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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, edited by Frederic Lawrence Knowles.
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+ body{margin-left: 15%;
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+<pre>
+
+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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