My patient heart,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>
+<span>And grasp His banner still,<br /></span>
+<span>Though all its blue be dim;<br /></span>
+<span>These stripes, no less than stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lead after Him.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">M.W. Howland.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Under_the_Violets" id="Under_the_Violets"></a><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a><b>Under the Violets.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her hands are cold; her face is white;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No more her pulses come and go;<br /></span>
+<span>Her eyes are shut to life and light;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And lay her where the violets blow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But not beneath a graven stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To plead for tears with alien eyes;<br /></span>
+<span>A slender cross of wood alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall say, that here a maiden lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In peace beneath the peaceful skies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And gray old trees of hugest limb<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall wheel their circling shadows round<br /></span>
+<span>To make the scorching sunlight dim<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That drinks the greenness from the ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And drop their dead leaves on her mound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And through their leaves the robins call,<br /></span>
+<span>And, ripening in the autumn sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The acorns and the chestnuts fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Doubt not that she will heed them all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>
+<span>For her the morning choir shall sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Its matins from the branches high,<br /></span>
+<span>And every minstrel voice of Spring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That trills beneath the April sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall greet her with its earliest cry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>When, turning round their dial-track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,<br /></span>
+<span>Her little mourners, clad in black,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The crickets, sliding through the grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall pipe for her an evening mass.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>At last the rootlets of the trees<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall find the prison where she lies,<br /></span>
+<span>And bear the buried dust they seize<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In leaves and blossoms to the skies.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So may the soul that warmed it rise!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>If any, born of kindlier blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should ask, What maiden lies below?<br /></span>
+<span>Say only this: A tender bud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That tried to blossom in the snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lies withered where the violets blow.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">O.W. Holmes.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Days" id="Days"></a><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a><b>Days.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,<br /></span>
+<span>Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,<br /></span>
+<span>And marching single in an endless file,<br /></span>
+<span>Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.<br /></span>
+<span>To each they offer gifts after his will,<br /></span>
+<span>Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.<br /></span>
+<span>I, in my pleach&egrave;d garden, watched the pomp,<br /></span>
+<span>Forgot my morning wishes, hastily<br /></span>
+<span>Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day<br /></span>
+<span>Turned and departed silent. I, too late,<br /></span>
+<span>Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Emerson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Song2" id="Song2"></a><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a><b>Song.</b><a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>You know the old Hidalgo<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(His box is next to ours),<br /></span>
+<span>Who threw the Prima Donna<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wreath of orange-flowers;<br /></span>
+<span>He owns the half of Aragon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With mines beyond the main;<br /></span>
+<span>A very ancient nobleman,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gentleman of Spain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They swear that I must wed him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In spite of yea or nay,<br /></span>
+<span>Though uglier than the Scaramouch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The spectre in the play;<br /></span>
+<span>But I will sooner die a maid<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than wear a gilded chain,<br /></span>
+<span>For all the ancient noblemen<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gentlemen of Spain!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.H. Stoddard.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br /><div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Aladdin" id="Aladdin"></a><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a><b>Aladdin.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>When I was a beggarly boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And lived in a cellar damp,<br /></span>
+<span>I had not a friend nor a toy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I had Aladdin's lamp;<br /></span>
+<span>When I could not sleep for cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I had fire enough in my brain,<br /></span>
+<span>And builded, with roofs of gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My beautiful castles in Spain!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Since then I have toiled day and night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have money and power good store,<br /></span>
+<span>But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the one that is mine no more;<br /></span>
+<span>Take, Fortune, whatever you choose,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You gave, and may snatch again;<br /></span>
+<span>I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For I own no more castles in Spain!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Lowell.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Flight_of_Youth" id="The_Flight_of_Youth"></a><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a><b>The Flight of Youth.</b><a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>There are gains for all our losses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There are balms for all our pain;<br /></span>
+<span>But when youth, the dream, departs,<br /></span>
+<span>It takes something from our hearts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And it never comes again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We are stronger, and are better,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Under manhood's sterner reign;<br /></span>
+<span>Still, we feel that something sweet<br /></span>
+<span>Followed youth, with flying feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And will never come again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Something beautiful is vanished,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And we sigh for it in vain;<br /></span>
+<span>We behold it everywhere,<br /></span>
+<span>On the earth, and in the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But it never comes again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.H. Stoddard.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="My_Playmate" id="My_Playmate"></a><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a><b>My Playmate.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their song was soft and low;<br /></span>
+<span>The blossoms in the sweet May wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were falling like the snow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The blossoms drifted at our feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The orchard birds sang clear;<br /></span>
+<span>The sweetest and the saddest day<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It seemed of all the year.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>For, more to me than birds or flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My playmate left her home,<br /></span>
+<span>And took with her the laughing spring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The music and the bloom.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She kissed the lips of kith and kin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She laid her hand in mine:<br /></span>
+<span>What more could ask the bashful boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who fed her father's kine?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She left us in the bloom of May:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The constant years told o'er<br /></span>
+<span>Their seasons with as sweet May morns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But she came back no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a>
+<span>I walk, with noiseless feet, the round<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of uneventful years;<br /></span>
+<span>Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And reap the autumn ears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She lives where all the golden year<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her summer roses blow;<br /></span>
+<span>The dusky children of the sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before her come and go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There haply with her jewelled hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She smooths her silken gown,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>No more the homespun lap wherein<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I shook the walnuts down.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The wild grapes wait us by the brook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The brown nuts on the hill,<br /></span>
+<span>And still the May-day flowers make sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The woods of Follymill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The lilies blossom in the pond,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The bird builds in the tree,<br /></span>
+<span>The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The slow song of the sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I wonder if she thinks of them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And how the old time seems,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>If ever the pines of Ramoth wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Are sounding in her dreams.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I see her face, I hear her voice:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Does she remember mine?<br /></span>
+<span>And what to her is now the boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who fed her father's kine?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>What cares she that the orioles build<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For other eyes than ours,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>That other hands with nuts are filled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And other laps with flowers?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>O playmate in the golden time!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our mossy seat is green,<br /></span>
+<span>Its fringing violets blossom yet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The old trees o'er it lean.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The winds so sweet with birch and fern<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A sweeter memory blow;<br /></span>
+<span>And there in spring the veeries sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The song of long ago.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And still the pines of Ramoth wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Are moaning like the sea,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The moaning of the sea of change<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Between myself and thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.G. Whittier.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Fire_of_Driftwood" id="The_Fire_of_Driftwood"></a><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a><b>The Fire of Driftwood.</b></h2>
+
+<p class="center">DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>We sat within the farmhouse old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,<br /></span>
+<span>Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An easy entrance, night and day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Not far away we saw the port,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,<br /></span>
+<span>The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wooden houses, quaint and brown.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We sat and talked until the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Descending, filled the little room;<br /></span>
+<span>Our faces faded from the sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our voices only broke the gloom.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We spake of many a vanished scene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of what we once had thought and said,<br /></span>
+<span>Of what had been, and might have been,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And who was changed, and who was dead;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a>
+<span>And all that fills the hearts of friends,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When first they feel, with secret pain,<br /></span>
+<span>Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And never can be one again;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The first slight swerving of the heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That words are powerless to express,<br /></span>
+<span>And leave it still unsaid in part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or say it in too great excess.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The very tones in which we spake<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had something strange, I could but mark;<br /></span>
+<span>The leaves of memory seemed to make<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A mournful rustling in the dark.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oft died the words upon our lips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As suddenly, from out the fire<br /></span>
+<span>Built of the wreck of stranded ships,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The flames would leap and then expire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And, as their splendor flashed and failed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We thought of wrecks upon the main,<br /></span>
+<span>Of ships dismasted, that were hailed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And sent no answer back again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The windows, rattling in their frames,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The ocean, roaring up the beach,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>The gusty blast, the bickering flames,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All mingled vaguely in our speech;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Until they made themselves a part<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of fancies floating through the brain,<br /></span>
+<span>The long-lost ventures of the heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That send no answers back again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They were indeed too much akin,<br /></span>
+<span>The driftwood fire without that burned,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The thoughts that burned and glowed within.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.W. Longfellow.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_Death-bed" id="A_Death-bed"></a><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a><b>A Death-bed.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her suffering ended with the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet lived she at its close,<br /></span>
+<span>And breathed the long, long night away<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In statue-like repose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But when the sun in all his state<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Illumed the eastern skies,<br /></span>
+<span>She passed through Glory's morning gate<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And walked in Paradise.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J. Aldrich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Telling_the_Bees" id="Telling_the_Bees"></a><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a><b>Telling the Bees.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Here is the place; right over the hill<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Runs the path I took;<br /></span>
+<span>You can see the gap in the old wall still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There is the house, with the gate red-barred,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the poplars tall;<br /></span>
+<span>And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the white horns tossing above the wall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There are the beehives ranged in the sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And down by the brink<br /></span>
+<span>Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Heavy and slow;<br /></span>
+<span>And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the same brook sings of a year ago.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the June sun warm<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I mind me how with a lover's care<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From my Sunday coat<br /></span>
+<span>I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Since we parted, a month had passed,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To love, a year;<br /></span>
+<span>Down through the beeches I looked at last<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I can see it all now,&mdash;the slantwise rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of light through the leaves,<br /></span>
+<span>The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The bloom of her roses under the eaves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Just the same as a month before,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The house and the trees,<br /></span>
+<span>The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nothing changed but the hives of bees.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Before them, under the garden wall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Forward and back,<br /></span>
+<span>Went, drearily singing, the chore-girl small,<br /></span>
+<span>Draping each hive with a shred of black.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>
+<span>Trembling, I listened; the summer sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had the chill of snow;<br /></span>
+<span>For I knew she was telling the bees of one<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gone on the journey we all must go!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the dead to-day;<br /></span>
+<span>Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The fret and the pain of his age away."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With his cane to his chin,<br /></span>
+<span>The old man sat; and the chore-girl still<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sung to the bees stealing out and in.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And the song she was singing ever since<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In my ear sounds on:<br /></span>
+<span>"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.G. Whittier.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Katie" id="Katie"></a><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a><b>Katie.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>It may be through some foreign grace,<br /></span>
+<span>And unfamiliar charm of face;<br /></span>
+<span>It may be that across the foam<br /></span>
+<span>Which bore her from her childhood's home,<br /></span>
+<span>By some strange spell, my Katie brought<br /></span>
+<span>Along with English creeds and thought&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Entangled in her golden hair&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Some English sunshine, warmth, and air!<br /></span>
+<span>I cannot tell,&mdash;but here to-day,<br /></span>
+<span>A thousand billowy leagues away<br /></span>
+<span>From that green isle whose twilight skies<br /></span>
+<span>No darker are than Katie's eyes,<br /></span>
+<span>She seems to me, go where she will,<br /></span>
+<span>An English girl in England still!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I meet her on the dusty street,<br /></span>
+<span>And daisies spring about her feet;<br /></span>
+<span>Or, touched to life beneath her tread,<br /></span>
+<span>An English cowslip lifts its head;<br /></span>
+<span>And, as to do her grace, rise up<br /></span>
+<span>The primrose and the buttercup!<br /></span>
+<span>I roam with her through fields of cane,<br /></span>
+<span>And seem to stroll an English lane,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>Which, white with blossoms of the May,<br /></span>
+<span>Spreads its green carpet in her way!<br /></span>
+<span>As fancy wills, the path beneath<br /></span>
+<span>Is golden gorse, or purple heath;<br /></span>
+<span>And now we hear in woodlands dim<br /></span>
+<span>Their unarticulated hymn,<br /></span>
+<span>Now walk through rippling waves of wheat,<br /></span>
+<span>Now sink in mats of clover sweet,<br /></span>
+<span>Or see before us from the lawn<br /></span>
+<span>The lark go up to greet the dawn!<br /></span>
+<span>All birds that love the English sky<br /></span>
+<span>Throng round my path when she is by;<br /></span>
+<span>The blackbird from a neighboring thorn<br /></span>
+<span>With music brims the cup of morn,<br /></span>
+<span>And in a thick, melodious rain<br /></span>
+<span>The mavis pours her mellow strain!<br /></span>
+<span>But only when my Katie's voice<br /></span>
+<span>Makes all the listening woods rejoice<br /></span>
+<span>I hear&mdash;with cheeks that flush and pale&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The passion of the nightingale!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H. Timrod.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="My_Love" id="My_Love"></a><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a><b>My Love.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Not as all other women are<br /></span>
+<span>Is she that to my soul is dear;<br /></span>
+<span>Her glorious fancies come from far,<br /></span>
+<span>Beneath the silver evening-star,<br /></span>
+<span>And yet her heart is ever near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Great feelings hath she of her own,<br /></span>
+<span>Which lesser souls may never know;<br /></span>
+<span>God giveth them to her alone,<br /></span>
+<span>And sweet they are as any tone<br /></span>
+<span>Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Yet in herself she dwelleth not,<br /></span>
+<span>Although no home were half so fair;<br /></span>
+<span>No simplest duty is forgot;<br /></span>
+<span>Life hath no dim and lowly spot<br /></span>
+<span>That doth not in her sunshine share.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She doeth little kindnesses,<br /></span>
+<span>Which most leave undone, or despise;<br /></span>
+<span>For naught that sets one heart at ease,<br /></span>
+<span>And giveth happiness or peace,<br /></span>
+<span>Is low-esteem&egrave;d in her eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a>
+<span>She hath no scorn of common things,<br /></span>
+<span>And, though she seem of other birth,<br /></span>
+<span>Round us her heart intwines and clings,<br /></span>
+<span>And patiently she folds her wings<br /></span>
+<span>To tread the humble paths of earth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Blessing she is; God made her so,<br /></span>
+<span>And deeds of week-day holiness<br /></span>
+<span>Fall from her noiseless as the snow,<br /></span>
+<span>Nor hath she ever chanced to know<br /></span>
+<span>That aught were easier than to bless.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She is most fair, and thereunto<br /></span>
+<span>Her life doth rightly harmonize;<br /></span>
+<span>Feeling or thought that was not true<br /></span>
+<span>Ne'er made less beautiful the blue<br /></span>
+<span>Unclouded heaven of her eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She is a woman; one in whom<br /></span>
+<span>The spring-time of her childish years<br /></span>
+<span>Hath never lost its fresh perfume,<br /></span>
+<span>Though knowing well that life hath room<br /></span>
+<span>For many blights and many tears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I love her with a love as still<br /></span>
+<span>As a broad river's peaceful might,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a>Which, by high tower and lowly mill,<br /></span>
+<span>Goes wandering at its own will,<br /></span>
+<span>And yet doth ever flow aright.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And, on its full, deep breast serene,<br /></span>
+<span>Like quiet isles my duties lie;<br /></span>
+<span>It flows around them and between,<br /></span>
+<span>And makes them fresh, and fair, and green,<br /></span>
+<span>Sweet homes wherein to live and die.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Lowell.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="She_Came_and_Went" id="She_Came_and_Went"></a><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a><b>She Came and Went.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>As a twig trembles, which a bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,<br /></span>
+<span>So is my memory thrilled and stirred;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I only know she came and went.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The blue dome's measureless content,<br /></span>
+<span>So my soul held that moment's heaven;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I only know she came and went.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The orchards full of bloom and scent,<br /></span>
+<span>So clove her May my wintry sleeps;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I only know she came and went.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>An angel stood and met my gaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the low doorway of my tent;<br /></span>
+<span>The tent is struck, the vision stays;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I only know she came and went.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>
+<span>Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And life's last oil is nearly spent,<br /></span>
+<span>One gush of light these eyes will brim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Only to think she came and went.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Lowell.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Her_Epitaph" id="Her_Epitaph"></a><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a><b>Her Epitaph.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The handful here, that once was Mary's earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul,<br /></span>
+<span>That, when she died, all recognized her birth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And had their sorrow in serene control.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Not here! not here!" to every mourner's heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier;<br /></span>
+<span>And when the tomb-door opened, with a start<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We heard it echoed from within,&mdash;"Not here!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Note in these flowers a delicater hue,<br /></span>
+<span>Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or the bee later linger on the dew,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Know that her spirit to her body lent<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can;<br /></span>
+<span>That even her dust, and this her monument,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>Lonely through life, but looking for the day<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When what is mortal of himself shall sleep,<br /></span>
+<span>When human passion shall have passed away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Love no longer be a thing to weep.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.W. Parsons.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Apart" id="Apart"></a><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a><b>Apart.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>At sea are tossing ships;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On shore are dreaming shells,<br /></span>
+<span>And the waiting heart and the loving lips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Blossoms and bridal bells.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>At sea are sails a-gleam;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On shore are longing eyes,<br /></span>
+<span>And the far horizon's haunting dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of ships that sail the skies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>At sea are masts that rise<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like spectres from the deep;<br /></span>
+<span>On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That cross the waves of sleep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>At sea are wrecks a-strand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On shore are shells that moan,<br /></span>
+<span>Old anchors buried in barren sand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sea-mist and dreams alone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.J. Piatt.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Discoverer" id="The_Discoverer"></a><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a><b>The Discoverer.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I have a little kinsman<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whose earthly summers are but three,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And yet a voyager is he<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Greater than Drake or Frobisher,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than all their peers together!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He is a brave discoverer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, far beyond the tether<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of them who seek the frozen Pole,<br /></span>
+<span>Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ay, he has travelled whither<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A winged pilot steered his bark<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the portals of the dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Past hoary Mimir's well and tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Across the unknown sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Suddenly, in his fair young hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Came one who bore a flower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And laid it in his dimpled hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With this command:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Henceforth thou art a rover!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thou must make a voyage far,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>Sail beneath the evening star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a wondrous land discover."<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">&mdash;With his sweet smile innocent<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Our little kinsman went.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Since that time no word<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the absent has been heard.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who can tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How he fares, or answer well<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What the little one has found<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since he left us, outward bound?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would that he might return!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then should we learn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the pricking of his chart<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How the skyey roadways part.<br /></span>
+<span>Hush! does not the baby this way bring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To lay beside this severed curl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some starry offering<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of chrysolite or pearl?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Ah, no! not so!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We may follow on his track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But he comes not back.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And yet I dare aver<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He is a brave discoverer<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of climes his elders do not know.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>He has more learning than appears<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the scroll of twice three thousand years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">More than in the groves is taught,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or from furthest Indies brought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What shapes the angels wear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What is their guise and speech<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In those lands beyond our reach,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And his eyes behold<br /></span>
+<span>Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.C. Stedman.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="At_Last" id="At_Last"></a><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a><b>At Last.</b><a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>When first the bride and bridegroom wed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They love their single selves the best;<br /></span>
+<span>A sword is in the marriage bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their separate slumbers are not rest.<br /></span>
+<span>They quarrel, and make up again,<br /></span>
+<span>They give and suffer worlds of pain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Both right and wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They struggle long,<br /></span>
+<span>Till some good day, when they are old,<br /></span>
+<span>Some dark day, when the bells are tolled,<br /></span>
+<span>Death having taken their best of life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They lose themselves, and find each other;<br /></span>
+<span>They know that they are husband, wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.H. Stoddard.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright 1880, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Thalatta" id="Thalatta"></a><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a><b>"Thalatta."</b></h2>
+
+<p class="center">CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I stand upon the summit of my years.<br /></span>
+<span>Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife,<br /></span>
+<span>The wandering and the desert; vast, afar,<br /></span>
+<span>Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea!<br /></span>
+<span>The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings,<br /></span>
+<span>By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath<br /></span>
+<span>Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.<br /></span>
+<span>Palter no question of the dim Beyond;<br /></span>
+<span>Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest;<br /></span>
+<span>Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,<br /></span>
+<span>A widening heaven, a current without care.<br /></span>
+<span>Eternity!&mdash;Deliverance, Promise, Course!<br /></span>
+<span>Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.B. Brown.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Gondolieds" id="Gondolieds"></a><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a><b>Gondolieds.</b></h2>
+
+
+<h3>I.</h3>
+
+<p class="center">YESTERDAY.</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Dear yesterday, glide not so fast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Oh, let me cling<br /></span>
+<span>To thy white garments floating past;<br /></span>
+<span>Even to shadows which they cast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I cling, I cling.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Show me thy face<br /></span>
+<span>Just once, once more; a single night<br /></span>
+<span>Cannot have brought a loss, a blight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Upon its grace.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Nor are they dead whom thou dost bear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Robed for the grave.<br /></span>
+<span>See what a smile their red lips wear;<br /></span>
+<span>To lay them living wilt thou dare<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Into a grave?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I know, I know,<br /></span>
+<span>I left thee first; now I repent;<br /></span>
+<span>I listen now; I never meant<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To have thee go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a>
+<span>Just once, once more, tell me the word<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou hadst for me!<br /></span>
+<span>Alas! although my heart was stirred,<br /></span>
+<span>I never fully knew or heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It was for me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O yesterday,<br /></span>
+<span>My yesterday, thy sorest pain<br /></span>
+<span>Were joy couldst thou but come again,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet yesterday.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>Venice, May 26.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3>II.</h3>
+
+<h3>TO-MORROW.</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>All red with joy the waiting west,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O little swallow,<br /></span>
+<span>Couldst thou tell me which road is best?<br /></span>
+<span>Cleaving high air with thy soft breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For keel, O swallow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou must o'erlook<br /></span>
+<span>My seas and know if I mistake;<br /></span>
+<span>I would not the same harbor make<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Which yesterday forsook.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I hear the swift blades dip and plash<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of unseen rowers;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>On unknown land the waters dash;<br /></span>
+<span>Who knows how it be wise or rash<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To meet the rowers!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Prem&igrave;! Prem&igrave;!<br /></span>
+<span>Venetia's boatmen lean and cry;<br /></span>
+<span>With voiceless lips I drift and lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Upon the twilight sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The swallow sleeps. Her last low call<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Had sound of warning.<br /></span>
+<span>Sweet little one, whate'er befall,<br /></span>
+<span>Thou wilt not know that it was all<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In vain thy warning.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I may not borrow<br /></span>
+<span>A hope, a help. I close my eyes;<br /></span>
+<span>Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Kneeling I wait to-morrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>Venice, May 30.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.H. Jackson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="In_the_Twilight" id="In_the_Twilight"></a><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a><b>In the Twilight.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Men say the sullen instrument<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That, from the Master's bow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With pangs of joy or woe,<br /></span>
+<span>Feels music's soul through every fibre sent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whispers the ravished strings<br /></span>
+<span>More than he knew or meant;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old summers in its memory glow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The secrets of the wind it sings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It hears the April-loosened springs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And mixes with its mood<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All it dreamed when it stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the murmurous pine-wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Long ago!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The magical moonlight then<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Steeped every bough and cone;<br /></span>
+<span>The roar of the brook in the glen<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Came dim from the distance blown;<br /></span>
+<span>The wind through its glooms sang low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And it swayed to and fro<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With delight as it stood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the wonderful wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Long ago!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>O my life, have we not had seasons<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That only said, "Live and rejoice?"<br /></span>
+<span>That asked not for causes and reasons,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But made us all feeling and voice?<br /></span>
+<span>When we went with the winds in their blowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When Nature and we were peers,<br /></span>
+<span>And we seemed to share in the flowing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the inexhaustible years?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Have we not from the earth drawn juices<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Too fine for earth's sordid uses?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Have I heard, have I seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All I feel and I know?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Doth my heart overween?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or could it have been<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Long ago?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sometimes a breath floats by me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An odor from Dreamland sent,<br /></span>
+<span>That makes the ghost seem nigh me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a splendor that came and went,<br /></span>
+<span>Of a life lived somewhere, I know not<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In what diviner sphere,<br /></span>
+<span>Of memories that stay not and go not,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like music heard once by an ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That cannot forget or reclaim it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A something so shy, it would shame it<br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a>To make it a show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A something too vague, could I name it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For others to know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As if I had lived it or dreamed it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As if I had acted or schemed it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Long ago!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And yet, could I live it over,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This life that stirs in my brain,<br /></span>
+<span>Could I be both maiden and lover,<br /></span>
+<span>Moon and tide, bee and clover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As I seem to have been, once again,<br /></span>
+<span>Could I but speak and show it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This pleasure more sharp than pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That baffles and lures me so,<br /></span>
+<span>The world should not lack a poet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Such as it had<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the ages glad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Long ago!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Lowell.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Tide_Rises_the_Tide_Falls" id="The_Tide_Rises_the_Tide_Falls"></a><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a><b>The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The tide rises, the tide falls,<br /></span>
+<span>The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;<br /></span>
+<span>Along the sea-sands damp and brown<br /></span>
+<span>The traveller hastens toward the town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the tide rises, the tide falls.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Darkness settles on roofs and walls,<br /></span>
+<span>But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;<br /></span>
+<span>The little waves, with their soft, white hands,<br /></span>
+<span>Efface the footprints in the sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the tide rises, the tide falls.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls<br /></span>
+<span>Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;<br /></span>
+<span>The day returns, but nevermore<br /></span>
+<span>Returns the traveller to the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the tide rises, the tide falls.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.W. Longfellow.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Fall_of_the_Leaf" id="The_Fall_of_the_Leaf"></a><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a><b>The Fall of the Leaf.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The evening of the year draws on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The fields a later aspect wear;<br /></span>
+<span>Since Summer's garishness is gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Behold! the shadows of the trees<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Now circle wider 'bout their stem,<br /></span>
+<span>Like sentries that by slow degrees<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Perform their rounds, gently protecting them.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And as the year doth decline,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sun allows a scantier light;<br /></span>
+<span>Behind each needle of the pine<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There lurks a small auxiliar to the night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around, beneath me, and on high;<br /></span>
+<span>It rocks the night, it soothes the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And everywhere is Nature's lullaby.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But most he chirps beneath the sod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When he has made his winter bed;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a>His creak grown fainter but more broad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A film of Autumn o'er the Summer spread.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Small birds, in fleets migrating by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Now beat across some meadow's bay,<br /></span>
+<span>And as they tack and veer on high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With faint and hurried click beguile the way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Far in the woods, these golden days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some leaf obeys its Maker's call;<br /></span>
+<span>And through their hollow aisles it plays<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Gently withdrawing from its stem,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It lightly lays itself along<br /></span>
+<span>Where the same hand hath pillowed them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The loneliest birch is brown and sere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The furthest pool is strewn with leaves,<br /></span>
+<span>Which float upon their watery bier,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The jay screams through the chestnut wood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The crisped and yellow leaves around<br /></span>
+<span>Are hue and texture of my mood,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>
+<span>The threadbare trees, so poor and thin,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They are no wealthier than I;<br /></span>
+<span>But with as brave a core within<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They rear their boughs to the October sky.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Poor knights they are which bravely wait<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The charge of Winter's cavalry,<br /></span>
+<span>Keeping a simple Roman state,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Discumbered of their Persian luxury.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.D. Thoreau.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Rhodora" id="The_Rhodora"></a><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a><b>The Rhodora.</b></h2>
+
+<h3>ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,<br /></span>
+<span>I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,<br /></span>
+<span>Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,<br /></span>
+<span>To please the desert and the sluggish brook.<br /></span>
+<span>The purple petals, fallen in the pool,<br /></span>
+<span>Made the black water with their beauty gay;<br /></span>
+<span>Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,<br /></span>
+<span>And court the flower that cheapens his array.<br /></span>
+<span>Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why<br /></span>
+<span>This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,<br /></span>
+<span>Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,<br /></span>
+<span>Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:<br /></span>
+<span>Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!<br /></span>
+<span>I never thought to ask, I never knew:<br /></span>
+<span>But, in my simple ignorance, suppose<br /></span>
+<span>The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Emerson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Nature2" id="Nature2"></a><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a><b>Nature.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>O nature! I do not aspire<br /></span>
+<span>To be the highest in thy quire,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>To be a meteor in the sky,<br /></span>
+<span>Or comet that may range on high;<br /></span>
+<span>Only a zephyr that may blow<br /></span>
+<span>Among the reeds by the river low;<br /></span>
+<span>Give me thy most privy place<br /></span>
+<span>Where to run my airy race.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>In some withdrawn, unpublic mead<br /></span>
+<span>Let me sigh upon a reed,<br /></span>
+<span>Or in the woods, with leafy din,<br /></span>
+<span>Whisper the still evening in.<br /></span>
+<span>Some still work give me to do,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Only&mdash;be it near to you!<br /></span>
+<span>For I'd rather be thy child<br /></span>
+<span>And pupil, in the forest wild,<br /></span>
+<span>Than be the king of men elsewhere,<br /></span>
+<span>And most sovereign slave of care.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.D. Thoreau.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="My_Strawberry" id="My_Strawberry"></a><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a><b>My Strawberry.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause<br /></span>
+<span>To reckon thee. I ask what cause<br /></span>
+<span>Set free so much of red from heats<br /></span>
+<span>At core of earth, and mixed such sweets<br /></span>
+<span>With sour and spice: what was that strength<br /></span>
+<span>Which out of darkness, length by length,<br /></span>
+<span>Spun all thy shining thread of vine,<br /></span>
+<span>Netting the fields in bond as thine.<br /></span>
+<span>I see thy tendrils drink by sips<br /></span>
+<span>From grass and clover's smiling lips;<br /></span>
+<span>I hear thy roots dig down for wells,<br /></span>
+<span>Tapping the meadow's hidden cells;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whole generations of green things,<br /></span>
+<span>Descended from long lines of springs,<br /></span>
+<span>I see make room for thee to bide<br /></span>
+<span>A quiet comrade by their side;<br /></span>
+<span>I see the creeping peoples go<br /></span>
+<span>Mysterious journeys to and fro,<br /></span>
+<span>Treading to right and left of thee,<br /></span>
+<span>Doing thee homage wonderingly.<br /></span>
+<span>I see the wild bees as they fare,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy cups of honey drink, but spare.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>I mark thee bathe and bathe again<br /></span>
+<span>In sweet uncalendared spring rain.<br /></span>
+<span>I watch how all May has of sun<br /></span>
+<span>Makes haste to have thy ripeness done,<br /></span>
+<span>While all her nights let dews escape<br /></span>
+<span>To set and cool thy perfect shape.<br /></span>
+<span>Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause<br /></span>
+<span>To dream and seek thy hidden laws!<br /></span>
+<span>I stretch my hand and dare to taste,<br /></span>
+<span>In instant of delicious waste<br /></span>
+<span>On single feast, all things that went<br /></span>
+<span>To make the empire thou hast spent.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.H. Jackson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Humble-bee" id="The_Humble-bee"></a><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a><b>The Humble-bee.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Burly, dozing humble-bee,<br /></span>
+<span>Where thou art is clime for me.<br /></span>
+<span>Let them sail for Porto Rique,<br /></span>
+<span>Far-off heats through seas to seek;<br /></span>
+<span>I will follow thee alone,<br /></span>
+<span>Thou animated torrid-zone!<br /></span>
+<span>Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,<br /></span>
+<span>Let me chase thy waving lines;<br /></span>
+<span>Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,<br /></span>
+<span>Singing over shrubs and vines.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Insect lover of the sun,<br /></span>
+<span>Joy of thy dominion!<br /></span>
+<span>Sailor of the atmosphere;<br /></span>
+<span>Swimmer through the waves of air;<br /></span>
+<span>Voyager of light and noon;<br /></span>
+<span>Epicurean of June;<br /></span>
+<span>Wait, I prithee, till I come<br /></span>
+<span>Within earshot of thy hum,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>All without is martyrdom.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>When the south wind, in May days,<br /></span>
+<span>With a net of shining haze<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a>Silvers the horizon wall,<br /></span>
+<span>And with softness touching all,<br /></span>
+<span>Tints the human countenance<br /></span>
+<span>With a color of romance,<br /></span>
+<span>And infusing subtle heats,<br /></span>
+<span>Turns the sod to violets,<br /></span>
+<span>Thou, in sunny solitudes,<br /></span>
+<span>Rover of the underwoods,<br /></span>
+<span>The green silence dost displace<br /></span>
+<span>With thy mellow, breezy bass.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Hot midsummer's petted crone,<br /></span>
+<span>Sweet to me thy drowsy tone<br /></span>
+<span>Tells of countless sunny hours,<br /></span>
+<span>Long days, and solid banks of flowers;<br /></span>
+<span>Of gulfs of sweetness without bound<br /></span>
+<span>In Indian wildernesses found;<br /></span>
+<span>Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,<br /></span>
+<span>Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Aught unsavory or unclean<br /></span>
+<span>Hath my insect never seen;<br /></span>
+<span>But violets and bilberry bells,<br /></span>
+<span>Maple-sap and daffodels,<br /></span>
+<span>Grass with green flag half-mast high,<br /></span>
+<span>Succory to match the sky,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a>Columbine with horn of honey,<br /></span>
+<span>Scented fern, and agrimony,<br /></span>
+<span>Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue,<br /></span>
+<span>And brier-roses, dwelt among;<br /></span>
+<span>All beside was unknown waste,<br /></span>
+<span>All was picture as he passed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Wiser far than human seer,<br /></span>
+<span>Yellow-breeched philosopher!<br /></span>
+<span>Seeing only what is fair,<br /></span>
+<span>Sipping only what is sweet,<br /></span>
+<span>Thou dost mock at fate and care,<br /></span>
+<span>Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.<br /></span>
+<span>When the fierce northwestern blast<br /></span>
+<span>Cools sea and land so far and fast,<br /></span>
+<span>Thou already slumberest deep;<br /></span>
+<span>Woe and want thou canst outsleep;<br /></span>
+<span>Want and woe, which torture us,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy sleep makes ridiculous.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Emerson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Summer_Rain" id="The_Summer_Rain"></a><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a><b>The Summer Rain.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large<br /></span>
+<span>Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And will not mind to hit their proper targe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,<br /></span>
+<span>What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,<br /></span>
+<span>If juster battles are enacted now<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If red or black the gods will favor most,<br /></span>
+<span>Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Struggling to heave some rock against the host.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>
+<span>Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For now I've business with this drop of dew,<br /></span>
+<span>And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use;<br /></span>
+<span>A clover tuft is pillow for my head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And violets quite overtop my shoes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gently swells the wind to say all's well;<br /></span>
+<span>The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But see that globe come rolling down its stem,<br /></span>
+<span>Now like a lonely planet there it floats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And now it sinks into my garment's hem.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Drip, drip the trees for all the country round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And richness rare distills from every bough;<br /></span>
+<span>The wind alone it is makes every sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a>
+<span>For shame the sun will never show himself,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;<br /></span>
+<span>My dripping locks,&mdash;they would become an elf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.D. Thoreau.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_the_Dandelion" id="To_the_Dandelion"></a><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a><b>To the Dandelion.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,<br /></span>
+<span>Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">First pledge of blithesome May,<br /></span>
+<span>Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they<br /></span>
+<span>An Eldorado in the grass have found,<br /></span>
+<span>Which not the rich earth's ample round<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow<br /></span>
+<span>Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor wrinkled the lean brow<br /></span>
+<span>Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now<br /></span>
+<span>To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,<br /></span>
+<span>Though most hearts never understand<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To take it at God's value, but pass by<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;<br /></span>
+<span>To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>The eyes thou givest me<br /></span>
+<span>Are in the heart, and heed not space or time:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee<br /></span>
+<span>Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment<br /></span>
+<span>In the white lily's breezy tent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,<br /></span>
+<span>Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where, as the breezes pass,<br /></span>
+<span>The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,<br /></span>
+<span>Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue<br /></span>
+<span>That from the distance sparkle through<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some woodland gap, and of a sky above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee;<br /></span>
+<span>The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who, from the dark old tree<br /></span>
+<span>Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I, secure in childish piety,<br /></span>
+<span>Listened as if I heard an angel sing<br /></span>
+<span>With news from heaven, which he could bring<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a>Fresh every day to my untainted ears<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,<br /></span>
+<span>When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou teachest me to deem<br /></span>
+<span>More sacredly of every human heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam<br /></span>
+<span>Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,<br /></span>
+<span>Did we but pay the love we owe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And with a child's undoubting wisdom look<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On all these living pages of God's book.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Lowell.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Chambered_Nautilus" id="The_Chambered_Nautilus"></a><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a><b>The Chambered Nautilus.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sails the unshadowed main,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The venturous bark that flings<br /></span>
+<span>On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings<br /></span>
+<span>In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And coral reefs lie bare,<br /></span>
+<span>Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wrecked is the ship of pearl!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And every chambered cell,<br /></span>
+<span>Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,<br /></span>
+<span>As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Before thee lies revealed,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Year after year beheld the silent toil<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That spread his lustrous coil;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Still, as the spiral grew,<br /></span>
+<span>He left the past year's dwelling for the new,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>Stole with soft step its shining archway through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Built up its idle door,<br /></span>
+<span>Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Child of the wandering sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Cast from her lap, forlorn!<br /></span>
+<span>From thy dead lips a clearer note is born<br /></span>
+<span>Than ever Triton blew from wreath&egrave;d horn!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">While on mine ear it rings,<br /></span>
+<span>Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As the swift seasons roll!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Leave thy low-vaulted past!<br /></span>
+<span>Let each new temple, nobler than the last,<br /></span>
+<span>Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Till thou at length art free,<br /></span>
+<span>Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">O.W. Holmes.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Thought" id="Thought"></a><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a><b>Thought.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>O messenger, art thou the king, or I?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou dalliest outside the palace gate<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Till on thine idle armor lie the late<br /></span>
+<span>And heavy dews. The morn's bright scornful eye<br /></span>
+<span>Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou smilest at the window where I wait,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state<br /></span>
+<span>My days go on, while false hours prophesy<br /></span>
+<span>Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,<br /></span>
+<span>I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.<br /></span>
+<span>Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy<br /></span>
+<span>I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.H. Jackson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Stanzas" id="Stanzas"></a><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a><b>Stanzas.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thought is deeper than all speech,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Feeling deeper than all thought;<br /></span>
+<span>Souls to souls can never teach<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What unto themselves was taught.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We are spirits clad in veils:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Man by man was never seen;<br /></span>
+<span>All our deep communing fails<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To remove the shadowy screen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Heart to heart was never known;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mind with mind did never meet;<br /></span>
+<span>We are columns left alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a temple once complete.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Like the stars that gem the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far apart, though seeming near,<br /></span>
+<span>In our light we scattered lie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All is thus but starlight here.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>What is social company<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But a babbling summer stream?<br /></span>
+<span>What our wise philosophy<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the glancing of a dream?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>
+<span>Only when the sun of love<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Melts the scattered stars of thought;<br /></span>
+<span>Only when we live above<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What the dim-eyed world hath taught;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Only when our souls are fed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the Fount which gave them birth,<br /></span>
+<span>And by inspiration led,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which they never drew from earth,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We, like parted drops of rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Swelling till they meet and run,<br /></span>
+<span>Shall be all absorbed again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Melting, flowing into one.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">C.P. Cranch.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Coronation" id="Coronation"></a><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a><b>Coronation.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>At the king's gate the subtle noon<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;<br /></span>
+<span>Into the drowsy snare too soon<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The guards fell one by one.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Through the king's gate, unquestioned then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings<br /></span>
+<span>Me chance, at last, to see if men<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fare better, being kings."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The king sat bowed beneath his crown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Propping his face with listless hand;<br /></span>
+<span>Watching the hour-glass sifting down<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Too slow its shining sand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The beggar turned, and, pitying,<br /></span>
+<span>Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nothing. I want the king."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Uprose the king, and from his head<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shook off the crown and threw it by.<br /></span>
+<span>"O man, thou must have known," he said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"A greater king than I."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a>
+<span>Through all the gates, unquestioned then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Went king and beggar hand in hand.<br /></span>
+<span>Whispered the king, "Shall I know when<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before <i>his</i> throne I stand?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were wiping from the king's hot brow<br /></span>
+<span>The crimson lines the crown had traced.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"This is his presence now."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>At the king's gate the crafty noon<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unwove its yellow nets of sun;<br /></span>
+<span>Out of their sleep in terror soon<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The guards waked one by one.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The king?" The cry ran to and fro;<br /></span>
+<span>Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The laugh that free men know.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>On the king's gate the moss grew gray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The king came not. They called him dead;<br /></span>
+<span>And made his eldest son one day<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Slave in his father's stead.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.H. Jackson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="On_a_Bust_of_Dante" id="On_a_Bust_of_Dante"></a><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a><b>On a Bust of Dante.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>See, from this counterfeit of him<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whom Arno shall remember long,<br /></span>
+<span>How stern of lineament, how grim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The father was of Tuscan song:<br /></span>
+<span>There but the burning sense of wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Perpetual care and scorn, abide;<br /></span>
+<span>Small friendship for the lordly throng;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Distrust of all the world beside.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Faithful if this wan image be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No dream his life was,&mdash;but a fight;<br /></span>
+<span>Could any Beatrice see<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A lover in that anchorite?<br /></span>
+<span>To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who could have guessed the visions came<br /></span>
+<span>Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In circles of eternal flame?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The lips as Cum&aelig;'s cavern close,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,<br /></span>
+<span>The rigid front, almost morose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But for the patient hope within,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>Declare a life whose course hath been<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unsullied still, though still severe;<br /></span>
+<span>Which, through the wavering days of sin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Not wholly such his haggard look<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,<br /></span>
+<span>With no companion save his book,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;<br /></span>
+<span>Where, as the Benedictine laid<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His palm upon the convent's guest,<br /></span>
+<span>The single boon for which he prayed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Peace dwells not here,&mdash;this rugged face<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Betrays no spirit of repose;<br /></span>
+<span>The sullen warrior sole we trace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The marble man of many woes.<br /></span>
+<span>Such was his mien when first arose<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The thought of that strange tale divine,<br /></span>
+<span>When hell he peopled with his foes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The scourge of many a guilty line.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>War to the last he waged with all<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The tyrant canker-worms of earth;<br /></span>
+<span>Baron and duke, in hold and hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;<br /></span>
+<span>But valiant souls of knightly worth<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Transmitted to the rolls of Time.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The only righteous judge art thou;<br /></span>
+<span>That poor old exile, sad and lone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is Latium's other Virgil now:<br /></span>
+<span>Before his name the nations bow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His words are parcel of mankind,<br /></span>
+<span>Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.W. Parsons.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Pan_in_Wall_Street" id="Pan_in_Wall_Street"></a><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a><b>Pan in Wall Street.</b></h2>
+
+<h3>A.D. 1867.</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Just where the Treasury's marble front<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;<br /></span>
+<span>Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To throng for trade and last quotations;<br /></span>
+<span>Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Outrival, in the ears of people,<br /></span>
+<span>The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Trinity's undaunted steeple,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Even there I heard a strange, wild strain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sound high above the modern clamor,<br /></span>
+<span>Above the cries of greed and gain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;<br /></span>
+<span>And swift, on Music's misty ways,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It led, from all this strife for millions,<br /></span>
+<span>To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And as it stilled the multitude,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,<br /></span>
+<span>I saw the minstrel, where he stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At ease against a Doric pillar:<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a>One hand a droning organ played,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned<br /></span>
+<span>Like those of old) to lips that made<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The reeds give out that strain impassioned.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>'Twas Pan himself had wandered here<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A-strolling through this sordid city,<br /></span>
+<span>And piping to the civic ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The prelude of some pastoral ditty!<br /></span>
+<span>The demigod had crossed the seas,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,<br /></span>
+<span>And Syracusan times,&mdash;to these<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far shores and twenty centuries later.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A ragged cap was on his head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But&mdash;hidden thus&mdash;there was no doubting<br /></span>
+<span>That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His gnarl&egrave;d horns were somewhere sprouting;<br /></span>
+<span>His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,<br /></span>
+<span>And trousers, patched of divers hues,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He filled the quivering reeds with sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And o'er his mouth their changes shifted,<br /></span>
+<span>And with his goat's-eyes looked around<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where'er the passing current drifted;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>And soon, as on Trinacrian hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,<br /></span>
+<span>Even now the tradesmen from their tills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With clerks and porters, crowded near him.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The bulls and bears together drew<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley,<br /></span>
+<span>As erst, if pastorals be true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Came beasts from every wooded valley;<br /></span>
+<span>The random passers stayed to list,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A boxer &AElig;gon, rough and merry,<br /></span>
+<span>A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A one-eyed Cyclops halted long<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In tattered cloak of army pattern,<br /></span>
+<span>And Galatea joined the throng,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;<br /></span>
+<span>While old Silenus staggered out<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,<br /></span>
+<span>And bade the piper, with a shout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A newsboy and a peanut-girl<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like little Fauns began to caper:<br /></span>
+<span>His hair was all in tangled curl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her tawny legs were bare and taper;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a>And still the gathering larger grew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gave its pence and crowded nigher,<br /></span>
+<span>While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>O heart of Nature, beating still<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With throbs her vernal passion taught her,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or by the Arethusan water!<br /></span>
+<span>New forms may fold the speech, new lands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Arise within these ocean-portals,<br /></span>
+<span>But Music waves eternal wands,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Enchantress of the souls of mortals!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>So thought I,&mdash;but among us trod<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A man in blue, with legal baton,<br /></span>
+<span>And scoffed the vagrant demigod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And pushed him from the step I sat on.<br /></span>
+<span>Doubting, I mused upon the cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Great Pan is dead!"&mdash;and all the people<br /></span>
+<span>Went on their ways:&mdash;and clear and high<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The quarter sounded from the steeple.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.C. Stedman.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Auspex" id="Auspex"></a><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a><b>Auspex.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>My heart, I cannot still it,<br /></span>
+<span>Nest that had song-birds in it;<br /></span>
+<span>And when the last shall go,<br /></span>
+<span>The dreary days, to fill it,<br /></span>
+<span>Instead of lark or linnet,<br /></span>
+<span>Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Had they been swallows only,<br /></span>
+<span>Without the passion stronger<br /></span>
+<span>That skyward longs and sings,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Woe's me, I shall be lonely<br /></span>
+<span>When I can feel no longer<br /></span>
+<span>The impatience of their wings!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A moment, sweet delusion,<br /></span>
+<span>Like birds the brown leaves hover;<br /></span>
+<span>But it will not be long<br /></span>
+<span>Before their wild confusion<br /></span>
+<span>Fall wavering down to cover<br /></span>
+<span>The poet and his song.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.R. Lowell.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Birds" id="Birds"></a><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a><b>Birds.</b><a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Birds are singing round my window,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tunes the sweetest ever heard,<br /></span>
+<span>And I hang my cage there daily,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I never catch a bird.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>So with thoughts my brain is peopled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And they sing there all day long:<br /></span>
+<span>But they will not fold their pinions<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the little cage of Song.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.H. Stoddard.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Toujours_Amour" id="Toujours_Amour"></a><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a><b>Toujours Amour.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,<br /></span>
+<span>At what age does Love begin?<br /></span>
+<span>Your blue eyes have scarcely seen<br /></span>
+<span>Summers three, my fairy queen,<br /></span>
+<span>But a miracle of sweets,<br /></span>
+<span>Soft approaches, sly retreats,<br /></span>
+<span>Show the little archer there,<br /></span>
+<span>Hidden in your pretty hair;<br /></span>
+<span>When didst learn a heart to win?<br /></span>
+<span>Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"I can't tell you if I try.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Tis so long I can't remember:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ask some younger lass than I!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face,<br /></span>
+<span>Do your heart and head keep pace?<br /></span>
+<span>When does hoary Love expire,<br /></span>
+<span>When do frosts put out the fire?<br /></span>
+<span>Can its embers burn below<br /></span>
+<span>All that chill December snow?<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>Care you still soft hands to press,<br /></span>
+<span>Bonny heads to smooth and bless?<br /></span>
+<span>When does Love give up the chase?<br /></span>
+<span>Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Youth may pass and strength may die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But of Love I can't foretoken:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ask some older sage than I!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.C. Stedman.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_Sigh" id="A_Sigh"></a><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a><b>A Sigh.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>It was nothing but a rose I gave her,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nothing but a rose<br /></span>
+<span>Any wind might rob of half its savor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Any wind that blows.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>When she took it from my trembling fingers<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With a hand as chill,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stays, and thrills them still!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Withered, faded, pressed between the pages,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Crumpled fold on fold,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Once it lay upon her breast, and ages<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cannot make it old!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.P. Spofford.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="No_More" id="No_More"></a><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a><b>No More.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>This is the Burden of the Heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Burden that it always bore:<br /></span>
+<span>We live to love; we meet to part;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And part to meet on earth No More:<br /></span>
+<span>We clasp each other to the heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And part to meet on earth No More.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There is a time for tears to start,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For dews to fall and larks to soar:<br /></span>
+<span>The Time for Tears, is when we part<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To meet upon the earth No More:<br /></span>
+<span>The Time for Tears, is when we part<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To meet on this wide earth&mdash;No More.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">B.F. Willson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_a_Young_Girl_Dying" id="To_a_Young_Girl_Dying"></a><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a><b>To a Young Girl Dying.</b></h2>
+
+<h3>WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,<br /></span>
+<span>I bring palm branches, found upon my way:<br /></span>
+<span>But these will wither; thine shall never die,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!<br /></span>
+<span>Dear little saint, though but a child in years,<br /></span>
+<span>Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!<br /></span>
+<span><i>We</i> doubt and tremble,&mdash;<i>we</i>, with bated breath,<br /></span>
+<span>Talk of this mystery of life and death:<br /></span>
+<span>Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive<br /></span>
+<span>Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,<br /></span>
+<span>Gentle white palmer, never more to roam!<br /></span>
+<span>Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy benediction,&mdash;for my love thou know'st!<br /></span>
+<span>We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine:<br /></span>
+<span>Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.W. Parsons.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Port_of_Ships" id="The_Port_of_Ships"></a><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a><b>The Port of Ships.</b><a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Behind him lay the gray Azores,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Behind the Gates of Hercules;<br /></span>
+<span>Before him not the ghost of shores,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before him only shoreless seas.<br /></span>
+<span>The good mate said: "Now must we pray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For lo! the very stars are gone.<br /></span>
+<span>Brave Adm'ral speak,&mdash;what shall I say?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Why, say, 'Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"My men grow mutinous day by day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My men grow ghastly, wan and weak."<br /></span>
+<span>The stout mate thought of home; a spray<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.<br /></span>
+<span>"What shall I say, brave Adm'ral, say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"<br /></span>
+<span>"Why, you shall say, at break of day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Until at last the blanched mate said:<br /></span>
+<span>"Why, now not even God would know<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should I and all my men fall dead.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a>These very winds forget their way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For God from these dread seas is gone.<br /></span>
+<span>Now speak, brave Adm'ral; speak, and say&mdash;"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They sailed! They sailed! Then spake the mate:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"This mad sea shows its teeth to-night;<br /></span>
+<span>He curls his lip, he lies in wait<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With lifted teeth, as if to bite!<br /></span>
+<span>Brave Adm'ral, say but one good word,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What shall we do when hope is gone?"<br /></span>
+<span>The words leaped as a leaping sword:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">C.H. Miller.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> From The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Paradisi_Gloria" id="Paradisi_Gloria"></a><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a><b>Paradisi Gloria.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>There is a city, builded by no hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And unapproachable by sea or shore,<br /></span>
+<span>And unassailable by any band<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of storming soldiery for evermore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There we no longer shall divide our time<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By acts or pleasures,&mdash;doing petty things<br /></span>
+<span>Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But we shall sit beside the silver springs<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>That flow from God's own footstool, and behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few<br /></span>
+<span>Who loved us once and were beloved of old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To dwell with them and walk with them anew,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>In alternations of sublime repose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Musical motion, the perpetual play<br /></span>
+<span>Of every faculty that Heaven bestows<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the bright, busy, and eternal day.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.W. Parsons.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Ballad" id="Ballad"></a><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a><b>Ballad.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>In the summer even,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While yet the dew was hoar,<br /></span>
+<span>I went plucking purple pansies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till my love should come to shore.<br /></span>
+<span>The fishing-lights their dances<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were keeping out at sea,<br /></span>
+<span>And come, I sung, my true love!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Come hasten home to me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But the sea, it fell a-moaning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the white gulls rocked thereon;<br /></span>
+<span>And the young moon dropped from heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the lights hid one by one.<br /></span>
+<span>All silently their glances<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Slipped down the cruel sea,<br /></span>
+<span>And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wait, till I come to thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.P. Spofford.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="BOOK_THIRD" id="BOOK_THIRD"></a><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a>BOOK THIRD.<a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a></h2>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Fools_Prayer" id="The_Fools_Prayer"></a><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a><b>The Fool's Prayer.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The royal feast was done; the King<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sought some new sport to banish care,<br /></span>
+<span>And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The jester doffed his cap and bells,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And stood the mocking court before;<br /></span>
+<span>They could not see the bitter smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Behind the painted grin he wore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He bowed his head, and bent his knee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Upon the monarch's silken stool;<br /></span>
+<span>His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be merciful to me, a fool!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"No pity, Lord, could change the heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From red with wrong to white as wool;<br /></span>
+<span>The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be merciful to me, a fool!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;<br /></span>
+<span>'Tis by our follies that so long<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We hold the earth from heaven away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a>
+<span>"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Go crushing blossoms without end;<br /></span>
+<span>These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Among the heart-strings of a friend.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"The ill-timed truth we might have kept&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?<br /></span>
+<span>The word we had not sense to say&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who knows how grandly it had rung?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Our faults no tenderness should ask,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;<br /></span>
+<span>But for our blunders&mdash;oh, in shame<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before the eyes of heaven we fall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool<br /></span>
+<span>That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be merciful to me, a fool!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The room was hushed; in silence rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The King, and sought his gardens cool,<br /></span>
+<span>And walked apart, and murmured low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Be merciful to me, a fool!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.R. Sill.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="On_The_Life-mask_Of_Abraham_Lincoln" id="On_The_Life-mask_Of_Abraham_Lincoln"></a><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a><b>On The Life-mask Of Abraham Lincoln.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>This bronze doth keep the very form and mold<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That brow all wisdom, all benignity;<br /></span>
+<span>That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold<br /></span>
+<span>Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For storms to beat on; the lone agony<br /></span>
+<span>Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.<br /></span>
+<span>Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As might some prophet of the elder day,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Brooding above the tempest and the fray<br /></span>
+<span>With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A power was his beyond the touch of art<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or arm&egrave;d strength: his pure and mighty heart.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Gilder.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Song3" id="Song3"></a><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></a><b>Song.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Years have flown since I knew thee first,<br /></span>
+<span>And I know thee as water is known of thirst:<br /></span>
+<span>Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight,<br /></span>
+<span>And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Gilder.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="To_A_Dead_Woman" id="To_A_Dead_Woman"></a><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></a>To A Dead Woman.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee.<br /></span>
+<span>Through long years keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At the gate of Silence give it back to me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.C. Bunner.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892,
+1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Destiny" id="Destiny"></a><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a><b>Destiny.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down<br /></span>
+<span>Each with its loveliness as with a crown,<br /></span>
+<span>Drooped in a florist's window in a town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,<br /></span>
+<span>Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The second rose, as virginal and fair,<br /></span>
+<span>Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,<br /></span>
+<span>Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.B. Aldrich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Kings" id="The_Kings"></a><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a><b>The Kings.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>A man said unto his angel:<br /></span>
+<span>"My spirits are fallen thro',<br /></span>
+<span>And I cannot carry this battle;<br /></span>
+<span>O brother! what shall I do?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"The terrible Kings are on me,<br /></span>
+<span>With spears that are deadly bright,<br /></span>
+<span>Against me so from the cradle<br /></span>
+<span>Do fate and my fathers fight."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then said to the man his angel:<br /></span>
+<span>"Thou wavering, foolish soul,<br /></span>
+<span>Back to the ranks! What matter<br /></span>
+<span>To win or to lose the whole,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"As judged by the little judges<br /></span>
+<span>Who hearken not well, nor see?<br /></span>
+<span>Not thus, by the outer issue,<br /></span>
+<span>The Wise shall interpret thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Thy will is the very, the only,<br /></span>
+<span>The solemn event of things;<br /></span>
+<span>The weakest of hearts defying<br /></span>
+<span>Is stronger than all these Kings.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a>
+<span>"Tho' out of the past they gather,<br /></span>
+<span>Mind's Doubt and bodily Pain,<br /></span>
+<span>And pallid Thirst of the Spirit<br /></span>
+<span>That is kin to the other twain,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"And Grief, in a cloud of banners,<br /></span>
+<span>And ringletted Vain Desires,<br /></span>
+<span>And Vice with the spoils upon him<br /></span>
+<span>Of thee and thy beaten sires,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"While Kings of eternal evil<br /></span>
+<span>Yet darken the hills about,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy part is with broken sabre<br /></span>
+<span>To rise on the last redoubt;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"To fear not sensible failure,<br /></span>
+<span>Nor covet the game at all,<br /></span>
+<span>But fighting, fighting, fighting,<br /></span>
+<span>Die, driven against the wall!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L.I. Guiney.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Triumph" id="Triumph"></a><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a><b>Triumph.</b><a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The dawn came in through the bars of the blind,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the winter's dawn is gray,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>And said, "However you cheat your mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The hours are flying away."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>A ghost of a dawn, and pale, and weak,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Has the sun a heart," I said,<br /></span>
+<span>"To throw a morning flush on the cheek<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whence a fairer flush has fled?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>As a gray rose-leaf that is fading white<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was the cheek where I set my kiss;<br /></span>
+<span>And on that side of the bed all night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Death had watched, and I on this.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I kissed her lips, they were half apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet they made no answering sign;<br /></span>
+<span>Death's hand was on her failing heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And his eyes said, "She is mine."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a>
+<span>I set my lips on the blue-veined lid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Half-veiled by her death-damp hair;<br /></span>
+<span>And oh, for the violet depths it hid<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the light I longed for there!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Faint day and the fainter life awoke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the night was overpast;<br /></span>
+<span>And I said, "Though never in life you spoke<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, speak with a look at last!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>For the space of a heart-beat fluttered her breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As a bird's wing spread to flee;<br /></span>
+<span>She turned her weary arms to Death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the light of her eyes to me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.C. Bunner.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892,
+1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Evening_Song" id="Evening_Song"></a><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a><b>Evening Song.</b><a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,<br /></span>
+<span>How long they kiss in sight of all the lands.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ah! longer, longer, we.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,<br /></span>
+<span>And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Love, lay thine hand in mine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.<br /></span>
+<span>O night! divorce our sun and sky apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Never our lips, our hands.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">S. Lanier.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by
+Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Woods_That_Bring_the_Sunset_Near" id="The_Woods_That_Bring_the_Sunset_Near"></a><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a><b>"The Woods That Bring the Sunset Near."</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The wind from out the west is blowing,<br /></span>
+<span>The homeward-wandering cows are lowing,<br /></span>
+<span>Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The woods that bring the sunset near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>When o'er wide seas the sun declines,<br /></span>
+<span>Far off its fading glory shines,<br /></span>
+<span>Far off, sublime, and full of fear,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The pine-woods bring the sunset near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>This house that looks to east, to west,<br /></span>
+<span>This, dear one, is our home, our rest;<br /></span>
+<span>Yonder the stormy sea, and here<br /></span>
+<span>The woods that bring the sunset near.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Gilder.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="At_Night" id="At_Night"></a><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a><b>At Night.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The sky is dark, and dark the bay below<br /></span>
+<span>Save where the midnight city's pallid glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lies like a lily white<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On the black pool of night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way<br /></span>
+<span>Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To where the eddying tide<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Strikes hard the city's side!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>For there, between the river and the sea,<br /></span>
+<span>Beneath that glow,&mdash;the lily's heart to me,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A sleeping mother mild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And by her breast a child.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Gilder.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Still_in_Thy_Love_I_Trust" id="Still_in_Thy_Love_I_Trust"></a><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a><b>"Still in Thy Love I Trust."</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Still in thy love I trust,<br /></span>
+<span>Supreme o'er death, since deathless is thy essence;<br /></span>
+<span>For, putting off the dust,<br /></span>
+<span>Thou hast but blest me with a nearer presence.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And so, for this, for all,<br /></span>
+<span>I breathe no selfish plaint, no faithless chiding;<br /></span>
+<span>On me the snowflakes fall,<br /></span>
+<span>But thou hast gained a summer all-abiding.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Striking a plaintive string,<br /></span>
+<span>Like some poor harper at a palace portal,<br /></span>
+<span>I wait without and sing,<br /></span>
+<span>While those I love glide in and dwell immortal.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">A.A. Fields.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Future" id="The_Future"></a><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a><b>The Future.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>What may we take into the vast Forever?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That marble door<br /></span>
+<span>Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No fame-wreathed crown we wore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No garnered lore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>What can we bear beyond the unknown portal?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No gold, no gains<br /></span>
+<span>Of all our toiling: in the life immortal<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No hoarded wealth remains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor gilds, nor stains.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Naked from out that far abyss behind us<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We entered here:<br /></span>
+<span>No word came with our coming, to remind us<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What wondrous world was near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No hope, no fear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Into the silent, starless Night before us,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Naked we glide:<br /></span>
+<span>No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No comrade at our side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No chart, no guide.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a>
+<span>Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our footsteps fare:<br /></span>
+<span>The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His love alone is there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No curse, no care.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.R. Sill.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Prescience" id="Prescience"></a><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a><b>Prescience.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The new moon hung in the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sun was low in the west,<br /></span>
+<span>And my betrothed and I<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the churchyard paused to rest&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Happy maiden and lover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dreaming the old dream over:<br /></span>
+<span>The light winds wandered by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And robins chirped from the nest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And lo! in the meadow-sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was the grave of a little child,<br /></span>
+<span>With a crumbling stone at the feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the ivy running wild&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tangled ivy and clover<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Folding it over and over:<br /></span>
+<span>Close to my sweetheart's feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was the little mound up-piled.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Stricken with nameless fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She shrank and clung to me,<br /></span>
+<span>And her eyes were filled with tears<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a sorrow I did not see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a>Lightly the winds were blowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Softly her tears were flowing&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Tears for the unknown years<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a sorrow that was to be!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.B. Aldrich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="In_August" id="In_August"></a><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a><b>In August.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>All the long August afternoon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The little drowsy stream<br /></span>
+<span>Whispers a melancholy tune,<br /></span>
+<span>As if it dreamed of June<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And whispered in its dream.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The thistles show beyond the brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dust on their down and bloom,<br /></span>
+<span>And out of many a weed-grown nook<br /></span>
+<span>The aster-flow&egrave;rs look<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With eyes of tender gloom.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The silent orchard aisles are sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With smell of ripening fruit.<br /></span>
+<span>Through the sere grass, in shy retreat,<br /></span>
+<span>Flutter, at coming feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The robins strange and mute.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There is no wind to stir the leaves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The harsh leaves overhead;<br /></span>
+<span>Only the querulous cricket grieves,<br /></span>
+<span>And shrilling locust weaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A song of Summer dead.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.D. Howells.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="That_Day_You_Came" id="That_Day_You_Came"></a><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a><b>That Day You Came.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Such special sweetness was about<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That day God sent you here,<br /></span>
+<span>I knew the lavender was out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And it was mid of year.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Their common way the great winds blew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The ships sailed out to sea;<br /></span>
+<span>Yet ere that day was spent I knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mine own had come to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>As after song some snatch of tune<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lurks still in grass or bough,<br /></span>
+<span>So, somewhat of the end o' June<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lurks in each weather now.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The young year sets the buds astir,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The old year strips the trees;<br /></span>
+<span>But ever in my lavender<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I hear the brawling bees.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L.W. Reese.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Negro_Lullaby" id="Negro_Lullaby"></a><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></a><b>Negro Lullaby.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Bedtimes' come fu' little boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>Too tiahed out to make a noise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'?<br /></span>
+<span>Yes, you tole me dat, befo',<br /></span>
+<span>Don't you fool me, chile, no mo',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>You been bad de livelong day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>My, but you's a-runnin' wild,<br /></span>
+<span>Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile;<br /></span>
+<span>Mam' gwine whup you atter while,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></a>See dem han's now,&mdash;sich a sight!<br /></span>
+<span>Would you ever b'lieve dey's white!<br /></span>
+<span>Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Jes' caint hol' yo' haid up straight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>Hadn't oughter played so late,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>Mammy do' know whut she'd do,<br /></span>
+<span>Ef de chillun's all lak you;<br /></span>
+<span>You's a caution now fu' true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Lay yo' haid down in my lap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>Y'ought to have a right good slap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+<span>You been runnin' roun' a heap.<br /></span>
+<span>Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep,<br /></span>
+<span>Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Po' little lamb.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">P.L. Dunbar.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_Womans_Thought" id="A_Womans_Thought"></a><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></a><b>A Woman's Thought.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I am a woman&mdash;therefore I may not<br /></span>
+<span>Call to him, cry to him,<br /></span>
+<span>Fly to him,<br /></span>
+<span>Bid him delay not!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet:<br /></span>
+<span>Still as a stone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>All silent and cold.<br /></span>
+<span>If my heart riot&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Crush and defy it!<br /></span>
+<span>Should I grow bold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Say one dear thing to him,<br /></span>
+<span>All my life fling to him,<br /></span>
+<span>Cling to him&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>What to atone<br /></span>
+<span>Is enough for my sinning!<br /></span>
+<span>This were the cost to me,<br /></span>
+<span>This were my winning&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>That he were lost to me.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a>Not as a lover<br /></span>
+<span>At last if he part from me,<br /></span>
+<span>Tearing my heart from me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Hurt beyond cure,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Calm and demure<br /></span>
+<span>Then must I hold me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>In myself fold me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Lest he discover;<br /></span>
+<span>Showing no sign to him<br /></span>
+<span>By look of mine to him<br /></span>
+<span>What he has been to me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>How my heart turns to him,<br /></span>
+<span>Follows him, yearns to him,<br /></span>
+<span>Prays him to love me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Pity me, lean to me,<br /></span>
+<span>Thou God above me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R.W. Gilder.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Flight" id="The_Flight"></a><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a><b>The Flight.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The angel raised his hand and looked and said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Which world, of all yon starry myriad<br /></span>
+<span>Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude<br /></span>
+<span>Became a harp whereon his voice and mood<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Made spheral music round his haloed head.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I spake&mdash;for then I had not long been dead&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>"Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood<br /></span>
+<span>A moment on these orbs ere I decide ...<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What is yon lower star that beauteous shines<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And with soft splendor now incarnadines<br /></span>
+<span>Our wings?&mdash;<i>There</i> would I go and there abide."<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He smiled as one who some child's thought divines:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"That is the world where yesternight you died."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L. Mifflin.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Childhood" id="Childhood"></a><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a><b>Childhood.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Old Sorrow I shall meet again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Joy, perchance&mdash;but never, never,<br /></span>
+<span>Happy Childhood, shall we twain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">See each other's face forever!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And yet I would not call thee back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me,<br /></span>
+<span>Thine old companion, on the rack<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Age, should sadden even thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.B. Tabb.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Little_Boy_Blue" id="Little_Boy_Blue"></a><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a><b>Little Boy Blue.</b><a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The little toy dog is covered with dust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But sturdy and stanch he stands;<br /></span>
+<span>And the little toy soldier is red with rust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And his musket moulds in his hands.<br /></span>
+<span>Time was when the little toy dog was new<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the soldier was passing fair,<br /></span>
+<span>And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Kissed them and put them there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"And don't you make any noise!"<br /></span>
+<span>So toddling off to his trundle-bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He dreampt of the pretty toys.<br /></span>
+<span>And as he was dreaming, an angel song<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Awakened our Little Boy Blue,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Oh, the years are many, the years are long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the little toy friends are true.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each in the same old place,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232"></a>Awaiting the touch of a little hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The smile of a little face.<br /></span>
+<span>And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the dust of that little chair,<br /></span>
+<span>What has become of our Little Boy Blue<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since he kissed them and put them there.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E. Field.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by
+Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Strong_as_Death" id="Strong_as_Death"></a><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a><b>Strong as Death.</b><a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>O death, when thou shalt come to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From out thy dark, where she is now,<br /></span>
+<span>Come not with graveyard smell on thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or withered roses on thy brow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Come not, O Death, with hollow tone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And soundless step, and clammy hand&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Lo, I am now no less alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But with that sweet and subtle scent<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That ever clung about her (such<br /></span>
+<span>As with all things she brushed was blent);<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And with her quick and tender touch.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>With the dim gold that lit her hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread<br /></span>
+<span>So light that I may dream her there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And turn upon my dying bed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>
+<span>And through my chilling veins shall flame<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My love, as though beneath her breath;<br /></span>
+<span>And in her voice but call my name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I will follow thee, O Death.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.C. Bunner.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892,
+1896 by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_White_Jessamine" id="The_White_Jessamine"></a><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></a><b>The White Jessamine.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I knew she lay above me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the casement all the night<br /></span>
+<span>Shone, softened with a phosphor glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of sympathetic light,<br /></span>
+<span>And that her fledgling spirit pure<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was pluming fast for flight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Each tendril throbbed and quickened<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As I nightly climbed apace,<br /></span>
+<span>And could scarce restrain the blossoms<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When, anear the destined place,<br /></span>
+<span>Her gentle whisper thrilled me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere I gazed upon her face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I waited, darkling, till the dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should touch me into bloom,<br /></span>
+<span>While all my being panted<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To outpour its first perfume,<br /></span>
+<span>When, lo! a paler flower than mine<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had blossomed in the gloom!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.B. Tabb.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_House_of_Death" id="The_House_of_Death"></a><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a><b>The House of Death.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Not a hand has lifted the latchet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since she went out of the door&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>No footstep shall cross the threshold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since she can come in no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There is rust upon locks and hinges,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And mold and blight on the walls,<br /></span>
+<span>And silence faints in the chambers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And darkness waits in the halls&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Waits as all things have waited<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since she went, that day of spring,<br /></span>
+<span>Borne in her pallid splendor<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To dwell in the Court of the King:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>With lilies on brow and bosom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With robes of silken sheen,<br /></span>
+<span>And her wonderful, frozen beauty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lilies and silk between.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Red roses she left behind her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But they died long, long ago<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a>'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That seemed through the dusk to glow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The garments she left mock the shadows<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With hints of womanly grace,<br /></span>
+<span>And her image swims in the mirror<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That was so used to her face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The birds make insolent music<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the sunshine riots outside,<br /></span>
+<span>And the winds are merry and wanton<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the summer's pomp and pride.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But into this desolate mansion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where Love has closed the door,<br /></span>
+<span>Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since she can come in no more.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L.C. Moulton.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_Tropical_Morning_at_Sea" id="A_Tropical_Morning_at_Sea"></a><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a><b>A Tropical Morning at Sea.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sky in its lucent splendor lifted<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Higher than cloud can be;<br /></span>
+<span>Air with no breath of earth to stain it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pure on the perfect sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Crests that touch and tilt each other,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Jostling as they comb;<br /></span>
+<span>Delicate crash of tinkling water,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Broken in pearling foam.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Plashings&mdash;or is it the pinewood's whispers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Babble of brooks unseen,<br /></span>
+<span>Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Brushing aside the green?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Foam-wreaths slipping by,<br /></span>
+<span>Soft as a snow of broken roses<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Afloat over mirrored sky.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Off to the east the steady sun-track<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Golden meshes fill<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a>Webs of fire, that lace and tangle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Never a moment still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Liquid palms but clap together,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fountains, flower-like, grow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Limpid bells on stems of silver&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Out of a slope of snow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Blue as a summer sky,<br /></span>
+<span>When you blink at its arch sprung over<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where in the grass you lie.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Dimly an orange bit of rainbow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Burns where the low west clears,<br /></span>
+<span>Broken in air, like a passionate promise<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Born of a moment's tears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Clouds in the distance dwell,<br /></span>
+<span>Clouds that are cool, for all their color,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pure as a rose-lipped shell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Fleets of wool in the upper heavens<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gossamer wings unfurl;<br /></span>
+<span>Sailing so high they seem but sleeping<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Over yon bar of pearl.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a>
+<span>What would the great world lose, I wonder&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would it be missed or no&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>If we stayed in the opal morning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Floating forever so?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Swung to sleep by the swaying water,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Only to dream all day&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Scatter such dreams away!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.R. Sill.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Memory" id="Memory"></a><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a><b>Memory.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>My mind lets go a thousand things,<br /></span>
+<span>Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,<br /></span>
+<span>And yet recalls the very hour&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>'Twas noon by yonder village tower,<br /></span>
+<span>And on the last blue noon in May&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The wind came briskly up this way,<br /></span>
+<span>Crisping the brook beside the road;<br /></span>
+<span>Then, pausing here, set down its load<br /></span>
+<span>Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly<br /></span>
+<span>Two petals from that wild-rose tree.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.B. Aldrich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="A_Mood" id="A_Mood"></a><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a><b>A Mood.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness;<br /></span>
+<span>A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence;<br /></span>
+<span>A tense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence;<br /></span>
+<span>A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.B. Aldrich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Way_to_Arcady" id="The_Way_to_Arcady"></a><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a><b>The Way to Arcady.</b><a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>Oh, what's the way to Arcady,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>To Arcady, to Arcady;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Oh, what's the way to Arcady,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Where all the leaves are merry?</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, what's the way to Arcady?<br /></span>
+<span>The spring is rustling in the tree&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The tree the wind is blowing through&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It sets the blossoms flickering white.<br /></span>
+<span>I knew not skies could burn so blue<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor any breezes blow so light.<br /></span>
+<span>They blow an old-time way for me,<br /></span>
+<span>Across the world to Arcady.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, what's the way to Arcady?<br /></span>
+<span>Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,<br /></span>
+<span>Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.<br /></span>
+<span>How have you heart for any tune,<br /></span>
+<span>You with the wayworn russet shoon?<br /></span>
+<span>Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,<br /></span>
+<span>Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.<br /></span>
+<span>I'll brim it well with pieces red,<br /></span>
+<span>If you will tell the way to tread.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a>
+<span><i>Oh, I am bound for Arcady,</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>And if you but keep pace with me</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>You tread the way to Arcady.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And where away lies Arcady,<br /></span>
+<span>And how long yet may the journey be?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>Ah, that</i> (quoth he) <i>I do not know&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Across the clover and the snow&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Across the frost, across the flowers&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Through summer seconds and winter hours.</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>I've trod the way my whole life long,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And know not now where it may be;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>My guide is but the stir to song.</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>That tells me I can not go wrong,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Or clear or dark the pathway be</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Upon the road to Arcady.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But how shall I do who cannot sing?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I was wont to sing, once on a time&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>There is never an echo now to ring<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>'Tis strange you cannot sing</i> (quoth he),<br /></span>
+<span><i>The folk all sing in Arcady.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But how may he find Arcady<br /></span>
+<span>Who hath not youth nor melody?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a>
+<span><i>What, know you not, old man</i> (quoth he)&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Your hair is white, your face is wise&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Who hopes to see fair Arcady?</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>No gold can buy you entrance there;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>But beggared Love may go all bare&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>No wisdom won with weariness;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>But Love goes in with Folly's dress&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>No fame that wit could ever win;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>But only Love may lead Love in</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>To Arcady, to Arcady.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Ah, woe is me, through all my days<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wisdom and wealth I both have got,<br /></span>
+<span>And fame and name, and great men's praise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There was a time, when life was new&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But far away, and half forgot&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>I only know her eyes were blue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But Love&mdash;I fear I knew it not.<br /></span>
+<span>We did not wed, for lack of gold,<br /></span>
+<span>And she is dead, and I am old.<br /></span>
+<span>All things have come since then to me,<br /></span>
+<span>Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a>
+<span><i>Ah, then I fear we part</i> (quoth he),<br /></span>
+<span><i>My way's for Love and Arcady</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But you, you fare alone, like me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The gray is likewise in your hair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What love have you to lead you there,<br /></span>
+<span>To Arcady, to Arcady?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>My true companion's Memory.</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>With Love he fills the Spring-time air;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>With Love he clothes the Winter tree.</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Oh, past this poor horizon's bound</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>My song goes straight to one who stands&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Her face all gladdening at the sound&mdash;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>To lead me to the Spring-green lands,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>To wander with enlacing hands.</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>The songs within my breast that stir</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Are all of her, are all of her.</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>My maid is dead long years</i> (quoth he),<br /></span>
+<span><i>She waits for me in Arcady.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>To Arcady, to Arcady;</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Where all the leaves are merry.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H.C. Bunner.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892,
+1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Eves_Daughter" id="Eves_Daughter"></a><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></a><b>Eve's Daughter.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I waited in the little sunny room:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play,<br /></span>
+<span>The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And out upon the bay<br /></span>
+<span>I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>"Such an old friend,&mdash;she would not make me stay<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo,<br /></span>
+<span>Dana&euml; in her shower! and fit to slay<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow:<br /></span>
+<span>Gold hair, that streamed away<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"She would not make me wait!"&mdash;but well I know<br /></span>
+<span>She took a good half-hour to loose and lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.R. Sill.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="On_An_Intaglio_Head_Of_Minerva" id="On_An_Intaglio_Head_Of_Minerva"></a><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a><b>On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Beneath the warrior's helm, behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The flowing tresses of the woman!<br /></span>
+<span>Minerva, Pallas, what you will&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In cousin's helmet masquerading;<br /></span>
+<span>If not&mdash;then Wisdom was a dame<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For sonnets and for serenading!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I thought the goddess cold, austere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not made for love's despairs and blisses:<br /></span>
+<span>Did Pallas wear her hair like that?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The Nightingale should be her bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn:<br /></span>
+<span>How very fresh she looks, and yet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She's older far than Trajan's Column!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The magic hand that carved this face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And set this vine-work round it running,<br /></span>
+<span>Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a>
+<span>Who was he? Was he glad or sad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who knew to carve in such a fashion?<br /></span>
+<span>Perchance he graved the dainty head<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For some brown girl that scorned his passion.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Perchance, in some still garden-place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,<br /></span>
+<span>He flung the jewel at the feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas La&iuml;s.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But he is dust; we may not know<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His happy or unhappy story:<br /></span>
+<span>Nameless, and dead these centuries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His work outlives him&mdash;there's his glory!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Both man and jewel lay in earth<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beneath a lava-buried city;<br /></span>
+<span>The countless summers came and went<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Years blotted out the man, but left<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The jewel fresh as any blossom,<br /></span>
+<span>Till some Visconti dug it up&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>O nameless brother! see how Time<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Your gracious handiwork has guarded:<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a>See how your loving, patient art<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Has come, at last, to be rewarded.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Who would not suffer slights of men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And pangs of hopeless passion also,<br /></span>
+<span>To have his carven agate-stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On such a bosom rise and fall so!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.B. Aldrich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Hunting-song" id="Hunting-song"></a><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a><b>Hunting-song.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,<br /></span>
+<span>When the horn is on the hill? (<i>Bugle</i>: Tarantara!)<br /></span>
+<span>With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,<br /></span>
+<span>And a ten-tined buck to kill!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Before the sun goes down, goes down,<br /></span>
+<span>We shall slay the buck of ten; (<i>Bugle</i>: Tarantara!)<br /></span>
+<span>And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison,<br /></span>
+<span>When we come home again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Let him that loves his ease, his ease,<br /></span>
+<span>Keep close and house him fair; (<i>Bugle</i>: Tarantara!)<br /></span>
+<span>He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger<br /></span>
+<span>And the joy of the open air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But he that loves the hills, the hills,<br /></span>
+<span>Let him come out to-day! (<i>Bugle</i>: Tarantara!)<br /></span>
+<span>For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,<br /></span>
+<span>And the hunt's up, and away!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">R. Hovey.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Parting" id="Parting"></a><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a><b>Parting.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>My life closed twice before its close;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It yet remains to see<br /></span>
+<span>If Immortality unveil<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A third event to me,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>So huge, so hopeless to conceive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As these that twice befell.<br /></span>
+<span>Parting is all we know of heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all we need of hell.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E. Dickinson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="When_the_Sultan_Goes_to_Ispahan" id="When_the_Sultan_Goes_to_Ispahan"></a><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a><b>When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span><i>When the Sultan Shah-Zaman</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Goes to the city Ispahan</i>,<br /></span>
+<span>Even before he gets so far<br /></span>
+<span>As the place where the clustered palm-trees are,<br /></span>
+<span>At the last of the thirty palace-gates,<br /></span>
+<span>The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom,<br /></span>
+<span>Orders a feast in his favorite room&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Glittering squares of colored ice,<br /></span>
+<span>Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice,<br /></span>
+<span>Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates,<br /></span>
+<span>Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,<br /></span>
+<span>Limes, and citrons, and apricots,<br /></span>
+<span>And wines that are known to Eastern princes;<br /></span>
+<span>And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots<br /></span>
+<span>Of spic&egrave;d meats and costliest fish<br /></span>
+<span>And all that the curious palate could wish,<br /></span>
+<span>Pass in and out of the cedarn doors;<br /></span>
+<span>Scattered over mosaic floors<br /></span>
+<span>Are anemones, myrtles, and violets,<br /></span>
+<span>And a musical fountain throws its jets<br /></span>
+<span>Of a hundred colors into the air.<br /></span>
+<span>The dusk Sultana loosens her hair,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a>And stains with the henna-plant the tips<br /></span>
+<span>Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips<br /></span>
+<span>Till they bloom again; but, alas, <i>that</i> rose<br /></span>
+<span>Not for the Sultan buds and blows!<br /></span>
+<span><i>Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>When he goes to the city Ispahan</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then at a wave of her sunny hand<br /></span>
+<span>The dancing-girls of Samarcand<br /></span>
+<span>Glide in like shapes from fairy-land,<br /></span>
+<span>Making a sudden mist in air<br /></span>
+<span>Of fleecy veils and floating hair<br /></span>
+<span>And white arms lifted. Orient blood<br /></span>
+<span>Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes.<br /></span>
+<span>And there, in this Eastern Paradise,<br /></span>
+<span>Filled with the breath of sandal-wood,<br /></span>
+<span>And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh,<br /></span>
+<span>Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan,<br /></span>
+<span>Sipping the wines of Astrakhan;<br /></span>
+<span>And her Arab lover sits with her.<br /></span>
+<span><i>That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Goes to the city Ispahan</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Now, when I see an extra light,<br /></span>
+<span>Flaming, flickering on the night<br /></span>
+<span>From my neighbor's casement opposite,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a>I know as well as I know to pray,<br /></span>
+<span>I know as well as a tongue can say,<br /></span>
+<span><i>That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman</i><br /></span>
+<span><i>Has gone to the city Isfahan</i>.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">T.B. Aldrich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Night" id="Night"></a><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a><b>Night.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Chaos, of old, was God's dominion;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas His belov&egrave;d child, His own first-born;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And He was ag&egrave;d ere the thought of morn<br /></span>
+<span>Shook the sheer steeps of black Oblivion.<br /></span>
+<span>Then all the works of darkness being done<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through countless &aelig;ons hopelessly forlorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Out to the very utmost verge and bourn,<br /></span>
+<span>God at the last, reluctant, made the sun.<br /></span>
+<span>He loved His darkness still, for it was old:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He grieved to see His eldest child take flight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when His <i>Fiat lux</i> the death-knell tolled,<br /></span>
+<span>As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He snatched a remnant flying into light<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L. Mifflin.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="He_Made_the_Stars_Also" id="He_Made_the_Stars_Also"></a><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a><b>He Made the Stars Also.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of suns, their legions withering at His nod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Died into day hearing the voice of God;<br /></span>
+<span>And seas new made, immense and furious, each<br /></span>
+<span>Plunged and rolled forward, feeling for a beach;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He walked the waters with effulgence shod.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This being made, He yearned for worlds to make<br /></span>
+<span>From other chaos out beyond our night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>For to create is still God's prime delight.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The large moon, all alone, sailed her dark lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the first tides were moving to her might;<br /></span>
+<span>Then Darkness trembled, and began to quake<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Big with the birth of stars, and when He spake<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A million worlds leapt into radiant light!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L. Mifflin.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Sour_Winds" id="The_Sour_Winds"></a><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a><b>The Sour Winds.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Wind of the North,<br /></span>
+<span>Wind of the Norland snows,<br /></span>
+<span>Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,<br /></span>
+<span>And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,<br /></span>
+<span>And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice,<br /></span>
+<span>But go not near my love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Wind of the West,<br /></span>
+<span>Wind of the few, far clouds,<br /></span>
+<span>Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,<br /></span>
+<span>And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,<br /></span>
+<span>And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,<br /></span>
+<span>But let my dear one rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Wind of the East,<br /></span>
+<span>Wind of the sunrise seas,<br /></span>
+<span>Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,<br /></span>
+<span>And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars,<br /></span>
+<span>And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves,<br /></span>
+<span>Yet keep thou from my love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a>
+<span>But thou, sweet wind!<br /></span>
+<span>Wind of the fragrant South,<br /></span>
+<span>Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes<br /></span>
+<span>And flowering forests come with dewy wings,<br /></span>
+<span>And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss<br /></span>
+<span>The low mound where she lies.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">C.H. L&uuml;ders.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Return" id="The_Return"></a><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a><b>The Return.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Now at last I am at home&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wind abeam and flooding tide,<br /></span>
+<span>And the offing white with foam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And an old friend by my side<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Glad the long, green waves to ride.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Strange how we've been wandering<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the crowded towns for gain,<br /></span>
+<span>You and I who loved the sting<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the salt spray and the rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the gale across the main!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>What world honors could avail<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Loss of this&mdash;the slanted mast,<br /></span>
+<span>And the roaring round the rail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the sheeted spray we cast<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Round us as we seaward passed?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>As the sad land sinks apace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With it sinks each thought of care;<br /></span>
+<span>Think not now of aging face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Question not the whitening hair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Youth still beckons everywhere.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a>
+<span>And the light we thought had fled<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the sky-line glows there now;<br /></span>
+<span>Bends the same blue overhead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the waves we used to plow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Part in beryl at the bow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Hours like this we two have known<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the old days, when we sailed<br /></span>
+<span>Seaward ere the night had flown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or the morning star had paled<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like the shy eyes love has veiled.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Round our bow the ripples purled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As the swift tide outward streamed<br /></span>
+<span>Through a hushed and ghostly world,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where our harbor reaches seemed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like a river that we dreamed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then we saw the black hills sway<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the waters' crinkled glass,<br /></span>
+<span>And the village wan and gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the startled cattle pass<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the tangled meadow-grass.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Through the glooming we have run<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Straight into the gates of day,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>Seen the crimson-edg&egrave;d sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Burn the sea's gray bound away&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Leap to universal sway.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Little cared we where we drove<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So the wind was strong and keen.<br /></span>
+<span>Oh, what sun-crowned waves we clove!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What cool shadows lurked between<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Those long combers pale and green!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Graybeard pleasures are but toys;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sorrow shatters them at last:<br /></span>
+<span>For this brief hour we are boys;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trim the sheet and face the blast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sail into the happy past!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L.F. Tooker.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Bereaved" id="Bereaved"></a><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></a><b>Bereaved.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Let me come in where you sit weeping,&mdash;aye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Let me, who have not any child to die,<br /></span>
+<span>Weep with you for the little one whose love<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I have known nothing of.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed<br /></span>
+<span>Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used<br /></span>
+<span>To kiss.&mdash;Such arms&mdash;such hands I never knew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May I not weep with you?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Fain would I be of service&mdash;say some thing,<br /></span>
+<span>Between the tears, that would be comforting,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who have no child to die.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.W. Riley.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Chariot" id="The_Chariot"></a><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264"></a><b>The Chariot.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Because I could not stop for Death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He kindly stopped for me;<br /></span>
+<span>The carriage held but just ourselves<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Immortality.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We slowly drove, he knew no haste,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I had put away<br /></span>
+<span>My labor, and my leisure too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For his civility.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We passed the school where children played,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their lessons scarcely done;<br /></span>
+<span>We passed the fields of gazing grain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We passed the setting sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>We paused before a house that seemed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A swelling of the ground;<br /></span>
+<span>The roof was scarcely visible,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cornice but a mound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Since then 'tis centuries; but each<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Feels shorter than the day<br /></span>
+<span>I first surmised the horses' heads<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were toward eternity.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E. Dickinson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Indian_Summer" id="Indian_Summer"></a><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265"></a><b>Indian Summer.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>These are the days when birds come back,<br /></span>
+<span>A very few, a bird or two,<br /></span>
+<span>To take a backward look.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>These are the days when skies put on<br /></span>
+<span>The old, old sophistries of June,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>A blue and gold mistake.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,<br /></span>
+<span>Almost thy plausibility<br /></span>
+<span>Induces my belief,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,<br /></span>
+<span>And softly through the altered air<br /></span>
+<span>Hurries a timid leaf!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, sacrament of summer days,<br /></span>
+<span>Oh, last communion in the haze,<br /></span>
+<span>Permit a child to join,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thy sacred emblems to partake,<br /></span>
+<span>Thy consecrated bread to break,<br /></span>
+<span>Taste thine immortal wine!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E. Dickinson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Confided" id="Confided"></a><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a><b>Confided.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold,<br /></span>
+<span>Within this quiet fold,<br /></span>
+<span>Among Thy Father's sheep<br /></span>
+<span>I lay to sleep!<br /></span>
+<span>A heart that never for a night did rest<br /></span>
+<span>Beyond its mother's breast.<br /></span>
+<span>Lord, keep it close to Thee,<br /></span>
+<span>Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.B. Tabb.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="In_Absence" id="In_Absence"></a><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267"></a><b>In Absence.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>All that thou art not, makes not up the sum<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of what thou art, belov&egrave;d, unto me:<br /></span>
+<span>All other voices, wanting thine, are dumb;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All vision, in thine absence, vacancy.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.B. Tabb.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Song_of_the_Chattahoochee" id="Song_of_the_Chattahoochee"></a><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268"></a><b>Song of the Chattahoochee.</b><a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Out of the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span>Down the valleys of Hall,<br /></span>
+<span>I hurry amain to reach the plain,<br /></span>
+<span>Run the rapids and leap the fall<br /></span>
+<span>Split at the rock and together again,<br /></span>
+<span>Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,<br /></span>
+<span>And flee from folly on every side<br /></span>
+<span>With a lover's pain to attain the plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far from the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far from the valleys of Hall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All down the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All through the valleys of Hall,<br /></span>
+<span>The rushes cried <i>Abide, abide</i>,<br /></span>
+<span>The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,<br /></span>
+<span>The laving laurel turned my tide,<br /></span>
+<span>The ferns and the fondling grass said <i>Stay</i>,<br /></span>
+<span>The dewberry dipped for to work delay,<br /></span>
+<span>And the little reeds sighed <i>Abide, abide</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Here in the hills of Habersham</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Here in the valleys of Hall</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269"></a>
+<span class="i1">High o'er the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Veiling the valleys of Hall,<br /></span>
+<span>The hickory told me manifold<br /></span>
+<span>Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall<br /></span>
+<span>Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,<br /></span>
+<span>The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,<br /></span>
+<span>Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,<br /></span>
+<span>Said, <i>Pass not, so cold, these manifold</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Deep shades of the hills of Habersham</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>These glades in the valleys of Hall</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And oft in the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And oft in the valleys of Hall,<br /></span>
+<span>The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone<br /></span>
+<span>Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,<br /></span>
+<span>And many a luminous jewel lone<br /></span>
+<span>&mdash;Crystals clear or acloud with mist,<br /></span>
+<span>Ruby, garnet and amethyst&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Made lures with the lights of streaming stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the beds of the valleys of Hall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But oh, not the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And oh, not the valleys of Hall<br /></span>
+<span>Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270"></a>Downward the voices of Duty call&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Downward to toil and be mixed with the main.<br /></span>
+<span>The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,<br /></span>
+<span>And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,<br /></span>
+<span>And the lordly main from beyond the plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Calls through the valleys of Hall.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">S. Lanier.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by
+Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Seas_Voice" id="The_Seas_Voice"></a><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271"></a><b>The Sea's Voice.</b></h2>
+
+
+<h3>I.</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Around the rocky headlands, far and near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wakened ocean murmured with dull tongue<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till all the coast's mysterious caverns rung<br /></span>
+<span>With the waves' voice, barbaric, hoarse, and drear.<br /></span>
+<span>Within this distant valley, with rapt ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I listened, thrilled, as though a spirit sung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or some gray god, as when the world was young,<br /></span>
+<span>Moaned to his fellow, mad with rage or fear.<br /></span>
+<span>Thus in the dark, ere the first dawn, methought<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sea's deep roar and sullen surge and shock<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Broke the long silence of eternity,<br /></span>
+<span>And echoed from the summits where God wrought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Building the world, and ploughing the steep rock<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With ploughs of ice-hills harnessed to the sea.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3>II.</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The sea is never quiet: east and west<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The nations hear it, like the voice of fate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272"></a>Within vast shores its strife makes desolate,<br /></span>
+<span>Still murmuring mid storms that to its breast<br /></span>
+<span>Return, as eagles screaming to their nest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait<br /></span>
+<span>While old earth crumbles to eternal rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or some hoar monster calling to his mate?<br /></span>
+<span>O ye, that hear it moan about the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be still and listen! that loud voice hath sung<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown;<br /></span>
+<span>And when man's voice is dumb, forevermore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twill murmur on its craggy shores among,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Singing of gods and nations overthrown.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">W.P. Foster.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="At_Gibraltar" id="At_Gibraltar"></a><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273"></a><b>At Gibraltar.</b></h2>
+
+
+<h3>I.</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>England, I stand on thy imperial ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I feel within my blood old battles flow,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.<br /></span>
+<span>Still surging dark against the Christian bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy heights that watch them wandering below;<br /></span>
+<span>I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.<br /></span>
+<span>I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!<br /></span>
+<span>I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day<br /></span>
+<span>Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Startles the desert over Africa!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<h3>II.</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Between the East and West, that God has built;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,<br /></span>
+<span>While run thy armies true with His decrees.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274"></a>Law, justice, liberty,&mdash;great gifts are these;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt,<br /></span>
+<span>The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease.<br /></span>
+<span>Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one<br /></span>
+<span>Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">American I am; would wars were done!<br /></span>
+<span>Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Peace to the world from ports without a gun!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">G.E. Woodberry.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Jerry_an_Me" id="Jerry_an_Me"></a><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275"></a>Jerry an' Me.</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>No matter how the chances are,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor when the winds may blow,<br /></span>
+<span>My Jerry there has left the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With all its luck an' woe:<br /></span>
+<span>For who would try the sea at all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Must try it luck or no.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>They told him&mdash;Lor', men take no care<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How words they speak may fall&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>They told him blunt, he was too old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Too slow with oar an' trawl,<br /></span>
+<span>An' this is how he left the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' luck an' woe an' all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Take any man on sea or land<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Out of his beaten way,<br /></span>
+<span>If he is young 'twill do, but then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If he is old an' gray,<br /></span>
+<span>A month will be a year to him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be all to him you may.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He sits by me, but most he walks<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The door-yard for a deck,<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276"></a>An' scans the boat a-goin' out<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till she becomes a speck,<br /></span>
+<span>Then turns away, his face as wet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As if she were a wreck.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I cannot bring him back again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The days when we were wed.<br /></span>
+<span>But he shall never know&mdash;my man&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lack o' love or bread,<br /></span>
+<span>While I can cast a stitch or fill<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A needleful o' thread.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>God pity me, I'd most forgot<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How many yet there be,<br /></span>
+<span>Whose goodmen full as old as mine<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Are somewhere on the sea,<br /></span>
+<span>Who hear the breakin' bar an' think<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O' Jerry home an'&mdash;me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H. Rich.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Gravedigger" id="The_Gravedigger"></a><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277"></a><b>The Gravedigger.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,<br /></span>
+<span>And well his work is done;<br /></span>
+<span>With an equal grave for lord and knave,<br /></span>
+<span>He buries them every one.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,<br /></span>
+<span>He makes for the nearest shore;<br /></span>
+<span>And God, who sent him a thousand ship,<br /></span>
+<span>Will send him a thousand more;<br /></span>
+<span>But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,<br /></span>
+<span>And shoulder them in to shore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,<br /></span>
+<span>Shoulder them in to shore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre<br /></span>
+<span>Went out, and where are they?<br /></span>
+<span>In the port they made, they are delayed<br /></span>
+<span>With the ships of yesterday.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He followed the ships of England far<br /></span>
+<span>As the ships of long ago;<br /></span>
+<span>And the ships of France they led him a dance,<br /></span>
+<span>But he laid them all arow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278"></a>
+<span>Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him<br /></span>
+<span>Is the sexton of the town;<br /></span>
+<span>For sure and swift, with a guiding lift,<br /></span>
+<span>He shovels the dead men down.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But though he delves so fierce and grim,<br /></span>
+<span>His honest graves are wide,<br /></span>
+<span>As well they know who sleep below<br /></span>
+<span>The dredge of the deepest tide.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip,<br /></span>
+<span>And loud is the chorus skirled;<br /></span>
+<span>With the burly note of his rumbling throat<br /></span>
+<span>He batters it down the world.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>He learned it once in his father's house<br /></span>
+<span>Where the ballads of eld were sung;<br /></span>
+<span>And merry enough is the burden rough,<br /></span>
+<span>But no man knows the tongue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,<br /></span>
+<span>And wilful she must have been,<br /></span>
+<span>That she could bide at his gruesome side<br /></span>
+<span>When the first red dawn came in.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those<br /></span>
+<span>She greets to his border home;<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279"></a>And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep<br /></span>
+<span>That beckons, and they come.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough<br /></span>
+<span>To handle the tallest mast;<br /></span>
+<span>From the royal barque to the slaver dark,<br /></span>
+<span>He buries them all at last.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,<br /></span>
+<span>He makes for the nearest shore;<br /></span>
+<span>And God, who sent him a thousand ship,<br /></span>
+<span>Will send him a thousand more;<br /></span>
+<span>But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,<br /></span>
+<span>And shoulder them in to shore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,<br /></span>
+<span>Shoulder them in to shore.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">B. Carman.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Absence_of_Little_Wesley" id="The_Absence_of_Little_Wesley"></a><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280"></a><b>The Absence of Little Wesley.</b></h2>
+
+<h3>HOOSIER DIALECT.</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>W'y, I miss his yell o' "Gran'pap!" as I'd miss the whipperwill!<br /></span>
+<span>And to think I ust to <i>scold</i> him fer his everlastin' noise,<br /></span>
+<span>When I on'y rickollect him as the best o' little boys!<br /></span>
+<span>I wisht a hunderd times a day 'at he'd come trompin' in,<br /></span>
+<span>And all the noise he ever made was twic't as loud ag'in!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>It 'u'd seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment,<br /></span>
+<span>'Longside o' this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Of course the clock don't tick no louder than it ust to do&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Yit now they's times it 'pears like it 'u'd bu'st itse'f in two!<br /></span>
+<span>And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som'er's clos't around,<br /></span>
+<span>And seems's ef, mighty nigh it, it 'u'd lift me off the ground!<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281"></a>And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars,<br /></span>
+<span>In the red o' airly mornin', er the dusk and dew and stars,<br /></span>
+<span>When the neighbers' boys 'at passes never stop, but jes' go on,<br /></span>
+<span>A-whistlin' kind o' to theirse'v's&mdash;sence little Wesley's gone!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And then, o' nights, when Mother's settin' up oncommon late,<br /></span>
+<span>A-bilin' pears er somepin', and I set and smoke and wait,<br /></span>
+<span>Tel the moon out through the winder don't look bigger'n a dime,<br /></span>
+<span>And things keeps gittin' stiller&mdash;stiller&mdash;stiller all the time,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>I've ketched myse'f a-wishin' like&mdash;as I dumb on the cheer<br /></span>
+<span>To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor'n fifty year,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>A-wishin' 'at the time bed come fer us to go to bed,<br /></span>
+<span>With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley's dead!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">J.W. Riley.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Be_Thou_a_Bird_My_Soul" id="Be_Thou_a_Bird_My_Soul"></a><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282"></a><b>Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Out of thy wilderness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Till earth grows less and less,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Heaven, more and more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Till all the earth shall be<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Vibrant with ecstasy<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Beneath thy wing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That through the pathless air<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thou shalt find otherwhere<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Unerring, home.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Opportunity" id="Opportunity"></a><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283"></a><b>Opportunity.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;<br /></span>
+<span>And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged<br /></span>
+<span>A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords<br /></span>
+<span>Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner<br /></span>
+<span>Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.<br /></span>
+<span>A craven hung along the battle's edge,<br /></span>
+<span>And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>That blue blade that the king's son bears,&mdash;but this<br /></span>
+<span>Blunt thing!"&mdash;he snapt and flung it from his hand,<br /></span>
+<span>And lowering crept away and left the field.<br /></span>
+<span>Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,<br /></span>
+<span>And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,<br /></span>
+<span>Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,<br /></span>
+<span>And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout<br /></span>
+<span>Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,<br /></span>
+<span>And saved a great cause that heroic day.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E.R. Sill.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Dutch_Lullaby" id="Dutch_Lullaby"></a><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284"></a><b>Dutch Lullaby.</b><a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sailed off in a wooden shoe,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Sailed on a river of misty light<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Into a sea of dew.<br /></span>
+<span>"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The old moon asked the three.<br /></span>
+<span>"We have come to fish for the herring-fish<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That live in this beautiful sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nets of silver and gold have we,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Said Wynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Blynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Nod.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The old moon laughed and sung a song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As they rocked in the wooden shoe;<br /></span>
+<span>And the wind that sped them all night long<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ruffled the waves of dew;<br /></span>
+<span>The little stars were the herring-fish<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That lived in the beautiful sea.<br /></span>
+<span>"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,<br /></span><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285"></a>
+<span class="i1">But never afeard are we!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So cried the stars to the fishermen three,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Blynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Nod.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>All night long their nets they threw<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the fish in the twinkling foam,<br /></span>
+<span>Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bringing the fishermen home;<br /></span>
+<span>'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As if it could not be;<br /></span>
+<span>And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of sailing that beautiful sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I shall name you the fishermen three:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Blynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Nod.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Nod is a little head,<br /></span>
+<span>And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is a wee one's trundle-bed;<br /></span>
+<span>So shut your eyes while Mother sings<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of wonderful sights that be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286"></a>And you shall see the beautiful things<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As you rock on the misty sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Blynken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Nod.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">E. Field.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by
+Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Maryland_Yellow-throat" id="The_Maryland_Yellow-throat"></a><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287"></a><b>The Maryland Yellow-throat.</b><a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>While May bedecks the naked trees<br /></span>
+<span>With tassels and embroideries,<br /></span>
+<span>And many blue-eyed violets beam<br /></span>
+<span>Along the edges of the stream,<br /></span>
+<span>I hear a voice that seems to say,<br /></span>
+<span>Now near at hand, now far away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Witchery&mdash;witchery&mdash;witchery</i>."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>An incantation so serene,<br /></span>
+<span>So innocent, befits the scene:<br /></span>
+<span>There's magic in that small bird's note&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>See, there he flits&mdash;the yellow-throat:<br /></span>
+<span>A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,<br /></span>
+<span>A spark of light that shines and sings<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Witchery&mdash;witchery&mdash;witchery</i>."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>You prophet with a pleasant name,<br /></span>
+<span>If out of Mary-land you came,<br /></span>
+<span>You know the way that thither goes<br /></span>
+<span>Where Mary's lovely garden grows:<br /></span>
+<span>Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,<br /></span>
+<span>And try, to call her down this way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Witchery&mdash;witchery&mdash;witchery</i>!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288"></a>
+<span>Tell her to leave her cockleshells,<br /></span>
+<span>And all her little silver bells<br /></span>
+<span>That blossom into melody,<br /></span>
+<span>And all her maids less fair than she.<br /></span>
+<span>She does not need these pretty things,<br /></span>
+<span>For everywhere she comes, she brings<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Witchery&mdash;witchery&mdash;witchery</i>!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The woods are greening overhead,<br /></span>
+<span>And flowers adorn each mossy bed;<br /></span>
+<span>The waters babble as they run&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>One thing is lacking, only one:<br /></span>
+<span>If Mary were but here to-day,<br /></span>
+<span>I would believe your charming lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Witchery&mdash;witchery&mdash;witchery</i>!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Along the shady road I look&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Who's coming now across the brook?<br /></span>
+<span>A woodland maid, all robed in white&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The leaves dance round her with delight,<br /></span>
+<span>The stream laughs out beneath her feet&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Witchery&mdash;witchery&mdash;witchery</i>!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H. Van Dyke.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> From "The Builders and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Silence_of_Love" id="The_Silence_of_Love"></a><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289"></a><b>The Silence of Love.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh, inexpressible as sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Love takes my voice away;<br /></span>
+<span>I cannot tell thee, when we meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What most I long to say.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But hadst thou hearing in thy heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To know what beats in mine,<br /></span>
+<span>Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In melodies divine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>So warbling birds lift higher notes<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than to our ears belong;<br /></span>
+<span>The music fills their throbbing throats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But silence steals the song.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">G.E. Woodberry.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Secret" id="The_Secret"></a><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290"></a><b>The Secret.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Nightingales warble about it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All night under blossom and star;<br /></span>
+<span>The wild swan is dying without it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the eagle cryeth afar;<br /></span>
+<span>The sun he doth mount but to find it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Searching the green earth o'er;<br /></span>
+<span>But more doth a man's heart mind it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Oh, more, more, more!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Over the gray leagues of ocean<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The infinite yearneth alone;<br /></span>
+<span>The forests with wandering emotion<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The thing they know not intone;<br /></span>
+<span>Creation arose but to see it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A million lamps in the blue;<br /></span>
+<span>But a lover he shall be it<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If one sweet maid is true.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">G.E. Woodberry.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Whip-poor-will" id="The_Whip-poor-will"></a><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291"></a><b>The Whip-poor-will.</b><a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Do you remember, father,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It seems so long ago,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The day we fished together<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Along the Pocono?<br /></span>
+<span>At dusk I waited for you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beside the lumber-mill,<br /></span>
+<span>And there I heard a hidden bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sad and shrill,&mdash;"<i>whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The place was all deserted;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mill-wheel hung at rest;<br /></span>
+<span>The lonely star of evening<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was quivering in the west;<br /></span>
+<span>The veil of night was falling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The winds were folded still;<br /></span>
+<span>And everywhere the trembling air<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sad and shrill,&mdash;"<i>whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292"></a>
+<span>You seemed so long in coming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I felt so much alone;<br /></span>
+<span>The wide, dark world was round me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And life was all unknown;<br /></span>
+<span>The hand of sorrow touched me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And made my senses thrill<br /></span>
+<span>With all the pain that haunts the strain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of mournful whip-poor-will.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sad and shrill,&mdash;"<i>whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>What did I know of trouble?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An idle little lad;<br /></span>
+<span>I had not learned the lessons<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That make men wise and sad,<br /></span>
+<span>I dreamed of grief and parting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And something seemed to fill<br /></span>
+<span>My heart with tears, while in my ears<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Resounded "whip-poor-will."<br /></span>
+<span>"<i>Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sad and shrill,&mdash;"<i>whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>'Twas but a shadowy sadness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That lightly passed away;<br /></span>
+<span>But I have known the substance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of sorrow, since that day.<br /></span>
+<span><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293"></a>For nevermore at twilight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beside the silent mill,<br /></span>
+<span>I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And hear the whip-poor-will.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sad and shrill,&mdash;"<i>whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But if you still remember,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In that fair land of light,<br /></span>
+<span>The pains and fears that touch us<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Along this edge of night,<br /></span>
+<span>I think all earthly grieving,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all our mortal ill,<br /></span>
+<span>To you must seem like a boy's sad dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who hears the whip-poor-will.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A passing thrill&mdash;"<i>whippoorwill!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H. Van Dyke.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897,
+Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Fertility" id="Fertility"></a><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294"></a><b>Fertility.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Spirit that moves the sap in spring,<br /></span>
+<span>When lusty male birds fight and sing,<br /></span>
+<span>Inform my words, and make my lines<br /></span>
+<span>As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Let mine be the freshening power<br /></span>
+<span>Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;<br /></span>
+<span>The fertilizing song be mine,<br /></span>
+<span>Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Let some procreant truth exhale<br /></span>
+<span>From me, before my forces fail;<br /></span>
+<span>Or ere the ecstatic impulse go,<br /></span>
+<span>Let all my buds to blossoms blow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>If quick, sound seed be wanting where<br /></span>
+<span>The virgin soil feels sun and air,<br /></span>
+<span>And longs to fill a higher state,<br /></span>
+<span>There let my meanings germinate.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Let not my strength be spilled for naught,<br /></span>
+<span>But, in some fresher vessel caught,<br /></span>
+<span>Be blended into sweeter forms,<br /></span>
+<span>And fraught with purer aims and charms.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295"></a>
+<span>Let bloom-dust of my life be blown<br /></span>
+<span>To quicken hearts that flower alone;<br /></span>
+<span>Around my knees let scions rise<br /></span>
+<span>With heavenward-pointed destinies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And when I fall, like some old tree,<br /></span>
+<span>And subtile change makes mould of me,<br /></span>
+<span>There let earth show a fertile line<br /></span>
+<span>Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">M. Thompson.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Veery" id="The_Veery"></a><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296"></a><b>The Veery.</b><a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,<br /></span>
+<span>When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.<br /></span>
+<span>So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie,<br /></span>
+<span>I longed to hear a simpler strain,&mdash;the wood notes of the veery.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;<br /></span>
+<span>It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;<br /></span>
+<span>He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;<br /></span>
+<span>I only know one song more sweet,&mdash;the vespers of the veery.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,<br /></span>
+<span>I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:<br /></span><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297"></a>
+<span>The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,<br /></span>
+<span>And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;<br /></span>
+<span>New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:<br /></span>
+<span>And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,<br /></span>
+<span>I fain would hear, before I go, the wood notes of the veery.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">H. Van Dyke.</span></div>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><br /><br />
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="The_Eavesdropper" id="The_Eavesdropper"></a><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298"></a><b>The Eavesdropper.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>In a still room at hush of dawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My Love and I lay side by side<br /></span>
+<span>And heard the roaming forest wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Stir in the paling autumn-tide.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Because the round day was so fair;<br /></span>
+<span>While memories of reluctant night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Outside, a yellow maple-tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shifting upon the silvery blue<br /></span>
+<span>With small innumerable sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rustled to let the sunlight through.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The livelong day the elvish leaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Danced with their shadows on the floor;<br /></span>
+<span>And the lost children of the wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Went straying homeward by our door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And all the swarthy afternoon<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We watched the great deliberate sun<br /></span>
+<span>Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Counting his hilltops one by one.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299"></a>
+<span>Then as the purple twilight came<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And touched the vines along our eaves,<br /></span>
+<span>Another Shadow stood without<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The silence fell on my Love's lips;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad<br /></span>
+<span>With pondering some maze of dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though all the splendid year was glad.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Restless and vague as a gray wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her heart had grown, she knew not why.<br /></span>
+<span>But hurrying to the open door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Against the verge of western sky<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I saw retreating on the hills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Looming and sinister and black,<br /></span>
+<span>The stealthy figure swift and huge<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of One who strode and looked not back.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">B. Carman.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Sesostris" id="Sesostris"></a><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300"></a><b>Sesostris.</b></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He sits within the desert, carved in stone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Inscrutable, colossal, and alone,<br /></span>
+<span>And ancienter than memory of things.<br /></span>
+<span>Graved on his front the sacred beetle clings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Disdain sits on his lips; and in a frown<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown.<br /></span>
+<span>The affrighted ostrich dare not dust her wings<br /></span>
+<span>Anear this Presence. The long caravan's<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins stare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This symbol of past power more than man's<br /></span>
+<span>Presages doom. Kings look&mdash;and Kings despair:<br /></span>
+<span>Their sceptres tremble in their jewelled hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And dark thrones totter in the baleful air!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="author"><span class="smcap">L. Mifflin.</span></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="NOTES" id="NOTES"></a><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301"></a>NOTES.</h2>
+
+
+<p>American poetry before Bryant was considerable in amount, but, with few
+exceptions, it must be looked for by the curious student in the
+graveyard of old anthologies. Who now reads "The Simple Cobbler of
+Agawam in America," "The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung up in America," "The
+Day of Doom," "M'Fingal," or "The Columbiad?" Skipping a generation from
+Barlow's death, who reads with much seriousness any one of the group of
+poets of which Bryant in his earliest period was the centre: Halleck,
+Pierpont, Sprague, Drake, Dana, Percival, Allston, Brainard, Mrs.
+Osgood, and Miss Brooks? A few of them, to be sure, are remembered by an
+occasional lyric,&mdash;Halleck by "Marco Bozzaris," a spirited ode in the
+manner of Campbell; Pierpont by his ringing lines, "Warren's Address to
+the American Soldiers;" Drake by "The American Flag," conventional but
+not commonplace, and marked by one very imaginative line; and Allston by
+two rather excellent lyrics, "Rosalie" and "America to Great Britain."
+The first poet to accomplish work of high sustained excellence was
+Bryant. His poetry, though never impassioned, is uniformly elegant. It
+is often as chaste as Landor at his best. But it never surprises; it is
+not <a name="Page_302" id="Page_302"></a>emotional, personal, suggestively imaginative. In fact, Bryant's
+muse is not lyrical. With the exception of Pinkney and Hoffman, whose
+"Sparkling and Bright," if technically defective, is a true song, we
+must wait for our lyric poet till we reach Edgar Allan Poe, the
+greatest&mdash;one inclines to say the only&mdash;master of musical quality in
+verse whom America has produced.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Wild Honeysuckle.</i>&mdash;Philip Freneau, born in 1752, was a soldier in
+the American Revolution. Though never rising quite into the highest
+class of poets, he is our first genuine singer. "The Indian
+Burying-ground" and "To a Honey-bee" are only less successful than the
+graceful lines quoted.</p>
+
+<p><i>A Health.</i>&mdash;Poe was an enthusiastic admirer of this poem. He pronounced
+it, in his essay entitled "The Poetic Principle," "full of brilliancy
+and spirit," and added: "It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have
+been born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable
+that he would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists by that
+magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American
+Letters, in conducting the thing called <i>The North American Review</i>."
+This passage, very characteristic of Poe's criticisms, illustrates both
+his championship of favorites, and unmerciful scourging of foes.</p>
+
+<p><i>Unseen Spirits.</i>&mdash;The earnest sincerity, evident in every line of this
+poem, removes it at once from the company of those gay society verses
+sparkling with conceits which won for Willis the satiric comment of
+Lowell in "A Fable for Critics:"</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303"></a>
+<span>"There is Willis, all natty, and jaunty, and gay,<br /></span>
+<span>Who says his best things in so foppish a way,<br /></span>
+<span>With conceits and pet phrases so thickly o'erlaying 'em,<br /></span>
+<span>That one hardly knows whether to thank him for saying 'em;<br /></span>
+<span>Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Just conceive of a Muse with a ring in her nose!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Had Willis written more such lyrics as "Unseen Spirits," his fame could
+hardly have proved so ephemeral. Poe considered this poem Willis's best,
+and I see no ground for calling the critic's judgment in question.</p>
+
+<p><i>To Helen.</i>&mdash;This brief lyric, written in the poet's youth, is not only
+among the most exquisite from his pen, but it furnishes one of the most
+famous among current quotations:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>"The glory that was Greece,<br /></span>
+<span>And the grandeur that was Rome."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><i>On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.</i>&mdash;These manly lines have yielded
+another phrase to the world's memory. Hardly any quotation is more
+hackneyed than the last two verses of the first stanza. Drake was a
+young poet, the intimate friend and literary co-laborer of Halleck, who
+died September, 1820, in his twenty-fifth year.</p>
+
+<p><i>To the Fringed Gentian.</i>&mdash;This lyric well illustrates what Mr. Stedman
+has aptly termed Bryant's "Doric simplicity." Nothing of Wordsworth's is
+freer from ornament or from the least trace of affectation.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Raven.</i>&mdash;Though not belonging to the highest order of poetry, "The
+Raven" still maintains its position <a name="Page_304" id="Page_304"></a>at the head of its class. No more
+astonishing <i>tour de force</i> can be found in English literature.</p>
+
+<p><i>Nature.</i>&mdash;Generally regarded, I think, the finest of Longfellow's, if
+not of American, sonnets.</p>
+
+<p><i>Ichabod.</i>&mdash;Occasioned by the defection and fall of Daniel Webster. It
+is worthy a place by the side of Browning's "Lost Leader." In later
+years, Whittier wrote a poem on the theme, which, while not a retraction
+of his former position, is penned in a tenderer, more tolerant mood,
+"The Lost Occasion" is its title, and it is only just to the poet to
+read this second lyric, hardly less successful, in connection with the
+first.</p>
+
+<p><i>Old Ironsides.</i>&mdash;"Old Ironsides" was the popular name for the frigate
+<i>Constitution</i>. Dr. Holmes's poem appeared in the Boston <i>Advertiser</i>
+"at the time when it was proposed to break up the old ship as unfit for
+service."</p>
+
+<p><i>Bedouin Song.</i>&mdash;One of the most spirited, most genuinely lyrical of
+American poems.</p>
+
+<p><i>Skipper Ireson's Ride.</i>&mdash;These lines have an easy, swinging quality
+that is quite inimitable. One inclines to agree with Mr. Stedman: "Of
+all our poets he (Whittier) is the most natural balladist."</p>
+
+<p><i>The Village Blacksmith.</i>&mdash;The directness and homely strength of "The
+Village Blacksmith" have made it deservedly popular. One questions
+whether the last stanza might not have been omitted with advantage both
+to the unity and force of the poem.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Last Leaf.</i>&mdash;This masterpiece of mingled humor and pathos was a
+favorite poem of Abraham Lincoln.</p>
+
+<p><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305"></a><i>The Old Kentucky Home.</i>&mdash;The sincere and tender sentiment of this
+song, no less than its popular melody, has made it for many years a
+favorite. Even better known is Foster's "Old Folks at Home," which is
+said to have had a larger sale than any other American song.</p>
+
+<p><i>Carolina.</i>&mdash;The concluding lines of this lyric have an imaginative
+vigor rare in American poetry. Four stanzas are omitted.</p>
+
+<p><i>Dirge for a Soldier.</i>&mdash;Boker's Dirge was written in memory of General
+Philip Kearney.</p>
+
+<p><i>Battle-hymn of the Republic.</i>&mdash;Written in December, 1861, while Mrs.
+Howe was on a visit to Washington. Soon after the writer's return to
+Boston the lines were accepted for publication in the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i>
+by James T. Fields, who suggested the title of the poem. The song did
+not at first receive much notice, but before the Civil War was over had
+become very popular.</p>
+
+<p><i>My Maryland.</i>&mdash;A poem of great strength and beauty, though of uneven
+merit. It is unfortunately marred by a few rather intemperate
+expressions. The sincerity of feeling is everywhere so evident, however,
+that these must be forgiven. The lines were written by a native of
+Baltimore, Prof. James Randall, and were first published in April, 1861.
+The author of the famous song was teaching in a Louisiana college when
+he read in a New Orleans paper the news of the attack on the
+Massachusetts troops as they passed through Baltimore. This newspaper
+account inspired the verses.</p>
+
+<p><i>In the Hospital.</i>&mdash;This poem, which has enjoyed at <a name="Page_306" id="Page_306"></a>best a newspaper
+immortality, deserves to be more widely known. Its simplicity,
+directness, and truth of feeling are quite beyond praise. According to a
+story which one dislikes to believe apocryphal, these lines were found
+under the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal, South Carolina,
+in 1864.</p>
+
+<p><i>Days.</i>&mdash;Regarded from the point of view of artistic form, perhaps
+nothing of Emerson's is quite so flawless as "Days," a poem which for
+conciseness and polish is worthy to be called classic.</p>
+
+<p><i>A Death-bed.</i>&mdash;This is a worthy companion-piece to that other miniature
+classic, Thomas Hood's song, beginning, "We watched her breathing
+through the night."</p>
+
+<p><i>Telling the Bees.</i>&mdash;"A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country,
+formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death
+of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event,
+and their hives dressed in mourning. The ceremonial was supposed to be
+necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a
+new home." This poem of Whittier's is almost his highest achievement.
+Lowell said, in writing of the Quaker poet (Appleton's Cyclopedia of
+American Biography, VI.): "Many of his poems (such for example as
+'Telling the Bees'), in which description and sentiment mutually inspire
+each other, are as fine as any in the language." I often think, however,
+that Whittier will live longest by his hymns and poems of purely
+religious devotion. I know of nothing similar in English that surpasses
+"The Eternal Goodness," and perhaps half a dozen other poems.</p>
+
+<p><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307"></a><i>Katie.</i>&mdash;About one-third of Timrod's graceful poem which bears this
+title. This is one of the few cases where I have ventured to make
+omissions.</p>
+
+<p><i>Thalatta.</i>&mdash;Regarding this poem, Thomas Wentworth Higginson says, in
+"The New World and the New Book:" "Who knows but that, when all else of
+American literature has vanished in forgetfulness, some single little
+masterpiece like this may remain to show the high-water mark, not merely
+of a single poet, but of a nation and a generation?" The author of
+"Thalatta" was a Dartmouth graduate, a teacher, and a disciple of
+Emerson.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Fall of the Leaf.</i>&mdash;Thoreau's prose is known universally; his verse
+has not won as yet the recognition it deserves. It has little lyrical
+quality, but for unconventionality, charming turns of phrase, and the
+intimate knowledge of Nature it reveals, it is almost alone in American
+poetry.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Rhodora.</i>&mdash;"The Rhodora" has a conciseness and unity too rare in
+Emerson's poetry, which, beautiful in details, is strangely uneven. We
+sigh as we think what an unrivalled lyric poet Emerson would have been
+had he been sustained at the heights he was capable of reaching. No one
+surpasses Emerson at his best; he is almost a great poet.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Chambered Nautilus.</i>&mdash;Many think this Holmes's finest poem. It is
+taken from "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," 1858.</p>
+
+<p><i>Thought.</i>&mdash;Helen Jackson is, perhaps, the most gifted of American women
+poets. Emily Dickinson is more <a name="Page_308" id="Page_308"></a>imaginative, but her utter scorn of form
+in composition makes her work, unique as it is, less satisfying. Mrs.
+Jackson was a favorite with Emerson, and he is said to have liked best
+among her poems this sonnet, "Thought."</p>
+
+<p><i>On a Bust of Dante.</i>&mdash;Parsons, one of the best of American poets, is
+one of the most neglected. Stedman is inclined to think "On a Bust of
+Dante" the finest of American lyrics (see "The Nature of Poetry," 254).</p>
+
+<p><i>The Port of Skips.</i>&mdash;In a recent review of American Literature in the
+London <i>Ath&aelig;neum</i> occurs this sentence: "In point of power, workmanship,
+and feeling, among all poems written by Americans, we are inclined to
+give first place to the 'Port of Ships,' of Joaquin Miller."</p>
+
+<p><i>Evening Song.</i>&mdash;No poem of Lanier is more free from his characteristic
+faults. One regrets that so much of his work, highly imaginative as it
+is, is marred by over-elaboration and artificiality.</p>
+
+<p><i>A Woman's Thought.</i>&mdash;The striking reality and directness of this lyric,
+its immense emotional undercurrent, and its abrupt, almost gasping
+metre, admirably suited to the impassioned mood of the speaker,&mdash;these
+are a few of the qualities that combine to make "A Woman's Thought" one
+of the most remarkable poems in the book.</p>
+
+<p><i>The White Jessamine.</i>&mdash;One of the most charming of Father Tabb's
+lyrics. The verse of this poet is uneven in merit. He is too prone to
+merely fanciful conceits. But at his best Tabb is imaginative, as, for
+example, in the lines where he says of Angelo that he&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309"></a>
+<span>"From the sterile womb of stone,<br /></span>
+<span>Raised children unto God."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Always artistic, Tabb's verse usually suggests workmanship; it is more
+thoughtful than spontaneous. His religious poetry presents, in the main,
+a rather striking similarity to the work of George Herbert.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Battle-field.</i>&mdash;Miss Dickinson has much of the witchcraft and
+subtlety of William Blake. Many verses of the shy recluse, whom Mr.
+Higginson so happily has introduced to the world, are not only daring
+and unconventional, but recklessly defiant of form. But, as her editor
+has well said, "When a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on
+grammar seems an impertinence." Emily Dickinson had more than a message,
+more than the charm of unexpectedness, more than the gift of
+phrase,&mdash;she had (and of how many Americans can this be said?) an
+intense imagination.</p>
+
+<p><i>Fertility.</i>&mdash;This selection appears in the collected poems of Maurice
+Thompson (Houghton, Mifflin &amp; Co., 1892), under the title of "A
+Prelude."</p>
+
+<p><i>Sesostris.</i>&mdash;Of this poem Mr. Stoddard has the high praise that in
+imaginative quality it is unequalled in nineteenth century literature,
+unless by Leigh Hunt's sonnet on the Nile. The same critic does not
+scruple to declare of Mr. Mifflin that he has a "glorious imagination,"
+and to prophesy for him a distinguished future. Seldom indeed has a
+first book of verse won such instant and universal appreciation as Mr.
+Mifflin's volume of sonnets, just issued as the "American Treasury" goes
+to press.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="INDEX_TO_FIRST_LINES" id="INDEX_TO_FIRST_LINES"></a><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310"></a><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311"></a>INDEX TO FIRST LINES.</h2>
+
+<p>A blight, a gloom, I know not what; <a href='#Page_242'>242</a> </p>
+
+<p>All that thou art not, makes not up the sum; <a href='#Page_267'>267</a> </p>
+
+<p>All the long August afternoon; <a href='#Page_223'>223</a> </p>
+
+<p>A man said unto his angel; <a href='#Page_211'>211</a> </p>
+
+<p>Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold; <a href='#Page_266'>266</a> </p>
+
+<p>Around the rocky headlands, far and near; <a href='#Page_271'>271</a> </p>
+
+<p>As a fond mother, when the day is o'er; <a href='#Page_63'>63</a> </p>
+
+<p>As a twig trembles, which a bird; <a href='#Page_145'>145</a> </p>
+
+<p>At midnight, in the month of June; <a href='#Page_57'>57</a> </p>
+
+<p>At sea are tossing ships; <a href='#Page_149'>149</a> </p>
+
+<p>At the king's gate the subtle noon; <a href='#Page_183'>183</a> </p>
+
+<p>Ay, tear her tattered ensign down; <a href='#Page_76'>76</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar; <a href='#Page_282'>282</a> </p>
+
+<p>Because I could not stop for Death; <a href='#Page_264'>264</a> </p>
+
+<p>Bedtime's come fu' little boys; <a href='#Page_225'>225</a> </p>
+
+<p>Behind him lay the gray Azores; <a href='#Page_199'>199</a> </p>
+
+<p>Beneath the warrior's helm, behold; <a href='#Page_248'>248</a> </p>
+
+<p>Birds are singing round my window; <a href='#Page_193'>193</a> </p>
+
+<p>Burly, dozing bumble-bee; <a href='#Page_169'>169</a> </p>
+
+<p>By the rude bridge that arched the flood; <a href='#Page_74'>74</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Chaos, of old, was God's dominion; <a href='#Page_256'>256</a> <a name="Page_312" id="Page_312"></a></p>
+
+<p>Close his eyes; his work is done; <a href='#Page_106'>106</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Dark as the clouds of even; <a href='#Page_100'>100</a> </p>
+
+<p>Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days; <a href='#Page_126'>126</a> </p>
+
+<p>Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way; <a href='#Page_175'>175</a> </p>
+
+<p>Dear yesterday, glide not so fast; <a href='#Page_155'>155</a> </p>
+
+<p>Do you remember, father; <a href='#Page_291'>291</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>England, I stand on thy imperial ground; <a href='#Page_273'>273</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Fair flower that dost so comely grow; <a href='#Page_1'>1</a> </p>
+
+<p>Farragut, Farragut; <a href='#Page_110'>110</a> </p>
+
+<p>From the Desert I come to thee; <a href='#Page_85'>85</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried; <a href='#Page_119'>119</a> </p>
+
+<p>Green be the turf above thee; <a href='#Page_36'>36</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Helen, thy beauty is to me; <a href='#Page_31'>31</a> </p>
+
+<p>Her hands are cold; her face is white; <a href='#Page_124'>124</a> </p>
+
+<p>Here is the place; right over the hill; <a href='#Page_137'>137</a> </p>
+
+<p>Her suffering ended with the day; <a href='#Page_136'>136</a> </p>
+
+<p>How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood; <a href='#Page_8'>8</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>I am a woman&mdash;therefore I may not; <a href='#Page_227'>227</a> </p>
+
+<p>I fill this cup to one made up; <a href='#Page_12'>12</a> </p>
+
+<p>I have a little kinsman; <a href='#Page_150'>150</a> </p>
+
+<p>I knew she lay above me; <a href='#Page_235'>235</a> </p>
+
+<p>I lay me down to sleep; <a href='#Page_122'>122</a> </p>
+
+<p>I saw him once before; <a href='#Page_95'>95</a> </p>
+
+<p>I saw the twinkle of white feet; <a href='#Page_64'>64</a> </p>
+
+<p>I stand upon the summit of my years; <a href='#Page_154'>154</a> </p>
+
+<p>I waited in the little sunny room; <a href='#Page_247'>247</a> </p>
+
+<p>In a still room at hush of dawn; <a href='#Page_298'>298</a> </p>
+
+<p>In Heaven a spirit doth dwell; <a href='#Page_21'>21</a> </p>
+
+<p>In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes; <a href='#Page_165'>165</a> </p>
+
+<p>In the greenest of our valleys; <a href='#Page_26'>26</a> <a name="Page_313" id="Page_313"></a></p>
+
+<p>In the summer even; <a href='#Page_202'>202</a> </p>
+
+<p>It may be through some foreign grace; <a href='#Page_140'>140</a> </p>
+
+<p>It was many and many a year ago; <a href='#Page_10'>10</a> </p>
+
+<p>It was nothing but a rose I gave her; <a href='#Page_196'>196</a> </p>
+
+<p>It was the schooner Hesperus; <a href='#Page_80'>80</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Just where the Treasury's marble front; <a href='#Page_188'>188</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale; <a href='#Page_78'>78</a> </p>
+
+<p>Let me come in where you sit weeping,&mdash;aye; <a href='#Page_263'>263</a> </p>
+
+<p>Let me move slowly through the street; <a href='#Page_42'>42</a> </p>
+
+<p>Lo! Death has reared himself a throne; <a href='#Page_15'>15</a> </p>
+
+<p>Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands; <a href='#Page_215'>215</a> </p>
+
+<p>Look out upon the stars, my love; <a href='#Page_14'>14</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Men say the sullen instrument; <a href='#Page_158'>158</a> </p>
+
+<p>Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; <a href='#Page_108'>108</a> </p>
+
+<p>My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read; <a href='#Page_172'>172</a> </p>
+
+<p>My heart, I cannot still it; <a href='#Page_192'>192</a> </p>
+
+<p>My life closed twice before its close; <a href='#Page_252'>252</a> </p>
+
+<p>My life is like the summer rose; <a href='#Page_4'>4</a> </p>
+
+<p>My mind lets go a thousand things; <a href='#Page_241'>241</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Nightingales warble about it; <a href='#Page_290'>290</a> </p>
+
+<p>No matter how the chances are; <a href='#Page_275'>275</a> </p>
+
+<p>Not a hand has lifted the latchet; <a href='#Page_236'>236</a> </p>
+
+<p>Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end; <a href='#Page_209'>209</a> </p>
+
+<p>Not as all other women are; <a href='#Page_142'>142</a> </p>
+
+<p>Now at last I am at home; <a href='#Page_260'>260</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>O Death, when thou shalt come to me; <a href='#Page_233'>233</a> </p>
+
+<p>O fairest of the rural maids; <a href='#Page_6'>6</a> </p>
+
+<p>O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause; <a href='#Page_167'>167</a> </p>
+
+<p>O messenger, art thou the king, or I; <a href='#Page_180'>180</a> </p>
+
+<p>O Nature! I do not aspire; <a href='#Page_166'>166</a> <a name="Page_314" id="Page_314"></a></p>
+
+<p>Of all the rides since the birth of time; <a href='#Page_87'>87</a> </p>
+
+<p>Oh, inexpressible as sweet; <a href='#Page_289'>289</a> </p>
+
+<p>Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old; <a href='#Page_277'>277</a> </p>
+
+<p>Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor; <a href='#Page_251'>251</a> </p>
+
+<p><i>Oh, what's the way to Arcady</i>; <a href='#Page_243'>243</a> </p>
+
+<p>Old Sorrow I shall meet again; <a href='#Page_230'>230</a> </p>
+
+<p>Once it smiled a silent dell; <a href='#Page_38'>38</a> </p>
+
+<p>Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands; <a href='#Page_54'>54</a> </p>
+
+<p>Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary; <a href='#Page_45'>45</a> </p>
+
+<p>Out of the hills of Habersham; <a href='#Page_268'>268</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin; <a href='#Page_194'>194</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>See, from this counterfeit of him; <a href='#Page_185'>185</a> </p>
+
+<p>Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still; <a href='#Page_280'>280</a> </p>
+
+<p>Sky in its lucent splendor lifted; <a href='#Page_238'>238</a> </p>
+
+<p>So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn; <a href='#Page_69'>69</a> </p>
+
+<p>Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings; <a href='#Page_300'>300</a> </p>
+
+<p>Southward with fleet of ice; <a href='#Page_71'>71</a> </p>
+
+<p>Sparkling and bright in liquid light; <a href='#Page_32'>32</a> </p>
+
+<p>Spirit that moves the sap in spring; <a href='#Page_294'>294</a> </p>
+
+<p>Still in thy love I trust; <a href='#Page_218'>218</a> </p>
+
+<p>Such special sweetness was about; <a href='#Page_224'>224</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>The apples are ripe in the orchard; <a href='#Page_117'>117</a> </p>
+
+<p>The dawn came in through the bars of the blind; <a href='#Page_213'>213</a> </p>
+
+<p>The day is done, and the darkness; <a href='#Page_66'>66</a> </p>
+
+<p>The despot treads thy sacred sands; <a href='#Page_104'>104</a> </p>
+
+<p>The despot's heel is on thy shore; <a href='#Page_113'>113</a> </p>
+
+<p>The evening of the year draws on; <a href='#Page_162'>162</a> </p>
+
+<p>The handful here, that once was Mary's earth; <a href='#Page_147'>147</a> </p>
+
+<p>The little toy dog is covered with dust; <a href='#Page_231'>231</a> <a name="Page_315" id="Page_315"></a></p>
+
+<p>The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring; <a href='#Page_296'>296</a> </p>
+
+<p>The new moon hung in the sky; <a href='#Page_221'>221</a> </p>
+
+<p>The pines were dark on Ramoth hill; <a href='#Page_130'>130</a> </p>
+
+<p>The royal feast was done; the King; <a href='#Page_205'>205</a> </p>
+
+<p>The shadows lay along Broadway; <a href='#Page_24'>24</a> </p>
+
+<p>The sky is dark, and dark the bay below; <a href='#Page_217'>217</a> </p>
+
+<p>The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home; <a href='#Page_98'>98</a> </p>
+
+<p>The tide rises, the tide falls; <a href='#Page_161'>161</a> </p>
+
+<p>The wind from out the west is blowing; <a href='#Page_216'>216</a> </p>
+
+<p>There are gains for all our losses; <a href='#Page_129'>129</a> </p>
+
+<p>There is a city, builded by no hand; <a href='#Page_201'>201</a> </p>
+
+<p>These are the days when birds come back; <a href='#Page_265'>265</a> </p>
+
+<p>This bronze doth keep the very form and mold; <a href='#Page_207'>207</a> </p>
+
+<p>This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream; <a href='#Page_283'>283</a> </p>
+
+<p>This is Palm Sunday; mindful of the day; <a href='#Page_198'>198</a> </p>
+
+<p>This is the Burden of the Heart; <a href='#Page_197'>197</a> </p>
+
+<p>This is the ship of pearl, which poets feign; <a href='#Page_178'>178</a> </p>
+
+<p>Thou blossom bright with autumn dew; <a href='#Page_40'>40</a> </p>
+
+<p>Thou unrelenting Past; <a href='#Page_18'>18</a> </p>
+
+<p>Thou wast all that to me, love; <a href='#Page_34'>34</a> </p>
+
+<p>Thought is deeper than all speech; <a href='#Page_181'>181</a> </p>
+
+<p>Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down; <a href='#Page_210'>210</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Under a spreading chestnut-tree; <a href='#Page_92'>92</a> </p>
+
+<p>Upon a cloud among the stars we stood; <a href='#Page_229'>229</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach; <a href='#Page_257'>257</a> </p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>We sat within the farmhouse old; <a href='#Page_133'>133</a> </p>
+
+<p>What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one; <a href='#Page_75'>75</a> </p>
+
+<p>What may we take into the vast Forever?; <a href='#Page_219'>219</a> </p>
+
+<p>When first the bride and bridegroom wed; <a href='#Page_153'>153</a> </p>
+
+<p>When I was a beggarly boy; <a href='#Page_128'>128</a> <a name="Page_316" id="Page_316"></a></p>
+
+<p><i>When the Sultan Shah-Zaman</i>; <a href='#Page_253'>253</a> </p>
+
+<p>While May bedecks the naked trees; <a href='#Page_287'>287</a> </p>
+
+<p>Whither, midst falling dew; <a href='#Page_29'>29</a> </p>
+
+<p>Who has robbed the ocean cave; <a href='#Page_3'>3</a> </p>
+
+<p>Wind of the North; <a href='#Page_258'>258</a> </p>
+
+<p>Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night; <a href='#Page_284'>284</a> </p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>Years have flown since I knew thee first; <a href='#Page_208'>208</a> </p>
+
+<p>You know the old Hidalgo; <a href='#Page_127'>127</a> </p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="INDEX_TO_AUTHORS" id="INDEX_TO_AUTHORS"></a><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317"></a>INDEX TO AUTHORS.</h2>
+
+
+<p>James Aldrich, 1810-1856; <a href='#Page_136'>136</a> </p>
+
+<p>Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1836-; <a href='#Page_210'>210</a>, <a href='#Page_221'>221</a>,
+<a href='#Page_241'>241</a>, <a href='#Page_242'>242</a>, <a href='#Page_248'>248</a>, <a href='#Page_253'>253</a></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>George Henry Boker, 1823-1890; <a href='#Page_75'>75</a> , <a href='#Page_78'>78</a> , <a href='#Page_100'>100</a> , <a href='#Page_106'>106</a> </p>
+
+<p>Joseph Brownlee Brown, 1824-1888; <a href='#Page_154'>154</a> </p>
+
+<p>William Cullen Bryant, 1794-1878; <a href='#Page_6'>6</a>, <a href='#Page_18'>18</a>, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a>, <a href='#Page_40'>40</a>, <a href='#Page_42'>42</a>, <a href='#Page_54'>54</a> </p>
+
+<p>Henry Cuyler Bunner, 1855-1896; <a href='#Page_209'>209</a>, <a href='#Page_213'>213</a>,
+<a href='#Page_233'>233</a>, <a href='#Page_243'>243</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Bliss Carman, 1861-; <a href='#Page_277'>277</a>, <a href='#Page_298'>298</a></p>
+
+<p>Christopher Pearse Cranch, 1813-1892; <a href='#Page_181'>181</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886; <a href='#Page_252'>252</a>, <a href='#Page_264'>264</a>, <a href='#Page_265'>265</a></p>
+
+<p>Paul Lawrence Dunbar, 1872-; <a href='#Page_225'>225</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882; <a href='#Page_74'>74</a>, <a href='#Page_126'>126</a>,
+<a href='#Page_165'>165</a>, <a href='#Page_169'>169</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Eugene Field, 1850-1896; <a href='#Page_231'>231</a>, <a href='#Page_284'>284</a></p>
+
+<p>Annie Adams Fields, 1834-; <a href='#Page_218'>218</a></p>
+
+<p>Stephen Collins Foster, 1826-1864; <a href='#Page_98'>98</a></p>
+
+<p>William Prescott Foster, 18-; <a href='#Page_271'>271</a></p>
+
+<p>Philip Freneau, 1752-1832; 1<a name="Page_318" id="Page_318"></a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Richard Watson Gilder, 1844-; <a href='#Page_207'>207</a>, <a href='#Page_208'>208</a>, <a href='#Page_216'>216</a>, <a href='#Page_217'>217</a>, <a href='#Page_227'>227</a></p>
+
+<p>Louise Imogen Guiney, 1861-; <a href='#Page_211'>211</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Fitz-Greene Halleck, 1790-1867; <a href='#Page_36'>36</a></p>
+
+<p>Charles Fenno Hoffman, 1806-1884; <a href='#Page_32'>32</a></p>
+
+<p>Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-1894; <a href='#Page_76'>76</a>, <a href='#Page_95'>95</a>, <a href='#Page_124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page_178'>178</a></p>
+
+<p>Richard Hovey, 1864-; <a href='#Page_251'>251</a></p>
+
+<p>Julia Ward Howe, 1819-; <a href='#Page_108'>108</a></p>
+
+<p>William Dean Howells, 1837-; <a href='#Page_223'>223</a></p>
+
+<p>Mary Woolsey Howland, 1832-1864; <a href='#Page_122'>122</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Helen Hunt Jackson, 1831-1885; <a href='#Page_155'>155</a>, <a href='#Page_167'>167</a>,
+<a href='#Page_180'>180</a>, <a href='#Page_183'>183</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Sidney Lanier, 1842-1881; <a href='#Page_215'>215</a>, <a href='#Page_268'>268</a></p>
+
+<p>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882; <a href='#Page_63'>63</a>, <a href='#Page_66'>66</a>, <a href='#Page_71'>71</a>, <a href='#Page_80'>80</a>, <a href='#Page_92'>92</a>, <a href='#Page_133'>133</a>, <a href='#Page_161'>161</a></p>
+
+<p>James Russell Lowell, 1819-1891; <a href='#Page_64'>64</a>, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a>, <a href='#Page_142'>142</a>, <a href='#Page_145'>145</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>, <a href='#Page_175'>175</a>, <a href='#Page_192'>192</a></p>
+
+<p>Charles Henry L&uuml;ders, 1858-1891; <a href='#Page_258'>258</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>William Tuckey Meredith, 1839-; <a href='#Page_110'>110</a></p>
+
+<p>Lloyd Mifflin, 18-; <a href='#Page_229'>229</a>, <a href='#Page_256'>256</a>, <a href='#Page_257'>257</a>, <a href='#Page_300'>300</a></p>
+
+<p>Cincinnatus Hiner (Joaquin) Miller, 1841-; <a href='#Page_199'>199</a></p>
+
+<p>Louise Chandler Moulton, 1835-; <a href='#Page_236'>236</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Thomas William Parsons, 1819-1892; <a href='#Page_147'>147</a>, <a href='#Page_185'>185</a>,
+<a href='#Page_198'>198</a>, <a href='#Page_201'>201</a></p>
+
+<p>John James Piatt, 1835-; <a href='#Page_149'>149</a></p>
+
+<p>Edward Coate Pinkney, 1802-1828; <a href='#Page_12'>12</a>, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a></p>
+
+<p>Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849; <a href='#Page_10'>10</a>, <a href='#Page_15'>15</a>, <a href='#Page_21'>21</a>,
+<a href='#Page_26'>26</a>, <a href='#Page_31'>31</a>, <a href='#Page_34'>34</a>, <a href='#Page_38'>38</a>,
+<a href='#Page_45'>45</a>, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>James Ryder Randall, 1839-; <a href='#Page_113'>113</a></p>
+
+<p>Lizette Woodworth Reese, 1860-; <a href='#Page_224'>224</a></p>
+
+<p>Hiram Rich, 1832-; <a href='#Page_275'>275</a></p>
+
+<p>James Whitcomb Riley, 1853-; <a href='#Page_263'>263</a>, <a href='#Page_280'>280</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>John Shaw, 1778-1809; <a href='#Page_3'>3</a></p>
+
+<p>Edward Rowland Sill, 1841-1887; <a href='#Page_205'>205</a>, <a href='#Page_219'>219</a>, <a href='#Page_238'>238</a>, <a href='#Page_247'>247</a>, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></p>
+
+<p>Harriet Prescott Spofford, 1835-; <a href='#Page_196'>196</a>, <a href='#Page_202'>202</a></p>
+
+<p>Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1833-; <a href='#Page_150'>150</a>, <a href='#Page_188'>188</a>, <a href='#Page_194'>194</a></p>
+
+<p>Richard Henry Stoddard, 1825-; <a href='#Page_127'>127</a>, <a href='#Page_129'>129</a>, <a href='#Page_153'>153</a>, <a href='#Page_193'>193</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>John Banister Tabb, 1845-; <a href='#Page_230'>230</a>, <a href='#Page_235'>235</a>, <a href='#Page_266'>266</a>, <a href='#Page_267'>267</a></p>
+
+<p>Bayard Taylor, 1825-1878; <a href='#Page_85'>85</a>, <a href='#Page_119'>119</a></p>
+
+<p>Maurice Thompson, 1844-; <a href='#Page_294'>294</a></p>
+
+<p>Henry David Thoreau, 1817-1862; <a href='#Page_162'>162</a>, <a href='#Page_166'>166</a>, <a href='#Page_172'>172</a></p>
+
+<p>Henry Timrod, 1829-1867; <a href='#Page_104'>104</a>, <a href='#Page_140'>140</a></p>
+
+<p>L. Frank Tooker, 18-; <a href='#Page_260'>260</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Henry Van Dyke, 1852-; <a href='#Page_287'>287</a>, <a href='#Page_291'>291</a>, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a><br /></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892; <a href='#Page_69'>69</a>, <a href='#Page_87'>87</a>, <a href='#Page_130'>130</a>, <a href='#Page_137'>137</a></p>
+
+<p>Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-1847; <a href='#Page_4'>4</a></p>
+
+<p>Nathaniel Parker Willis, 1806-1867; <a href='#Page_24'>24</a></p>
+
+<p>Byron Forceythe Willson, 1837-1867; <a href='#Page_197'>197</a></p>
+
+<p>William Winter, 1836-; <a href='#Page_117'>117</a></p>
+
+<p>George Edward Woodberry, 1855-; <a href='#Page_273'>273</a>, <a href='#Page_289'>289</a>, <a href='#Page_290'>290</a></p>
+
+<p>Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842; <a href='#Page_8'>8</a></p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury of American Songs
+and Lyrics, by Various
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury of American Songs and
+Lyrics, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: April 5, 2005 [EBook #15553]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Kline, Karen Dalrymple and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  To My Mother.
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+  THE
+  GOLDEN TREASURY
+  OF
+  AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS
+
+
+  EDITED BY
+  FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES
+
+
+  _NEW REVISED EDITION_
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+  BOSTON
+  L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY
+  (INCORPORATED)
+  MDCCCXCIX
+
+
+  Colonial Press:
+  Electrotyped and Printed by C.H. Simonds & Co.
+  Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+The numerous collections of American verse share, I think, one fault in
+common: they include too much. Whether this has been a bid for
+popularity, a concession to Philistia, I cannot say; but the fact
+remains that all anthologies of American poetry are, so far as I know,
+more or less uncritical. The aim of the present book is different. In no
+case has a poem been included because it is widely known. The purpose of
+this compilation is solely that of preserving, in attractive and
+permanent form, about one hundred and fifty of the best lyrics of
+America.
+
+I am quite aware of the danger attending such exacting honor-rolls. At
+best, an editor's judgment is only personal, and the realization of this
+fact gives me no small diffidence in attempting to decide what American
+lyrics are best worthy of preservation. That every reader of the
+"American Treasury" will find some favorite poem omitted, there can be
+little doubt. But the effort made in this book towards a careful
+estimate of our lyrical poetry is at any rate, I feel sure, in a good
+direction.
+
+There appear in the index of Mr. Stedman's "Poets of America" the names
+of over three hundred native writers. American verse in the last half
+century has been extraordinarily prolific. It would seem that the time
+has come, in the course of our national literature, for proving all
+things and holding fast that which is good.
+
+The fact that the title of this compilation instantly calls to mind that
+of Mr. Palgrave's scholarly collection of English lyrics need not prove
+a disadvantage to the book if the purpose which led to the choice of
+name is understood. The verse of a single century produced in a new
+country should not be expected to equal the poetic wealth of an old and
+intellectual nation. But if American poetry cannot hope to rival the
+poetry of the mother country, it may at least be compared with it; and
+the fact of such a comparative point of view will aid rather than hinder
+the student of our native poetry in estimating its value.
+
+American verse has suffered at the hands both of its admirers and its
+enemies. Injudicious praise, no less than supercilious contempt, has
+reacted unfavorably on the fame of our poets. Again and again has some
+minor versifier been hailed as the "American Keats" or the "American
+Burns." Really excellent poets, though distinctly poets of second rank,
+have been elevated amid the blare of critical trumpets to the company of
+Wordsworth and Milton. All this is unprofitable and silly. But not much
+better is the attitude of certain critics who patronize everything in
+the English language which has been written outside of England. Though
+America has added--leaving Poe out of account--no distinctly new notes
+to English poetry, it has added certainly not a few true ones. A nation
+need never apologize for its literature when it has produced such
+lyrics--to go no further--as "On a Bust of Dante," "Ichabod," "The
+Chambered Nautilus," and the "Waterfowl."
+
+My method of arrangement is roughly chronological. The First Book, which
+is shorter than the others, might be called the book of Bryant; the
+Second, of Longfellow; and the Third, of Aldrich. Since the periods must
+of course overlap, this division of the poems can be at most only
+suggestive.
+
+I have made it no part of my design to grant to the better known poets a
+larger number of lyrics than those given later and younger men. I have
+paid no regard to that purely conventional idea of proportion, that
+would assign to five or six writers a dozen selections each, and to
+another set of poets, in proportion to their popular fame, half that
+number. We can safely leave the final adjustment of all rival claims to
+Time, the best critic; in the meanwhile having the more modest aim of
+selecting, irrespective of contemporary judgments, whatever is best
+suited to our purpose.
+
+A word more should be said about the title. I have not interpreted the
+term lyric so rigidly as to exclude sonnets, ballads, elegiac verse, or
+even pieces of almost pure description. If I had held to the strictest
+sense of lyric, this book would never have been compiled; for I suspect
+nothing will strike the reader more forcibly than the fact that, despite
+the excellence of the poems included, there is a notable lack of
+unconsciousness--of pure singing quality. Such things as Pinkney's
+"Health" and Holmes's "Old Ironsides" are the exception. The poems are
+composed cleverly, but they do not quite sing themselves to their own
+music. The best American verse, while not insincere, is seldom wholly
+spontaneous. This is not saying that much spontaneous verse has not been
+written in this country; much has been, but the singer's voice has too
+often been uncultivated, and the product inartistic.
+
+The names of many popular poets are entirely omitted. In no case,
+however, was this probably due to oversight. I have gone over carefully
+a wide field of verse, not without finding much to admire, but never
+quite happening upon that final touch of successful achievement where
+art and inspiration join. I am especially sorry to leave unrepresented
+a writer--more imaginative, possibly, than any American poet except
+Poe--whose utter contempt for technique in the ordinary sense places him
+wholly outside my present purpose.
+
+I wish to acknowledge various favors kindly shown by Professor C.T.
+Winchester, Professor Barrett Wendell, and Mr. H.E. Scudder. Thanks are
+also due Mr. T.B. Aldrich for the privilege of including the six poems
+from his pen, which were kindly selected for the book by the poet
+himself. The following firms deserve thanks for permitting the use of
+copyrighted poems:
+
+_Houghton, Mifflin & Co.:_
+
+     Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Christopher Pearse Cranch, Ralph Waldo
+     Emerson, Annie Adams Fields, Louise Imogen Guiney, Oliver Wendell
+     Holmes, William Dean Howells, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James
+     Russell Lowell, Thomas William Parsons, John James Piatt, Lizette
+     Woodworth Reese, Hiram Rich, Edward Rowland Sill, Harriet
+     Prescott Spofford, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Bayard Taylor, Henry
+     David Thoreau, Maurice Thompson, John Greenleaf Whittier, George
+     Edward Woodberry.
+
+Selections from the works of the foregoing writers are included "by
+permission of and by special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
+publishers of the works of said authors."
+
+      _D. Appleton & Co.:_ Fitz-Greene Halleck, William Cullen Bryant.
+
+      _Lee & Shepard:_ Julia Ward Howe.
+
+      _Porter & Coates:_ Charles Fenno Hoffman.
+
+      _Roberts Brothers:_ Emily Dickinson, Helen Hunt Jackson, Louise
+      Chandler Moulton.
+
+      _Copeland & Day:_ John Banister Tabb, Richard Hovey.
+
+      _W.A. Pond & Co.:_ Stephen Collins Foster.
+
+      _Clark & Maynard:_ Nathaniel Parker Willis.
+
+      _The Cassell Publishing Co.:_ John Boyle O'Reilly.
+
+      _The Century Co.:_ Richard Watson Gilder, James Whitcomb Riley
+      (Poems in the _Century Magazine_).
+
+      _Estes & Lauriat:_ Lloyd Mifflin.
+
+      _Lamson & Wolffe:_ Bliss Carman.
+
+      _Charles Scribner's Sons:_ Henry Cuyler Bunner, Eugene Field,
+      Sidney Lanier, Richard Henry Stoddard, Henry Van Dyke.
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+                                                             PAGE
+
+  Absence of Little Wesley, The            _J.W. Riley_       280
+
+  After All                                _W. Winter_        117
+
+  Aladdin                                  _J.R. Lowell_      128
+
+  Annabel Lee                              _E.A. Poe_          10
+
+  Apart                                    _J.J. Piatt_       149
+
+  At Gibraltar                             _G.E. Woodberry_   273
+
+  At Last                                  _R.H. Stoddard_    153
+
+  At Night                                 _R.W. Gilder_      217
+
+  Auspex                                   _J.R. Lowell_      192
+
+
+  Ballad                                   _H.P. Spofford_    202
+
+  Battle-field, The                        _W.C. Bryant_       54
+
+  Battle-hymn of the Republic              _I.W. Howe_        108
+
+  Be Thou a Bird, My Soul                  _(?)_              282
+
+  Bedouin Song                             _B. Taylor_         85
+
+  Bereaved                                 _J.W. Riley_       263
+
+  Birds                                    _R.H. Stoddard_    193
+
+  Black Regiment, The                      _G.H. Boker_       100
+
+  Bucket, The                              _S. Woodworth_       8
+
+
+  Carolina                                 _H. Timrod_        104
+
+  Chambered Nautilus, The                  _O.W. Holmes_      178
+
+  Chariot, The                             _E. Dickinson_     264
+
+  Childhood                                _J.B. Tabb_        230
+
+  City in the Sea, The                     _E.A. Poe_          15
+
+  Concord Hymn                             _R.W. Emerson_      74
+
+  Confided                                 _J.B. Tabb_        266
+
+  Coronation                               _H.H. Jackson_     183
+
+  Crowded Street, The                      _W.C. Bryant_       42
+
+
+  Day is Done, The                         _W. Longfellow_     66
+
+  Days                                     _R.W. Emerson_     126
+
+  Death-bed, A                             _J. Aldrich_       136
+
+  Destiny                                  _T.B. Aldrich_     210
+
+  Dirge for a Soldier                      _G.H. Boker_       106
+
+  Discoverer, The                          _E.C. Stedman_     150
+
+  Dutch Lullaby                            _E. Field_         284
+
+
+  Eavesdropper, The                        _B. Carman_        298
+
+  Evening Song                             _S. Lanier_        215
+
+  Eve's Daughter                           _E.R. Sill_        247
+
+
+  Fall of the Leaf, The                    _H.D. Thoreau_     162
+
+  Farragut                                 _W.T. Meredith_    110
+
+  Fertility                                _M. Thompson_      294
+
+  Fire of Driftwood, The                   _H.W. Longfellow_  133
+
+  Flight, The                               _L. Mifflin_      229
+
+  Flight of Youth, The                     _R.H. Stoddard_    129
+
+  Fool's Prayer, The                       _E.R. Sill_        205
+
+  Four Winds, The                          _C.H. Lueders_      258
+
+  Future, The                              _E.R. Sill_        219
+
+
+  Gondolieds                               _H.H. Jackson_     155
+
+  Gravedigger, The                         _B. Carman_        277
+
+
+  Haunted Palace                           _E.A. Poe_          26
+
+  Health, A                                _E.C. Pinkney_      12
+
+  Hebe                                     _J.R. Lowell_       64
+
+  He Made the Stars Also                   _L. Mifflin_       257
+
+  Her Epitaph                              _T.W. Parsons_     147
+
+  House of Death, The                      _L.C. Moulton_     236
+
+  Humble-bee, The                          _R.W. Emerson_     169
+
+  Hunting Song                             _R. Hovey_         251
+
+
+  Ichabod                                  _J.G. Whittier_     69
+
+  In Absence                               _J.B. Tabb_        267
+
+  In August                                _W.D. Howells_     223
+
+  Indian Summer                            _E. Dickinson_     265
+
+  In the Hospital                          _M.W. Howland_     122
+
+  In the Twilight                          _J.R. Lowell_      158
+
+  Israfel                                  _E.A. Poe_          21
+
+
+  Jerry an' Me                             _H. Rich_          275
+
+
+  Katie                                    _H. Timrod_        140
+
+  Kings, The                               _L.I. Guiney_      211
+
+
+  Last Leaf, The                           _O.W. Holmes_       95
+
+  Little Boy Blue                          _E. Field_         231
+
+
+  Maryland Yellow-throat, The              _H. Van Dyke_      287
+
+  Memory                                   _T.B. Aldrich_     241
+
+  Mood, A                                  _T.B. Aldrich_     242
+
+  "My Life is Like the Summer Rose"        _R.H. Wilde_         4
+
+  My Love                                  _J.R. Lowell_      142
+
+  My Maryland                              _J.R. Randall_     113
+
+  My Playmate                              _J.G. Whittier_    130
+
+  My Strawberry                            _H.H. Jackson_     167
+
+
+  Nature                                   _H.W. Longfellow_   63
+
+  Nature                                   _H.D. Thoreau_     166
+
+  Negro Lullaby                            _P.L. Dunbar_      225
+
+  Night                                    _L. Mifflin_       256
+
+  No More                                  _B.F. Willson_     197
+
+
+  "O Fairest of the Rural Maids"           _W.C. Bryant_        6
+
+  Old Ironsides                            _O.W. Holmes_       76
+
+  Old Kentucky Home, The                   _S.C. Foster_       98
+
+  On a Bust of Dante                       _T.W. Parsons_     185
+
+  On an Intaglio Head of Minerva           _T.B. Aldrich_     248
+
+  On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake      _F.G. Halleck_      36
+
+  On the Life-mask of Abraham Lincoln      _R.W. Gilder_      207
+
+  Opportunity                              _E.R. Sill_        283
+
+
+  Pan in Wall Street                       _E.C. Stedman_     188
+
+  Paradisi Gloria                          _T.W. Parsons_     201
+
+  Parting                                  _E. Dickinson_     252
+
+  Port of Ships, The                       _C.H. Miller_      199
+
+  Prescience                               _T.B. Aldrich_     221
+
+
+  Raven, The                               _E.A. Poe_          45
+
+  Return, The                              _L.F. Tooker_      260
+
+  Rhodora, The                             _R.W. Emerson_     165
+
+
+  Sea's Voice, The                         _W.P. Foster_      271
+
+  Secret, The                              _G.E. Woodberry_   290
+
+  Serenade, A                              _E.C. Pinkney_      14
+
+  Sesostris                                _L. Mifflin_       300
+
+  She Came and Went                        _J.R. Lowell_      145
+
+  Sigh, A                                  _H.P. Spofford_    196
+
+  Silence of Love, The                     _G.E. Woodberry_   289
+
+  Sir Humphrey Gilbert                     _H.W. Longfellow_   71
+
+  Skipper Ireson's Ride                    _J.G. Whittier_     87
+
+  Sleeper, The                             _E.A. Poe_          57
+
+  Song                                     _R.W. Gilder_      208
+
+  Song                                     _J. Shaw_            3
+
+  Song                                     _R.H. Stoddard_    127
+
+  Song of the Camp, The                    _B. Taylor_        119
+
+  Song of the Chattahoochee                _S. Lanier_        268
+
+  Sparkling and Bright                     _C.F. Hoffman_      32
+
+  Stanzas                                  _C.P. Cranch_      181
+
+  Still in Thy Love I Trust                _A.A. Fields_      218
+
+  Strong as Death                          _H.C. Bunner_      233
+
+  Summer Rain, The                         _H.D. Thoreau_     172
+
+
+  Telling the Bees                         _J.G. Whittier_    137
+
+  "Thalatta"                               _J.B. Brown_       154
+
+  That Day You Came                        _L.W. Reese_       224
+
+  Thought                                  _H.H. Jackson_     180
+
+  Tide Rises, the Tide Falls, The          _H.W. Longfellow_  161
+
+  To a Dead Woman                          _H.C. Bunner_      209
+
+  To America                               _G.H. Boker_        75
+
+  To a Waterfowl                           _W.C. Bryant_       29
+
+  To a Young Girl Dying                    _T.W. Parsons_     198
+
+  To England                               _G.H. Boker_        79
+
+  To Helen                                 _E.A. Poe_          31
+
+  To One in Paradise                       _E.A. Poe_          34
+
+  To the Dandelion                         _J.R. Lowell_      175
+
+  To the Fringed Gentian                   _W.C. Bryant_       40
+
+  To the Past                              _W.C. Bryant_       18
+
+  Toujours Amour                           _E.C. Stedman_     194
+
+  Triumph                                  _H.C. Bunner_      213
+
+  Tropical Morning at Sea, A               _E.R. Sill_        238
+
+
+  Under the Violets                        _O.W. Holmes_      124
+
+  Unseen Spirits                           _N.P. Willis_       24
+
+
+  Valley of Unrest, The                    _E.A. Poe_          38
+
+  Veery, The                               _H. Van Dyke_      296
+
+  Village Blacksmith, The                  _H.W. Longfellow_   92
+
+
+  Way to Arcady, The                       _H.C. Bunner_      243
+
+  When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan          _T.B. Aldrich_     253
+
+  Whip-poor-will, The                      _H. Van Dyke_      291
+
+  White Jessamine, The                     _J.B. Tabb_        235
+
+  Wild Honeysuckle, The                    _P. Freneau_         1
+
+  Woman's Thought, A                       _R.W. Gilder_      227
+
+  Woods that Bring the Sunset Near, The    _R.W. Gilder_      216
+
+  Wreck of the Hesperus, The               _H.W. Longfellow_   80
+
+
+
+
+BOOK FIRST.
+
+
+
+
+AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS
+
+
+
+
+The Wild Honeysuckle.
+
+
+  Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
+    Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
+  Untouched thy honey'd blossoms blow,
+    Unseen thy little branches greet;
+      No roving foot shall crush thee here,
+      No busy hand provoke a tear.
+
+  By Nature's self in white arrayed,
+    She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
+  And planted here the guardian shade,
+    And sent soft waters murmuring by;
+      Thus quietly thy summer goes,--
+      Thy days declining to repose.
+
+  Smit with those charms, that must decay,
+    I grieve to see your future doom;
+  They died--nor were those flowers more gay--
+    The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
+      Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power
+      Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
+
+  From morning suns and evening dews
+    At first thy little being came;
+  If nothing once, you nothing lose,
+    For when you die you are the same;
+      The space between is but an hour,
+      The frail duration of a flower.
+
+P. FRENEAU.
+
+
+
+
+Song.
+
+
+  Who has robbed the ocean cave,
+    To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
+  Who from India's distant wave
+    For thee those pearly treasures drew?
+      Who from yonder orient sky
+      Stole the morning of thine eye?
+
+  Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
+    From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
+  Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
+    On thy breath their fragrance borne.
+      Guard thy bosom from the day,
+      Lest thy snows should melt away.
+
+  But one charm remains behind,
+    Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
+  Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
+    Nor in the circling air, a heart.
+      Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
+      Take, oh, take that heart from me.
+
+J. SHAW.
+
+
+
+
+"My Life is Like the Summer Rose."
+
+
+  My life is like the summer rose
+    That opens to the morning sky,
+  But ere the shades of evening close,
+    Is scattered on the ground--to die!
+  Yet on the rose's humble bed
+  The sweetest dews of night are shed,
+  As if she wept the waste to see,--
+  But none shall weep a tear for me!
+
+  My life is like the autumn leaf
+    That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
+  Its hold is frail,--its date is brief,
+    Restless,--and soon to pass away!
+  Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
+  The parent tree will mourn its shade,
+  The winds bewail the leafless tree,--
+  But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
+
+  My life is like the prints which feet
+    Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
+  Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
+    All trace will vanish from the sand;
+  Yet, as if grieving to efface
+  All vestige of the human race,
+  On that lone shore loud moans the sea,--
+  But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
+
+R.H. WILDE.
+
+
+
+
+"O Fairest of the Rural Maids!"
+
+
+  O Fairest of the rural maids!
+  Thy birth was in the forest shades;
+  Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
+  Were all that met thine infant eye.
+
+  Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
+  Were ever in the sylvan wild;
+  And all the beauty of the place
+  Is in thy heart and on thy face.
+
+  The twilight of the trees and rocks
+  Is in the light shade of thy locks;
+  Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
+  Its playful way among the leaves.
+
+  Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
+  And silent waters heaven is seen;
+  Their lashes are the herbs that look
+  On their young figures in the brook.
+
+  The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
+  Are not more sinless than thy breast;
+  The holy peace that fills the air
+  Of those calm solitudes is there.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Bucket.
+
+
+  How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
+  When fond recollection presents them to view!--
+  The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
+  And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
+  The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
+  The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
+  The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it;
+  And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well,--
+  The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
+  The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
+
+  That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
+  For often at noon, when returned from the field,
+  I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,--
+  The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
+  How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
+  And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!
+  Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
+  And 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 receive it,
+  As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
+  Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
+  The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
+  And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
+  The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
+  As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
+  And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well,--
+  The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
+  The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.
+
+S. WOODWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+Annabel Lee.
+
+
+  It was many and many a year ago,
+    In a kingdom by the sea,
+  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
+    By the name of Annabel Lee;
+  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
+    Than to love and be loved by me.
+
+  I was a child and she was a child,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  But we loved with a love that was more than love,
+    I and my Annabel Lee;
+  With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
+    Coveted her and me.
+
+  And this was the reason that, long ago,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
+    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
+  So that her highborn kinsmen came
+    And bore her away from me,
+  To shut her up in a sepulchre
+    In this kingdom by the sea.
+
+  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
+    Went 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.
+
+  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
+    Of those who were older than we,
+    Of many far wiser than we;
+  And neither the angels in heaven above,
+    Nor the demons down under the sea,
+  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
+    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
+
+  For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
+    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
+  And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
+    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
+  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
+  Of my darling,--my darling,--my life and my bride,
+    In her sepulchre there by the sea,
+    In her tomb by the sounding sea.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+A Health.
+
+
+  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,
+    'Tis 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 flows
+  As one may see the burden'd 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;
+  And of her voice in echoing hearts
+    A sound must long remain,
+  But memory, such as mine of her,
+    So very much endears,
+  When 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.
+
+E.C. PINKNEY.
+
+
+
+
+A Serenade.
+
+
+  Look out upon the stars, my love,
+    And shame them with thine eyes,
+  On which, than on the lights above,
+    There hang more destinies.
+  Night's beauty is the harmony
+    Of blending shades and light:
+  Then, lady, up,--look out, and be
+    A sister to the night!
+
+  Sleep not!--thine image wakes for aye
+    Within my watching breast;
+  Sleep not!--from her soft sleep should fly,
+    Who robs all hearts of rest.
+  Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,
+    And make this darkness gay,
+  With looks whose brightness well might make
+    Of darker nights a day.
+
+E.C. PINKNEY.
+
+
+
+
+The City in the Sea.
+
+
+  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
+  In a strange city lying alone
+  Far down within the dim West,
+  Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
+  Have gone to their eternal rest.
+  There shrines and palaces and towers
+  (Time-eaten towers that tremble not)
+  Resemble nothing that is ours.
+  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+
+  No rays from the holy heaven come down
+  On the long night-time of that town;
+  But light from out the lurid sea
+  Streams up the turrets silently,
+  Gleams up the pinnacles far and free:
+  Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls,
+  Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls,
+  Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers
+  Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers,
+  Up many and many a marvellous shrine,
+  Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
+  The viol, the violet, and the vine.
+
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+  So blend the turrets and shadows there
+  That all seem pendulous in air,
+  While from a proud tower in the town
+  Death looks gigantically down.
+
+  There open fanes and gaping graves
+  Yawn level with the luminous waves;
+  But not the riches there that lie
+  In each idol's diamond eye,--
+  Not the gaily-jewelled dead
+  Tempt the waters from their bed;
+  For no ripples curl, alas,
+  Along that wilderness of glass;
+  No swellings tell that winds may be
+  Upon some far-off happier sea;
+  No heavings hint that winds have been
+  On seas less hideously serene!
+
+  But lo, a stir is in the air!
+  The wave--there is a movement there!
+  As if the towers had thrust aside,
+  In slightly sinking, the dull tide;
+  As if their tops had feebly given
+  A void within the filmy Heaven!
+  The waves have now a redder glow,
+  The hours are breathing faint and low;
+  And when, amid no earthly moans,
+  Down, down that town shall settle hence,
+  Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
+  Shall do it reverence.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+To The Past.
+
+
+    Thou unrelenting Past!
+  Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
+    And fetters, sure and fast,
+  Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
+
+    Far in thy realm withdrawn,
+  Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
+    And glorious ages gone
+  Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.
+
+    Childhood, with all its mirth,
+  Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,
+    And last, Man's Life on earth,
+  Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.
+
+    Thou hast my better years;
+  Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind,
+    Yielded to thee with tears,--
+  The venerable form, the exalted mind.
+
+    My spirit yearns to bring
+  The lost ones back,--yearns with desire intense,
+    And struggles hard to wring
+  Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
+
+    In vain; thy gates deny
+  All passage save to those who hence depart;
+    Nor to the streaming eye
+  Thou giv'st them back,--nor to the broken heart.
+
+    In thy abysses hide
+  Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee
+    Earth's wonder and her pride
+  Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;
+
+    Labors of good to man,
+  Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,
+    Love, that midst grief began,
+  And grew with years, and faltered not in death.
+
+    Full many a mighty name
+  Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;
+    With thee are silent fame,
+  Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.
+
+    Thine for a space are they,--
+  Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last!
+    Thy gates shall yet give way,
+  Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!
+
+    All that of good and fair
+  Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
+    Shall then come forth, to wear
+  The glory and the beauty of its prime.
+
+    They have not perished,--no!
+  Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,
+    Smiles, radiant long ago,
+  And features, the great soul's apparent seat;
+
+    All shall come back, each tie
+  Of pure affection shall be knit again;
+    Alone shall Evil die,
+  And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
+
+    And then shall I behold
+  Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
+    And her, who, still and cold,
+  Fills the next grave,--the beautiful and young.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+Israfel.
+
+   And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who
+   has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+   --_Koran._
+
+
+  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
+    Whose heart-strings are a lute;
+  None sing so wildly well
+  As the angel Israfel,
+  And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
+  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
+    Of his voice, all mute.
+
+  Tottering above
+    In her highest noon,
+    The enamored moon
+  Blushes with love,
+    While, to listen, the red levin
+    (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
+    Which were seven)
+    Pauses in Heaven.
+
+  And they say (the starry choir
+    And the other listening things)
+  That Israfeli's fire
+  Is owing to that lyre
+    By which he sits and sings,--
+  The trembling living wire
+  Of those unusual strings.
+
+  But the skies that angel trod,
+    Where deep thoughts are a duty,
+  Where Love's a grown-up God,
+  Where the Houri glances are
+    Imbued with all the beauty
+  Which we worship in a star.
+
+  Therefore thou art not wrong,
+    Israfeli, who despisest
+  An unimpassioned song;
+  To thee the laurels belong,
+    Best bard, because the wisest:
+  Merrily live, and long!
+
+  The ecstasies above
+    With thy burning measures suit:
+  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
+    With the fervor of thy lute:
+    Well may the stars be mute!
+
+  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
+    Is a world of sweets and sours;
+    Our flowers are merely--flowers,
+  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
+  Is the sunshine of ours.
+
+  If I could dwell
+  Where Israfel
+    Hath dwelt, and he where I,
+  He might not sing so wildly well
+    A mortal melody,
+  While a bolder note than this might swell
+    From my lyre within the sky.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+Unseen Spirits.
+
+
+  The shadows lay along Broadway,--
+    'Twas near the twilight-tide,--
+  And slowly there a lady fair
+    Was walking in her pride.
+  Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
+    Walked spirits at her side.
+
+  Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
+    And Honor charmed the air;
+  And all astir looked kind on her,
+    And called her good as fair--
+  For all God ever gave to her
+    She kept with chary care.
+
+  She kept with care her beauties rare
+    From lovers warm and true,
+  For her heart was cold to all but gold,
+    And the rich came not to woo;
+  But honored well are charms to sell,
+    If priests the selling do.
+
+  Now walking there was one more fair,--
+    A slight girl, lily-pale;
+  And she had unseen company
+    To make the spirit quail,--
+  'Twixt 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!
+  But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
+    By man is cursed alway.
+
+N.P. WILLIS.
+
+
+
+
+The Haunted Palace.
+
+
+  In the greenest of our valleys
+    By good angels tenanted,
+  Once a fair and stately palace--
+    Radiant palace--reared its head.
+  In the monarch Thought's dominion,
+    It stood there;
+  Never seraph spread a pinion
+    Over fabric half so fair.
+
+  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow
+  (This--all this--was in the olden
+    Time long ago),
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A winged odor went away.
+
+  Wanderers in that happy valley
+    Through two luminous windows saw
+  Spirits moving musically,
+    To a lute's well-tuned law,
+  Round about a throne where, sitting,
+    Porphyrogene,
+  In state his glory well befitting,
+    The ruler of the realm was seen.
+
+  And all with pearl and ruby glowing
+    Was the fair palace door,
+  Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
+    And sparkling evermore,
+  A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
+    Was but to sing,
+  In voices of surpassing beauty,
+    The wit and wisdom of their king.
+
+  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
+    Assailed the monarch's high estate;
+  (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
+    Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
+  And round about his home the glory
+    That blushed and bloomed
+  Is but a dim-remembered story
+    Of the old time entombed.
+
+  And travellers now within that valley
+    Through the red-litten windows see
+  Vast forms that move fantastically
+    To a discordant melody;
+  While, like a ghastly rapid river,
+    Through the pale door
+  A hideous throng rush out forever,
+    And laugh--but smile no more.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+To a Waterfowl.
+
+
+        Whither, midst falling dew,
+  While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
+  Far, through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
+        Thy solitary way?
+
+        Vainly the fowler's eye
+  Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
+  As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
+        Thy figure floats along.
+
+        Seek'st thou the plashy brink
+  Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
+  Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
+        On the chafed ocean-side?
+
+        There is a Power whose care
+  Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
+  The desert and illimitable air--
+        Lone wandering, but not lost.
+
+        All day thy wings have fanned,
+  At that far height, 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 form; 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 I must tread alone,
+        Will lead my steps aright.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+To Helen.
+
+
+  Helen, thy beauty is to me
+    Like those Nicaean barks of yore,
+  That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
+    The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
+    To his own native shore.
+
+  On desperate seas long wont to roam,
+    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
+  Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home
+    To the glory that was Greece
+  And the grandeur that was Rome.
+
+  Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
+    How statue-like I see thee stand,
+    The agate lamp within thy hand!
+  Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
+    Are Holy Land!
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+Sparkling and Bright.
+
+
+  Sparkling and bright in liquid light
+    Does the wine our goblets gleam in,
+  With hue as red as the rosy bed
+    Which a bee would choose to dream in.
+      Then fill to-night, with hearts as light,
+        To loves as gay and fleeting
+      As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
+        And break on the lips while meeting.
+
+  Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight
+    Of Time through Life's dominions,
+  We here awhile would now beguile
+    The graybeard of his pinions,
+      To drink to-night, with hearts as light,
+        To loves as gay and fleeting
+      As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
+        And break on the lips while meeting.
+
+  But since Delight can't tempt the wight,
+    Nor fond Regret delay him,
+  Nor Love himself can hold the elf,
+    Nor sober Friendship stay him,
+      We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light,
+        To loves as gay and fleeting
+      As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
+        And break on the lips while meeting.
+
+C.F. HOFFMAN.
+
+
+
+
+To One in Paradise.
+
+
+  Thou wast all that to me, love,
+    For which my soul did pine:
+  A green isle in the sea, love,
+    A fountain and a shrine
+  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
+    And all the flowers were mine.
+
+  Ah, dream too bright to last!
+    Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
+  But to be overcast!
+    A voice from out the Future cries,
+  "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
+    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
+  Mute, motionless, aghast.
+
+  For, alas! alas! with me
+    The light of Life is o'er!
+  No more--no more--no more--
+    (Such language holds the solemn sea
+  To the sands upon the shore)
+    Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
+  Or the stricken eagle soar.
+
+  And all my days are trances,
+    And all my nightly dreams
+  Are where thy gray eye glances,
+    And where thy footstep gleams,--
+  In what ethereal dances,
+    By what eternal streams.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.
+
+
+  Green be the turf above thee,
+    Friend of my better days!
+  None knew thee but to love thee,
+    Nor named thee but to praise.
+
+  Tears fell when thou wert dying,
+    From eyes unused to weep,
+  And long, where thou art lying,
+    Will tears the cold turf steep.
+
+  When hearts, whose truth was proven,
+    Like thine, are laid in earth,
+  There should a wreath be woven
+    To tell the world their worth;
+
+  And I, who woke each morrow
+    To clasp thy hand in mine,
+  Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
+    Whose weal and woe were thine,
+
+  It should be mine to braid it
+    Around thy faded brow,
+  But I've in vain essayed it,
+    And feel I cannot now.
+
+  While memory bids me weep thee,
+    Nor thoughts nor words are free,
+  The grief is fixed too deeply
+    That mourns a man like thee.
+
+F.G. HALLECK.
+
+
+
+
+The Valley of Unrest.
+
+
+  Once it smiled a silent dell
+  Where the people did not dwell;
+  They had gone unto the wars,
+  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
+  Nightly, from their azure towers,
+  To keep watch above the flowers,
+  In the midst of which all day
+  The red sunlight lazily lay.
+  Now each visitor shall confess
+  The sad valley's restlessness.
+  Nothing there is motionless,
+  Nothing save the airs that brood
+  Over the magic solitude.
+  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
+  That palpitate like the chill seas
+  Around the misty Hebrides!
+  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
+  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
+  Uneasily, from morn to even,
+  Over the violets there that lie
+  In myriad types of the human eye,
+  Over the lilies there that wave
+  And weep above a nameless grave!
+  They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
+  Eternal dews come down in drops.
+  They weep:--from off their delicate stems
+  Perennial tears descend in gems.
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+To the Fringed Gentian.
+
+
+  Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
+  And colored with the heaven's own blue,
+  That openest when the quiet light
+  Succeeds the keen and frosty night:
+
+  Thou comest not when violets lean
+  O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
+  Or columbines, in purple dressed,
+  Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
+
+  Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
+  When woods are bare and birds are flown,
+  And frosts and shortening days portend
+  The aged year is near his end.
+
+  Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
+  Look through its fringes to the sky,
+  Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall
+  A flower from its cerulean wall.
+
+  I would that thus, when I shall see
+  The hour of death draw near to me,
+  Hope, blossoming within my heart,
+  May look to heaven as I depart.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Crowded Street.
+
+
+  Let me move slowly through the street,
+    Filled with an ever-shifting train,
+  Amid the sound of steps that beat
+    The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
+
+  How fast the flitting figures come!
+    The mild, the fierce, the stony face,--
+  Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
+    Where secret tears have left their trace.
+
+  They pass--to toil, to strife, to rest;
+    To halls in which the feast is spread;
+  To chambers where the funeral guest
+    In silence sits beside the dead.
+
+  And some to happy homes repair,
+    Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
+  With mute caresses shall declare
+    The tenderness they cannot speak.
+
+  And some, who walk in calmness here,
+    Shall shudder as they reach the door
+  Where one who made their dwelling dear,
+    Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
+
+  Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
+    And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
+  Go'st thou to build an early name,
+    Or early in the task to die?
+
+  Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
+    Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
+  Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
+    Or melt the glittering spires in air?
+
+  Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
+    The dance till daylight gleam again?
+  Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?
+    Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?
+
+  Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
+    The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;
+  And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
+    Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.
+
+  Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
+    They pass, and heed each other not.
+  There is who heeds, who holds them all
+    In His large love and boundless thought.
+
+  These struggling tides of life, that seem
+    In wayward, aimless course to tend,
+  Are eddies of the mighty stream
+    That rolls to its appointed end.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Raven.
+
+
+  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
+  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,--
+  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
+  As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
+  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,--
+            Only this, and nothing more."
+
+  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
+  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
+  Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
+  From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore,--
+  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,--
+            Nameless here forevermore.
+
+  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
+  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
+  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
+  --Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
+            This it is, and nothing more."
+
+  Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
+  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
+  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
+  And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
+  That I scarce was sure I heard you;"--here I opened wide the door:--
+            Darkness there, and nothing more.
+
+  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
+  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
+  But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
+  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
+  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore:"
+            Merely this, and nothing more.
+
+  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
+  Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
+  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
+  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,--
+  Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
+            'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
+
+  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
+  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
+  Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
+  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
+  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
+            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
+  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
+  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure
+       no craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore,--
+  Tell, me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
+            With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
+  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
+  Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
+  Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
+  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
+            Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
+
+  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
+  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
+  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,
+  Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
+            Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+  But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
+  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
+  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
+  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
+  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
+            Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
+
+  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
+  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
+  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
+  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
+  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
+            _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
+
+  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
+  Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
+  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels He hath
+      sent thee
+  Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
+  Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
+  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
+  Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
+  On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore,--
+  Is there,--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
+  By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
+      upstarting,--
+  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
+  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
+  Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
+  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+            Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
+            Shall be lifted,--nevermore!
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+The Battle-field.
+
+
+  Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
+    Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
+  And fiery hearts and armed hands
+    Encountered in the battle-cloud.
+
+  Ah! never shall the land forget
+    How gushed the life-blood of her brave,--
+  Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
+    Upon the soil they fought to save.
+
+  Now all is calm and fresh and still;
+    Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
+  And talk of children on the hill,
+    And bell of wandering kine are heard.
+
+  No solemn host goes trailing by
+    The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
+  Men start not at the battle-cry;
+    Oh, be it never heard again!
+
+  Soon rested those who fought; but thou
+    Who minglest in the harder strife
+  For truths which men receive not now,
+    Thy warfare only ends with life.
+
+  A friendless warfare! lingering long
+    Through weary day and weary year;
+  A wild and many-weaponed throng
+    Hang on thy front and flank and rear.
+
+  Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
+    And blench not at thy chosen 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 born.
+
+  Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
+    The eternal years of God are hers;
+  But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
+    And dies among his worshippers.
+
+  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.
+
+W.C. BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+The Sleeper.
+
+
+  At midnight, in the month of June,
+  I stand beneath the mystic moon.
+  An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
+  Exhales from out her golden rim,
+  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
+  Upon the quiet mountain-top,
+  Steals drowsily and musically
+  Into the universal valley.
+  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
+  The lily lolls upon the wave;
+  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
+  The ruin moulders into rest;
+  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
+  A conscious slumber seems to take,
+  And would not, for the world, awake.
+  All beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
+  Irene, with her destinies!
+
+  O lady bright! can it be right,
+  This window open to the night?
+  The wanton airs from the tree-top
+  Laughingly through the lattice drop;
+  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
+  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
+  And wave the curtain canopy
+  So fitfully, so fearfully,
+  Above the closed and fringed lid
+  'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
+  That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
+  Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.
+  O lady dear, hast thou no fear?
+  Why and what art thou dreaming here?
+  Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
+  A wonder to these garden trees!
+  Strange is thy pallor; strange thy dress;
+  Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
+  And this all solemn silentness!
+
+  The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,
+  Which is enduring, so be deep!
+  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
+  This chamber changed for one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy,
+  I pray to God that she may lie
+  Forever with unopened eye,
+  While the pale sheeted ghosts go by.
+
+  My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,
+  As it is lasting, so be deep!
+  Soft may the worms about her creep!
+  Far in the forest, dim and old,
+  For her may some tall vault unfold:
+  Some vault that oft hath flung its black
+  And winged panels fluttering back,
+  Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
+  Of her grand family funerals;
+  Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
+  Against whose portal she hath thrown,
+  In childhood, many an idle stone;
+  Some tomb from out whose sounding door
+  She ne'er shall force an echo more,
+  Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,
+  It was the dead who groaned within!
+
+E.A. POE.
+
+
+
+
+
+BOOK SECOND.
+
+
+
+
+Nature.
+
+
+  As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
+    Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
+    Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
+  And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
+  Still gazing at them through the open door,
+    Nor wholly reassured and comforted
+    By promises of others in their stead,
+  Which, though more splendid, may not please him more,--
+  So Nature deals with us, and takes away
+    Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
+      Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
+  Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
+    Being too full of sleep to understand
+      How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Hebe.
+
+
+    I saw the twinkle of white feet,
+  I saw the flash of robes descending;
+    Before her ran an influence fleet,
+  That bowed my heart like barley bending.
+
+    As, in bare fields, the searching bees
+  Pilot to blooms beyond our finding,
+    It led me on, by sweet degrees
+  Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.
+
+    Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates;
+  With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me;
+    The long-sought Secret's golden gates
+  On musical hinges swung before me.
+
+    I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp
+  Thrilling with godhood; like a lover
+    I sprang the proffered life to clasp;--
+  The beaker fell; the luck was over.
+
+    The Earth has drunk the vintage up;
+  What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?
+    Can Summer fill the icy cup,
+  Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?
+
+    O spendthrift haste! await the Gods;
+  Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience;
+    Haste scatters on unthankful sods
+  The immortal gift in vain libations.
+
+    Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,
+  And shuns the hands would seize upon her;
+    Follow thy life, and she will sue
+  To pour for thee the cup of honor.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+The Day is Done.
+
+
+  The day is done, and the darkness
+    Falls from the wings of Night,
+  As a feather is wafted downward
+    From an eagle in his flight.
+
+  I see the lights of the village
+    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
+  And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
+    That my soul cannot resist:
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing,
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+  Come, read to me some poem,
+    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
+  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
+    And banish the thoughts of day.
+
+  Not from the grand old masters,
+    Not from the bards sublime,
+  Whose distant footsteps echo
+    Through the corridors of Time.
+
+  For, like strains of martial music,
+    Their mighty thoughts suggest
+  Life's endless toil and endeavor;
+    And to-night I long for rest.
+
+  Read from some humbler poet,
+    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
+  As showers from the clouds of summer,
+    Or tears from the eyelids start;
+
+  Who, through long days of labor,
+    And nights devoid of ease,
+  Still heard in his soul the music
+    Of wonderful melodies.
+
+  Such songs have power to quiet
+    The restless pulse of care,
+  And come like the benediction
+    That follows after prayer.
+
+  Then read from the treasured volume
+    The poem of thy choice,
+  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
+    The beauty of thy voice.
+
+  And the night shall be filled with music,
+    And the cares that infest the day
+  Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
+    And as silently steal away.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Ichabod.
+
+
+  So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
+    Which once he wore!
+  The glory from his gray hairs gone
+    Forevermore!
+
+  Revile him not,--the Tempter hath
+    A snare for all;
+  And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
+    Befit his fall!
+
+  Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
+    When he who might
+  Have lighted up and led his age,
+    Falls back in night.
+
+  Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
+    A bright soul driven,
+  Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
+    From hope and heaven!
+
+  Let not the land once proud of him
+    Insult him now,
+  Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
+    Dishonored brow.
+
+  But let its humbled sons, instead,
+    From sea to lake,
+  A long lament, as for the dead,
+    In sadness make.
+
+  Of all we loved and honored, naught
+    Save power remains,--
+  A fallen angel's pride of thought,
+    Still strong in chains.
+
+  All else is gone; from those great eyes
+    The soul has fled:
+  When faith is lost, when honor dies.
+    The man is dead!
+
+  Then, pay the reverence of old days
+    To his dead fame;
+  Walk backward, with averted gaze,
+    And hide the shame!
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+Sir Humphrey Gilbert.
+
+
+  Southward with fleet of ice
+    Sailed the corsair Death;
+  Wild and fast blew the blast,
+    And the east-wind was his breath.
+
+  His lordly ships of ice
+    Glisten in the sun;
+  On each side, like pennons wide,
+    Flashing crystal streamlets run.
+
+  His sails of white sea-mist
+    Dripped with silver rain;
+  But where he passed there were cast
+    Leaden shadows o'er the main.
+
+  Eastward from Campobello
+    Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
+  Three days or more seaward he bore,
+    Then, alas! the land-wind failed.
+
+  Alas! the land-wind failed,
+    And ice-cold grew the night;
+  And nevermore, on sea or shore,
+    Should Sir Humphrey see the light.
+
+  He sat upon the deck,
+    The Book was in his hand;
+  "Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"
+    He said, "by water as by land!"
+
+  In the first watch of the night,
+    Without a signal's sound,
+  Out of the sea, mysteriously,
+    The fleet of Death rose all around.
+
+  The moon and the evening star
+    Were hanging in the shrouds;
+  Every mast, as it passed,
+    Seemed to rake the passing clouds.
+
+  They grappled with their prize,
+    At midnight black and cold!
+  As of a rock was the shock;
+    Heavily the ground-swell rolled.
+
+  Southward through day and dark,
+    They drift in close embrace,
+  With mist and rain, o'er the open main;
+    Yet there seems no change of place.
+
+  Southward, forever southward,
+    They drift through dark and day;
+  And like a dream, in the Gulf Stream
+    Sinking, vanish all away.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Concord Hymn.
+
+   Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836.
+
+
+  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
+    Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
+  Here once the embattled farmers stood,
+    And fired the shot heard round the world.
+
+  The foe long since in silence slept;
+    Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
+  And Time the ruined bridge has swept
+    Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
+
+  On this green bank, by this soft stream,
+    We set to-day a votive stone,
+  That memory may their deed redeem,
+    When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
+
+  Spirit, that made those heroes dare
+    To die, and leave their children free,
+  Bid Time and Nature gently spare
+    The shaft we raise to them and thee.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+To America.
+
+
+  What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one,
+    Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age,
+    Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage
+  Its venal battles,--and, by yon bright sun,
+  Our God is false, and liberty undone,
+    If slaves have power to win your heritage!
+    Look on your country, God's appointed stage,
+  Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run:
+  For that it was your stormy coast He spread--
+    A fear in winter; girded you about
+  With granite hills, and made you strong and dread.
+    Let him who fears before the foemen shout,
+  Or gives an inch before a vein has bled,
+    Turn on himself, and let the traitor out!
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Old Ironsides.
+
+
+  Ay, 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.
+
+  Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
+    Where knelt the vanquished foe,
+  When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
+    And waves were white below,
+  No more shall feel the victor's tread,
+    Or know the conquered knee;
+  The harpies of the shore shall pluck
+    The eagle of the sea!
+
+  Oh, 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!
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+To England.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale
+    Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame;
+    The times have changed, the moral is the same.
+  So like an outcast, dowerless and pale,
+  Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale
+    Spread her young banner, till its sway became
+    A wonder to the nations. Days of shame
+  Are close upon thee; prophets raise their wail.
+  When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand
+    Points his long spear across the narrow sea,--
+    "Lo! there is England!" when thy destiny
+  Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand
+  Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,--
+    God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!
+
+  [1852.]
+
+
+II.
+
+  Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!
+    Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,
+    Sole refuge to the overwearied brave
+  Who planned, arose, and battled to be free,
+  Fell, undeterred, then sadly turned to thee,
+   Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,
+    To rise again, and animate the slave,
+  When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye
+  Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain
+    Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled,
+    Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled
+  Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, till the main
+  Sink under them; and if your courage wane,
+    Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!
+
+  [1853.]
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+The Wreck of the Hesperus.
+
+
+  It was the schooner Hesperus,
+    That sailed the wintry sea;
+  And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+    To bear him company.
+
+  Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+  And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+    That ope in the month of May.
+
+  The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+    His pipe was in his mouth,
+  And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+    The smoke now West, now South.
+
+  Then up and spake an old Sailor,
+    Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+  "I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+    For I fear a hurricane.
+
+  "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+    And to-night no moon we see!"
+  The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+    And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+  Colder and louder blew the wind,
+    A gale from the Northeast,
+  The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+    And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+  Down came the storm, and smote amain
+    The vessel in its strength;
+  She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed,
+    Then leaped her cable's length.
+
+  "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+    And do not tremble so;
+  For I can weather the roughest gale
+    That ever wind did blow."
+
+  He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+    Against the stinging blast;
+  He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+    And bound her to the mast.
+
+  "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+    Oh, say, what may it be?"
+  "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
+    And he steered for the open sea.
+
+  "O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+    Oh, say, what may it be?"
+  "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+    In such an angry sea!"
+
+  "O father! I see a gleaming light,
+    Oh, say, what may it be?"
+  But the father answered never a word,
+    A frozen corpse was he.
+
+  Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+    With his face turned to the skies,
+  The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+    On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+  Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+    That saved she might be;
+  And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+    On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+  And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+  Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+    Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
+
+  And ever the fitful gusts between
+    A sound came from the land;
+  It was the sound of the trampling surf
+    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+  The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+    She drifted a dreary wreck,
+  And a whooping billow swept the crew
+    Like icicles from her deck.
+
+  She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+    Looked soft as carded wool,
+  But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+    Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+  Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+    With the masts went by the board;
+  Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+  At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+    A fisherman stood aghast,
+  To see the form of a maiden fair,
+    Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+  The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+    The salt tears in her eyes;
+  And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+    On the billows fall and rise.
+
+  Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
+    In the midnight and the snow!
+  Christ save us all from a death like this,
+    On the reef of Norman's Woe!
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+Bedouin Song.
+
+
+  From the Desert I come to thee
+    On a stallion shod with fire,
+  And the winds are left behind
+    In the speed of my desire.
+  Under thy window I stand,
+    And the midnight hears my cry:
+  I love thee, I love but thee,
+    With a love that shall not die
+        _Till the sun grows cold,_
+        _And the stars are old,_
+        _And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_
+
+  Look from thy window and see
+    My passion and my pain;
+  I lie on the sands below,
+    And I faint in thy disdain.
+  Let the night-winds touch thy brow
+    With the heat of my burning sigh,
+  And melt thee to hear the vow
+    Of a love that shall not die
+        _Till the sun grows cold,_
+        _And the stars are old,_
+        _And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_
+
+  My steps are nightly driven,
+    By the fever in my breast,
+  To hear from thy lattice breathed
+    The word that shall give me rest.
+  Open the door of thy heart,
+    And open thy chamber door,
+  And my kisses shall teach thy lips
+    The love that shall fade no more
+        _Till the sun grows cold,_
+        _And the stars are old,_
+        _And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_
+
+B. TAYLOR.
+
+
+
+
+Skipper Ireson's Ride.
+
+
+  Of all the rides since the birth of time,
+  Told in story or sung in rhyme,--
+  On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
+  Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
+  Witch astride of a human back,
+  Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,--
+  The strangest ride that ever was sped
+  Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!
+    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Body of turkey, head of owl,
+  Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
+  Feathered and ruffled in every part,
+  Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
+  Scores of women, old and young,
+  Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
+  Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
+  Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
+  Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
+  Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
+  Bacchus round some antique vase,
+  Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
+  Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
+  With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,
+  Over and over the Maenads sang:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  Small pity for him!--He sailed away
+  From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,--
+  Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
+  With his own town's-people on her deck!
+  "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.
+  Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
+  Brag of your catch of fish again!"
+  And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
+    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
+  That wreck shall lie forevermore.
+  Mother and sister, wife and maid,
+  Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
+  Over the moaning and rainy sea,--
+  Looked for the coming that might not be!
+  What did the winds and the sea-birds say
+  Of the cruel captain who sailed away?--
+    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Through the street, on either side,
+  Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
+  Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
+  Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
+  Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
+  Hulks of old sailors run aground,
+  Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
+  And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  Sweetly along the Salem road
+  Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
+  Little the wicked skipper knew
+  Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
+  Riding there in his sorry trim,
+  Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
+  Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
+  Of voices shouting, far and near:
+    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
+    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
+      By the women o' Morble'ead!"
+
+  "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,--
+  "What to me is this noisy ride?
+  What is the shame that clothes the skin
+  To the nameless horror that lives within?
+  Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
+  And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
+  Hate me and curse me,--I only dread
+  The hand of God and the face of the dead!"
+    Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+  Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
+  Said, "God has touched him! Why should we?"
+  Said an old wife, mourning her only son:
+  "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
+  So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
+  Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
+  And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
+  And left him alone with his shame and sin.
+    Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
+    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
+      By the women of Marblehead!
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+The Village Blacksmith.
+
+
+  Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+    The village smithy stands;
+  The smith, a mighty man is he,
+    With large and sinewy hands;
+  And the muscles of his brawny arms
+    Are strong as iron bands.
+
+  His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+    His face is like the tan;
+  His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+    He earns whate'er he can,
+  And looks the whole world in the face,
+    For he owes not any man.
+
+  Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+    You can hear his bellows blow;
+  You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+    With measured beat and slow,
+  Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+    When the evening sun is low.
+
+  And children coming home from school
+    Look in at the open door;
+  They love to see the flaming forge,
+    And hear the bellows roar,
+  And catch the burning sparks that fly
+    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+  He goes on Sunday to the church,
+    And sits among his boys;
+  He hears the parson pray and preach,
+    He hears his daughter's voice,
+  Singing in the village choir,
+    And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+  It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+    Singing in Paradise!
+  He needs must think of her once more,
+    How in the grave she lies;
+  And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+    A tear out of his eyes.
+
+  Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+    Onward through life he goes;
+  Each morning sees some task begin,
+    Each evening sees it close;
+  Something attempted, something done.
+    Has earned a night's repose.
+
+  Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+    For the lesson thou hast taught!
+  Thus at the flaming forge of life
+    Our fortunes must be wrought;
+  Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+    Each burning deed and thought.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+The Last Leaf.
+
+
+  I saw him once before,
+  As he passed by the door,
+      And again
+  The pavement stones resound,
+  As he totters o'er the ground
+      With his cane.
+
+  They say that in his prime,
+  Ere the pruning-knife of Time
+      Cut him down,
+  Not a better man was found
+  By the crier on his round
+      Through the town.
+
+  But now he walks the streets,
+  And he looks at all he meets
+      Sad and wan,
+  And he shakes his feeble head,
+  That it seems as if he said,
+      "They are gone."
+
+  The mossy marbles rest
+  On the lips that he has pressed
+      In their bloom,
+  And the names he loved to hear
+  Have been carved for many a year
+      On the tomb.
+
+  My grandmamma has said--
+  Poor old lady, she is dead
+      Long ago--
+  That he had a Roman nose,
+  And his cheek was like a rose
+      In the snow.
+
+  But now his nose is thin,
+  And it rests upon his chin
+      Like a staff,
+  And a crook is in his back,
+  And a melancholy crack
+      In his laugh.
+
+  I know it is a sin
+  For me to sit and grin
+      At him here;
+  But the old three-cornered hat,
+  And the breeches, and all that,
+      Are so queer!
+
+  And if I should live to be
+  The last leaf upon the tree
+      In the spring,
+  Let them smile, as I do now,
+  At the old, forsaken bough
+      Where I cling.
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+The Old Kentucky Home.
+
+A NEGRO MELODY.
+
+
+  The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home;
+    'Tis 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 and bright;
+  By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door,--
+    Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!
+
+          Weep no more, my lady,
+          Oh, weep no more to-day!
+  We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,
+          For the old Kentucky Home, far away.
+
+  They hunt 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 door.
+  The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
+    With sorrow, where all was delight;
+  The time has come when the darkies have to part,--
+    Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!
+
+  The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
+    Wherever the darkey may go;
+  A few more days, and the trouble all will end,
+    In the field where the sugar-canes grow.
+  A few more days for to tote the weary load,--
+    No matter, 'twill 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,
+          Oh, weep no more to-day!
+  We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,
+          For the old Kentucky Home, far away.
+
+S.C. FOSTER.
+
+
+
+
+The Black Regiment.
+
+Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.
+
+
+  Dark as the clouds of even,
+  Ranked in the western heaven,
+  Waiting the breath that lifts
+  All the dread mass, and drifts
+  Tempest and falling brand
+  Over a ruined land;--
+  So still and orderly,
+  Arm 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 command
+  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 old chains again!"
+  Oh, what a shout there went
+  From the black regiment!
+
+  "Charge!" Trump and drum awoke,
+  Onward the bondmen broke;
+  Bayonet and sabre-stroke
+  Vainly opposed their rush.
+  Through the wild battle's crush,
+  With but one thought aflush,
+  Driving their lords like chaff,
+  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 'tis 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.
+  Oh, to the living few,
+  Soldiers, be just and true!
+  Hail them as comrades tried;
+  Fight with them side by side;
+  Never, in field or tent,
+  Scorn the black regiment.
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Carolina.
+
+
+  The despot treads thy sacred sands,
+  Thy pines give shelter to his bands,
+  Thy sons stand by with idle hands,
+              Carolina!
+  He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,
+  He scorns the lances of thy palm;
+  Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,
+              Carolina!
+  Thy ancient fame is growing dim,
+  A spot is on thy garment's rim;
+  Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,
+              Carolina!
+
+  Call on thy children of the hill,
+  Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,
+  Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,
+              Carolina!
+  Cite wealth and science, trade and art,
+  Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,
+  And pour thee through the people's heart,
+              Carolina!
+  Till even the coward spurns his fears,
+  And all thy fields, and fens, and meres
+  Shall bristle like thy palm with spears,
+              Carolina!
+
+  I hear a murmur as of waves
+  That grope their way through sunless caves,
+  Like bodies struggling in their graves,
+              Carolina!
+  And now it deepens; slow and grand
+  It swells, as, rolling to the land,
+  An ocean broke upon thy strand,
+              Carolina!
+  Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns!
+  And roar with all thy festal guns!
+  It is the answer of thy sons,
+              Carolina!
+
+H. TIMROD.
+
+
+
+
+Dirge for a Soldier.
+
+
+  Close 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!
+
+  As man may, he fought his fight,
+    Proved his truth by his endeavor;
+  Let him sleep in solemn night,
+    Sleep forever and forever.
+      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!
+      What cares he? He cannot know;
+            Lay him low!
+
+  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.
+      Lay him low, lay him low,
+      In the clover or the snow!
+      What cares he? He cannot know!
+            Lay him low!
+
+G.H. BOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Battle-hymn of the Republic.
+
+
+  Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
+  He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
+  He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword:
+          His truth is marching on.
+
+  I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
+  They have builded 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 serpent with His heel!
+          Since God is marching on."
+
+  He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
+  He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
+  Oh! 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 His bosom that transfigures you and me:
+  As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
+          While God is marching on.
+
+J.W. HOWE.
+
+
+
+
+Farragut.
+
+
+  Farragut, Farragut,
+    Old Heart of Oak,
+  Daring Dave Farragut,
+    Thunderbolt stroke,
+  Watches the hoary mist
+    Lift from the bay,
+  Till his flag, glory-kissed,
+    Greets the young day.
+
+  Far, by gray Morgan's walls,
+    Looms the black fleet.
+  Hark, deck to rampart calls
+    With the drums' beat!
+  Buoy your chains overboard,
+    While the steam hums;
+  Men! to the battlement,
+    Farragut comes.
+
+  See, as the hurricane
+    Hurtles in wrath
+  Squadrons of clouds amain
+    Back from its path!
+  Back to the parapet,
+    To the guns' lips,
+  Thunderbolt Farragut
+    Hurls the black ships.
+
+  Now through the battle's roar
+    Clear the boy sings,
+  "By the mark fathoms four,"
+    While his lead swings.
+  Steady the wheelmen five
+    "Nor' by east keep her,"
+  "Steady," but two alive:
+    How the shells sweep her!
+
+  Lashed to the mast that sways
+    Over red decks,
+  Over the flame that plays
+    Round the torn wrecks,
+  Over the dying lips
+    Framed for a cheer,
+  Farragut leads his ships,
+    Guides the line clear.
+
+  On by heights cannon-browed,
+    While the spars quiver;
+  Onward still flames the cloud
+    Where the hulks shiver.
+  See, yon fort's star is set,
+    Storm and fire past.
+  Cheer him, lads,--Farragut,
+    Lashed to the mast!
+
+  Oh! while Atlantic's breast
+    Bears a white sail,
+  While the Gulf's towering crest
+    Tops a green vale;
+  Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
+    Old Heart of Oak,
+  Daring Dave Farragut,
+    Thunderbolt stroke!
+
+W.T. MEREDITH.
+
+
+
+
+My Maryland.
+
+
+  The despot's heel is on thy shore,
+        Maryland!
+  His torch is at thy temple door,
+        Maryland!
+  Avenge the patriotic gore
+  That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
+  And be the battle-queen of yore,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Hark to an exiled son's appeal,
+        Maryland!
+  My Mother State, to thee I kneel,
+        Maryland!
+  For life and death, for woe and weal,
+  Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
+  And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
+        Maryland!
+  Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
+        Maryland!
+  Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
+  Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
+  And all thy slumberers with the just,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
+        Maryland!
+  Come with thy panoplied array,
+        Maryland!
+  With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
+  With Watson's blood at Monterey,
+  With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,
+        Maryland!
+  Virginia should not call in vain,
+        Maryland!
+  She meets her sisters on the plain,--
+  _"Sic semper!"_ 'tis the proud refrain
+  That baffles minions back amain,
+        Maryland!
+  Arise in majesty again,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
+        Maryland!
+  Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
+        Maryland!
+  Come to thine own heroic throng
+  Stalking with Liberty along,
+  And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  I see the blush upon thy cheek,
+        Maryland!
+  For thou wast ever bravely meek,
+        Maryland!
+  But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
+  From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
+  Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
+        Maryland!
+  Thou wilt not crook to his control,
+        Maryland!
+  Better the fire upon thee roll,
+  Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
+  Than crucifixion of the soul,
+        Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+  I hear the distant thunder-hum,
+          Maryland!
+  The old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,
+          Maryland!
+  She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;
+  Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
+  She breathes! She burns! She'll come!
+      She'll come!
+          Maryland, my Maryland!
+
+J.R. RANDALL.
+
+
+
+
+After All.[1]
+
+
+  The apples are ripe in the orchard,
+    The work of the reaper is done,
+  And the golden woodlands redden
+    In the blood of the dying sun.
+
+  At the cottage door the grandsire
+    Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,
+  While a gentle wind of twilight
+    Plays with his silver hair.
+
+  A woman is kneeling beside him;
+    A fair young head is prest,
+  In the first wild passion of sorrow,
+    Against his aged breast.
+
+  And far from over the distance
+    The faltering echoes come,
+  Of the flying blast of trumpet,
+    And the rattling roll of drum.
+
+  And the grandsire speaks in a whisper:
+    "The end no man can see;
+  But we give him to his country,
+    And we give our prayers to Thee."
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The violets star the meadows,
+    The rose-buds fringe the door,
+  And over the grassy orchard
+    The pink-white blossoms pour.
+
+  But the grandsire's chair is empty,
+    The cottage is dark and still,
+  There's a nameless grave in the battle-field,
+    And a new one under the hill.
+
+  And a pallid, tearless woman
+    By the cold hearth sits alone,
+  And the old clock in the corner
+    Ticks on with a steady drone.
+
+WILLIAM WINTER.
+
+
+
+[1] From "Wanderers," copyright, 1892, by Macmillan and Co.
+
+
+
+
+The Song of the Camp.
+
+
+  "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
+    The outer trenches guarding,
+  When the heated guns of the camps allied
+    Grew weary of bombarding.
+
+  The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
+    Lay grim and threatening under;
+  And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
+    No longer belch'd its thunder.
+
+  There was a pause. A guardsman said:
+    "We storm the forts to-morrow;
+  Sing while we may, another day
+    Will bring enough of sorrow."
+
+  They lay along the battery's side,
+    Below the smoking cannon:
+  Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
+    And from the banks of Shannon.
+
+  They sang of love, and not of fame;
+    Forgot was Britain's glory:
+  Each heart recall'd a different name,
+    But all sang "Annie Laurie."
+
+  Voice after voice caught up the song,
+    Until its tender passion
+  Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,--
+    Their battle-eve confession.
+
+  Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
+    But as the song grew louder,
+  Something upon the soldier's cheek
+    Washed off the stains of powder.
+
+  Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd
+    The bloody sunset's embers,
+  While the Crimean valleys learn'd
+    How English love remembers.
+
+  And once again a fire of hell
+    Rain'd on the Russian quarters,
+  With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
+    And bellowing of the mortars!
+
+  And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
+    For a singer dumb and gory;
+  And English Mary mourns for him
+    Who sang of "Annie Laurie."
+
+  Sleep, soldiers! still in honor'd rest
+    Your truth and valor wearing:
+  The bravest are the tenderest,--
+    The loving are the daring.
+
+B. TAYLOR.
+
+
+
+
+In the Hospital.
+
+
+  I lay me down to sleep,
+  With little thought or care
+  Whether my waking find
+      Me here or there.
+
+  A bowing, 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 how.
+
+  I am not eager, bold,
+  Nor strong--all that is past;
+  I am ready not to do
+      At last, at last.
+
+  My half day's work is done,
+  And this is all my part;
+  I give a patient God
+      My patient heart,
+
+  And grasp His banner still,
+  Though all its blue be dim;
+  These stripes, no less than stars,
+      Lead after Him.
+
+M.W. HOWLAND.
+
+
+
+
+Under the Violets.
+
+
+  Her hands are cold; her face is white;
+    No more her pulses come and go;
+  Her eyes are shut to life and light;--
+    Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
+    And lay her where the violets blow.
+
+  But not beneath a graven stone,
+    To plead for tears with alien eyes;
+  A slender cross of wood alone
+    Shall say, that here a maiden lies
+    In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
+
+  And gray old trees of hugest limb
+    Shall wheel their circling shadows round
+  To make the scorching sunlight dim
+    That drinks the greenness from the ground,
+    And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
+
+  When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
+    And through their leaves the robins call,
+  And, ripening in the autumn sun,
+    The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
+    Doubt not that she will heed them all.
+
+  For her the morning choir shall sing
+    Its matins from the branches high,
+  And every minstrel voice of Spring,
+    That trills beneath the April sky,
+    Shall greet her with its earliest cry.
+
+  When, turning round their dial-track,
+    Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
+  Her little mourners, clad in black,
+    The crickets, sliding through the grass,
+    Shall pipe for her an evening mass.
+
+  At last the rootlets of the trees
+    Shall find the prison where she lies,
+  And bear the buried dust they seize
+    In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
+    So may the soul that warmed it rise!
+
+  If any, born of kindlier blood,
+    Should ask, What maiden lies below?
+  Say only this: A tender bud,
+    That tried to blossom in the snow,
+    Lies withered where the violets blow.
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+Days.
+
+
+  Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
+  Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
+  And marching single in an endless file,
+  Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
+  To each they offer gifts after his will,
+  Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
+  I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
+  Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
+  Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
+  Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
+  Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+Song.[2]
+
+
+  You know the old Hidalgo
+    (His box is next to ours),
+  Who threw the Prima Donna
+    The wreath of orange-flowers;
+  He owns the half of Aragon,
+    With mines beyond the main;
+  A very ancient nobleman,
+    And gentleman of Spain.
+
+  They swear that I must wed him,
+    In spite of yea or nay,
+  Though uglier than the Scaramouch,
+    The spectre in the play;
+  But I will sooner die a maid
+    Than wear a gilded chain,
+  For all the ancient noblemen
+    And gentlemen of Spain!
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[2] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Aladdin.
+
+
+  When I was a beggarly boy,
+    And lived in a cellar damp,
+  I had not a friend nor a toy,
+    But I had Aladdin's lamp;
+  When I could not sleep for cold,
+    I had fire enough in my brain,
+  And builded, with roofs of gold,
+    My beautiful castles in Spain!
+
+  Since then I have toiled day and night,
+    I have money and power good store,
+  But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright,
+    For the one that is mine no more;
+  Take, Fortune, whatever you choose,--
+    You gave, and may snatch again;
+  I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,
+    For I own no more castles in Spain!
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+The Flight of Youth.[3]
+
+
+  There are gains for all our losses,
+    There are balms for all our pain;
+  But when youth, the dream, departs,
+  It takes something from our hearts,
+    And it never comes again.
+
+  We are stronger, and are better,
+    Under manhood's sterner reign;
+  Still, we feel that something sweet
+  Followed youth, with flying feet,
+    And will never come again.
+
+  Something beautiful is vanished,
+    And we sigh for it in vain;
+  We behold it everywhere,
+  On the earth, and in the air,
+    But it never comes again.
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[3] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+My Playmate.
+
+
+  The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
+    Their song was soft and low;
+  The blossoms in the sweet May wind
+    Were falling like the snow.
+
+  The blossoms drifted at our feet,
+    The orchard birds sang clear;
+  The sweetest and the saddest day
+    It seemed of all the year.
+
+  For, more to me than birds or flowers,
+    My playmate left her home,
+  And took with her the laughing spring,
+    The music and the bloom.
+
+  She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
+    She laid her hand in mine:
+  What more could ask the bashful boy
+    Who fed her father's kine?
+
+  She left us in the bloom of May:
+    The constant years told o'er
+  Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
+    But she came back no more.
+
+  I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
+    Of uneventful years;
+  Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
+    And reap the autumn ears.
+
+  She lives where all the golden year
+    Her summer roses blow;
+  The dusky children of the sun
+    Before her come and go.
+
+  There haply with her jewelled hands
+    She smooths her silken gown,--
+  No more the homespun lap wherein
+    I shook the walnuts down.
+
+  The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
+    The brown nuts on the hill,
+  And still the May-day flowers make sweet
+    The woods of Follymill.
+
+  The lilies blossom in the pond,
+    The bird builds in the tree,
+  The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
+    The slow song of the sea.
+
+  I wonder if she thinks of them,
+    And how the old time seems,
+  If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
+    Are sounding in her dreams.
+
+  I see her face, I hear her voice:
+    Does she remember mine?
+  And what to her is now the boy
+    Who fed her father's kine?
+
+  What cares she that the orioles build
+    For other eyes than ours,--
+  That other hands with nuts are filled,
+    And other laps with flowers?
+
+  O playmate in the golden time!
+    Our mossy seat is green,
+  Its fringing violets blossom yet,
+    The old trees o'er it lean.
+
+  The winds so sweet with birch and fern
+    A sweeter memory blow;
+  And there in spring the veeries sing
+    The song of long ago.
+
+  And still the pines of Ramoth wood
+    Are moaning like the sea,--
+  The moaning of the sea of change
+    Between myself and thee!
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+The Fire of Driftwood.
+
+DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.
+
+
+  We sat within the farmhouse old,
+    Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
+  Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,
+    An easy entrance, night and day.
+
+  Not far away we saw the port,
+    The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
+  The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
+    The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
+
+  We sat and talked until the night,
+    Descending, filled the little room;
+  Our faces faded from the sight,
+    Our voices only broke the gloom.
+
+  We spake of many a vanished scene,
+    Of what we once had thought and said,
+  Of what had been, and might have been,
+    And who was changed, and who was dead;
+
+  And all that fills the hearts of friends,
+    When first they feel, with secret pain,
+  Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
+    And never can be one again;
+
+  The first slight swerving of the heart,
+    That words are powerless to express,
+  And leave it still unsaid in part,
+    Or say it in too great excess.
+
+  The very tones in which we spake
+    Had something strange, I could but mark;
+  The leaves of memory seemed to make
+    A mournful rustling in the dark.
+
+  Oft died the words upon our lips,
+    As suddenly, from out the fire
+  Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
+    The flames would leap and then expire.
+
+  And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
+    We thought of wrecks upon the main,
+  Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
+    And sent no answer back again.
+
+  The windows, rattling in their frames,
+    The ocean, roaring up the beach,
+  The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
+    All mingled vaguely in our speech;
+
+  Until they made themselves a part
+    Of fancies floating through the brain,
+  The long-lost ventures of the heart,
+    That send no answers back again.
+
+  O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
+    They were indeed too much akin,
+  The driftwood fire without that burned,
+    The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+A Death-bed.
+
+
+  Her suffering ended with the day,
+    Yet lived she at its close,
+  And breathed the long, long night away
+    In statue-like repose.
+
+  But when the sun in all his state
+    Illumed the eastern skies,
+  She passed through Glory's morning gate
+    And walked in Paradise.
+
+J. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+Telling the Bees.
+
+
+  Here is the place; right over the hill
+    Runs the path I took;
+  You can see the gap in the old wall still,
+    And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
+
+  There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
+    And the poplars tall;
+  And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
+    And the white horns tossing above the wall.
+
+  There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
+    And down by the brink
+  Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,--
+    Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
+
+  A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
+    Heavy and slow;
+  And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
+    And the same brook sings of a year ago.
+
+  There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
+    And the June sun warm
+  Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
+    Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
+
+  I mind me how with a lover's care
+    From my Sunday coat
+  I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
+    And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
+
+  Since we parted, a month had passed,--
+    To love, a year;
+  Down through the beeches I looked at last
+    On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
+
+  I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain
+    Of light through the leaves,
+  The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
+    The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
+
+  Just the same as a month before,--
+    The house and the trees,
+  The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,--
+    Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
+
+  Before them, under the garden wall,
+    Forward and back,
+  Went, drearily singing, the chore-girl small,
+  Draping each hive with a shred of black.
+
+  Trembling, I listened; the summer sun
+    Had the chill of snow;
+  For I knew she was telling the bees of one
+    Gone on the journey we all must go!
+
+  Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps
+    For the dead to-day;
+  Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
+    The fret and the pain of his age away."
+
+  But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
+    With his cane to his chin,
+  The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
+    Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
+
+  And the song she was singing ever since
+    In my ear sounds on:
+  "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
+    Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
+
+J.G. WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+Katie.
+
+
+  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 English sunshine, warmth, and air!
+  I cannot tell,--but here to-day,
+  A thousand billowy leagues away
+  From that green isle whose twilight skies
+  No darker are than Katie's eyes,
+  She seems to me, go where 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;
+  And, as to do her grace, rise up
+  The primrose and the buttercup!
+  I roam with her through fields of cane,
+  And seem to stroll an English lane,
+  Which, white with blossoms of the May,
+  Spreads its green carpet in her way!
+  As fancy wills, the path beneath
+  Is golden gorse, or purple heath;
+  And now we hear in woodlands dim
+  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 greet the dawn!
+  All birds that love the English sky
+  Throng round my path when she is by;
+  The blackbird from a neighboring thorn
+  With music brims the cup of morn,
+  And in a thick, melodious rain
+  The mavis pours her mellow strain!
+  But only when my Katie's voice
+  Makes all the listening woods rejoice
+  I hear--with cheeks that flush and pale--
+  The passion of the nightingale!
+
+H. TIMROD.
+
+
+
+
+My Love.
+
+
+  Not as all other women are
+  Is she that to my soul is dear;
+  Her glorious fancies come from far,
+  Beneath the silver evening-star,
+  And yet her heart is ever near.
+
+  Great feelings hath she of her own,
+  Which lesser souls may never know;
+  God giveth them to her alone,
+  And sweet they are as any tone
+  Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
+
+  Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
+  Although no home were half so fair;
+  No simplest duty is forgot;
+  Life hath no dim and lowly spot
+  That doth not in her sunshine share.
+
+  She doeth little kindnesses,
+  Which most leave undone, or despise;
+  For naught that sets one heart at ease,
+  And giveth happiness or peace,
+  Is low-esteemed in her eyes.
+
+  She hath no scorn of common things,
+  And, though she seem of other birth,
+  Round us her heart intwines and clings,
+  And patiently she folds her wings
+  To tread the humble paths of earth.
+
+  Blessing she is; God made her so,
+  And deeds of week-day holiness
+  Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
+  Nor hath she ever chanced to know
+  That aught were easier than to bless.
+
+  She is most fair, and thereunto
+  Her life doth rightly harmonize;
+  Feeling or thought that was not true
+  Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
+  Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
+
+  She is a woman; one in whom
+  The spring-time of her childish years
+  Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
+  Though knowing well that life hath room
+  For many blights and many tears.
+
+  I love her with a love as still
+  As a broad river's peaceful might,
+  Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
+  Goes wandering at its own will,
+  And yet doth ever flow aright.
+
+  And, on its full, deep breast serene,
+  Like quiet isles my duties lie;
+  It flows around them and between,
+  And makes them fresh, and fair, and green,
+  Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+She Came and Went.
+
+
+  As a twig trembles, which a bird
+    Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,
+  So is my memory thrilled and stirred;--
+    I only know she came and went.
+
+  As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,
+    The blue dome's measureless content,
+  So my soul held that moment's heaven;--
+    I only know she came and went.
+
+  As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps
+    The orchards full of bloom and scent,
+  So clove her May my wintry sleeps;--
+    I only know she came and went.
+
+  An angel stood and met my gaze,
+    Through the low doorway of my tent;
+  The tent is struck, the vision stays;--
+   I only know she came and went.
+
+  Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,
+    And life's last oil is nearly spent,
+  One gush of light these eyes will brim,
+    Only to think she came and went.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+Her Epitaph.
+
+
+  The handful here, that once was Mary's earth,
+    Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul,
+  That, when she died, all recognized her birth,
+    And had their sorrow in serene control.
+
+  "Not here! not here!" to every mourner's heart
+    The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier;
+  And when the tomb-door opened, with a start
+    We heard it echoed from within,--"Not here!"
+
+  Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass,
+    Note in these flowers a delicater hue,
+  Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass,
+    Or the bee later linger on the dew,--
+
+  Know that her spirit to her body lent
+    Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can;
+  That even her dust, and this her monument,
+    Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man,
+  Lonely through life, but looking for the day
+    When what is mortal of himself shall sleep,
+  When human passion shall have passed away,
+    And Love no longer be a thing to weep.
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+Apart.
+
+
+  At sea are tossing ships;
+    On shore are dreaming shells,
+  And the waiting heart and the loving lips,
+    Blossoms and bridal bells.
+
+  At sea are sails a-gleam;
+    On shore are longing eyes,
+  And the far horizon's haunting dream
+    Of ships that sail the skies.
+
+  At sea are masts that rise
+    Like spectres from the deep;
+  On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries
+    That cross the waves of sleep.
+
+  At sea are wrecks a-strand;
+    On shore are shells that moan,
+  Old anchors buried in barren sand,
+    Sea-mist and dreams alone.
+
+J.J. PIATT.
+
+
+
+
+The Discoverer.
+
+
+    I have a little kinsman
+    Whose earthly summers are but three,
+    And yet a voyager is he
+    Greater than Drake or Frobisher,
+    Than all their peers together!
+    He is a brave discoverer,
+    And, far beyond the tether
+    Of them who seek the frozen Pole,
+  Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.
+    Ay, he has travelled whither
+    A winged pilot steered his bark
+    Through the portals of the dark,
+    Past hoary Mimir's well and tree,
+          Across the unknown sea.
+
+    Suddenly, in his fair young hour,
+    Came one who bore a flower,
+    And laid it in his dimpled hand
+          With this command:
+    "Henceforth thou art a rover!
+    Thou must make a voyage far,
+    Sail beneath the evening star,
+    And a wondrous land discover."
+    --With his sweet smile innocent
+          Our little kinsman went.
+
+    Since that time no word
+    From the absent has been heard.
+          Who can tell
+    How he fares, or answer well
+    What the little one has found
+    Since he left us, outward bound?
+    Would that he might return!
+    Then should we learn
+    From the pricking of his chart
+    How the skyey roadways part.
+  Hush! does not the baby this way bring,
+    To lay beside this severed curl,
+          Some starry offering
+    Of chrysolite or pearl?
+
+          Ah, no! not so!
+    We may follow on his track,
+          But he comes not back.
+          And yet I dare aver
+    He is a brave discoverer
+    Of climes his elders do not know.
+    He has more learning than appears
+    On the scroll of twice three thousand years,
+    More than in the groves is taught,
+    Or from furthest Indies brought;
+    He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,--
+    What shapes the angels wear,
+    What is their guise and speech
+    In those lands beyond our reach,--
+          And his eyes behold
+  Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.
+
+E.C. STEDMAN.
+
+
+
+
+At Last.[4]
+
+
+  When first the bride and bridegroom wed,
+    They love their single selves the best;
+  A sword is in the marriage bed,
+    Their separate slumbers are not rest.
+  They quarrel, and make up again,
+  They give and suffer worlds of pain.
+          Both right and wrong,
+          They struggle long,
+  Till some good day, when they are old,
+  Some dark day, when the bells are tolled,
+  Death having taken their best of life,
+    They lose themselves, and find each other;
+  They know that they are husband, wife,
+    For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[4] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+"Thalatta."
+
+CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.
+
+
+  I stand upon the summit of my years.
+  Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife,
+  The wandering and the desert; vast, afar,
+  Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea!
+  The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings,
+  By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath
+  Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.
+  Palter no question of the dim Beyond;
+  Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest;
+  Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,
+  A widening heaven, a current without care.
+  Eternity!--Deliverance, Promise, Course!
+  Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.
+
+J.B. BROWN.
+
+
+
+
+Gondolieds.
+
+
+I.
+
+YESTERDAY.
+
+
+  Dear yesterday, glide not so fast;
+      Oh, let me cling
+  To thy white garments floating past;
+  Even to shadows which they cast
+      I cling, I cling.
+      Show me thy face
+  Just once, once more; a single night
+  Cannot have brought a loss, a blight
+      Upon its grace.
+
+  Nor are they dead whom thou dost bear,
+      Robed for the grave.
+  See what a smile their red lips wear;
+  To lay them living wilt thou dare
+      Into a grave?
+      I know, I know,
+  I left thee first; now I repent;
+  I listen now; I never meant
+      To have thee go.
+
+  Just once, once more, tell me the word
+      Thou hadst for me!
+  Alas! although my heart was stirred,
+  I never fully knew or heard
+      It was for me.
+      O yesterday,
+  My yesterday, thy sorest pain
+  Were joy couldst thou but come again,--
+      Sweet yesterday.
+
+  _Venice, May 26._
+
+
+II.
+
+TO-MORROW.
+
+  All red with joy the waiting west,
+      O little swallow,
+  Couldst thou tell me which road is best?
+  Cleaving high air with thy soft breast
+      For keel, O swallow,
+      Thou must o'erlook
+  My seas and know if I mistake;
+  I would not the same harbor make
+      Which yesterday forsook.
+
+  I hear the swift blades dip and plash
+      Of unseen rowers;
+  On unknown land the waters dash;
+  Who knows how it be wise or rash
+      To meet the rowers!
+      Premi! Premi!
+  Venetia's boatmen lean and cry;
+  With voiceless lips I drift and lie
+      Upon the twilight sea.
+
+  The swallow sleeps. Her last low call
+      Had sound of warning.
+  Sweet little one, whate'er befall,
+  Thou wilt not know that it was all
+      In vain thy warning.
+      I may not borrow
+  A hope, a help. I close my eyes;
+  Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs;
+      Kneeling I wait to-morrow.
+
+  _Venice, May 30._
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+In the Twilight.
+
+
+  Men say the sullen instrument
+    That, from the Master's bow,
+    With pangs of joy or woe,
+  Feels music's soul through every fibre sent,
+    Whispers the ravished strings
+  More than he knew or meant;
+    Old summers in its memory glow;
+    The secrets of the wind it sings;
+    It hears the April-loosened springs;
+      And mixes with its mood
+      All it dreamed when it stood
+      In the murmurous pine-wood
+                Long ago!
+
+  The magical moonlight then
+    Steeped every bough and cone;
+  The roar of the brook in the glen
+    Came dim from the distance blown;
+  The wind through its glooms sang low,
+    And it swayed to and fro
+      With delight as it stood,
+      In the wonderful wood,
+                Long ago!
+
+  O my life, have we not had seasons
+    That only said, "Live and rejoice?"
+  That asked not for causes and reasons,
+    But made us all feeling and voice?
+  When we went with the winds in their blowing,
+    When Nature and we were peers,
+  And we seemed to share in the flowing
+    Of the inexhaustible years?
+    Have we not from the earth drawn juices
+    Too fine for earth's sordid uses?
+      Have I heard, have I seen
+        All I feel and I know?
+      Doth my heart overween?
+      Or could it have been
+                Long ago?
+
+  Sometimes a breath floats by me,
+    An odor from Dreamland sent,
+  That makes the ghost seem nigh me
+    Of a splendor that came and went,
+  Of a life lived somewhere, I know not
+    In what diviner sphere,
+  Of memories that stay not and go not,
+    Like music heard once by an ear
+      That cannot forget or reclaim it,
+      A something so shy, it would shame it
+        To make it a show,
+      A something too vague, could I name it,
+        For others to know,
+      As if I had lived it or dreamed it,
+      As if I had acted or schemed it,
+                Long ago!
+
+  And yet, could I live it over,
+    This life that stirs in my brain,
+  Could I be both maiden and lover,
+  Moon and tide, bee and clover,
+    As I seem to have been, once again,
+  Could I but speak and show it,
+    This pleasure more sharp than pain,
+    That baffles and lures me so,
+  The world should not lack a poet,
+      Such as it had
+      In the ages glad,
+                Long ago!
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls.
+
+
+  The tide rises, the tide falls,
+  The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
+  Along the sea-sands damp and brown
+  The traveller hastens toward the town,
+    And the tide rises, the tide falls.
+
+  Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
+  But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;
+  The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
+  Efface the footprints in the sands,
+    And the tide rises, the tide falls.
+
+  The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
+  Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
+  The day returns, but nevermore
+  Returns the traveller to the shore,
+    And the tide rises, the tide falls.
+
+H.W. LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+The Fall of the Leaf.
+
+
+  The evening of the year draws on,
+    The fields a later aspect wear;
+  Since Summer's garishness is gone,
+    Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.
+
+  Behold! the shadows of the trees
+    Now circle wider 'bout their stem,
+  Like sentries that by slow degrees
+    Perform their rounds, gently protecting them.
+
+  And as the year doth decline,
+    The sun allows a scantier light;
+  Behind each needle of the pine
+    There lurks a small auxiliar to the night.
+
+  I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay
+    Around, beneath me, and on high;
+  It rocks the night, it soothes the day,
+    And everywhere is Nature's lullaby.
+
+  But most he chirps beneath the sod,
+    When he has made his winter bed;
+  His creak grown fainter but more broad,
+    A film of Autumn o'er the Summer spread.
+
+  Small birds, in fleets migrating by,
+    Now beat across some meadow's bay,
+  And as they tack and veer on high,
+    With faint and hurried click beguile the way.
+
+  Far in the woods, these golden days,
+    Some leaf obeys its Maker's call;
+  And through their hollow aisles it plays
+    With delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.
+
+  Gently withdrawing from its stem,
+    It lightly lays itself along
+  Where the same hand hath pillowed them,
+    Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng.
+
+  The loneliest birch is brown and sere,
+    The furthest pool is strewn with leaves,
+  Which float upon their watery bier,
+    Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.
+
+  The jay screams through the chestnut wood;
+    The crisped and yellow leaves around
+  Are hue and texture of my mood,--
+    And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.
+
+  The threadbare trees, so poor and thin,--
+    They are no wealthier than I;
+  But with as brave a core within
+    They rear their boughs to the October sky.
+
+  Poor knights they are which bravely wait
+    The charge of Winter's cavalry,
+  Keeping a simple Roman state,
+    Discumbered of their Persian luxury.
+
+H.D. THOREAU.
+
+
+
+
+The Rhodora.
+
+ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
+
+
+  In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
+  I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
+  Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
+  To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
+  The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
+  Made the black water with their beauty gay;
+  Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
+  And court the flower that cheapens his array.
+  Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
+  This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
+  Tell them, dear, 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 never thought to ask, I never knew:
+  But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
+  The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+Nature.
+
+
+  O nature! I do not aspire
+  To be the highest in thy quire,--
+  To be a meteor in the sky,
+  Or comet that may range on high;
+  Only a zephyr that may blow
+  Among the reeds by the river low;
+  Give me thy most privy place
+  Where to run my airy race.
+
+  In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
+  Let me sigh upon a reed,
+  Or in the woods, with leafy din,
+  Whisper the still evening in.
+  Some still work give me to do,--
+  Only--be it near to you!
+  For I'd rather be thy child
+  And pupil, in the forest wild,
+  Than be the king of men elsewhere,
+  And most sovereign slave of care.
+
+H.D. THOREAU.
+
+
+
+
+My Strawberry.
+
+
+  O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause
+  To reckon thee. I ask what cause
+  Set free so much of red from heats
+  At core of earth, and mixed such sweets
+  With sour and spice: what was that strength
+  Which out of darkness, length by length,
+  Spun all thy shining thread of vine,
+  Netting the fields in bond as thine.
+  I see thy tendrils drink by sips
+  From grass and clover's smiling lips;
+  I hear thy roots dig down for wells,
+  Tapping the meadow's hidden cells;
+     Whole generations of green things,
+  Descended from long lines of springs,
+  I see make room for thee to bide
+  A quiet comrade by their side;
+  I see the creeping peoples go
+  Mysterious journeys to and fro,
+  Treading to right and left of thee,
+  Doing thee homage wonderingly.
+  I see the wild bees as they fare,
+  Thy cups of honey drink, but spare.
+  I mark thee bathe and bathe again
+  In sweet uncalendared spring rain.
+  I watch how all May has of sun
+  Makes haste to have thy ripeness done,
+  While all her nights let dews escape
+  To set and cool thy perfect shape.
+  Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause
+  To dream and seek thy hidden laws!
+  I stretch my hand and dare to taste,
+  In instant of delicious waste
+  On single feast, all things that went
+  To make the empire thou hast spent.
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+The Humble-bee.
+
+
+  Burly, dozing humble-bee,
+  Where thou art is clime for me.
+  Let them sail for Porto Rique,
+  Far-off heats through seas to seek;
+  I will follow thee alone,
+  Thou animated torrid-zone!
+  Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
+  Let me 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;
+  Epicurean of June;
+  Wait, I prithee, till I come
+  Within earshot of thy hum,--
+  All without is martyrdom.
+
+  When the south wind, in May days,
+  With a net of shining haze
+  Silvers the horizon wall,
+  And with softness touching all,
+  Tints the human countenance
+  With a color of romance,
+  And infusing subtle heats,
+  Turns the sod to violets,
+  Thou, 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 leisure,
+  Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
+
+  Aught unsavory or unclean
+  Hath my insect never seen;
+  But violets and bilberry bells,
+  Maple-sap and daffodels,
+  Grass with green flag half-mast high,
+  Succory to match the sky,
+  Columbine with horn of honey,
+  Scented fern, and agrimony,
+  Clover, catchfly, 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-breeched philosopher!
+  Seeing only what is fair,
+  Sipping only what is sweet,
+  Thou dost mock at fate and care,
+  Leave the chaff, 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;
+  Want and woe, which torture us,
+  Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
+
+R.W. EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+The Summer Rain.
+
+
+  My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read.
+    'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
+  Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
+    And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
+
+  Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
+    Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
+  What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
+    Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
+
+  Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
+    What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
+  If juster battles are enacted now
+    Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?
+
+  Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
+    If red or black the gods will favor most,
+  Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
+    Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
+
+  Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
+    For now I've business with this drop of dew,
+  And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,--
+    I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
+
+  This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spread
+    Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use;
+  A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
+    And violets quite overtop my shoes.
+
+  And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
+    And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
+  The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
+    Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
+
+  I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
+    But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
+  Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
+    And now it sinks into my garment's hem.
+
+  Drip, drip the trees for all the country round,
+    And richness rare distills from every bough;
+  The wind alone it is makes every sound,
+    Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
+
+  For shame the sun will never show himself,
+    Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
+  My dripping locks,--they would become an elf,
+    Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
+
+H.D. THOREAU.
+
+
+
+
+To the Dandelion.
+
+
+    Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,
+  Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
+      First pledge of blithesome May,
+  Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
+    High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
+  An Eldorado in the grass have found,
+  Which not the rich earth's ample round
+    May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me
+    Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
+
+    Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow
+  Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
+      Nor wrinkled the lean brow
+  Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;
+    'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now
+  To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
+  Though most hearts never understand
+    To take it at God's value, but pass by
+    The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.
+
+    Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
+  To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
+      The eyes thou givest me
+  Are in the heart, and heed not space or time:
+    Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
+  Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment
+  In the white lily's breezy tent,
+    His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
+    From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
+
+    Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,
+  Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
+      Where, as the breezes pass,
+  The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,
+    Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
+  Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue
+  That from the distance sparkle through
+    Some woodland gap, and of a sky above,
+    Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
+
+    My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee;
+  The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,
+      Who, from the dark old tree
+  Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
+    And I, secure in childish piety,
+  Listened as if I heard an angel sing
+  With news from heaven, which he could bring
+    Fresh every day to my untainted ears
+    When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.
+
+    How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,
+  When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
+      Thou teachest me to deem
+  More sacredly of every human heart,
+    Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
+  Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
+  Did we but pay the love we owe,
+    And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
+    On all these living pages of God's book.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+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, where the Siren sings,
+       And coral reefs lie bare,
+  Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 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 crypt 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 the old no more.
+
+  Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
+      Child of the wandering sea,
+      Cast from her lap, forlorn!
+  From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
+  Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
+      While on mine ear it rings,
+  Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:
+
+  Build thee more stately mansions, O 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 life's unresting sea!
+
+O.W. HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+Thought.
+
+
+  O messenger, art thou the king, or I?
+      Thou dalliest outside the palace gate
+      Till on thine idle armor lie the late
+  And heavy dews. The morn's bright scornful eye
+  Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery,
+      Thou smilest at the window where I wait,
+      Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state
+  My days go on, while false hours prophesy
+  Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,
+  I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air;
+      When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet,
+      And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.
+  Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy
+  I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+Stanzas.
+
+
+  Thought is deeper than all speech,
+    Feeling deeper than all thought;
+  Souls to souls can never teach
+    What 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 columns left alone
+    Of a temple once complete.
+
+  Like the stars that gem the sky,
+    Far apart, though seeming near,
+  In our light we scattered lie;
+    All is thus but starlight here.
+
+  What is social company
+    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 taught;
+
+  Only when our souls are fed
+    By the Fount which gave them birth,
+  And by inspiration led,
+    Which they never drew from earth,
+
+  We, like parted drops of rain
+    Swelling till they meet and run,
+  Shall be all absorbed again,
+    Melting, flowing into one.
+
+C.P. CRANCH.
+
+
+
+
+Coronation.
+
+
+  At the king's gate the subtle noon
+    Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
+  Into the drowsy snare too soon
+    The 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 thou have of me?"
+    The beggar turned, and, pitying,
+  Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee,
+    Nothing. I want the king."
+
+  Uprose the king, and from his head
+    Shook off the crown and threw it by.
+  "O man, thou must have known," he said,
+    "A greater king than I."
+
+  Through all the gates, unquestioned then,
+    Went king and beggar hand in hand.
+  Whispered the king, "Shall I know when
+    Before _his_ throne I stand?"
+
+  The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
+    Were wiping from the king's hot brow
+  The 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 guards waked one by one.
+
+  "Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen
+    The king?" The cry ran to and fro;
+  Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,
+    The laugh that free men know.
+
+  On the king's gate the moss grew gray;
+    The king came not. They called him dead;
+  And made his eldest son one day
+    Slave in his father's stead.
+
+H.H. JACKSON.
+
+
+
+
+On a Bust of Dante.
+
+
+  See, from this counterfeit of him
+    Whom Arno shall remember long,
+  How stern of lineament, how grim,
+    The father was of Tuscan song:
+  There but the burning sense of wrong,
+    Perpetual care and scorn, abide;
+  Small friendship for the lordly throng;
+    Distrust of all the world beside.
+
+  Faithful if this wan image be,
+    No dream his life was,--but a fight;
+  Could any Beatrice see
+    A lover in that anchorite?
+  To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight
+    Who could have guessed the visions came
+  Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
+    In circles of eternal flame?
+
+  The lips as Cumae'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,
+    Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.
+
+  Not wholly such his haggard look
+    When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,
+  With no companion save his book,
+    To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;
+  Where, as the Benedictine laid
+    His palm upon the convent's guest,
+  The single boon for which he prayed
+    Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.
+
+  Peace dwells not here,--this rugged face
+    Betrays no spirit of repose;
+  The sullen warrior sole we trace,
+    The marble man of many woes.
+  Such was his mien when first arose
+    The thought of that strange tale divine,
+  When hell he peopled with his foes,
+    The scourge of many a guilty line.
+
+  War to the last he waged with all
+    The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
+  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.
+
+  O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
+    The only righteous 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 parcel of mankind,
+  Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
+    The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+Pan in Wall Street.
+
+A.D. 1867.
+
+
+  Just where the Treasury's marble front
+    Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;
+  Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
+    To throng for trade and last quotations;
+  Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
+    Outrival, in the ears of people,
+  The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled
+    From Trinity's undaunted steeple,--
+
+  Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
+    Sound high above the modern clamor,
+  Above the cries of greed and gain,
+    The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;
+  And swift, on Music's misty ways,
+    It led, from all this strife for millions,
+  To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
+    Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.
+
+  And as it stilled the multitude,
+    And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
+  I saw the minstrel, where he stood
+   At ease against a Doric pillar:
+  One hand a droning organ played,
+    The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned
+  Like those of old) to lips that made
+    The reeds give out that strain impassioned.
+
+  'Twas Pan himself had wandered here
+    A-strolling through this sordid city,
+  And piping to the civic ear
+    The prelude of some pastoral ditty!
+  The demigod had crossed the seas,--
+    From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,
+  And Syracusan times,--to these
+    Far shores and twenty centuries later.
+
+  A ragged cap was on his head;
+    But--hidden thus--there was no doubting
+  That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,
+    His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting;
+  His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
+    Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,
+  And trousers, patched of divers hues,
+    Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.
+
+  He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
+    And o'er his mouth their changes shifted,
+  And with his goat's-eyes looked around
+    Where'er the passing current drifted;
+  And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
+    The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,
+  Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
+    With clerks and porters, crowded near him.
+
+  The bulls and bears together drew
+    From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley,
+  As erst, if pastorals be true,
+    Came beasts from every wooded valley;
+  The random passers stayed to list,--
+    A boxer AEgon, rough and merry,
+  A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
+    With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.
+
+  A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
+    In tattered cloak of army pattern,
+  And Galatea joined the throng,--
+    A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;
+  While old Silenus staggered out
+    From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,
+  And bade the piper, with a shout,
+    To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!
+
+  A newsboy and a peanut-girl
+    Like little Fauns began to caper:
+  His hair was all in tangled curl,
+    Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
+  And still the gathering larger grew,
+    And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
+  While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
+    His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.
+
+  O heart of Nature, beating still
+    With throbs her vernal passion taught her,--
+  Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,
+    Or by the Arethusan water!
+  New forms may fold the speech, new lands
+    Arise within these ocean-portals,
+  But Music waves eternal wands,--
+    Enchantress of the souls of mortals!
+
+  So thought I,--but among us trod
+    A man in blue, with legal baton,
+  And scoffed the vagrant demigod,
+    And pushed him from the step I sat on.
+  Doubting, I mused upon the cry,
+    "Great Pan is dead!"--and all the people
+  Went on their ways:--and clear and high
+    The quarter sounded from the steeple.
+
+E.C. STEDMAN.
+
+
+
+
+Auspex.
+
+
+  My heart, I cannot still it,
+  Nest that had song-birds in it;
+  And when the last shall go,
+  The dreary days, to fill it,
+  Instead of lark or linnet,
+  Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.
+
+  Had they been swallows only,
+  Without the passion stronger
+  That skyward longs and sings,--
+  Woe's me, I shall be lonely
+  When I can feel no longer
+  The impatience of their wings!
+
+  A moment, sweet delusion,
+  Like birds the brown leaves hover;
+  But it will not be long
+  Before their wild confusion
+  Fall wavering down to cover
+  The poet and his song.
+
+J.R. LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+Birds.[5]
+
+
+  Birds are singing round my window,
+    Tunes the sweetest ever heard,
+  And I hang my cage there daily,
+    But I never catch a bird.
+
+  So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
+    And they sing there all day long:
+  But they will not fold their pinions
+    In the little cage of Song.
+
+R.H. STODDARD.
+
+
+
+[5] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Toujours Amour.
+
+
+  Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,
+  At what age does Love begin?
+  Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
+  Summers three, my fairy queen,
+  But a miracle of sweets,
+  Soft approaches, sly retreats,
+  Show the little archer there,
+  Hidden in your pretty hair;
+  When didst learn a heart to win?
+  Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
+
+      "Oh!" the rosy lips reply,
+      "I can't tell you if I try.
+      'Tis so long I can't remember:
+      Ask some younger lass than I!"
+
+  Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face,
+  Do your heart and head keep pace?
+  When does hoary Love expire,
+  When do frosts put out the fire?
+  Can its embers burn below
+  All that chill December snow?
+  Care you still soft hands to press,
+  Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
+  When does Love give up the chase?
+  Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face!
+
+      "Ah!" the wise old lips reply,
+      "Youth may pass and strength may die;
+      But of Love I can't foretoken:
+      Ask some older sage than I!"
+
+E.C. STEDMAN.
+
+
+
+
+A Sigh.
+
+
+  It was nothing but a rose I gave her,--
+      Nothing but a rose
+  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 upon them lingers,
+      Stays, and thrills them still!
+
+  Withered, faded, pressed between the pages,
+      Crumpled fold on fold,--
+  Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
+      Cannot make it old!
+
+H.P. SPOFFORD.
+
+
+
+
+No More.
+
+
+  This is the Burden of the Heart,
+    The Burden that it always bore:
+  We live to love; we meet to part;
+    And part to meet on earth No More:
+  We clasp each other to the heart,
+    And part to meet on earth No More.
+
+  There is a time for tears to start,--
+    For dews to fall and larks to soar:
+  The Time for Tears, is when we part
+    To meet upon the earth No More:
+  The Time for Tears, is when we part
+    To meet on this wide earth--No More.
+
+B.F. WILLSON.
+
+
+
+
+To a Young Girl Dying.
+
+WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.
+
+
+  This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,
+  I bring palm branches, found upon my way:
+  But these will wither; thine shall never die,--
+  The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
+  Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
+  Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!
+  _We_ doubt and tremble,--_we_, with bated breath,
+  Talk of this mystery of life and death:
+  Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive
+  Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!
+
+  Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,
+  Gentle white palmer, never more to roam!
+  Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st,
+  Thy benediction,--for my love thou know'st!
+  We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine:
+  Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+The Port of Ships.[6]
+
+
+  Behind him lay the gray Azores,
+    Behind the Gates of Hercules;
+  Before him not the ghost of shores,
+    Before him only shoreless seas.
+  The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
+    For lo! the very stars are gone.
+  Brave Adm'ral speak,--what shall I say?"
+    "Why, say, 'Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"
+
+  "My men grow mutinous day by day;
+    My men grow ghastly, wan and weak."
+  The stout mate thought of home; a spray
+    Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
+  "What shall I say, brave Adm'ral, say,
+    If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
+  "Why, you shall say, at break of day,
+    'Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"
+
+  They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow,
+    Until at last the blanched mate said:
+  "Why, now not even God would know
+    Should I and all my men fall dead.
+  These very winds forget their way,
+    For God from these dread seas is gone.
+  Now speak, brave Adm'ral; speak, and say--"
+    He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"
+
+  They sailed! They sailed! Then spake the mate:
+    "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night;
+  He curls his lip, he lies in wait
+    With lifted teeth, as if to bite!
+  Brave Adm'ral, say but one good word,--
+    What shall we do when hope is gone?"
+  The words leaped as a leaping sword:
+    "Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!"
+
+C.H. MILLER.
+
+
+
+[6] From The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller.
+
+
+
+
+Paradisi Gloria.
+
+
+  There is a city, builded by no hand,
+    And unapproachable by sea or shore,
+  And unassailable by any band
+    Of storming soldiery for evermore.
+
+  There we no longer shall divide our time
+    By acts or pleasures,--doing petty things
+  Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme;
+    But we shall sit beside the silver springs
+
+  That flow from God's own footstool, and behold
+    Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few
+  Who loved us once and were beloved of old,
+    To dwell with them and walk with them anew,
+
+  In alternations of sublime repose,
+    Musical motion, the perpetual play
+  Of every faculty that Heaven bestows
+    Through the bright, busy, and eternal day.
+
+T.W. PARSONS.
+
+
+
+
+Ballad.
+
+
+  In the summer even,
+    While yet the dew was hoar,
+  I went plucking purple pansies,
+    Till my love should come to shore.
+  The 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;
+  And the young moon dropped from heaven,
+    And the lights hid one by one.
+  All silently their glances
+    Slipped down the cruel sea,
+  And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,--
+    Wait, till I come to thee!
+
+H.P. SPOFFORD.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THIRD.
+
+
+
+
+
+The Fool's Prayer.
+
+
+  The royal feast was done; the King
+    Sought some new sport to banish care,
+  And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
+    Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
+
+  The jester doffed his cap and bells,
+    And stood the mocking court before;
+  They could not see the bitter smile
+    Behind the painted grin he wore.
+
+  He bowed his head, and bent his knee
+    Upon the monarch's silken stool;
+  His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
+    Be merciful to me, a fool!
+
+  "No pity, Lord, could change the heart
+    From red with wrong to white as wool;
+  The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
+    Be merciful to me, a fool!
+
+  "'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
+    Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
+  'Tis by our follies that so long
+    We hold the earth from heaven away.
+
+  "These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
+    Go crushing blossoms without end;
+  These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
+    Among the heart-strings of a friend.
+
+  "The ill-timed truth we might have kept--
+    Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
+  The word we had not sense to say--
+    Who knows how grandly it had rung?
+
+  "Our faults no tenderness should ask,
+    The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
+  But for our blunders--oh, in shame
+    Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
+
+  "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
+    Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
+  That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
+    Be merciful to me, a fool!"
+
+  The room was hushed; in silence rose
+    The King, and sought his gardens cool,
+  And walked apart, and murmured low,
+    "Be merciful to me, a fool!"
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+On The Life-mask Of Abraham Lincoln.
+
+
+  This bronze doth keep the very form and mold
+    Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:
+    That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
+  That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
+  Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;
+    That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
+    For storms to beat on; the lone agony
+  Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
+  Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
+    As might some prophet of the elder day,--
+    Brooding above the tempest and the fray
+  With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.
+    A power was his beyond the touch of art
+    Or armed strength: his pure and mighty heart.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+Song.
+
+
+  Years have flown since I knew thee first,
+  And I know thee as water is known of thirst:
+  Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight,
+  And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+To A Dead Woman.[7]
+
+
+  Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end,
+     I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee.
+  Through long years keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend!
+    At the gate of Silence give it back to me.
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[7] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Destiny.
+
+
+  Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
+  Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
+  Drooped in a florist's window in a town.
+
+  The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
+  Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.
+
+  The second rose, as virginal and fair,
+  Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.
+
+  The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,
+  Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+The Kings.
+
+
+  A man said unto his angel:
+  "My spirits are fallen thro',
+  And I cannot carry this battle;
+  O brother! what shall I do?
+
+  "The terrible Kings are on me,
+  With spears that are deadly bright,
+  Against me so from the cradle
+  Do fate and my fathers fight."
+
+  Then said to the man his angel:
+  "Thou wavering, foolish soul,
+  Back to the ranks! What matter
+  To win or to lose the whole,
+
+  "As judged by the little judges
+  Who hearken not well, nor see?
+  Not thus, by the outer issue,
+  The Wise shall interpret thee.
+
+  "Thy will is the very, the only,
+  The solemn event of things;
+  The weakest of hearts defying
+  Is stronger than all these Kings.
+
+  "Tho' out of the past they gather,
+  Mind's Doubt and bodily Pain,
+  And pallid Thirst of the Spirit
+  That is kin to the other twain,
+
+  "And Grief, in a cloud of banners,
+  And ringletted Vain Desires,
+  And Vice with the spoils upon him
+  Of thee and thy beaten sires,
+
+  "While Kings of eternal evil
+  Yet darken the hills about,
+  Thy part is with broken sabre
+  To rise on the last redoubt;
+
+  "To fear not sensible failure,
+  Nor covet the game at all,
+  But fighting, fighting, fighting,
+  Die, driven against the wall!"
+
+L.I. GUINEY.
+
+
+
+
+Triumph.[8]
+
+
+  The dawn came in through the bars of the blind,--
+    And the winter's dawn is gray,--
+  And said, "However you cheat your mind,
+    The hours are flying away."
+
+  A ghost of a dawn, and pale, and weak,--
+    "Has the sun a heart," I said,
+  "To throw a morning flush on the cheek
+    Whence a fairer flush has fled?"
+
+  As a gray rose-leaf that is fading white
+    Was the cheek where I set my kiss;
+  And on that side of the bed all night
+    Death had watched, and I on this.
+
+  I kissed her lips, they were half apart,
+    Yet they made no answering sign;
+  Death's hand was on her failing heart,
+    And his eyes said, "She is mine."
+
+  I set my lips on the blue-veined lid,
+    Half-veiled by her death-damp hair;
+  And oh, for the violet depths it hid
+    And the light I longed for there!
+
+  Faint day and the fainter life awoke,
+    And the night was overpast;
+  And I said, "Though never in life you spoke
+    Oh, speak with a look at last!"
+
+  For the space of a heart-beat fluttered her breath,
+    As a bird's wing spread to flee;
+  She turned her weary arms to Death,
+    And the light of her eyes to me.
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[8] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Evening Song.[9]
+
+
+  Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,
+    And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,
+  How long they kiss in sight of all the lands.
+    Ah! longer, longer, we.
+
+  Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,
+    As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,
+  And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done,
+    Love, lay thine hand in mine.
+
+  Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;
+    Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.
+  O night! divorce our sun and sky apart,
+    Never our lips, our hands.
+
+S. LANIER.
+
+
+
+[9] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
+Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+"The Woods That Bring the Sunset Near."
+
+
+  The wind from out the west is blowing,
+  The homeward-wandering cows are lowing,
+  Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear,--
+  The woods that bring the sunset near.
+
+  When o'er wide seas the sun declines,
+  Far off its fading glory shines,
+  Far off, sublime, and full of fear,--
+  The pine-woods bring the sunset near.
+
+  This house that looks to east, to west,
+  This, dear one, is our home, our rest;
+  Yonder the stormy sea, and here
+  The woods that bring the sunset near.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+At Night.
+
+
+  The sky is dark, and dark the bay below
+  Save where the midnight city's pallid glow
+        Lies like a lily white
+        On the black pool of night.
+
+  O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way
+  Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay,
+        To where the eddying tide
+        Strikes hard the city's side!
+
+  For there, between the river and the sea,
+  Beneath that glow,--the lily's heart to me,--
+        A sleeping mother mild,
+        And by her breast a child.
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+"Still in Thy Love I Trust."
+
+
+  Still in thy love I trust,
+  Supreme o'er death, since deathless is thy essence;
+  For, putting off the dust,
+  Thou hast but blest me with a nearer presence.
+
+  And so, for this, for all,
+  I breathe no selfish plaint, no faithless chiding;
+  On me the snowflakes fall,
+  But thou hast gained a summer all-abiding.
+
+  Striking a plaintive string,
+  Like some poor harper at a palace portal,
+  I wait without and sing,
+  While those I love glide in and dwell immortal.
+
+A.A. FIELDS.
+
+
+
+
+The Future.
+
+
+  What may we take into the vast Forever?
+      That marble door
+  Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor,
+      No fame-wreathed crown we wore,
+      No garnered lore.
+
+  What can we bear beyond the unknown portal?
+      No gold, no gains
+  Of all our toiling: in the life immortal
+      No hoarded wealth remains,
+      Nor gilds, nor stains.
+
+  Naked from out that far abyss behind us
+      We entered here:
+  No word came with our coming, to remind us
+      What wondrous world was near,
+      No hope, no fear.
+
+  Into the silent, starless Night before us,
+      Naked we glide:
+  No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us,
+      No comrade at our side,
+      No chart, no guide.
+
+  Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow,
+      Our footsteps fare:
+  The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow--
+      His love alone is there,
+      No curse, no care.
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+Prescience.
+
+
+  The new moon hung in the sky,
+    The sun was low in the west,
+  And my betrothed and I
+    In the churchyard paused to rest--
+      Happy maiden and lover,
+      Dreaming the old dream over:
+  The light winds wandered by,
+    And robins chirped from the nest.
+
+  And lo! in the meadow-sweet
+    Was the grave of a little child,
+  With a crumbling stone at the feet,
+    And the ivy running wild--
+      Tangled ivy and clover
+      Folding it over and over:
+  Close to my sweetheart's feet
+    Was the little mound up-piled.
+
+  Stricken with nameless fears,
+    She shrank and clung to me,
+  And her eyes were filled with tears
+    For a sorrow I did not see:
+      Lightly the winds were blowing,
+      Softly her tears were flowing--
+  Tears for the unknown years
+    And a sorrow that was to be!
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+In August.
+
+
+  All the long August afternoon,
+    The little drowsy stream
+  Whispers a melancholy tune,
+  As if it dreamed of June
+    And whispered in its dream.
+
+  The thistles show beyond the brook
+    Dust on their down and bloom,
+  And out of many a weed-grown nook
+  The aster-flowers look
+    With eyes of tender gloom.
+
+  The silent orchard aisles are sweet
+    With smell of ripening fruit.
+  Through the sere grass, in shy retreat,
+  Flutter, at coming feet,
+    The robins strange and mute.
+
+  There is no wind to stir the leaves,
+    The harsh leaves overhead;
+  Only the querulous cricket grieves,
+  And shrilling locust weaves
+    A song of Summer dead.
+
+W.D. HOWELLS.
+
+
+
+
+That Day You Came.
+
+
+  Such special sweetness was about
+    That day God sent you here,
+  I knew the lavender was out,
+    And it was mid of year.
+
+  Their common way the great winds blew,
+    The ships sailed out to sea;
+  Yet ere that day was spent I knew
+    Mine own had come to me.
+
+  As after song some snatch of tune
+    Lurks still in grass or bough,
+  So, somewhat of the end o' June
+    Lurks in each weather now.
+
+  The young year sets the buds astir,
+    The old year strips the trees;
+  But ever in my lavender
+    I hear the brawling bees.
+
+L.W. REESE.
+
+
+
+
+Negro Lullaby.
+
+
+  Bedtimes' come fu' little boys,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Too tiahed out to make a noise,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'?
+  Yes, you tole me dat, befo',
+  Don't you fool me, chile, no mo',
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  You been bad de livelong day,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  My, but you's a-runnin' wild,
+  Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile;
+  Mam' gwine whup you atter while,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  See dem han's now,--sich a sight!
+  Would you ever b'lieve dey's white!
+  Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  Jes' caint hol' yo' haid up straight,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Hadn't oughter played so late,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Mammy do' know whut she'd do,
+  Ef de chillun's all lak you;
+  You's a caution now fu' true,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+  Lay yo' haid down in my lap,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  Y'ought to have a right good slap,
+      Po' little lamb.
+  You been runnin' roun' a heap.
+  Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep,
+  Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,
+      Po' little lamb.
+
+P.L. DUNBAR.
+
+
+
+
+A Woman's Thought.
+
+
+  I am a woman--therefore I may not
+  Call to him, cry to him,
+  Fly to him,
+  Bid him delay not!
+
+  And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet:
+  Still as a stone--
+  All silent and cold.
+  If my heart riot--
+  Crush and defy it!
+  Should I grow bold--
+  Say one dear thing to him,
+  All my life fling to him,
+  Cling to him--
+  What to atone
+  Is enough for my sinning!
+  This were the cost to me,
+  This were my winning--
+  That he were lost to me.
+  Not as a lover
+  At last if he part from me,
+  Tearing my heart from me--
+  Hurt beyond cure,--
+  Calm and demure
+  Then must I hold me--
+  In myself fold me--
+  Lest he discover;
+  Showing no sign to him
+  By look of mine to him
+  What he has been to me--
+  How my heart turns to him,
+  Follows him, yearns to him,
+  Prays him to love me.
+
+  Pity me, lean to me,
+  Thou God above me!
+
+R.W. GILDER.
+
+
+
+
+The Flight.
+
+
+  Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.
+    The angel raised his hand and looked and said,
+    "Which world, of all yon starry myriad
+  Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude
+  Became a harp whereon his voice and mood
+    Made spheral music round his haloed head.
+    I spake--for then I had not long been dead--
+  "Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood
+  A moment on these orbs ere I decide ...
+    What is yon lower star that beauteous shines
+    And with soft splendor now incarnadines
+  Our wings?--_There_ would I go and there abide."
+    He smiled as one who some child's thought divines:
+    "That is the world where yesternight you died."
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+Childhood.
+
+
+  Old Sorrow I shall meet again,
+    And Joy, perchance--but never, never,
+  Happy Childhood, shall we twain
+    See each other's face forever!
+
+  And yet I would not call thee back,
+    Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me,
+  Thine old companion, on the rack
+    Of Age, should sadden even thee.
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+Little Boy Blue.[10]
+
+
+  The little toy dog is covered with dust,
+    But sturdy and stanch he stands;
+  And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
+    And his musket moulds in his hands.
+  Time was when the little toy dog was new
+    And the soldier was passing fair,
+  And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
+    Kissed them and put them there.
+
+  "Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
+    "And don't you make any noise!"
+  So toddling off to his trundle-bed
+    He dreampt of the pretty toys.
+  And as he was dreaming, an angel song
+    Awakened our Little Boy Blue,--
+  Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
+    But the little toy friends are true.
+
+  Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
+    Each in the same old place,
+  Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
+    The smile of a little face.
+  And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
+    In the dust of that little chair,
+  What has become of our Little Boy Blue
+    Since he kissed them and put them there.
+
+E. FIELD.
+
+
+
+[10] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene
+Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Strong as Death.[11]
+
+
+  O death, when thou shalt come to me
+    From out thy dark, where she is now,
+  Come not with graveyard smell on thee,
+    Or withered roses on thy brow.
+
+  Come not, O Death, with hollow tone,
+    And soundless step, and clammy hand--
+  Lo, I am now no less alone
+    Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;
+
+  But with that sweet and subtle scent
+    That ever clung about her (such
+  As with all things she brushed was blent);
+    And with her quick and tender touch.
+
+  With the dim gold that lit her hair,
+    Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread
+  So light that I may dream her there,
+    And turn upon my dying bed.
+
+  And through my chilling veins shall flame
+    My love, as though beneath her breath;
+  And in her voice but call my name,
+    And I will follow thee, O Death.
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[11] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896 by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The White Jessamine.
+
+
+  I knew she lay above me,
+    Where the casement all the night
+  Shone, softened with a phosphor glow
+    Of sympathetic light,
+  And that her fledgling spirit pure
+    Was pluming fast for flight.
+
+  Each tendril throbbed and quickened
+    As I nightly climbed apace,
+  And could scarce restrain the blossoms
+    When, anear the destined place,
+  Her gentle whisper thrilled me
+    Ere I gazed upon her face.
+
+  I waited, darkling, till the dawn
+    Should touch me into bloom,
+  While all my being panted
+    To outpour its first perfume,
+  When, lo! a paler flower than mine
+    Had blossomed in the gloom!
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+The House of Death.
+
+
+  Not a hand has lifted the latchet
+    Since she went out of the door--
+  No footstep shall cross the threshold,
+    Since she can come in no more.
+
+  There is rust upon locks and hinges,
+    And mold and blight on the walls,
+  And silence faints in the chambers,
+    And darkness waits in the halls--
+
+  Waits as all things have waited
+    Since she went, that day of spring,
+  Borne in her pallid splendor
+    To dwell in the Court of the King:
+
+  With lilies on brow and bosom,
+    With robes of silken sheen,
+  And her wonderful, frozen beauty,
+    The lilies and silk between.
+
+  Red roses she left behind her,
+    But they died long, long ago
+  'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom
+    That seemed through the dusk to glow.
+
+  The garments she left mock the shadows
+    With hints of womanly grace,
+  And her image swims in the mirror
+    That was so used to her face.
+
+  The birds make insolent music
+    Where the sunshine riots outside,
+  And the winds are merry and wanton
+    With the summer's pomp and pride.
+
+  But into this desolate mansion,
+    Where Love has closed the door,
+  Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter,
+    Since she can come in no more.
+
+L.C. MOULTON.
+
+
+
+
+A Tropical Morning at Sea.
+
+
+  Sky in its lucent splendor lifted
+    Higher than cloud can be;
+  Air with no breath of earth to stain it,
+    Pure on the perfect sea.
+
+  Crests that touch and tilt each other,
+    Jostling as they comb;
+  Delicate crash of tinkling water,
+    Broken in pearling foam.
+
+  Plashings--or is it the pinewood's whispers,
+    Babble of brooks unseen,
+  Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms,
+    Brushing aside the green?
+
+  Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle;
+    Foam-wreaths slipping by,
+  Soft as a snow of broken roses
+    Afloat over mirrored sky.
+
+  Off to the east the steady sun-track
+    Golden meshes fill
+  Webs of fire, that lace and tangle,
+    Never a moment still.
+
+  Liquid palms but clap together,
+    Fountains, flower-like, grow--
+  Limpid bells on stems of silver--
+    Out of a slope of snow.
+
+  Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets--
+    Blue as a summer sky,
+  When you blink at its arch sprung over
+    Where in the grass you lie.
+
+  Dimly an orange bit of rainbow
+    Burns where the low west clears,
+  Broken in air, like a passionate promise
+    Born of a moment's tears.
+
+  Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver,
+    Clouds in the distance dwell,
+  Clouds that are cool, for all their color,
+    Pure as a rose-lipped shell.
+
+  Fleets of wool in the upper heavens
+    Gossamer wings unfurl;
+  Sailing so high they seem but sleeping
+    Over yon bar of pearl.
+
+  What would the great world lose, I wonder--
+    Would it be missed or no--
+  If we stayed in the opal morning,
+    Floating forever so?
+
+  Swung to sleep by the swaying water,
+    Only to dream all day--
+  Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting,
+    Scatter such dreams away!
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+Memory.
+
+
+  My mind lets go a thousand things,
+  Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
+  And yet recalls the very hour--
+  'Twas noon by yonder village tower,
+  And on the last blue noon in May--
+  The wind came briskly up this way,
+  Crisping the brook beside the road;
+  Then, pausing here, set down its load
+  Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
+  Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+A Mood.
+
+
+  A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness--
+  Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness;
+  A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence;
+  A tense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence;
+  A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken--
+  Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+The Way to Arcady.[12]
+
+
+  _Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_
+    _To Arcady, to Arcady;_
+  _Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_
+    _Where all the leaves are merry?_
+
+  Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
+  The spring is rustling in the tree--
+  The tree the wind is blowing through--
+    It sets the blossoms flickering white.
+  I knew not skies could burn so blue
+    Nor any breezes blow so light.
+  They blow an old-time way for me,
+  Across the world to Arcady.
+
+  Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
+  Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
+  Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
+  How have you heart for any tune,
+  You with the wayworn russet shoon?
+  Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
+  Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
+  I'll brim it well with pieces red,
+  If you will tell the way to tread.
+
+  _Oh, I am bound for Arcady,_
+  _And if you but keep pace with me_
+  _You tread the way to Arcady._
+
+  And where away lies Arcady,
+  And how long yet may the journey be?
+
+  _Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know--_
+  _Across the clover and the snow--_
+  _Across the frost, across the flowers--_
+  _Through summer seconds and winter hours._
+  _I've trod the way my whole life long,_
+    _And know not now where it may be;_
+  _My guide is but the stir to song._
+  _That tells me I can not go wrong,_
+    _Or clear or dark the pathway be_
+    _Upon the road to Arcady._
+
+  But how shall I do who cannot sing?
+    I was wont to sing, once on a time--
+  There is never an echo now to ring
+    Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.
+
+  _'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he),
+  _The folk all sing in Arcady._
+
+  But how may he find Arcady
+  Who hath not youth nor melody?
+
+  _What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)--
+    _Your hair is white, your face is wise--_
+    _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_
+  _Who hopes to see fair Arcady?_
+  _No gold can buy you entrance there;_
+  _But beggared Love may go all bare--_
+  _No wisdom won with weariness;_
+  _But Love goes in with Folly's dress--_
+  _No fame that wit could ever win;_
+  _But only Love may lead Love in_
+    _To Arcady, to Arcady._
+
+  Ah, woe is me, through all my days
+    Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
+  And fame and name, and great men's praise;
+    But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.
+
+  There was a time, when life was new--
+    But far away, and half forgot--
+  I only know her eyes were blue;
+    But Love--I fear I knew it not.
+  We did not wed, for lack of gold,
+  And she is dead, and I am old.
+  All things have come since then to me,
+  Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.
+
+  _Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he),
+  _My way's for Love and Arcady_.
+
+  But you, you fare alone, like me;
+    The gray is likewise in your hair.
+    What love have you to lead you there,
+  To Arcady, to Arcady?
+
+  _Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;_
+    _My true companion's Memory._
+  _With Love he fills the Spring-time air;_
+    _With Love he clothes the Winter tree._
+  _Oh, past this poor horizon's bound_
+    _My song goes straight to one who stands--_
+  _Her face all gladdening at the sound--_
+    _To lead me to the Spring-green lands,_
+    _To wander with enlacing hands._
+  _The songs within my breast that stir_
+  _Are all of her, are all of her._
+  _My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he),
+  _She waits for me in Arcady._
+
+  _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_
+    _To Arcady, to Arcady;_
+  _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_
+    _Where all the leaves are merry._
+
+H.C. BUNNER.
+
+
+
+[12] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by
+Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Eve's Daughter.
+
+
+  I waited in the little sunny room:
+    The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play,
+  The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,
+    And out upon the bay
+  I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.
+
+  "Such an old friend,--she would not make me stay
+    While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo,
+  Danae in her shower! and fit to slay
+    All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow:
+  Gold hair, that streamed away
+    As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow.
+    "She would not make me wait!"--but well I know
+  She took a good half-hour to loose and lay
+    Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.
+
+
+  Beneath the warrior's helm, behold
+    The flowing tresses of the woman!
+  Minerva, Pallas, what you will--
+    A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.
+
+  Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx
+    In cousin's helmet masquerading;
+  If not--then Wisdom was a dame
+    For sonnets and for serenading!
+
+  I thought the goddess cold, austere,
+    Not made for love's despairs and blisses:
+  Did Pallas wear her hair like that?
+    Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?
+
+  The Nightingale should be her bird,
+    And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn:
+  How very fresh she looks, and yet
+    She's older far than Trajan's Column!
+
+  The magic hand that carved this face,
+    And set this vine-work round it running,
+  Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought
+    Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.
+
+  Who was he? Was he glad or sad,
+    Who knew to carve in such a fashion?
+  Perchance he graved the dainty head
+    For some brown girl that scorned his passion.
+
+  Perchance, in some still garden-place,
+    Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,
+  He flung the jewel at the feet
+    Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais.
+
+  But he is dust; we may not know
+    His happy or unhappy story:
+  Nameless, and dead these centuries,
+    His work outlives him--there's his glory!
+
+  Both man and jewel lay in earth
+    Beneath a lava-buried city;
+  The countless summers came and went
+    With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.
+
+  Years blotted out the man, but left
+    The jewel fresh as any blossom,
+  Till some Visconti dug it up--
+    To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!
+
+  O nameless brother! see how Time
+    Your gracious handiwork has guarded:
+  See how your loving, patient art
+    Has come, at last, to be rewarded.
+
+  Who would not suffer slights of men,
+    And pangs of hopeless passion also,
+  To have his carven agate-stone
+    On such a bosom rise and fall so!
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+Hunting-song.
+
+
+  Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
+  When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
+  And a ten-tined buck to kill!
+
+  Before the sun goes down, goes down,
+  We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison,
+  When we come home again.
+
+  Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
+  Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
+  And the joy of the open air.
+
+  But he that loves the hills, the hills,
+  Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
+  For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
+  And the hunt's up, and away!
+
+R. HOVEY.
+
+
+
+
+Parting.
+
+
+  My life closed twice before its close;
+    It yet remains to see
+  If Immortality unveil
+    A third event to me,
+
+  So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
+    As these that twice befell.
+  Parting is all we know of heaven,
+    And all we need of hell.
+
+E. DICKINSON.
+
+
+
+
+When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.
+
+
+  _When the Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _Goes to the city Ispahan_,
+  Even before he gets so far
+  As the place where the clustered palm-trees are,
+  At the last of the thirty palace-gates,
+  The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom,
+  Orders a feast in his favorite room--
+  Glittering squares of colored ice,
+  Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice,
+  Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates,
+  Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,
+  Limes, and citrons, and apricots,
+  And wines that are known to Eastern princes;
+  And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots
+  Of spiced meats and costliest fish
+  And all that the curious palate could wish,
+  Pass in and out of the cedarn doors;
+  Scattered over mosaic floors
+  Are anemones, myrtles, and violets,
+  And a musical fountain throws its jets
+  Of a hundred colors into the air.
+  The dusk Sultana loosens her hair,
+  And stains with the henna-plant the tips
+  Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips
+  Till they bloom again; but, alas, _that_ rose
+  Not for the Sultan buds and blows!
+  _Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _When he goes to the city Ispahan_.
+
+  Then at a wave of her sunny hand
+  The dancing-girls of Samarcand
+  Glide in like shapes from fairy-land,
+  Making a sudden mist in air
+  Of fleecy veils and floating hair
+  And white arms lifted. Orient blood
+  Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes.
+  And there, in this Eastern Paradise,
+  Filled with the breath of sandal-wood,
+  And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh,
+  Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan,
+  Sipping the wines of Astrakhan;
+  And her Arab lover sits with her.
+  _That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _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 the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman_
+  _Has gone to the city Isfahan_.
+
+T.B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+
+
+Night.
+
+
+  Chaos, of old, was God's dominion;
+    'Twas His beloved child, His own first-born;
+    And He was aged ere the thought of morn
+  Shook the sheer steeps of black Oblivion.
+  Then all the works of darkness being done
+    Through countless aeons hopelessly forlorn,
+    Out to the very utmost verge and bourn,
+  God at the last, reluctant, made the sun.
+  He loved His darkness still, for it was old:
+    He grieved to see His eldest child take flight;
+    And when His _Fiat lux_ the death-knell tolled,
+  As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled,
+    He snatched a remnant flying into light
+    And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night.
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+He Made the Stars Also.
+
+
+  Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach
+    Of suns, their legions withering at His nod,
+    Died into day hearing the voice of God;
+  And seas new made, immense and furious, each
+  Plunged and rolled forward, feeling for a beach;
+    He walked the waters with effulgence shod.
+    This being made, He yearned for worlds to make
+  From other chaos out beyond our night--
+  For to create is still God's prime delight.
+    The large moon, all alone, sailed her dark lake,
+    And the first tides were moving to her might;
+  Then Darkness trembled, and began to quake
+    Big with the birth of stars, and when He spake
+    A million worlds leapt into radiant light!
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+The Sour Winds.
+
+
+  Wind of the North,
+  Wind of the Norland snows,
+  Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars--
+  Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,
+  And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,
+  And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice,
+  But go not near my love.
+
+  Wind of the West,
+  Wind of the few, far clouds,
+  Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands--
+  Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
+  And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,
+  And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
+  But let my dear one rest.
+
+  Wind of the East,
+  Wind of the sunrise seas,
+  Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains--
+  Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,
+  And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars,
+  And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves,
+  Yet keep thou from my love.
+
+  But thou, sweet wind!
+  Wind of the fragrant South,
+  Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose--
+  Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes
+  And flowering forests come with dewy wings,
+  And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss
+  The low mound where she lies.
+
+C.H. LUeDERS.
+
+
+
+
+The Return.
+
+
+  Now at last I am at home--
+    Wind abeam and flooding tide,
+  And the offing white with foam,
+    And an old friend by my side
+    Glad the long, green waves to ride.
+
+  Strange how we've been wandering
+    Through the crowded towns for gain,
+  You and I who loved the sting
+    Of the salt spray and the rain
+    And the gale across the main!
+
+  What world honors could avail
+    Loss of this--the slanted mast,
+  And the roaring round the rail,
+    And the sheeted spray we cast
+    Round us as we seaward passed?
+
+  As the sad land sinks apace,
+    With it sinks each thought of care;
+  Think not now of aging face;
+    Question not the whitening hair:
+    Youth still beckons everywhere.
+
+  And the light we thought had fled
+    From the sky-line glows there now;
+  Bends the same blue overhead;
+    And the waves we used to plow
+    Part in beryl at the bow.
+
+  Hours like this we two have known
+    In the old days, when we sailed
+  Seaward ere the night had flown,
+    Or the morning star had paled
+    Like the shy eyes love has veiled.
+
+  Round our bow the ripples purled,
+    As the swift tide outward streamed
+  Through a hushed and ghostly world,
+    Where our harbor reaches seemed
+    Like a river that we dreamed.
+
+  Then we saw the black hills sway
+    In the waters' crinkled glass,
+  And the village wan and gray,
+    And the startled cattle pass
+    Through the tangled meadow-grass.
+
+  Through the glooming we have run
+    Straight into the gates of day,
+  Seen the crimson-edged sun
+    Burn the sea's gray bound away--
+    Leap to universal sway.
+
+  Little cared we where we drove
+    So the wind was strong and keen.
+  Oh, what sun-crowned waves we clove!
+    What cool shadows lurked between
+    Those long combers pale and green!
+
+  Graybeard pleasures are but toys;
+    Sorrow shatters them at last:
+  For this brief hour we are boys;
+    Trim the sheet and face the blast;
+    Sail into the happy past!
+
+L.F. TOOKER.
+
+
+
+
+Bereaved.
+
+
+  Let me come in where you sit weeping,--aye,
+      Let me, who have not any child to die,
+  Weep with you for the little one whose love
+      I have known nothing of.
+
+  The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed
+  Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used
+  To kiss.--Such arms--such hands I never knew.
+      May I not weep with you?
+
+  Fain would I be of service--say some thing,
+  Between the tears, that would be comforting,--
+  But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I,
+      Who have no child to die.
+
+J.W. RILEY.
+
+
+
+
+The Chariot.
+
+
+  Because I could not stop for Death,
+    He kindly stopped for me;
+  The carriage held but just ourselves
+    And Immortality.
+
+  We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
+    And I had put away
+  My labor, and my leisure too,
+    For his civility.
+
+  We passed the school where children played,
+    Their lessons scarcely done;
+  We passed the fields of gazing grain.
+    We passed the setting sun.
+
+  We paused before a house that seemed
+    A swelling of the ground;
+  The roof was scarcely visible,
+    The cornice but a mound.
+
+  Since then 'tis centuries; but each
+    Feels shorter than the day
+  I first surmised the horses' heads
+    Were toward eternity.
+
+E. DICKINSON.
+
+
+
+
+Indian Summer.
+
+
+  These are the days when birds come back,
+  A very few, a bird or two,
+  To take a backward look.
+
+  These are the days when skies put on
+  The old, old sophistries of June,--
+  A blue and gold mistake.
+
+  Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
+  Almost thy plausibility
+  Induces my belief,
+
+  Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
+  And softly through the altered air
+  Hurries a timid leaf!
+
+  Oh, sacrament of summer days,
+  Oh, last communion in the haze,
+  Permit a child to join,
+
+  Thy sacred emblems to partake,
+  Thy consecrated bread to break,
+  Taste thine immortal wine!
+
+E. DICKINSON.
+
+
+
+
+Confided.
+
+
+  Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold,
+  Within this quiet fold,
+  Among Thy Father's sheep
+  I lay to sleep!
+  A heart that never for a night did rest
+  Beyond its mother's breast.
+  Lord, keep it close to Thee,
+  Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me!
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+In Absence.
+
+
+  All that thou art not, makes not up the sum
+    Of what thou art, beloved, unto me:
+  All other voices, wanting thine, are dumb;
+    All vision, in thine absence, vacancy.
+
+J.B. TABB.
+
+
+
+
+Song of the Chattahoochee.[13]
+
+
+  Out of the hills of Habersham,
+  Down the valleys of Hall,
+  I hurry amain to reach the plain,
+  Run the rapids and leap the fall
+  Split at the rock and together again,
+  Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
+  And flee from folly on every side
+  With a lover's pain to attain the plain
+    Far from the hills of Habersham,
+    Far from the valleys of Hall.
+
+    All down the hills of Habersham,
+    All through the valleys of Hall,
+  The rushes cried _Abide, abide_,
+  The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,
+  The laving laurel turned my tide,
+  The ferns and the fondling grass said _Stay_,
+  The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
+  And the little reeds sighed _Abide, abide_
+    _Here in the hills of Habersham_
+    _Here in the valleys of Hall_.
+
+    High o'er the hills of Habersham,
+    Veiling the valleys of Hall,
+  The hickory told me manifold
+  Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
+  Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
+  The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
+  Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
+  Said, _Pass not, so cold, these manifold_
+    _Deep shades of the hills of Habersham_,
+    _These glades in the valleys of Hall_.
+
+    And oft in the hills of Habersham,
+    And oft in the valleys of Hall,
+  The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
+  Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
+  And many a luminous jewel lone
+  --Crystals clear or acloud with mist,
+  Ruby, garnet and amethyst--
+  Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
+    In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
+    In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
+
+    But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
+    And oh, not the valleys of Hall
+  Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
+  Downward the voices of Duty call--
+  Downward to toil and be mixed with the main.
+  The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
+  And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
+  And the lordly main from beyond the plain
+    Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
+    Calls through the valleys of Hall.
+
+S. LANIER.
+
+
+
+[13] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
+Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Sea's Voice.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Around the rocky headlands, far and near,
+    The wakened ocean murmured with dull tongue
+    Till all the coast's mysterious caverns rung
+  With the waves' voice, barbaric, hoarse, and drear.
+  Within this distant valley, with rapt ear,
+    I listened, thrilled, as though a spirit sung,
+    Or some gray god, as when the world was young,
+  Moaned to his fellow, mad with rage or fear.
+  Thus in the dark, ere the first dawn, methought
+    The sea's deep roar and sullen surge and shock
+      Broke the long silence of eternity,
+  And echoed from the summits where God wrought,
+    Building the world, and ploughing the steep rock
+      With ploughs of ice-hills harnessed to the sea.
+
+
+II.
+
+  The sea is never quiet: east and west
+    The nations hear it, like the voice of fate;
+    Within vast shores its strife makes desolate,
+  Still murmuring mid storms that to its breast
+  Return, as eagles screaming to their nest.
+    Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait
+  While old earth crumbles to eternal rest,
+    Or some hoar monster calling to his mate?
+  O ye, that hear it moan about the shore,
+    Be still and listen! that loud voice hath sung
+      Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown;
+  And when man's voice is dumb, forevermore
+    'Twill murmur on its craggy shores among,
+      Singing of gods and nations overthrown.
+
+W.P. FOSTER.
+
+
+
+
+At Gibraltar.
+
+
+I.
+
+  England, I stand on thy imperial ground,
+    Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
+    I feel within my blood old battles flow,--
+  The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.
+  Still surging dark against the Christian bound
+    Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know
+    Thy heights that watch them wandering below;
+  I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.
+  I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face;
+    England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!
+  I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;
+    Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day
+  Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun
+    Startles the desert over Africa!
+
+
+II.
+
+  Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas
+    Between the East and West, that God has built;
+    Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,
+  While run thy armies true with His decrees.
+  Law, justice, liberty,--great gifts are these;
+    Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,
+    Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt,
+  The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease.
+  Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,
+    Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one
+  Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light
+    American I am; would wars were done!
+  Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,--
+    Peace to the world from ports without a gun!
+
+G.E. WOODBERRY.
+
+
+
+
+Jerry an' Me.
+
+
+  No matter how the chances are,
+    Nor when the winds may blow,
+  My Jerry there has left the sea
+    With all its luck an' woe:
+  For who would try the sea at all,
+    Must try it luck or no.
+
+  They told him--Lor', men take no care
+    How words they speak may fall--
+  They told him blunt, he was too old,
+    Too slow with oar an' trawl,
+  An' this is how he left the sea
+    An' luck an' woe an' all.
+
+  Take any man on sea or land
+    Out of his beaten way,
+  If he is young 'twill do, but then,
+    If he is old an' gray,
+  A month will be a year to him,
+    Be all to him you may.
+
+  He sits by me, but most he walks
+    The door-yard for a deck,
+  An' scans the boat a-goin' out
+    Till she becomes a speck,
+  Then turns away, his face as wet
+    As if she were a wreck.
+
+  I cannot bring him back again,
+    The days when we were wed.
+  But he shall never know--my man--
+    The lack o' love or bread,
+  While I can cast a stitch or fill
+    A needleful o' thread.
+
+  God pity me, I'd most forgot
+    How many yet there be,
+  Whose goodmen full as old as mine
+    Are somewhere on the sea,
+  Who hear the breakin' bar an' think
+    O' Jerry home an'--me.
+
+H. RICH.
+
+
+
+
+The Gravedigger.
+
+
+  Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,
+  And well his work is done;
+  With an equal grave for lord and knave,
+  He buries them every one.
+
+  Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
+  He makes for the nearest shore;
+  And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
+  Will send him a thousand more;
+  But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
+  And shoulder them in to shore,--
+  Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
+  Shoulder them in to shore.
+
+  Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre
+  Went out, and where are they?
+  In the port they made, they are delayed
+  With the ships of yesterday.
+
+  He followed the ships of England far
+  As the ships of long ago;
+  And the ships of France they led him a dance,
+  But he laid them all arow.
+
+  Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him
+  Is the sexton of the town;
+  For sure and swift, with a guiding lift,
+  He shovels the dead men down.
+
+  But though he delves so fierce and grim,
+  His honest graves are wide,
+  As well they know who sleep below
+  The dredge of the deepest tide.
+
+  Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip,
+  And loud is the chorus skirled;
+  With the burly note of his rumbling throat
+  He batters it down the world.
+
+  He learned it once in his father's house
+  Where the ballads of eld were sung;
+  And merry enough is the burden rough,
+  But no man knows the tongue.
+
+  Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,
+  And wilful she must have been,
+  That she could bide at his gruesome side
+  When the first red dawn came in.
+
+  And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those
+  She greets to his border home;
+  And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep
+  That beckons, and they come.
+
+  Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough
+  To handle the tallest mast;
+  From the royal barque to the slaver dark,
+  He buries them all at last.
+
+  Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
+  He makes for the nearest shore;
+  And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
+  Will send him a thousand more;
+  But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
+  And shoulder them in to shore,--
+  Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
+  Shoulder them in to shore.
+
+B. CARMAN.
+
+
+
+
+The Absence of Little Wesley.
+
+HOOSIER DIALECT.
+
+
+  Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still--
+  W'y, I miss his yell o' "Gran'pap!" as I'd miss the whipperwill!
+  And to think I ust to _scold_ him fer his everlastin' noise,
+  When I on'y rickollect him as the best o' little boys!
+  I wisht a hunderd times a day 'at he'd come trompin' in,
+  And all the noise he ever made was twic't as loud ag'in!--
+  It 'u'd seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment,
+  'Longside o' this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!
+
+  Of course the clock don't tick no louder than it ust to do--
+  Yit now they's times it 'pears like it 'u'd bu'st itse'f in two!
+  And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som'er's clos't around,
+  And seems's ef, mighty nigh it, it 'u'd lift me off the ground!
+  And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars,
+  In the red o' airly mornin', er the dusk and dew and stars,
+  When the neighbers' boys 'at passes never stop, but jes' go on,
+  A-whistlin' kind o' to theirse'v's--sence little Wesley's gone!
+
+  And then, o' nights, when Mother's settin' up oncommon late,
+  A-bilin' pears er somepin', and I set and smoke and wait,
+  Tel the moon out through the winder don't look bigger'n a dime,
+  And things keeps gittin' stiller--stiller--stiller all the time,--
+  I've ketched myse'f a-wishin' like--as I dumb on the cheer
+  To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor'n fifty year,--
+  A-wishin' 'at the time bed come fer us to go to bed,
+  With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley's dead!
+
+J.W. RILEY.
+
+
+
+
+Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.
+
+
+  Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar
+        Out of thy wilderness,
+        Till earth grows less and less,
+        Heaven, more and more.
+
+  Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing,
+        Till all the earth shall be
+        Vibrant with ecstasy
+        Beneath thy wing.
+
+  Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come,
+        That through the pathless air
+        Thou shalt find otherwhere
+        Unerring, home.
+
+
+
+
+Opportunity.
+
+
+  This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:--
+  There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
+  And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
+  A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
+  Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
+  Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
+  A craven hung along the battle's edge,
+  And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel--
+  That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this
+  Blunt thing!"--he snapt and flung it from his hand,
+  And lowering crept away and left the field.
+  Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
+  And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
+  Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
+  And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
+  Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
+  And saved a great cause that heroic day.
+
+E.R. SILL.
+
+
+
+
+Dutch Lullaby.[14]
+
+
+  Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
+    Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
+  Sailed on a river of misty light
+    Into a sea of dew.
+  "Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
+    The old moon asked the three.
+  "We have come to fish for the herring-fish
+    That live in this beautiful sea;
+    Nets of silver and gold have we,"
+        Said Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+  The old moon laughed and sung a song,
+    As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
+  And the wind that sped them all night long
+    Ruffled the waves of dew;
+  The little stars were the herring-fish
+    That lived in the beautiful sea.
+  "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
+    But never afeard are we!"
+    So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
+        Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+  All night long their nets they threw
+    For the fish in the twinkling foam,
+  Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,
+    Bringing the fishermen home;
+  'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
+    As if it could not be;
+  And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
+    Of sailing that beautiful sea;
+    But I shall name you the fishermen three:
+        Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+  Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
+    And Nod is a little head,
+  And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
+    Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
+  So shut your eyes while Mother sings
+    Of wonderful sights that be,
+    And you shall see the beautiful things
+    As you rock on the misty sea
+    Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,--
+        Wynken,
+        Blynken,
+        And Nod.
+
+E. FIELD.
+
+
+
+[14] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene
+Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Maryland Yellow-throat.[15]
+
+  While May bedecks the naked trees
+  With tassels and embroideries,
+  And many blue-eyed violets beam
+  Along the edges of the stream,
+  I hear a voice that seems to say,
+  Now near at hand, now far away,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."
+
+  An incantation so serene,
+  So innocent, befits the scene:
+  There's magic in that small bird's note--
+  See, there he flits--the yellow-throat:
+  A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
+  A spark of light that shines and sings
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."
+
+  You prophet with a pleasant name,
+  If out of Mary-land you came,
+  You know the way that thither goes
+  Where Mary's lovely garden grows:
+  Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
+  And try, to call her down this way,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+  Tell her to leave her cockleshells,
+  And all her little silver bells
+  That blossom into melody,
+  And all her maids less fair than she.
+  She does not need these pretty things,
+  For everywhere she comes, she brings
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+  The woods are greening overhead,
+  And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
+  The waters babble as they run--
+  One thing is lacking, only one:
+  If Mary were but here to-day,
+  I would believe your charming lay,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+  Along the shady road I look--
+  Who's coming now across the brook?
+  A woodland maid, all robed in white--
+  The leaves dance round her with delight,
+  The stream laughs out beneath her feet--
+  Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,
+    "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"
+
+H. VAN DYKE.
+
+
+
+[15] From "The Builders and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Silence of Love.
+
+
+  Oh, inexpressible as sweet,
+     Love takes my voice away;
+  I cannot tell thee, when we meet,
+     What most I long to say.
+
+  But hadst thou hearing in thy heart
+     To know what beats in mine,
+  Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art,
+     In melodies divine.
+
+  So warbling birds lift higher notes
+     Than to our ears belong;
+  The music fills their throbbing throats,
+     But silence steals the song.
+
+G.E. WOODBERRY.
+
+
+
+
+The Secret.
+
+
+  Nightingales warble about it,
+     All night under blossom and star;
+  The wild swan is dying without it,
+     And the eagle cryeth afar;
+  The sun he doth mount but to find it,
+     Searching the green earth o'er;
+  But more doth a man's heart mind it,
+     Oh, more, more, more!
+
+  Over the gray leagues of ocean
+     The infinite yearneth alone;
+  The forests with wandering emotion
+     The thing they know not intone;
+  Creation arose but to see it,
+     A million lamps in the blue;
+  But a lover he shall be it
+     If one sweet maid is true.
+
+G.E. WOODBERRY.
+
+
+
+
+The Whip-poor-will.[16]
+
+
+  Do you remember, father,--
+    It seems so long ago,--
+  The day we fished together
+    Along the Pocono?
+  At dusk I waited for you,
+    Beside the lumber-mill,
+  And there I heard a hidden bird
+    That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  The place was all deserted;
+    The mill-wheel hung at rest;
+  The lonely star of evening
+    Was quivering in the west;
+  The veil of night was falling;
+    The winds were folded still;
+  And everywhere the trembling air
+    Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  You seemed so long in coming,
+    I felt so much alone;
+  The wide, dark world was round me,
+    And life was all unknown;
+  The hand of sorrow touched me,
+    And made my senses thrill
+  With all the pain that haunts the strain
+    Of mournful whip-poor-will.
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  What did I know of trouble?
+    An idle little lad;
+  I had not learned the lessons
+    That make men wise and sad,
+  I dreamed of grief and parting,
+    And something seemed to fill
+  My heart with tears, while in my ears
+    Resounded "whip-poor-will."
+  "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  'Twas but a shadowy sadness,
+    That lightly passed away;
+  But I have known the substance
+    Of sorrow, since that day.
+  For nevermore at twilight,
+    Beside the silent mill,
+  I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,
+    And hear the whip-poor-will.
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+  But if you still remember,
+    In that fair land of light,
+  The pains and fears that touch us
+    Along this edge of night,
+  I think all earthly grieving,
+    And all our mortal ill,
+  To you must seem like a boy's sad dream,
+    Who hears the whip-poor-will.
+    "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
+    A passing thrill--"_whippoorwill!_"
+
+H. VAN DYKE.
+
+
+
+[16] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+Fertility.
+
+
+  Spirit that moves the sap in spring,
+  When lusty male birds fight and sing,
+  Inform my words, and make my lines
+  As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines,
+
+  Let mine be the freshening power
+  Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;
+  The fertilizing song be mine,
+  Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.
+
+  Let some procreant truth exhale
+  From me, before my forces fail;
+  Or ere the ecstatic impulse go,
+  Let all my buds to blossoms blow.
+
+  If quick, sound seed be wanting where
+  The virgin soil feels sun and air,
+  And longs to fill a higher state,
+  There let my meanings germinate.
+
+  Let not my strength be spilled for naught,
+  But, in some fresher vessel caught,
+  Be blended into sweeter forms,
+  And fraught with purer aims and charms.
+
+  Let bloom-dust of my life be blown
+  To quicken hearts that flower alone;
+  Around my knees let scions rise
+  With heavenward-pointed destinies.
+
+  And when I fall, like some old tree,
+  And subtile change makes mould of me,
+  There let earth show a fertile line
+  Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine!
+
+M. THOMPSON.
+
+
+
+
+The Veery.[17]
+
+
+  The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
+  When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
+  So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie,
+  I longed to hear a simpler strain,--the wood notes of the veery.
+
+  The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
+  It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
+  He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
+  I only know one song more sweet,--the vespers of the veery.
+
+  In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
+  I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:
+  The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
+  And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.
+
+  But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
+  New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:
+  And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
+  I fain would hear, before I go, the wood notes of the veery.
+
+H. VAN DYKE.
+
+
+[17] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles
+Scribner's Sons.
+
+
+
+
+The Eavesdropper.
+
+
+  In a still room at hush of dawn,
+    My Love and I lay side by side
+  And heard the roaming forest wind
+    Stir in the paling autumn-tide.
+
+  I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad
+    Because the round day was so fair;
+  While memories of reluctant night
+    Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.
+
+  Outside, a yellow maple-tree,
+    Shifting upon the silvery blue
+  With small innumerable sound,
+    Rustled to let the sunlight through.
+
+  The livelong day the elvish leaves
+    Danced with their shadows on the floor;
+  And the lost children of the wind
+    Went straying homeward by our door.
+
+  And all the swarthy afternoon
+    We watched the great deliberate sun
+  Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,
+    Counting his hilltops one by one.
+
+  Then as the purple twilight came
+    And touched the vines along our eaves,
+  Another Shadow stood without
+    And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.
+
+  The silence fell on my Love's lips;
+    Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad
+  With pondering some maze of dream,
+    Though all the splendid year was glad.
+
+  Restless and vague as a gray wind
+    Her heart had grown, she knew not why.
+  But hurrying to the open door,
+    Against the verge of western sky
+
+  I saw retreating on the hills,
+    Looming and sinister and black,
+  The stealthy figure swift and huge
+    Of One who strode and looked not back.
+
+B. CARMAN.
+
+
+
+
+Sesostris.
+
+
+  Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings,
+    He sits within the desert, carved in stone;
+    Inscrutable, colossal, and alone,
+  And ancienter than memory of things.
+  Graved on his front the sacred beetle clings;
+    Disdain sits on his lips; and in a frown
+    Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown.
+  The affrighted ostrich dare not dust her wings
+  Anear this Presence. The long caravan's
+    Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins stare.
+    This symbol of past power more than man's
+  Presages doom. Kings look--and Kings despair:
+  Their sceptres tremble in their jewelled hands
+    And dark thrones totter in the baleful air!
+
+L. MIFFLIN.
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+American poetry before Bryant was considerable in amount, but, with few
+exceptions, it must be looked for by the curious student in the
+graveyard of old anthologies. Who now reads "The Simple Cobbler of
+Agawam in America," "The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung up in America," "The
+Day of Doom," "M'Fingal," or "The Columbiad?" Skipping a generation from
+Barlow's death, who reads with much seriousness any one of the group of
+poets of which Bryant in his earliest period was the centre: Halleck,
+Pierpont, Sprague, Drake, Dana, Percival, Allston, Brainard, Mrs.
+Osgood, and Miss Brooks? A few of them, to be sure, are remembered by an
+occasional lyric,--Halleck by "Marco Bozzaris," a spirited ode in the
+manner of Campbell; Pierpont by his ringing lines, "Warren's Address to
+the American Soldiers;" Drake by "The American Flag," conventional but
+not commonplace, and marked by one very imaginative line; and Allston by
+two rather excellent lyrics, "Rosalie" and "America to Great Britain."
+The first poet to accomplish work of high sustained excellence was
+Bryant. His poetry, though never impassioned, is uniformly elegant. It
+is often as chaste as Landor at his best. But it never surprises; it is
+not emotional, personal, suggestively imaginative. In fact, Bryant's
+muse is not lyrical. With the exception of Pinkney and Hoffman, whose
+"Sparkling and Bright," if technically defective, is a true song, we
+must wait for our lyric poet till we reach Edgar Allan Poe, the
+greatest--one inclines to say the only--master of musical quality in
+verse whom America has produced.
+
+_The Wild Honeysuckle._--Philip Freneau, born in 1752, was a soldier in
+the American Revolution. Though never rising quite into the highest
+class of poets, he is our first genuine singer. "The Indian
+Burying-ground" and "To a Honey-bee" are only less successful than the
+graceful lines quoted.
+
+_A Health._--Poe was an enthusiastic admirer of this poem. He pronounced
+it, in his essay entitled "The Poetic Principle," "full of brilliancy
+and spirit," and added: "It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have
+been born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable
+that he would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists by that
+magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American
+Letters, in conducting the thing called _The North American Review_."
+This passage, very characteristic of Poe's criticisms, illustrates both
+his championship of favorites, and unmerciful scourging of foes.
+
+_Unseen Spirits._--The earnest sincerity, evident in every line of this
+poem, removes it at once from the company of those gay society verses
+sparkling with conceits which won for Willis the satiric comment of
+Lowell in "A Fable for Critics:"
+
+  "There is Willis, all natty, and jaunty, and gay,
+  Who says his best things in so foppish a way,
+  With conceits and pet phrases so thickly o'erlaying 'em,
+  That one hardly knows whether to thank him for saying 'em;
+  Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose,--
+  Just conceive of a Muse with a ring in her nose!"
+
+Had Willis written more such lyrics as "Unseen Spirits," his fame could
+hardly have proved so ephemeral. Poe considered this poem Willis's best,
+and I see no ground for calling the critic's judgment in question.
+
+_To Helen._--This brief lyric, written in the poet's youth, is not only
+among the most exquisite from his pen, but it furnishes one of the most
+famous among current quotations:
+
+  "The glory that was Greece,
+  And the grandeur that was Rome."
+
+_On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake._--These manly lines have yielded
+another phrase to the world's memory. Hardly any quotation is more
+hackneyed than the last two verses of the first stanza. Drake was a
+young poet, the intimate friend and literary co-laborer of Halleck, who
+died September, 1820, in his twenty-fifth year.
+
+_To the Fringed Gentian._--This lyric well illustrates what Mr. Stedman
+has aptly termed Bryant's "Doric simplicity." Nothing of Wordsworth's is
+freer from ornament or from the least trace of affectation.
+
+_The Raven._--Though not belonging to the highest order of poetry, "The
+Raven" still maintains its position at the head of its class. No more
+astonishing _tour de force_ can be found in English literature.
+
+_Nature._--Generally regarded, I think, the finest of Longfellow's, if
+not of American, sonnets.
+
+_Ichabod._--Occasioned by the defection and fall of Daniel Webster. It
+is worthy a place by the side of Browning's "Lost Leader." In later
+years, Whittier wrote a poem on the theme, which, while not a retraction
+of his former position, is penned in a tenderer, more tolerant mood,
+"The Lost Occasion" is its title, and it is only just to the poet to
+read this second lyric, hardly less successful, in connection with the
+first.
+
+_Old Ironsides._--"Old Ironsides" was the popular name for the frigate
+_Constitution_. Dr. Holmes's poem appeared in the Boston _Advertiser_
+"at the time when it was proposed to break up the old ship as unfit for
+service."
+
+_Bedouin Song._--One of the most spirited, most genuinely lyrical of
+American poems.
+
+_Skipper Ireson's Ride._--These lines have an easy, swinging quality
+that is quite inimitable. One inclines to agree with Mr. Stedman: "Of
+all our poets he (Whittier) is the most natural balladist."
+
+_The Village Blacksmith._--The directness and homely strength of "The
+Village Blacksmith" have made it deservedly popular. One questions
+whether the last stanza might not have been omitted with advantage both
+to the unity and force of the poem.
+
+_The Last Leaf._--This masterpiece of mingled humor and pathos was a
+favorite poem of Abraham Lincoln.
+
+_The Old Kentucky Home._--The sincere and tender sentiment of this
+song, no less than its popular melody, has made it for many years a
+favorite. Even better known is Foster's "Old Folks at Home," which is
+said to have had a larger sale than any other American song.
+
+_Carolina._--The concluding lines of this lyric have an imaginative
+vigor rare in American poetry. Four stanzas are omitted.
+
+_Dirge for a Soldier._--Boker's Dirge was written in memory of General
+Philip Kearney.
+
+_Battle-hymn of the Republic._--Written in December, 1861, while Mrs.
+Howe was on a visit to Washington. Soon after the writer's return to
+Boston the lines were accepted for publication in the _Atlantic Monthly_
+by James T. Fields, who suggested the title of the poem. The song did
+not at first receive much notice, but before the Civil War was over had
+become very popular.
+
+_My Maryland._--A poem of great strength and beauty, though of uneven
+merit. It is unfortunately marred by a few rather intemperate
+expressions. The sincerity of feeling is everywhere so evident, however,
+that these must be forgiven. The lines were written by a native of
+Baltimore, Prof. James Randall, and were first published in April, 1861.
+The author of the famous song was teaching in a Louisiana college when
+he read in a New Orleans paper the news of the attack on the
+Massachusetts troops as they passed through Baltimore. This newspaper
+account inspired the verses.
+
+_In the Hospital._--This poem, which has enjoyed at best a newspaper
+immortality, deserves to be more widely known. Its simplicity,
+directness, and truth of feeling are quite beyond praise. According to a
+story which one dislikes to believe apocryphal, these lines were found
+under the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal, South Carolina,
+in 1864.
+
+_Days._--Regarded from the point of view of artistic form, perhaps
+nothing of Emerson's is quite so flawless as "Days," a poem which for
+conciseness and polish is worthy to be called classic.
+
+_A Death-bed._--This is a worthy companion-piece to that other miniature
+classic, Thomas Hood's song, beginning, "We watched her breathing
+through the night."
+
+_Telling the Bees._--"A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country,
+formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death
+of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event,
+and their hives dressed in mourning. The ceremonial was supposed to be
+necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a
+new home." This poem of Whittier's is almost his highest achievement.
+Lowell said, in writing of the Quaker poet (Appleton's Cyclopedia of
+American Biography, VI.): "Many of his poems (such for example as
+'Telling the Bees'), in which description and sentiment mutually inspire
+each other, are as fine as any in the language." I often think, however,
+that Whittier will live longest by his hymns and poems of purely
+religious devotion. I know of nothing similar in English that surpasses
+"The Eternal Goodness," and perhaps half a dozen other poems.
+
+_Katie._--About one-third of Timrod's graceful poem which bears this
+title. This is one of the few cases where I have ventured to make
+omissions.
+
+_Thalatta._--Regarding this poem, Thomas Wentworth Higginson says, in
+"The New World and the New Book:" "Who knows but that, when all else of
+American literature has vanished in forgetfulness, some single little
+masterpiece like this may remain to show the high-water mark, not merely
+of a single poet, but of a nation and a generation?" The author of
+"Thalatta" was a Dartmouth graduate, a teacher, and a disciple of
+Emerson.
+
+_The Fall of the Leaf._--Thoreau's prose is known universally; his verse
+has not won as yet the recognition it deserves. It has little lyrical
+quality, but for unconventionality, charming turns of phrase, and the
+intimate knowledge of Nature it reveals, it is almost alone in American
+poetry.
+
+_The Rhodora._--"The Rhodora" has a conciseness and unity too rare in
+Emerson's poetry, which, beautiful in details, is strangely uneven. We
+sigh as we think what an unrivalled lyric poet Emerson would have been
+had he been sustained at the heights he was capable of reaching. No one
+surpasses Emerson at his best; he is almost a great poet.
+
+_The Chambered Nautilus._--Many think this Holmes's finest poem. It is
+taken from "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," 1858.
+
+_Thought._--Helen Jackson is, perhaps, the most gifted of American women
+poets. Emily Dickinson is more imaginative, but her utter scorn of form
+in composition makes her work, unique as it is, less satisfying. Mrs.
+Jackson was a favorite with Emerson, and he is said to have liked best
+among her poems this sonnet, "Thought."
+
+_On a Bust of Dante._--Parsons, one of the best of American poets, is
+one of the most neglected. Stedman is inclined to think "On a Bust of
+Dante" the finest of American lyrics (see "The Nature of Poetry," 254).
+
+_The Port of Skips._--In a recent review of American Literature in the
+London _Athaeneum_ occurs this sentence: "In point of power, workmanship,
+and feeling, among all poems written by Americans, we are inclined to
+give first place to the 'Port of Ships,' of Joaquin Miller."
+
+_Evening Song._--No poem of Lanier is more free from his characteristic
+faults. One regrets that so much of his work, highly imaginative as it
+is, is marred by over-elaboration and artificiality.
+
+_A Woman's Thought._--The striking reality and directness of this lyric,
+its immense emotional undercurrent, and its abrupt, almost gasping
+metre, admirably suited to the impassioned mood of the speaker,--these
+are a few of the qualities that combine to make "A Woman's Thought" one
+of the most remarkable poems in the book.
+
+_The White Jessamine._--One of the most charming of Father Tabb's
+lyrics. The verse of this poet is uneven in merit. He is too prone to
+merely fanciful conceits. But at his best Tabb is imaginative, as, for
+example, in the lines where he says of Angelo that he--
+
+  "From the sterile womb of stone,
+  Raised children unto God."
+
+Always artistic, Tabb's verse usually suggests workmanship; it is more
+thoughtful than spontaneous. His religious poetry presents, in the main,
+a rather striking similarity to the work of George Herbert.
+
+_The Battle-field._--Miss Dickinson has much of the witchcraft and
+subtlety of William Blake. Many verses of the shy recluse, whom Mr.
+Higginson so happily has introduced to the world, are not only daring
+and unconventional, but recklessly defiant of form. But, as her editor
+has well said, "When a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on
+grammar seems an impertinence." Emily Dickinson had more than a message,
+more than the charm of unexpectedness, more than the gift of
+phrase,--she had (and of how many Americans can this be said?) an
+intense imagination.
+
+_Fertility._--This selection appears in the collected poems of Maurice
+Thompson (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1892), under the title of "A
+Prelude."
+
+_Sesostris._--Of this poem Mr. Stoddard has the high praise that in
+imaginative quality it is unequalled in nineteenth century literature,
+unless by Leigh Hunt's sonnet on the Nile. The same critic does not
+scruple to declare of Mr. Mifflin that he has a "glorious imagination,"
+and to prophesy for him a distinguished future. Seldom indeed has a
+first book of verse won such instant and universal appreciation as Mr.
+Mifflin's volume of sonnets, just issued as the "American Treasury" goes
+to press.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX TO FIRST LINES.
+
+
+A blight, a gloom, I know not what; 242
+
+All that thou art not, makes not up the sum; 267
+
+All the long August afternoon; 223
+
+A man said unto his angel; 211
+
+Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold; 266
+
+Around the rocky headlands, far and near; 271
+
+As a fond mother, when the day is o'er; 63
+
+As a twig trembles, which a bird; 145
+
+At midnight, in the month of June; 57
+
+At sea are tossing ships; 149
+
+At the king's gate the subtle noon; 183
+
+Ay, tear her tattered ensign down; 76
+
+
+Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar; 282
+
+Because I could not stop for Death; 264
+
+Bedtime's come fu' little boys; 225
+
+Behind him lay the gray Azores; 199
+
+Beneath the warrior's helm, behold; 248
+
+Birds are singing round my window; 193
+
+Burly, dozing bumble-bee; 169
+
+By the rude bridge that arched the flood; 74
+
+
+Chaos, of old, was God's dominion; 256
+
+Close his eyes; his work is done; 106
+
+
+Dark as the clouds of even; 100
+
+Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days; 126
+
+Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way; 175
+
+Dear yesterday, glide not so fast; 155
+
+Do you remember, father; 291
+
+
+England, I stand on thy imperial ground; 273
+
+
+Fair flower that dost so comely grow; 1
+
+Farragut, Farragut; 110
+
+From the Desert I come to thee; 85
+
+
+"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried; 119
+
+Green be the turf above thee; 36
+
+
+Helen, thy beauty is to me; 31
+
+Her hands are cold; her face is white; 124
+
+Here is the place; right over the hill; 137
+
+Her suffering ended with the day; 136
+
+How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood; 8
+
+
+I am a woman--therefore I may not; 227
+
+I fill this cup to one made up; 12
+
+I have a little kinsman; 150
+
+I knew she lay above me; 235
+
+I lay me down to sleep; 122
+
+I saw him once before; 95
+
+I saw the twinkle of white feet; 64
+
+I stand upon the summit of my years; 154
+
+I waited in the little sunny room; 247
+
+In a still room at hush of dawn; 298
+
+In Heaven a spirit doth dwell; 21
+
+In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes; 165
+
+In the greenest of our valleys; 26
+
+In the summer even; 202
+
+It may be through some foreign grace; 140
+
+It was many and many a year ago; 10
+
+It was nothing but a rose I gave her; 196
+
+It was the schooner Hesperus; 80
+
+
+Just where the Treasury's marble front; 188
+
+
+Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale; 78
+
+Let me come in where you sit weeping,--aye; 263
+
+Let me move slowly through the street; 42
+
+Lo! Death has reared himself a throne; 15
+
+Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands; 215
+
+Look out upon the stars, my love; 14
+
+
+Men say the sullen instrument; 158
+
+Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; 108
+
+My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read; 172
+
+My heart, I cannot still it; 192
+
+My life closed twice before its close; 252
+
+My life is like the summer rose; 4
+
+My mind lets go a thousand things; 241
+
+
+Nightingales warble about it; 290
+
+No matter how the chances are; 275
+
+Not a hand has lifted the latchet; 236
+
+Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end; 209
+
+Not as all other women are; 142
+
+Now at last I am at home; 260
+
+
+O Death, when thou shalt come to me; 233
+
+O fairest of the rural maids; 6
+
+O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause; 167
+
+O messenger, art thou the king, or I; 180
+
+O Nature! I do not aspire; 166
+
+Of all the rides since the birth of time; 87
+
+Oh, inexpressible as sweet; 289
+
+Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old; 277
+
+Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor; 251
+
+_Oh, what's the way to Arcady_; 243
+
+Old Sorrow I shall meet again; 230
+
+Once it smiled a silent dell; 38
+
+Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands; 54
+
+Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary; 45
+
+Out of the hills of Habersham; 268
+
+
+Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin; 194
+
+
+See, from this counterfeit of him; 185
+
+Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still; 280
+
+Sky in its lucent splendor lifted; 238
+
+So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn; 69
+
+Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings; 300
+
+Southward with fleet of ice; 71
+
+Sparkling and bright in liquid light; 32
+
+Spirit that moves the sap in spring; 294
+
+Still in thy love I trust; 218
+
+Such special sweetness was about; 224
+
+
+The apples are ripe in the orchard; 117
+
+The dawn came in through the bars of the blind; 213
+
+The day is done, and the darkness; 66
+
+The despot treads thy sacred sands; 104
+
+The despot's heel is on thy shore; 113
+
+The evening of the year draws on; 162
+
+The handful here, that once was Mary's earth; 147
+
+The little toy dog is covered with dust; 231
+
+The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring; 296
+
+The new moon hung in the sky; 221
+
+The pines were dark on Ramoth hill; 130
+
+The royal feast was done; the King; 205
+
+The shadows lay along Broadway; 24
+
+The sky is dark, and dark the bay below; 217
+
+The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home; 98
+
+The tide rises, the tide falls; 161
+
+The wind from out the west is blowing; 216
+
+There are gains for all our losses; 129
+
+There is a city, builded by no hand; 201
+
+These are the days when birds come back; 265
+
+This bronze doth keep the very form and mold; 207
+
+This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream; 283
+
+This is Palm Sunday; mindful of the day; 198
+
+This is the Burden of the Heart; 197
+
+This is the ship of pearl, which poets feign; 178
+
+Thou blossom bright with autumn dew; 40
+
+Thou unrelenting Past; 18
+
+Thou wast all that to me, love; 34
+
+Thought is deeper than all speech; 181
+
+Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down; 210
+
+
+Under a spreading chestnut-tree; 92
+
+Upon a cloud among the stars we stood; 229
+
+
+Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach; 257
+
+
+We sat within the farmhouse old; 133
+
+What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one; 75
+
+What may we take into the vast Forever?; 219
+
+When first the bride and bridegroom wed; 153
+
+When I was a beggarly boy; 128
+
+_When the Sultan Shah-Zaman_; 253
+
+While May bedecks the naked trees; 287
+
+Whither, midst falling dew; 29
+
+Who has robbed the ocean cave; 3
+
+Wind of the North; 258
+
+Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night; 284
+
+
+Years have flown since I knew thee first; 208
+
+You know the old Hidalgo; 127
+
+
+
+
+INDEX TO AUTHORS.
+
+
+James Aldrich, 1810-1856, 136
+
+Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1836-; 210, 221, 241, 242, 248, 253
+
+
+George Henry Boker, 1823-1890; 75, 78, 100, 106
+
+Joseph Brownlee Brown, 1824-1888; 154
+
+William Cullen Bryant, 1794-1878; 6, 18, 29, 40, 42, 54
+
+Henry Cuyler Bunner, 1855-1896; 209, 213, 233, 243
+
+
+Bliss Carman, 1861-; 277, 298
+
+Christopher Pearse Cranch, 1813-1892; 181
+
+
+Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886; 252, 264, 265
+
+Paul Lawrence Dunbar, 1872-; 225
+
+
+Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882; 74, 126, 165, 169
+
+
+Eugene Field, 1850-1896; 231, 284
+
+Annie Adams Fields, 1834-; 218
+
+Stephen Collins Foster, 1826-1864; 98
+
+William Prescott Foster, 18-; 271
+
+Philip Freneau, 1752-1832; 1
+
+
+Richard Watson Gilder, 1844-; 207, 208, 216, 217, 227
+
+Louise Imogen Guiney, 1861-; 211
+
+
+Fitz-Greene Halleck, 1790-1867; 36
+
+Charles Fenno Hoffman, 1806-1884; 32
+
+Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-1894; 76, 95, 124, 178
+
+Richard Hovey, 1864-; 251
+
+Julia Ward Howe, 1819-; 108
+
+William Dean Howells, 1837-; 223
+
+Mary Woolsey Howland, 1832-1864; 122
+
+
+Helen Hunt Jackson, 1831-1885; 155, 167, 180, 183
+
+
+Sidney Lanier, 1842-1881; 215, 268
+
+Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882; 63, 66, 71, 80, 92, 133, 161
+
+James Russell Lowell, 1819-1891; 64, 128, 142, 145, 158, 175, 192
+
+Charles Henry Lueders, 1858-1891; 258
+
+
+William Tuckey Meredith, 1839-; 110
+
+Lloyd Mifflin, 18-; 229, 256, 257, 300
+
+Cincinnatus Hiner (Joaquin) Miller, 1841-; 199
+
+Louise Chandler Moulton, 1835-; 236
+
+
+Thomas William Parsons, 1819-1892; 147, 185, 198, 201
+
+John James Piatt, 1835-; 149
+
+Edward Coate Pinkney, 1802-1828; 12, 14
+
+Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849; 10, 15, 21, 26, 31, 34, 38, 45, 57
+
+
+James Ryder Randall, 1839-; 113
+
+Lizette Woodworth Reese, 1860-; 224
+
+Hiram Rich, 1832-; 275
+
+James Whitcomb Riley, 1853-; 263, 280
+
+
+John Shaw, 1778-1809; 3
+
+Edward Rowland Sill, 1841-1887; 205, 219, 238, 247, 283
+
+Harriet Prescott Spofford, 1835-; 196, 202
+
+Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1833-; 150, 188, 194
+
+Richard Henry Stoddard, 1825-; 127, 129, 153, 193
+
+
+John Banister Tabb, 1845-; 230, 235, 266, 267
+
+Bayard Taylor, 1825-1878; 85, 119
+
+Maurice Thompson, 1844-; 294
+
+Henry David Thoreau, 1817-1862; 162, 166, 172
+
+Henry Timrod, 1829-1867; 104, 140
+
+L. Frank Tooker, 18-; 260
+
+
+Henry Van Dyke, 1852-; 287, 291, 296
+
+
+John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892; 69, 87, 130, 137
+
+Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-1847; 4
+
+Nathaniel Parker Willis, 1806-1867; 24
+
+Byron Forceythe Willson, 1837-1867; 197
+
+William Winter, 1836-; 117
+
+George Edward Woodberry, 1855-; 273, 289, 290
+
+Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842; 8
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury of American Songs
+and Lyrics, by Various
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